The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, by William Shakespeare This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Author: William Shakespeare Release Date: January 1994 [eBook #100][Most recently updated: January 9, 2021] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE [Illustration] The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare Contents THE SONNETS
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA
AS YOU LIKE IT
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS
THE TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS
CYMBELINE
THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK
THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH
THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH
THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH
THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH
THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH
THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH
KING JOHN
THE TRAGEDY OF JULIUS CAESAR
THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEAR
LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST
THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
THE TRAGEDY OF OTHELLO, MOOR OF VENICE
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE
KING RICHARD THE SECOND
KING RICHARD THE THIRD
THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW
THE TEMPEST
THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS
THE TRAGEDY OF TITUS ANDRONICUS
THE HISTORY OF TROILUS AND CRESSIDA
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN
THE WINTER’S TALE
A LOVER’S COMPLAINT
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS 1
From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty’s rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel: Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding: Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.
2
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now, Will be a tattered weed of small worth held: Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserv’d thy beauty’s use, If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’ Proving his beauty by succession thine. This were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.
3
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest, Now is the time that face should form another, Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose uneared womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb Of his self-love to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother’s glass and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime, So thou through windows of thine age shalt see, Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live remembered not to be, Die single and thine image dies with thee.
4
Unthrifty loveliness why dost thou spend, Upon thy self thy beauty’s legacy? Nature’s bequest gives nothing but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free: Then beauteous niggard why dost thou abuse, The bounteous largess given thee to give? Profitless usurer why dost thou use So great a sum of sums yet canst not live? For having traffic with thy self alone, Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive, Then how when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable audit canst thou leave? Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee, Which used lives th’ executor to be.
5
Those hours that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell Will play the tyrants to the very same, And that unfair which fairly doth excel: For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter and confounds him there, Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o’er-snowed and bareness every where: Then were not summer’s distillation left A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it nor no remembrance what it was. But flowers distilled though they with winter meet, Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.
6
Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface, In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place, With beauty’s treasure ere it be self-killed: That use is not forbidden usury, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That’s for thy self to breed another thee, Or ten times happier be it ten for one, Ten times thy self were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity? Be not self-willed for thou art much too fair, To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.
7
Lo in the orient when the gracious light Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Serving with looks his sacred majesty, And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill, Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Attending on his golden pilgrimage: But when from highmost pitch with weary car, Like feeble age he reeleth from the day, The eyes (fore duteous) now converted are From his low tract and look another way: So thou, thy self out-going in thy noon: Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.
8
Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly, Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy? If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, By unions married do offend thine ear, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear: Mark how one string sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering; Resembling sire, and child, and happy mother, Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing: Whose speechless song being many, seeming one, Sings this to thee, ‘Thou single wilt prove none’.
9
Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye, That thou consum’st thy self in single life? Ah, if thou issueless shalt hap to die, The world will wail thee like a makeless wife, The world will be thy widow and still weep, That thou no form of thee hast left behind, When every private widow well may keep, By children’s eyes, her husband’s shape in mind: Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end, And kept unused the user so destroys it: No love toward others in that bosom sits That on himself such murd’rous shame commits.
10
For shame deny that thou bear’st love to any Who for thy self art so unprovident. Grant if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, But that thou none lov’st is most evident: For thou art so possessed with murd’rous hate, That ’gainst thy self thou stick’st not to conspire, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate Which to repair should be thy chief desire: O change thy thought, that I may change my mind, Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love? Be as thy presence is gracious and kind, Or to thy self at least kind-hearted prove, Make thee another self for love of me, That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
11
As fast as thou shalt wane so fast thou grow’st, In one of thine, from that which thou departest, And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st, Thou mayst call thine, when thou from youth convertest, Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase, Without this folly, age, and cold decay, If all were minded so, the times should cease, And threescore year would make the world away: Let those whom nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Look whom she best endowed, she gave thee more; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
12
When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night, When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silvered o’er with white: When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard: Then of thy beauty do I question make That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, And die as fast as they see others grow, And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defence Save breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence.
13
O that you were your self, but love you are No longer yours, than you your self here live, Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give. So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no determination, then you were Your self again after your self’s decease, When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold, Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day And barren rage of death’s eternal cold? O none but unthrifts, dear my love you know, You had a father, let your son say so.
14
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy, But not to tell of good, or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality, Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell; Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, Or say with princes if it shall go well By oft predict that I in heaven find. But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And constant stars in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive If from thy self, to store thou wouldst convert: Or else of thee this I prognosticate, Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.
15
When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment. That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment. When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky: Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory. Then the conceit of this inconstant stay, Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful time debateth with decay To change your day of youth to sullied night, And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
16
But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time? And fortify your self in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair Which this (Time’s pencil) or my pupil pen Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live your self in eyes of men. To give away your self, keeps your self still, And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.
17
Who will believe my verse in time to come If it were filled with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts: If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say this poet lies, Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces. So should my papers (yellowed with their age) Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage, And stretched metre of an antique song. But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.
18
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st, So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
19
Devouring Time blunt thou the lion’s paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood, Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws, And burn the long-lived phoenix, in her blood, Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet’st, And do whate’er thou wilt swift-footed Time To the wide world and all her fading sweets: But I forbid thee one most heinous crime, O carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen, Him in thy course untainted do allow, For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men. Yet do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young.
20
A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted, Hast thou the master mistress of my passion, A woman’s gentle heart but not acquainted With shifting change as is false women’s fashion, An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling: Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth, A man in hue all hues in his controlling, Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created, Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she pricked thee out for women’s pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.
21
So is it not with me as with that muse, Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven it self for ornament doth use, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, Making a couplement of proud compare With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems: With April’s first-born flowers and all things rare, That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems. O let me true in love but truly write, And then believe me, my love is as fair, As any mother’s child, though not so bright As those gold candles fixed in heaven’s air: Let them say more that like of hearsay well, I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
22
My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date, But when in thee time’s furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me, How can I then be elder than thou art? O therefore love be of thyself so wary, As I not for my self, but for thee will, Bearing thy heart which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, Thou gav’st me thine not to give back again.
23
As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart; So I for fear of trust, forget to say, The perfect ceremony of love’s rite, And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay, O’ercharged with burthen of mine own love’s might: O let my looks be then the eloquence, And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed. O learn to read what silent love hath writ, To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.
24
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled, Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart, My body is the frame wherein ’tis held, And perspective it is best painter’s art. For through the painter must you see his skill, To find where your true image pictured lies, Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes: Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done, Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
25
Let those who are in favour with their stars, Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars Unlooked for joy in that I honour most; Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread, But as the marigold at the sun’s eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foiled, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toiled: Then happy I that love and am beloved Where I may not remove nor be removed.
26
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit; To thee I send this written embassage To witness duty, not to show my wit. Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it; But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul’s thought (all naked) will bestow it: Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts apparel on my tattered loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect, Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee, Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
27
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear respose for limbs with travel tired, But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired. For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see. Save that my soul’s imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which like a jewel (hung in ghastly night) Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for my self, no quiet find.
28
How can I then return in happy plight That am debarred the benefit of rest? When day’s oppression is not eased by night, But day by night and night by day oppressed. And each (though enemies to either’s reign) Do in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the day to please him thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: So flatter I the swart-complexioned night, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild’st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger
29
When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon my self and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least, Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate, For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
30
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste: Then can I drown an eye (unused to flow) For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night, And weep afresh love’s long since cancelled woe, And moan th’ expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee (dear friend) All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
31
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead, And there reigns love and all love’s loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear, But things removed that hidden in thee lie. Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to thee did give, That due of many, now is thine alone. Their images I loved, I view in thee, And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.
32
If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover: Compare them with the bett’ring of the time, And though they be outstripped by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought, ’Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love’.
33
Full many a glorious morning have I seen, Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green; Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy: Anon permit the basest clouds to ride, With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did shine, With all triumphant splendour on my brow, But out alack, he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath masked him from me now. Yet him for this, my love no whit disdaineth, Suns of the world may stain, when heaven’s sun staineth.
34
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way, Hiding thy brav’ry in their rotten smoke? ’Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak, That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief, Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss, Th’ offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence’s cross. Ah but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
35
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done, Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud, Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorizing thy trespass with compare, My self corrupting salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are: For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense, Thy adverse party is thy advocate, And ’gainst my self a lawful plea commence: Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessary needs must be, To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
36
Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one: So shall those blots that do with me remain, Without thy help, by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a separable spite, Which though it alter not love’s sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with public kindness honour me, Unless thou take that honour from thy name: But do not so, I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
37
As a decrepit father takes delight, To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by Fortune’s dearest spite Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, or all, or more Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit, I make my love engrafted to this store: So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give, That I in thy abundance am sufficed, And by a part of all thy glory live: Look what is best, that best I wish in thee, This wish I have, then ten times happy me.
38
How can my muse want subject to invent While thou dost breathe that pour’st into my verse, Thine own sweet argument, too excellent, For every vulgar paper to rehearse? O give thy self the thanks if aught in me, Worthy perusal stand against thy sight, For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee, When thou thy self dost give invention light? Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Than those old nine which rhymers invocate, And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth Eternal numbers to outlive long date. If my slight muse do please these curious days, The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
39
O how thy worth with manners may I sing, When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring: And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee? Even for this, let us divided live, And our dear love lose name of single one, That by this separation I may give: That due to thee which thou deserv’st alone: O absence what a torment wouldst thou prove, Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave, To entertain the time with thoughts of love, Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive. And that thou teachest how to make one twain, By praising him here who doth hence remain.
40
Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all, What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call, All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more: Then if for my love, thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest, But yet be blamed, if thou thy self deceivest By wilful taste of what thy self refusest. I do forgive thy robbery gentle thief Although thou steal thee all my poverty: And yet love knows it is a greater grief To bear greater wrong, than hate’s known injury. Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
41
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits, For still temptation follows where thou art. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won, Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed. And when a woman woos, what woman’s son, Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed? Ay me, but yet thou mightst my seat forbear, And chide thy beauty, and thy straying youth, Who lead thee in their riot even there Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth: Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee, Thine by thy beauty being false to me.
42
That thou hast her it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I loved her dearly, That she hath thee is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that touches me more nearly. Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye, Thou dost love her, because thou know’st I love her, And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Suff’ring my friend for my sake to approve her. If I lose thee, my loss is my love’s gain, And losing her, my friend hath found that loss, Both find each other, and I lose both twain, And both for my sake lay on me this cross, But here’s the joy, my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery, then she loves but me alone.
43
When most I wink then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they view things unrespected, But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. Then thou whose shadow shadows doth make bright How would thy shadow’s form, form happy show, To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so! How would (I say) mine eyes be blessed made, By looking on thee in the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade, Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
44
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way, For then despite of space I would be brought, From limits far remote, where thou dost stay, No matter then although my foot did stand Upon the farthest earth removed from thee, For nimble thought can jump both sea and land, As soon as think the place where he would be. But ah, thought kills me that I am not thought To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, But that so much of earth and water wrought, I must attend, time’s leisure with my moan. Receiving nought by elements so slow, But heavy tears, badges of either’s woe.
45
The other two, slight air, and purging fire, Are both with thee, wherever I abide, The first my thought, the other my desire, These present-absent with swift motion slide. For when these quicker elements are gone In tender embassy of love to thee, My life being made of four, with two alone, Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy. Until life’s composition be recured, By those swift messengers returned from thee, Who even but now come back again assured, Of thy fair health, recounting it to me. This told, I joy, but then no longer glad, I send them back again and straight grow sad.
46
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, How to divide the conquest of thy sight, Mine eye, my heart thy picture’s sight would bar, My heart, mine eye the freedom of that right, My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie, (A closet never pierced with crystal eyes) But the defendant doth that plea deny, And says in him thy fair appearance lies. To side this title is impanelled A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, And by their verdict is determined The clear eye’s moiety, and the dear heart’s part. As thus, mine eye’s due is thy outward part, And my heart’s right, thy inward love of heart.
47
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, And each doth good turns now unto the other, When that mine eye is famished for a look, Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother; With my love’s picture then my eye doth feast, And to the painted banquet bids my heart: Another time mine eye is my heart’s guest, And in his thoughts of love doth share a part. So either by thy picture or my love, Thy self away, art present still with me, For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, And I am still with them, and they with thee. Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight Awakes my heart, to heart’s and eye’s delight.
48
How careful was I when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, Thou best of dearest, and mine only care, Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not locked up in any chest, Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Within the gentle closure of my breast, From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part, And even thence thou wilt be stol’n I fear, For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
49
Against that time (if ever that time come) When I shall see thee frown on my defects, When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Called to that audit by advised respects, Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye, When love converted from the thing it was Shall reasons find of settled gravity; Against that time do I ensconce me here Within the knowledge of mine own desert, And this my hand, against my self uprear, To guard the lawful reasons on thy part, To leave poor me, thou hast the strength of laws, Since why to love, I can allege no cause.
50
How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek (my weary travel’s end) Doth teach that case and that repose to say ’Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend.’ The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, As if by some instinct the wretch did know His rider loved not speed being made from thee: The bloody spur cannot provoke him on, That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, Which heavily he answers with a groan, More sharp to me than spurring to his side, For that same groan doth put this in my mind, My grief lies onward and my joy behind.
51
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence, Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed, From where thou art, why should I haste me thence? Till I return of posting is no need. O what excuse will my poor beast then find, When swift extremity can seem but slow? Then should I spur though mounted on the wind, In winged speed no motion shall I know, Then can no horse with my desire keep pace, Therefore desire (of perfect’st love being made) Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race, But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade, Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow, Towards thee I’ll run, and give him leave to go.
52
So am I as the rich whose blessed key, Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since seldom coming in that long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special-blest, By new unfolding his imprisoned pride. Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope, Being had to triumph, being lacked to hope.
53
What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one, hath every one, one shade, And you but one, can every shadow lend: Describe Adonis and the counterfeit, Is poorly imitated after you, On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new: Speak of the spring, and foison of the year, The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear, And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you for constant heart.
54
O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour, which doth in it live: The canker blooms have full as deep a dye, As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly, When summer’s breath their masked buds discloses: But for their virtue only is their show, They live unwooed, and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so, Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made: And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
55
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme, But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn: The living record of your memory. ’Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth, your praise shall still find room, Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So till the judgment that your self arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.
56
Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allayed, To-morrow sharpened in his former might. So love be thou, although to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, To-morrow see again, and do not kill The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness: Let this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contracted new, Come daily to the banks, that when they see: Return of love, more blest may be the view. Or call it winter, which being full of care, Makes summer’s welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.
57
Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour, Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour, When you have bid your servant once adieu. Nor dare I question with my jealous thought, Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But like a sad slave stay and think of nought Save where you are, how happy you make those. So true a fool is love, that in your will, (Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill.
58
That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th’ account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure. O let me suffer (being at your beck) Th’ imprisoned absence of your liberty, And patience tame to sufferance bide each check, Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strong, That you your self may privilage your time To what you will, to you it doth belong, Your self to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.
59
If there be nothing new, but that which is, Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which labouring for invention bear amis The second burthen of a former child! O that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done. That I might see what the old world could say, To this composed wonder of your frame, Whether we are mended, or whether better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O sure I am the wits of former days, To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
60
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end, Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
61
Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenure of thy jealousy? O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.
62
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye, And all my soul, and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy, It is so grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account, And for my self mine own worth do define, As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me my self indeed beated and chopt with tanned antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read: Self, so self-loving were iniquity. ’Tis thee (my self) that for my self I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
63
Against my love shall be as I am now With Time’s injurious hand crushed and o’erworn, When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow With lines and wrinkles, when his youthful morn Hath travelled on to age’s steepy night, And all those beauties whereof now he’s king Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his spring: For such a time do I now fortify Against confounding age’s cruel knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life. His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green.
64
When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age, When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage. When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store. When I have seen such interchange of State, Or state it self confounded, to decay, Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.
65
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o’ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O how shall summer’s honey breath hold out, Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays? O fearful meditation, where alack, Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back, Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
66
Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill. Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that to die, I leave my love alone.
67
Ah wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve, And lace it self with his society? Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek, Roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is, Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins, For she hath no exchequer now but his, And proud of many, lives upon his gains? O him she stores, to show what wealth she had, In days long since, before these last so bad.
68
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow: Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head, Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament, it self and true, Making no summer of another’s green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new, And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
69
Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view, Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend: All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned, But those same tongues that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that in guess they measure by thy deeds, Then churls their thoughts (although their eyes were kind) To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.
70
That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair, The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approve, Thy worth the greater being wooed of time, For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present’st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days, Either not assailed, or victor being charged, Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore enlarged, If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.
71
No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: Nay if you read this line, remember not, The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O if (I say) you look upon this verse, When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse; But let your love even with my life decay. Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone.
72
O lest the world should task you to recite, What merit lived in me that you should love After my death (dear love) forget me quite, For you in me can nothing worthy prove. Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon deceased I, Than niggard truth would willingly impart: O lest your true love may seem false in this, That you for love speak well of me untrue, My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me, nor you. For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
73
That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death’s second self that seals up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
74
But be contented when that fell arrest, Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review, The very part was consecrate to thee, The earth can have but earth, which is his due, My spirit is thine the better part of me, So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being dead, The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife, Too base of thee to be remembered, The worth of that, is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains.
75
So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As ’twixt a miser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure, Now counting best to be with you alone, Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure, Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved for a look, Possessing or pursuing no delight Save what is had, or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
76
Why is my verse so barren of new pride? So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods, and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? O know sweet love I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument: So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told.
77
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste, These vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear, And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show, Of mouthed graves will give thee memory, Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst know, Time’s thievish progress to eternity. Look what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book.
78
So oft have I invoked thee for my muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse, As every alien pen hath got my use, And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing, And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned’s wing, And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee, In others’ works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be. But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning, my rude ignorance.
79
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, But now my gracious numbers are decayed, And my sick muse doth give an other place. I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen, Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent, He robs thee of, and pays it thee again, He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word, From thy behaviour, beauty doth he give And found it in thy cheek: he can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thy self dost pay.
80
O how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame. But since your worth (wide as the ocean is) The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark (inferior far to his) On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride, Or (being wrecked) I am a worthless boat, He of tall building, and of goodly pride. Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The worst was this, my love was my decay.
81
Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I (once gone) to all the world must die, The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie, Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read, And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead, You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen) Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
82
I grant thou wert not married to my muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise, And therefore art enforced to seek anew, Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so love, yet when they have devised, What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized, In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend. And their gross painting might be better used, Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused.
83
I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set, I found (or thought I found) you did exceed, That barren tender of a poet’s debt: And therefore have I slept in your report, That you your self being extant well might show, How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This silence for my sin you did impute, Which shall be most my glory being dumb, For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes, Than both your poets can in praise devise.
84
Who is it that says most, which can say more, Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you? In whose confine immured is the store, Which should example where your equal grew. Lean penury within that pen doth dwell, That to his subject lends not some small glory, But he that writes of you, if he can tell, That you are you, so dignifies his story. Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired every where. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
85
My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise richly compiled, Reserve their character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words, And like unlettered clerk still cry Amen, To every hymn that able spirit affords, In polished form of well refined pen. Hearing you praised, I say ’tis so, ’tis true, And to the most of praise add something more, But that is in my thought, whose love to you (Though words come hindmost) holds his rank before, Then others, for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
86
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of (all too precious) you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write, Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors of my silence cannot boast, I was not sick of any fear from thence. But when your countenance filled up his line, Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.
87
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know’st thy estimate, The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing: My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting, And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thy self thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking, So thy great gift upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgement making. Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.
88
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side, against my self I’ll fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn: With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted: That thou in losing me, shalt win much glory: And I by this will be a gainer too, For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to my self I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong.
89
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence, Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt: Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not (love) disgrace me half so ill, To set a form upon desired change, As I’ll my self disgrace, knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle and look strange: Be absent from thy walks and in my tongue, Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, Lest I (too much profane) should do it wronk: And haply of our old acquaintance tell. For thee, against my self I’ll vow debate, For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate.
90
Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now, Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after-loss: Ah do not, when my heart hath ’scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquered woe, Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come, so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune’s might. And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.
91
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force, Some in their garments though new-fangled ill: Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse. And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest, But these particulars are not my measure, All these I better in one general best. Thy love is better than high birth to me, Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ costs, Of more delight than hawks and horses be: And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast. Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take, All this away, and me most wretchcd make.
92
But do thy worst to steal thy self away, For term of life thou art assured mine, And life no longer than thy love will stay, For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end, I see, a better state to me belongs Than that, which on thy humour doth depend. Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie, O what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But what’s so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
93
So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband, so love’s face, May still seem love to me, though altered new: Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place. For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change, In many’s looks, the false heart’s history Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange. But heaven in thy creation did decree, That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell, Whate’er thy thoughts, or thy heart’s workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell. How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.
94
They that have power to hurt, and will do none, That do not do the thing, they most do show, Who moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow: They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces, And husband nature’s riches from expense, Tibey are the lords and owners of their faces, Others, but stewards of their excellence: The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet, Though to it self, it only live and die, But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds, Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.
95
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame, Which like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! O in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose! That tongue that tells the story of thy days, (Making lascivious comments on thy sport) Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise, Naming thy name, blesses an ill report. O what a mansion have those vices got, Which for their habitation chose out thee, Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot, And all things turns to fair, that eyes can see! Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege, The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.
96
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness, Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport, Both grace and faults are loved of more and less: Thou mak’st faults graces, that to thee resort: As on the finger of a throned queen, The basest jewel will be well esteemed: So are those errors that in thee are seen, To truths translated, and for true things deemed. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate! How many gazers mightst thou lead away, if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! But do not so, I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
97
How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December’s bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer’s time, The teeming autumn big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords’ decease: Yet this abundant issue seemed to me But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit, For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And thou away, the very birds are mute. Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.
98
From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April (dressed in all his trim) Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing: That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer’s story tell: Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose, They were but sweet, but figures of delight: Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and you away, As with your shadow I with these did play.
99
The forward violet thus did I chide, Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft check for complexion dwells, In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair, The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair: A third nor red, nor white, had stol’n of both, And to his robbery had annexed thy breath, But for his theft in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet, or colour it had stol’n from thee.
100
Where art thou Muse that thou forget’st so long, To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem, In gentle numbers time so idly spent, Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey, If time have any wrinkle graven there, If any, be a satire to decay, And make time’s spoils despised everywhere. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life, So thou prevent’st his scythe, and crooked knife.
101
O truant Muse what shall be thy amends, For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed? Both truth and beauty on my love depends: So dost thou too, and therein dignified: Make answer Muse, wilt thou not haply say, ’Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed, Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay: But best is best, if never intermixed’? Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, for’t lies in thee, To make him much outlive a gilded tomb: And to be praised of ages yet to be. Then do thy office Muse, I teach thee how, To make him seem long hence, as he shows now.
102
My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming, I love not less, though less the show appear, That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming, The owner’s tongue doth publish every where. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays, As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing, And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue: Because I would not dull you with my song.
103
Alack what poverty my muse brings forth, That having such a scope to show her pride, The argument all bare is of more worth Than when it hath my added praise beside. O blame me not if I no more can write! Look in your glass and there appears a face, That over-goes my blunt invention quite, Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. Were it not sinful then striving to mend, To mar the subject that before was well? For to no other pass my verses tend, Than of your graces and your gifts to tell. And more, much more than in my verse can sit, Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.
104
To me fair friend you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still: three winters cold, Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned, In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. Ah yet doth beauty like a dial hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived, So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived. For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred, Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
105
Let not my love be called idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence, Therefore my verse to constancy confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words, And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone. Which three till now, never kept seat in one.
106
When in the chronicle of wasted time, I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights, Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have expressed, Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring, And for they looked but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
107
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul, Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, And the sad augurs mock their own presage, Incertainties now crown themselves assured, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time, My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, Since spite of him I’ll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes. And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.
108
What’s in the brain that ink may character, Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit, What’s new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit? Nothing sweet boy, but yet like prayers divine, I must each day say o’er the very same, Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. So that eternal love in love’s fresh case, Weighs not the dust and injury of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page, Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Where time and outward form would show it dead.
109
O never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seemed my flame to qualify, As easy might I from my self depart, As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie: That is my home of love, if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that my self bring water for my stain, Never believe though in my nature reigned, All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stained, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good: For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou my rose, in it thou art my all.
110
Alas ’tis true, I have gone here and there, And made my self a motley to the view, Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, Made old offences of affections new. Most true it is, that I have looked on truth Askance and strangely: but by all above, These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end, Mine appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god in love, to whom I am confined. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.
111
O for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide, Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand: Pity me then, and wish I were renewed, Whilst like a willing patient I will drink, Potions of eisel ’gainst my strong infection, No bitterness that I will bitter think, Nor double penance to correct correction. Pity me then dear friend, and I assure ye, Even that your pity is enough to cure me.
112
Your love and pity doth th’ impression fill, Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow, For what care I who calls me well or ill, So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow? You are my all the world, and I must strive, To know my shames and praises from your tongue, None else to me, nor I to none alive, That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong. In so profound abysm I throw all care Of others’ voices, that my adder’s sense, To critic and to flatterer stopped are: Mark how with my neglect I do dispense. You are so strongly in my purpose bred, That all the world besides methinks are dead.
113
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind, And that which governs me to go about, Doth part his function, and is partly blind, Seems seeing, but effectually is out: For it no form delivers to the heart Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch, Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch: For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight, The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature, The mountain, or the sea, the day, or night: The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature. Incapable of more, replete with you, My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.
114
Or whether doth my mind being crowned with you Drink up the monarch’s plague this flattery? Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true, And that your love taught it this alchemy? To make of monsters, and things indigest, Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, Creating every bad a perfect best As fast as objects to his beams assemble: O ’tis the first, ’tis flattery in my seeing, And my great mind most kingly drinks it up, Mine eye well knows what with his gust is ’greeing, And to his palate doth prepare the cup. If it be poisoned, ’tis the lesser sin, That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.
115
Those lines that I before have writ do lie, Even those that said I could not love you dearer, Yet then my judgment knew no reason why, My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer, But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents Creep in ’twixt vows, and change decrees of kings, Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp’st intents, Divert strong minds to the course of alt’ring things: Alas why fearing of time’s tyranny, Might I not then say ‘Now I love you best,’ When I was certain o’er incertainty, Crowning the present, doubting of the rest? Love is a babe, then might I not say so To give full growth to that which still doth grow.
116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments, love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand’ring bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come, Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom: If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
117
Accuse me thus, that I have scanted all, Wherein I should your great deserts repay, Forgot upon your dearest love to call, Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day, That I have frequent been with unknown minds, And given to time your own dear-purchased right, That I have hoisted sail to all the winds Which should transport me farthest from your sight. Book both my wilfulness and errors down, And on just proof surmise, accumulate, Bring me within the level of your frown, But shoot not at me in your wakened hate: Since my appeal says I did strive to prove The constancy and virtue of your love.
118
Like as to make our appetite more keen With eager compounds we our palate urge, As to prevent our maladies unseen, We sicken to shun sickness when we purge. Even so being full of your ne’er-cloying sweetness, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding; And sick of welfare found a kind of meetness, To be diseased ere that there was true needing. Thus policy in love t’ anticipate The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, And brought to medicine a healthful state Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured. But thence I learn and find the lesson true, Drugs poison him that so feil sick of you.
119
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within, Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, Still losing when I saw my self to win! What wretched errors hath my heart committed, Whilst it hath thought it self so blessed never! How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted In the distraction of this madding fever! O benefit of ill, now I find true That better is, by evil still made better. And ruined love when it is built anew Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I return rebuked to my content, And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.
120
That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken As I by yours, y’have passed a hell of time, And I a tyrant have no leisure taken To weigh how once I suffered in your crime. O that our night of woe might have remembered My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, And soon to you, as you to me then tendered The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits! But that your trespass now becomes a fee, Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
121
’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing. For why should others’ false adulterate eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood? Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, Which in their wills count bad what I think good? No, I am that I am, and they that level At my abuses, reckon up their own, I may be straight though they themselves be bevel; By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown Unless this general evil they maintain, All men are bad and in their badness reign.
122
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full charactered with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain Beyond all date even to eternity. Or at the least, so long as brain and heart Have faculty by nature to subsist, Till each to razed oblivion yield his part Of thee, thy record never can be missed: That poor retention could not so much hold, Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score, Therefore to give them from me was I bold, To trust those tables that receive thee more: To keep an adjunct to remember thee Were to import forgetfulness in me.
123
No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change, Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange, They are but dressings Of a former sight: Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire, What thou dost foist upon us that is old, And rather make them born to our desire, Than think that we before have heard them told: Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wond’ring at the present, nor the past, For thy records, and what we see doth lie, Made more or less by thy continual haste: This I do vow and this shall ever be, I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
124
If my dear love were but the child of state, It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfathered, As subject to time’s love or to time’s hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered. No it was builded far from accident, It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under the blow of thralled discontent, Whereto th’ inviting time our fashion calls: It fears not policy that heretic, Which works on leases of short-numbered hours, But all alone stands hugely politic, That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers. To this I witness call the fools of time, Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.
125
Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which proves more short than waste or ruining? Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour Lose all, and more by paying too much rent For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour, Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent? No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free, Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art, But mutual render, only me for thee. Hence, thou suborned informer, a true soul When most impeached, stands least in thy control.
126
O thou my lovely boy who in thy power, Dost hold Time’s fickle glass his fickle hour: Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st, Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st. If Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack) As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill. Yet fear her O thou minion of her pleasure, She may detain, but not still keep her treasure! Her audit (though delayed) answered must be, And her quietus is to render thee.
127
In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were it bore not beauty’s name: But now is black beauty’s successive heir, And beauty slandered with a bastard shame, For since each hand hath put on nature’s power, Fairing the foul with art’s false borrowed face, Sweet beauty hath no name no holy bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem, At such who not born fair no beauty lack, Slandering creation with a false esteem, Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe, That every tongue says beauty should look so.
128
How oft when thou, my music, music play’st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap, To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap, At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand. To be so tickled they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more blest than living lips, Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
129
Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action, and till action, lust Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated as a swallowed bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad. Mad in pursuit and in possession so, Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme, A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe, Before a joy proposed behind a dream. All this the world well knows yet none knows well, To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun, Coral is far more red, than her lips red, If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun: If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head: I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks, And in some perfumes is there more delight, Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know, That music hath a far more pleasing sound: I grant I never saw a goddess go, My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet by heaven I think my love as rare, As any she belied with false compare.
131
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet in good faith some say that thee behold, Thy face hath not the power to make love groan; To say they err, I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to my self alone. And to be sure that is not false I swear, A thousand groans but thinking on thy face, One on another’s neck do witness bear Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place. In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, And thence this slander as I think proceeds.
132
Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even Doth half that glory to the sober west As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
133
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is’t not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be? Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken, And my next self thou harder hast engrossed, Of him, my self, and thee I am forsaken, A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed: Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward, But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail, Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard, Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol. And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee, Perforce am thine and all that is in me.
134
So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I’ll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, For thou art covetous, and he is kind, He learned but surety-like to write for me, Under that bond that him as fist doth bind. The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Thou usurer that put’st forth all to use, And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake, So him I lose through my unkind abuse. Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me, He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.
135
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will, And Will to boot, and Will in overplus, More than enough am I that vex thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine? The sea all water, yet receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store, So thou being rich in will add to thy will One will of mine to make thy large will more. Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill, Think all but one, and me in that one Will.
136
If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will, And will thy soul knows is admitted there, Thus far for love, my love-suit sweet fulfil. Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love, Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one, In things of great receipt with case we prove, Among a number one is reckoned none. Then in the number let me pass untold, Though in thy store’s account I one must be, For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold, That nothing me, a something sweet to thee. Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lov’st me for my name is Will.
137
Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold and see not what they see? They know what beauty is, see where it lies, Yet what the best is, take the worst to be. If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks, Be anchored in the bay where all men ride, Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied? Why should my heart think that a several plot, Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place? Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not To put fair truth upon so foul a face? In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false plague are they now transferred.
138
When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue, On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed: But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O love’s best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love, loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
139
O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art, Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart forbear to glance thine eye aside, What need’st thou wound with cunning when thy might Is more than my o’erpressed defence can bide? Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knows, Her pretty looks have been mine enemies, And therefore from my face she turns my foes, That they elsewhere might dart their injuries: Yet do not so, but since I am near slain, Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.
140
Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain. If I might teach thee wit better it were, Though not to love, yet love to tell me so, As testy sick men when their deaths be near, No news but health from their physicians know. For if I should despair I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee, Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. That I may not be so, nor thou belied, Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
141
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note, But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who in despite of view is pleased to dote. Nor are mine cars with thy tongue’s tune delighted, Nor tender feeling to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits, nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be: Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin, awards me pain.
142
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving, O but with mine, compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving, Or if it do, not from those lips of thine, That have profaned their scarlet ornaments, And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov’st those, Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee, Root pity in thy heart that when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied.
143
Lo as a careful huswife runs to catch, One of her feathered creatures broke away, Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch In pursuit of the thing she would have stay: Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent, To follow that which flies before her face: Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent; So run’st thou after that which flies from thee, Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind, But if thou catch thy hope turn back to me: And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind. So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will, If thou turn back and my loud crying still.
144
Two loves I have of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still, The better angel is a man right fair: The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. To win me soon to hell my female evil, Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil: Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And whether that my angel be turned fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell, But being both from me both to each friend, I guess one angel in another’s hell. Yet this shall I ne’er know but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
145
Those lips that Love’s own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’, To me that languished for her sake: But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue that ever sweet, Was used in giving gentle doom: And taught it thus anew to greet: ‘I hate’ she altered with an end, That followed it as gentle day, Doth follow night who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flown away. ‘I hate’, from hate away she threw, And saved my life saying ‘not you’.
146
Poor soul the centre of my sinful earth, My sinful earth these rebel powers array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms inheritors of this excess Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end? Then soul live thou upon thy servant’s loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more, So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men, And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
147
My love is as a fever longing still, For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please: My reason the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept Hath left me, and I desperate now approve, Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest, My thoughts and my discourse as mad men’s are, At random from the truth vainly expressed. For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
148
O me! what eyes hath love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight, Or if they have, where is my judgment fled, That censures falsely what they see aright? If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is not so? If it be not, then love doth well denote, Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no, How can it? O how can love’s eye be true, That is so vexed with watching and with tears? No marvel then though I mistake my view, The sun it self sees not, till heaven clears. O cunning love, with tears thou keep’st me blind, Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.
149
Canst thou O cruel, say I love thee not, When I against my self with thee partake? Do I not think on thee when I forgot Am of my self, all-tyrant, for thy sake? Who hateth thee that I do call my friend, On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon, Nay if thou lour’st on me do I not spend Revenge upon my self with present moan? What merit do I in my self respect, That is so proud thy service to despise, When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes? But love hate on for now I know thy mind, Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind.
150
O from what power hast thou this powerful might, With insufficiency my heart to sway, To make me give the lie to my true sight, And swear that brightness doth not grace the day? Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, That in the very refuse of thy deeds, There is such strength and warrantise of skill, That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds? Who taught thee how to make me love thee more, The more I hear and see just cause of hate? O though I love what others do abhor, With others thou shouldst not abhor my state. If thy unworthiness raised love in me, More worthy I to be beloved of thee.
151
Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? Then gentle cheater urge not my amiss, Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. For thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body’s treason, My soul doth tell my body that he may, Triumph in love, flesh stays no farther reason, But rising at thy name doth point out thee, As his triumphant prize, proud of this pride, He is contented thy poor drudge to be, To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it that I call, Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.
152
In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn, But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing, In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn, In vowing new hate after new love bearing: But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee, When I break twenty? I am perjured most, For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee: And all my honest faith in thee is lost. For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness: Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy, And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindness, Or made them swear against the thing they see. For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured I, To swear against the truth so foul a be.
153
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep, A maid of Dian’s this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that ground: Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love, A dateless lively heat still to endure, And grew a seeting bath which yet men prove, Against strange maladies a sovereign cure: But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast, I sick withal the help of bath desired, And thither hied a sad distempered guest. But found no cure, the bath for my help lies, Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress’ eyes.
154
The little Love-god lying once asleep, Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep, Came tripping by, but in her maiden hand, The fairest votary took up that fire, Which many legions of true hearts had warmed, And so the general of hot desire, Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed. This brand she quenched in a cool well by, Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy, For men discased, but I my mistress’ thrall, Came there for cure and this by that I prove, Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.
THE END ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL Contents ACT I Scene I. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Scene II. Paris. A room in the King’s palace. Scene III. Rossillon. A Room in the Palace.
ACT II Scene I. Paris. A room in the King’s palace. Scene II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Scene III. Paris. The King’s palace. Scene IV. Paris. The King’s palace. Scene V. Another room in the same.
ACT III Scene I. Florence. A room in the Duke’s palace. Scene II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Scene III. Florence. Before the Duke’s palace. Scene IV. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Scene V. Without the walls of Florence. Scene VI. Camp before Florence. Scene VII. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house.
ACT IV Scene I. Without the Florentine camp. Scene II. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house. Scene III. The Florentine camp. Scene IV. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house. Scene V. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.
ACT V Scene I. Marseilles. A street. Scene II. Rossillon. The inner court of the Countess’s palace. Scene III. The same. A room in the Countess’s palace.
Dramatis Personæ KING OF FRANCE. THE DUKE OF FLORENCE. BERTRAM, Count of Rossillon. LAFEW, an old Lord. PAROLLES, a follower of Bertram. Several young French Lords, that serve with Bertram in the Florentine War. RYNALDO, servant to the Countess of Rossillon. Clown, servant to the Countess of Rossillon. A Page, servant to the Countess of Rossillon. COUNTESS OF ROSSILLON, mother to Bertram. HELENA, a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess. An old WIDOW of Florence. DIANA, daughter to the Widow. VIOLENTA, neighbour and friend to the Widow. MARIANA, neighbour and friend to the Widow.
Lords attending on the KING; Officers; Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine.
SCENE: Partly in France, and partly in Tuscany. ACT I SCENE I. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rossillon, Helena, and Lafew, all in black.
COUNTESS. In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.
BERTRAM. And I in going, madam, weep o’er my father’s death anew; but I must attend his majesty’s command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection.
LAFEW. You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you, sir, a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessity hold his virtue to you, whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted, rather than lack it where there is such abundance.
COUNTESS. What hope is there of his majesty’s amendment?
LAFEW. He hath abandon’d his physicians, madam; under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the process but only the losing of hope by time.
COUNTESS. This young gentlewoman had a father—O that “had!”, how sad a passage ’tis!—whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretch’d so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would for the king’s sake he were living! I think it would be the death of the king’s disease.
LAFEW. How called you the man you speak of, madam?
COUNTESS. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.
LAFEW. He was excellent indeed, madam; the king very lately spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly; he was skilful enough to have liv’d still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.
BERTRAM. What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?
LAFEW. A fistula, my lord.
BERTRAM. I heard not of it before.
LAFEW. I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?
COUNTESS. His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises her dispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity, they are virtues and traitors too. In her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness.
LAFEW. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.
COUNTESS. ’Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more, lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than to have.
HELENA. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.
LAFEW. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead; excessive grief the enemy to the living.
COUNTESS. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.
BERTRAM. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
LAFEW. How understand we that?
COUNTESS. Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father In manners, as in shape! Thy blood and virtue Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none. Be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key. Be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more will, That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down, Fall on thy head! Farewell. My lord, ’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord, Advise him.
LAFEW. He cannot want the best That shall attend his love.
COUNTESS. Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.
[Exit Countess.]
BERTRAM. The best wishes that can be forg’d in your thoughts be servants to you! [To Helena.] Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.
LAFEW. Farewell, pretty lady, you must hold the credit of your father.
[Exeunt Bertram and Lafew.]
HELENA. O, were that all! I think not on my father, And these great tears grace his remembrance more Than those I shed for him. What was he like? I have forgot him; my imagination Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s. I am undone: there is no living, none, If Bertram be away. ’Twere all one That I should love a bright particular star, And think to wed it, he is so above me. In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. Th’ambition in my love thus plagues itself: The hind that would be mated by the lion Must die for love. ’Twas pretty, though a plague, To see him every hour; to sit and draw His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, In our heart’s table,—heart too capable Of every line and trick of his sweet favour. But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here? Enter Parolles.
One that goes with him: I love him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward; Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him That they take place when virtue’s steely bones Looks bleak i’ th’ cold wind: withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
PAROLLES. Save you, fair queen!
HELENA. And you, monarch!
PAROLLES. No.
HELENA. And no.
PAROLLES. Are you meditating on virginity?
HELENA. Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you; let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity; how may we barricado it against him?
PAROLLES. Keep him out.
HELENA. But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant, in the defence, yet is weak. Unfold to us some warlike resistance.
PAROLLES. There is none. Man setting down before you will undermine you and blow you up.
HELENA. Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers-up! Is there no military policy how virgins might blow up men?
PAROLLES. Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up; marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase, and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity, by being once lost, may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is ever lost. ’Tis too cold a companion. Away with it!
HELENA. I will stand for’t a little, though therefore I die a virgin.
PAROLLES. There’s little can be said in’t; ’tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself, and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by’t. Out with’t! Within the year it will make itself two, which is a goodly increase, and the principal itself not much the worse. Away with it!
HELENA. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?
PAROLLES. Let me see. Marry, ill, to like him that ne’er it likes. ’Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth. Off with’t while ’tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion, richly suited, but unsuitable, just like the brooch and the toothpick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek. And your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither’d pears; it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, ’tis a wither’d pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet ’tis a wither’d pear. Will you anything with it?
HELENA. Not my virginity yet. There shall your master have a thousand loves, A mother, and a mistress, and a friend, A phoenix, captain, and an enemy, A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign, A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear: His humble ambition, proud humility, His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he— I know not what he shall. God send him well! The court’s a learning-place; and he is one.
PAROLLES. What one, i’ faith?
HELENA. That I wish well. ’Tis pity—
PAROLLES. What’s pity?
HELENA. That wishing well had not a body in’t Which might be felt, that we, the poorer born, Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And show what we alone must think, which never Returns us thanks.
Enter a Page.
PAGE. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.
[Exit Page.]
PAROLLES. Little Helen, farewell. If I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court.
HELENA. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.
PAROLLES. Under Mars, I.
HELENA. I especially think, under Mars.
PAROLLES. Why under Mars?
HELENA. The wars hath so kept you under, that you must needs be born under Mars.
PAROLLES. When he was predominant.
HELENA. When he was retrograde, I think rather.
PAROLLES. Why think you so?
HELENA. You go so much backward when you fight.
PAROLLES. That’s for advantage.
HELENA. So is running away, when fear proposes the safety: but the composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.
PAROLLES. I am so full of business I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier’s counsel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away. Farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends. Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee. So, farewell.
[Exit.]
HELENA. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. What power is it which mounts my love so high, That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune nature brings To join like likes, and kiss like native things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove To show her merit that did miss her love? The king’s disease,—my project may deceive me, But my intents are fix’d, and will not leave me.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. Paris. A room in the King’s palace. Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters; Lords and others attending.
KING. The Florentines and Senoys are by th’ ears; Have fought with equal fortune, and continue A braving war.
FIRST LORD. So ’tis reported, sir.
KING. Nay, ’tis most credible, we here receive it, A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria, With caution, that the Florentine will move us For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend Prejudicates the business, and would seem To have us make denial.
FIRST LORD. His love and wisdom, Approv’d so to your majesty, may plead For amplest credence.
KING. He hath arm’d our answer, And Florence is denied before he comes: Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see The Tuscan service, freely have they leave To stand on either part.
SECOND LORD. It well may serve A nursery to our gentry, who are sick For breathing and exploit.
KING. What’s he comes here?
Enter Bertram, Lafew and Parolles.
FIRST LORD. It is the Count Rossillon, my good lord, Young Bertram.
KING. Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face; Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, Hath well compos’d thee. Thy father’s moral parts Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.
BERTRAM. My thanks and duty are your majesty’s.
KING. I would I had that corporal soundness now, As when thy father and myself in friendship First tried our soldiership. He did look far Into the service of the time, and was Discipled of the bravest. He lasted long, But on us both did haggish age steal on, And wore us out of act. It much repairs me To talk of your good father; in his youth He had the wit which I can well observe Today in our young lords; but they may jest Till their own scorn return to them unnoted Ere they can hide their levity in honour So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were, His equal had awak’d them, and his honour, Clock to itself, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speak, and at this time His tongue obey’d his hand. Who were below him He us’d as creatures of another place, And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks, Making them proud of his humility, In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man Might be a copy to these younger times; Which, followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward.
BERTRAM. His good remembrance, sir, Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb; So in approof lives not his epitaph As in your royal speech.
KING. Would I were with him! He would always say,— Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them To grow there and to bear,—“Let me not live,” This his good melancholy oft began On the catastrophe and heel of pastime, When it was out,—“Let me not live” quoth he, “After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses All but new things disdain; whose judgments are Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies Expire before their fashions.” This he wish’d. I, after him, do after him wish too, Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home, I quickly were dissolved from my hive To give some labourers room.
SECOND LORD. You’re lov’d, sir; They that least lend it you shall lack you first.
KING. I fill a place, I know’t. How long is’t, Count, Since the physician at your father’s died? He was much fam’d.
BERTRAM. Some six months since, my lord.
KING. If he were living, I would try him yet;— Lend me an arm;—the rest have worn me out With several applications; nature and sickness Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, Count; My son’s no dearer.
BERTRAM. Thank your majesty.
[Exeunt. Flourish.]
SCENE III. Rossillon. A Room in the Palace. Enter Countess, Steward and Clown.
COUNTESS. I will now hear. What say you of this gentlewoman?
STEWARD. Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty, and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
COUNTESS. What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah. The complaints I have heard of you I do not all believe; ’tis my slowness that I do not; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.
CLOWN. ’Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.
COUNTESS. Well, sir.
CLOWN. No, madam, ’tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned; but if I may have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.
COUNTESS. Wilt thou needs be a beggar?
CLOWN. I do beg your good will in this case.
COUNTESS. In what case?
CLOWN. In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no heritage, and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue of my body; for they say barnes are blessings.
COUNTESS. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.
CLOWN. My poor body, madam, requires it; I am driven on by the flesh, and he must needs go that the devil drives.
COUNTESS. Is this all your worship’s reason?
CLOWN. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.
COUNTESS. May the world know them?
CLOWN. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and indeed I do marry that I may repent.
COUNTESS. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.
CLOWN. I am out of friends, madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife’s sake.
COUNTESS. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.
CLOWN. Y’are shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which I am a-weary of. He that ears my land spares my team, and gives me leave to in the crop: if I be his cuckold, he’s my drudge. He that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend; ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan and old Poysam the papist, howsome’er their hearts are sever’d in religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl horns together like any deer i’ the herd.
COUNTESS. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth’d and calumnious knave?
CLOWN. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way: For I the ballad will repeat, Which men full true shall find; Your marriage comes by destiny, Your cuckoo sings by kind.
COUNTESS. Get you gone, sir; I’ll talk with you more anon.
STEWARD. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you; of her I am to speak.
COUNTESS. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen I mean.
CLOWN. [Sings.] Was this fair face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy? Fond done, done fond, Was this King Priam’s joy? With that she sighed as she stood, With that she sighed as she stood, And gave this sentence then: Among nine bad if one be good, Among nine bad if one be good, There’s yet one good in ten.
COUNTESS. What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.
CLOWN. One good woman in ten, madam, which is a purifying o’ the song. Would God would serve the world so all the year! We’d find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth ’a! And we might have a good woman born but or every blazing star, or at an earthquake, ’twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out ere he pluck one.
COUNTESS. You’ll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you!
CLOWN. That man should be at woman’s command, and yet no hurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth; the business is for Helen to come hither.
[Exit.]
COUNTESS. Well, now.
STEWARD. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.
COUNTESS. Faith I do. Her father bequeath’d her to me, and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds; there is more owing her than is paid, and more shall be paid her than she’ll demand.
STEWARD. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wish’d me; alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touch’d not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son. Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would not extend his might only where qualities were level; Diana no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surpris’d, without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she deliver’d in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e’er I heard virgin exclaim in, which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.
COUNTESS. You have discharg’d this honestly; keep it to yourself; many likelihoods inform’d me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you leave me; stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care. I will speak with you further anon.
[Exit Steward.]
Enter Helena.
Even so it was with me when I was young; If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong; Our blood to us, this to our blood is born; It is the show and seal of nature’s truth, Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth. By our remembrances of days foregone, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none. Her eye is sick on’t; I observe her now.
HELENA. What is your pleasure, madam?
COUNTESS. You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.
HELENA. Mine honourable mistress.
COUNTESS. Nay, a mother. Why not a mother? When I said a mother, Methought you saw a serpent. What’s in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the catalogue of those That were enwombed mine. ’Tis often seen Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds A native slip to us from foreign seeds. You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan, Yet I express to you a mother’s care. God’s mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? What’s the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet, The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye? —Why, that you are my daughter?
HELENA. That I am not.
COUNTESS. I say, I am your mother.
HELENA. Pardon, madam; The Count Rossillon cannot be my brother. I am from humble, he from honoured name; No note upon my parents, his all noble, My master, my dear lord he is; and I His servant live, and will his vassal die. He must not be my brother.
COUNTESS. Nor I your mother?
HELENA. You are my mother, madam; would you were— So that my lord your son were not my brother,— Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers, I care no more for than I do for heaven, So I were not his sister. Can’t no other, But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
COUNTESS. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law. God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother So strive upon your pulse. What! pale again? My fear hath catch’d your fondness; now I see The mystery of your loneliness, and find Your salt tears’ head. Now to all sense ’tis gross You love my son; invention is asham’d, Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou dost not. Therefore tell me true; But tell me then, ’tis so; for, look, thy cheeks Confess it, t’one to th’other; and thine eyes See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours, That in their kind they speak it; only sin And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, That truth should be suspected. Speak, is’t so? If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew; If it be not, forswear’t: howe’er, I charge thee, As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, To tell me truly.
HELENA. Good madam, pardon me.
COUNTESS. Do you love my son?
HELENA. Your pardon, noble mistress.
COUNTESS. Love you my son?
HELENA. Do not you love him, madam?
COUNTESS. Go not about; my love hath in’t a bond Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, disclose The state of your affection, for your passions Have to the full appeach’d.
HELENA. Then I confess, Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, That before you, and next unto high heaven, I love your son. My friends were poor, but honest; so’s my love. Be not offended; for it hurts not him That he is lov’d of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suit, Nor would I have him till I do deserve him; Yet never know how that desert should be. I know I love in vain, strive against hope; Yet in this captious and inteemable sieve I still pour in the waters of my love And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like, Religious in mine error, I adore The sun that looks upon his worshipper, But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, Let not your hate encounter with my love, For loving where you do; but if yourself, Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, Did ever, in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian Was both herself and love; O then, give pity To her whose state is such that cannot choose But lend and give where she is sure to lose; That seeks not to find that her search implies, But riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies!
COUNTESS. Had you not lately an intent,—speak truly,— To go to Paris?
HELENA. Madam, I had.
COUNTESS. Wherefore? tell true.
HELENA. I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear. You know my father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prov’d effects, such as his reading And manifest experience had collected For general sovereignty; and that he will’d me In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them, As notes whose faculties inclusive were More than they were in note. Amongst the rest There is a remedy, approv’d, set down, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The king is render’d lost.
COUNTESS. This was your motive For Paris, was it? Speak.
HELENA. My lord your son made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king, Had from the conversation of my thoughts Haply been absent then.
COUNTESS. But think you, Helen, If you should tender your supposed aid, He would receive it? He and his physicians Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him; They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, Embowell’d of their doctrine, have let off The danger to itself?
HELENA. There’s something in’t More than my father’s skill, which was the great’st Of his profession, that his good receipt Shall for my legacy be sanctified By th’ luckiest stars in heaven; and would your honour But give me leave to try success, I’d venture The well-lost life of mine on his grace’s cure. By such a day, an hour.
COUNTESS. Dost thou believe’t?
HELENA. Ay, madam, knowingly.
COUNTESS. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love, Means and attendants, and my loving greetings To those of mine in court. I’ll stay at home, And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt. Be gone tomorrow; and be sure of this, What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.
[Exeunt.]
ACT II. SCENE I. Paris. A room in the King’s palace. Flourish. Enter the King with young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles and Attendants.
KING. Farewell, young lords; these warlike principles Do not throw from you; and you, my lords, farewell; Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all, The gift doth stretch itself as ’tis receiv’d, And is enough for both.
FIRST LORD. ’Tis our hope, sir, After well-ent’red soldiers, to return And find your grace in health.
KING. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confess he owes the malady That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords. Whether I live or die, be you the sons Of worthy Frenchmen; let higher Italy,— Those bated that inherit but the fall Of the last monarchy—see that you come Not to woo honour, but to wed it, when The bravest questant shrinks: find what you seek, That fame may cry you loud. I say farewell.
SECOND LORD. Health, at your bidding serve your majesty!
KING. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them; They say our French lack language to deny If they demand; beware of being captives Before you serve.
BOTH. Our hearts receive your warnings.
KING. Farewell.—Come hither to me.
[The King retires to a couch.]
FIRST LORD. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!
PAROLLES. ’Tis not his fault; the spark.
SECOND LORD. O, ’tis brave wars!
PAROLLES. Most admirable! I have seen those wars.
BERTRAM. I am commanded here, and kept a coil with, “Too young”, and “the next year” and “’tis too early”.
PAROLLES. An thy mind stand to’t, boy, steal away bravely.
BERTRAM. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock, Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry, Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn But one to dance with. By heaven, I’ll steal away.
FIRST LORD. There’s honour in the theft.
PAROLLES. Commit it, count.
SECOND LORD. I am your accessary; and so farewell.
BERTRAM. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortur’d body.
FIRST LORD. Farewell, captain.
SECOND LORD. Sweet Monsieur Parolles!
PAROLLES. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals. You shall find in the regiment of the Spinii one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword entrench’d it. Say to him I live; and observe his reports for me.
FIRST LORD. We shall, noble captain.
PAROLLES. Mars dote on you for his novices!
[Exeunt Lords.]
What will ye do?
BERTRAM. Stay the king.
PAROLLES. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrain’d yourself within the list of too cold an adieu. Be more expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time; there do muster true gait; eat, speak, and move, under the influence of the most receiv’d star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.
BERTRAM. And I will do so.
PAROLLES. Worthy fellows, and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.
[Exeunt Bertram and Parolles.]
Enter Lafew.
LAFEW. Pardon, my lord [kneeling], for me and for my tidings.
KING. I’ll fee thee to stand up.
LAFEW. Then here’s a man stands that has brought his pardon. I would you had kneel’d, my lord, to ask me mercy, And that at my bidding you could so stand up.
KING. I would I had; so I had broke thy pate, And ask’d thee mercy for’t.
LAFEW. Good faith, across; But, my good lord, ’tis thus: will you be cur’d Of your infirmity?
KING. No.
LAFEW. O, will you eat No grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will My noble grapes, and if my royal fox Could reach them. I have seen a medicine That’s able to breathe life into a stone, Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary With sprightly fire and motion; whose simple touch Is powerful to araise King Pippen, nay, To give great Charlemain a pen in’s hand And write to her a love-line.
KING. What ‘her’ is this?
LAFEW. Why, doctor ‘she’! My lord, there’s one arriv’d, If you will see her. Now, by my faith and honour, If seriously I may convey my thoughts In this my light deliverance, I have spoke With one that in her sex, her years, profession, Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz’d me more Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her, For that is her demand, and know her business? That done, laugh well at me.
KING. Now, good Lafew, Bring in the admiration; that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wond’ring how thou took’st it.
LAFEW. Nay, I’ll fit you, And not be all day neither.
[Exit Lafew.]
KING. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.
Enter Lafew with Helena.
LAFEW. Nay, come your ways.
KING. This haste hath wings indeed.
LAFEW. Nay, come your ways. This is his majesty, say your mind to him. A traitor you do look like, but such traitors His majesty seldom fears; I am Cressid’s uncle, That dare leave two together. Fare you well.
[Exit.]
KING. Now, fair one, does your business follow us?
HELENA. Ay, my good lord. Gerard de Narbon was my father, In what he did profess, well found.
KING. I knew him.
HELENA. The rather will I spare my praises towards him. Knowing him is enough. On his bed of death Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, Which, as the dearest issue of his practice, And of his old experience the only darling, He bade me store up as a triple eye, Safer than mine own two; more dear I have so, And hearing your high majesty is touch’d With that malignant cause, wherein the honour Of my dear father’s gift stands chief in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humbleness.
KING. We thank you, maiden, But may not be so credulous of cure, When our most learned doctors leave us, and The congregated college have concluded That labouring art can never ransom nature From her inaidable estate. I say we must not So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malady To empirics, or to dissever so Our great self and our credit, to esteem A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.
HELENA. My duty then shall pay me for my pains. I will no more enforce mine office on you, Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts A modest one to bear me back again.
KING. I cannot give thee less, to be call’d grateful. Thou thought’st to help me; and such thanks I give As one near death to those that wish him live. But what at full I know, thou know’st no part; I knowing all my peril, thou no art.
HELENA. What I can do can do no hurt to try, Since you set up your rest ’gainst remedy. He that of greatest works is finisher Oft does them by the weakest minister. So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown, When judges have been babes. Great floods have flown From simple sources, and great seas have dried When miracles have by the great’st been denied. Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises; and oft it hits Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.
KING. I must not hear thee. Fare thee well, kind maid. Thy pains, not us’d, must by thyself be paid; Proffers, not took, reap thanks for their reward.
HELENA. Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d. It is not so with Him that all things knows As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows; But most it is presumption in us when The help of heaven we count the act of men. Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent; Of heaven, not me, make an experiment. I am not an impostor, that proclaim Myself against the level of mine aim, But know I think, and think I know most sure, My art is not past power nor you past cure.
KING. Art thou so confident? Within what space Hop’st thou my cure?
HELENA. The greatest grace lending grace. Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring, Ere twice in murk and occidental damp Moist Hesperus hath quench’d her sleepy lamp; Or four and twenty times the pilot’s glass Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass; What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly, Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.
KING. Upon thy certainty and confidence What dar’st thou venture?
HELENA. Tax of impudence, A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame, Traduc’d by odious ballads; my maiden’s name Sear’d otherwise; ne worse of worst extended With vildest torture, let my life be ended.
KING. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak His powerful sound within an organ weak; And what impossibility would slay In common sense, sense saves another way. Thy life is dear, for all that life can rate Worth name of life in thee hath estimate: Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all That happiness and prime can happy call. Thou this to hazard needs must intimate Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate. Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try, That ministers thine own death if I die.
HELENA. If I break time, or flinch in property Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die, And well deserv’d. Not helping, death’s my fee; But if I help, what do you promise me?
KING. Make thy demand.
HELENA. But will you make it even?
KING. Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven.
HELENA. Then shalt thou give me, with thy kingly hand What husband in thy power I will command: Exempted be from me the arrogance To choose from forth the royal blood of France, My low and humble name to propagate With any branch or image of thy state; But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.
KING. Here is my hand; the premises observ’d, Thy will by my performance shall be serv’d; So make the choice of thy own time, for I, Thy resolv’d patient, on thee still rely. More should I question thee, and more I must, Though more to know could not be more to trust: From whence thou cam’st, how tended on; but rest Unquestion’d welcome, and undoubted bless’d. Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Enter Countess and Clown.
COUNTESS. Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding.
CLOWN. I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught. I know my business is but to the court.
COUNTESS. To the court! Why, what place make you special, when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court!
CLOWN. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off’s cap, kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court; but for me, I have an answer will serve all men.
COUNTESS. Marry, that’s a bountiful answer that fits all questions.
CLOWN. It is like a barber’s chair, that fits all buttocks—the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn-buttock, or any buttock.
COUNTESS. Will your answer serve fit to all questions?
CLOWN. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffety punk, as Tib’s rush for Tom’s forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove-Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding quean to a wrangling knave, as the nun’s lip to the friar’s mouth; nay, as the pudding to his skin.
COUNTESS. Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all questions?
CLOWN. From below your duke to beneath your constable, it will fit any question.
COUNTESS. It must be an answer of most monstrous size that must fit all demands.
CLOWN. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should speak truth of it. Here it is, and all that belongs to’t. Ask me if I am a courtier; it shall do you no harm to learn.
COUNTESS. To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a courtier?
CLOWN. O Lord, sir! There’s a simple putting off. More, more, a hundred of them.
COUNTESS. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.
CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Thick, thick; spare not me.
COUNTESS. I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat.
CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to’t, I warrant you.
COUNTESS. You were lately whipp’d, sir, as I think.
CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Spare not me.
COUNTESS. Do you cry ‘O Lord, sir!’ at your whipping, and ‘spare not me’? Indeed your ‘O Lord, sir!’ is very sequent to your whipping. You would answer very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to’t.
CLOWN. I ne’er had worse luck in my life in my ‘O Lord, sir!’ I see things may serve long, but not serve ever.
COUNTESS. I play the noble housewife with the time, to entertain it so merrily with a fool.
CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Why, there’t serves well again.
COUNTESS. An end, sir! To your business. Give Helen this, And urge her to a present answer back. Commend me to my kinsmen and my son. This is not much.
CLOWN. Not much commendation to them?
COUNTESS. Not much employment for you. You understand me?
CLOWN. Most fruitfully. I am there before my legs.
COUNTESS. Haste you again.
[Exeunt severally.]
SCENE III. Paris. The King’s palace. Enter Bertram, Lafew and Parolles.
LAFEW. They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons to make modern and familiar things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.
PAROLLES. Why, ’tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our latter times.
BERTRAM. And so ’tis.
LAFEW. To be relinquish’d of the artists,—
PAROLLES. So I say; both of Galen and Paracelsus.
LAFEW. Of all the learned and authentic fellows,—
PAROLLES. Right; so I say.
LAFEW. That gave him out incurable,—
PAROLLES. Why, there ’tis; so say I too.
LAFEW. Not to be helped.
PAROLLES. Right; as ’twere a man assur’d of a—
LAFEW. Uncertain life and sure death.
PAROLLES. Just; you say well. So would I have said.
LAFEW. I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.
PAROLLES. It is indeed; if you will have it in showing, you shall read it in what do you call there?
LAFEW. A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.
PAROLLES. That’s it; I would have said the very same.
LAFEW. Why, your dolphin is not lustier; fore me, I speak in respect—
PAROLLES. Nay, ’tis strange, ’tis very strange; that is the brief and the tedious of it; and he’s of a most facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the—
LAFEW. Very hand of heaven.
PAROLLES. Ay, so I say.
LAFEW. In a most weak—
PAROLLES. And debile minister, great power, great transcendence, which should indeed give us a further use to be made than alone the recov’ry of the king, as to be—
LAFEW. Generally thankful.
PAROLLES. I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.
Enter King, Helena and Attendants.
LAFEW. Lustique, as the Dutchman says. I’ll like a maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my head. Why, he’s able to lead her a coranto.
PAROLLES. Mor du vinager! is not this Helen?
LAFEW. Fore God, I think so.
KING. Go, call before me all the lords in court.
[Exit an Attendant.]
Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side, And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense Thou has repeal’d, a second time receive The confirmation of my promis’d gift, Which but attends thy naming.
Enter several Lords.
Fair maid, send forth thine eye. This youthful parcel Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing, O’er whom both sovereign power and father’s voice I have to use. Thy frank election make; Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.
HELENA. To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress Fall, when love please! Marry, to each but one!
LAFEW. I’d give bay curtal and his furniture My mouth no more were broken than these boys’, And writ as little beard.
KING. Peruse them well. Not one of those but had a noble father.
She addresses her to a Lord.
HELENA. Gentlemen, Heaven hath through me restor’d the king to health.
ALL. We understand it, and thank heaven for you.
HELENA. I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest That I protest I simply am a maid. Please it, your majesty, I have done already. The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me: “We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be refused, Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever, We’ll ne’er come there again.”
KING. Make choice; and, see, Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me.
HELENA. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly, And to imperial Love, that god most high, Do my sighs stream. [To first Lord.] Sir, will you hear my suit?
FIRST LORD. And grant it.
HELENA. Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.
LAFEW. I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my life.
HELENA. [To second Lord.] The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes, Before I speak, too threat’ningly replies. Love make your fortunes twenty times above Her that so wishes, and her humble love!
SECOND LORD. No better, if you please.
HELENA. My wish receive, Which great Love grant; and so I take my leave.
LAFEW. Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine I’d have them whipp’d; or I would send them to th’ Turk to make eunuchs of.
HELENA. [To third Lord.] Be not afraid that I your hand should take; I’ll never do you wrong for your own sake. Blessing upon your vows, and in your bed Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!
LAFEW. These boys are boys of ice, they’ll none have her. Sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne’er got ’em.
HELENA. [To fourth Lord.] You are too young, too happy, and too good, To make yourself a son out of my blood.
FOURTH LORD. Fair one, I think not so.
LAFEW. There’s one grape yet. I am sure thy father drank wine. But if thou beest not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen; I have known thee already.
HELENA. [To Bertram.] I dare not say I take you, but I give Me and my service, ever whilst I live, Into your guiding power. This is the man.
KING. Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she’s thy wife.
BERTRAM. My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness, In such a business give me leave to use The help of mine own eyes.
KING. Know’st thou not, Bertram, What she has done for me?
BERTRAM. Yes, my good lord, But never hope to know why I should marry her.
KING. Thou know’st she has rais’d me from my sickly bed.
BERTRAM. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down Must answer for your raising? I know her well; She had her breeding at my father’s charge: A poor physician’s daughter my wife! Disdain Rather corrupt me ever!
KING. ’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the which I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods, Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together, Would quite confound distinction, yet stands off In differences so mighty. If she be All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik’st, A poor physician’s daughter,—thou dislik’st— Of virtue for the name. But do not so. From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, The place is dignified by the doer’s deed. Where great additions swell’s, and virtue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone Is good without a name; vileness is so: The property by what it is should go, Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair; In these to nature she’s immediate heir; And these breed honour: that is honour’s scorn Which challenges itself as honour’s born, And is not like the sire. Honours thrive When rather from our acts we them derive Than our fore-goers. The mere word’s a slave, Debauch’d on every tomb, on every grave A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be said? If thou canst like this creature as a maid, I can create the rest. Virtue and she Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.
BERTRAM. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do ’t.
KING. Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.
HELENA. That you are well restor’d, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest go.
KING. My honour’s at the stake, which to defeat, I must produce my power. Here, take her hand, Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift, That dost in vile misprision shackle up My love and her desert; that canst not dream We, poising us in her defective scale, Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know It is in us to plant thine honour where We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt; Obey our will, which travails in thy good; Believe not thy disdain, but presently Do thine own fortunes that obedient right Which both thy duty owes and our power claims; Or I will throw thee from my care for ever Into the staggers and the careless lapse Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate Loosing upon thee in the name of justice, Without all terms of pity. Speak! Thine answer!
BERTRAM. Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit My fancy to your eyes. When I consider What great creation, and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now The praised of the king; who, so ennobled, Is as ’twere born so.
KING. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine; to whom I promise A counterpoise; if not to thy estate, A balance more replete.
BERTRAM. I take her hand.
KING. Good fortune and the favour of the king Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief, And be perform’d tonight. The solemn feast Shall more attend upon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lov’st her, Thy love’s to me religious; else, does err.
[Exeunt King, Bertram, Helena, Lords, and Attendants.]
LAFEW. Do you hear, monsieur? A word with you.
PAROLLES. Your pleasure, sir.
LAFEW. Your lord and master did well to make his recantation.
PAROLLES. Recantation! My lord! My master!
LAFEW. Ay. Is it not a language I speak?
PAROLLES. A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master!
LAFEW. Are you companion to the Count Rossillon?
PAROLLES. To any count; to all counts; to what is man.
LAFEW. To what is count’s man: count’s master is of another style.
PAROLLES. You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.
LAFEW. I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee.
PAROLLES. What I dare too well do, I dare not do.
LAFEW. I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass. Yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burden. I have now found thee; when I lose thee again I care not. Yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and that thou art scarce worth.
PAROLLES. Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee—
LAFEW. Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy trial; which if—Lord have mercy on thee for a hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee well; thy casement I need not open, for I look through thee. Give me thy hand.
PAROLLES. My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.
LAFEW. Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.
PAROLLES. I have not, my lord, deserv’d it.
LAFEW. Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not bate thee a scruple.
PAROLLES. Well, I shall be wiser.
LAFEW. Ev’n as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o’ th’ contrary. If ever thou beest bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, “He is a man I know.”
PAROLLES. My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.
LAFEW. I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal; for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave.
[Exit.]
PAROLLES. Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority. I’ll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a lord. I’ll have no more pity of his age than I would have of—I’ll beat him, and if I could but meet him again.
Enter Lafew.
LAFEW. Sirrah, your lord and master’s married; there’s news for you; you have a new mistress.
PAROLLES. I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs. He is my good lord; whom I serve above is my master.
LAFEW. Who? God?
PAROLLES. Ay, sir.
LAFEW. The devil it is that’s thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms o’ this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeves? Do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I’d beat thee. Methink’st thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee. I think thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.
PAROLLES. This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.
LAFEW. Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond, and no true traveller. You are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the commission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I’d call you knave. I leave you.
[Exit.]
Enter Bertram.
PAROLLES. Good, very good, it is so then. Good, very good; let it be conceal’d awhile.
BERTRAM. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!
PAROLLES. What’s the matter, sweetheart?
BERTRAM. Although before the solemn priest I have sworn, I will not bed her.
PAROLLES. What, what, sweetheart?
BERTRAM. O my Parolles, they have married me! I’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
PAROLLES. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars!
BERTRAM. There’s letters from my mother; what th’ import is I know not yet.
PAROLLES. Ay, that would be known. To th’ wars, my boy, to th’ wars! He wears his honour in a box unseen That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home, Spending his manly marrow in her arms, Which should sustain the bound and high curvet Of Mars’s fiery steed. To other regions! France is a stable; we that dwell in’t, jades, Therefore, to th’ war!
BERTRAM. It shall be so; I’ll send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled; write to the king That which I durst not speak. His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife To the dark house and the detested wife.
PAROLLES. Will this caprichio hold in thee, art sure?
BERTRAM. Go with me to my chamber and advise me. I’ll send her straight away. Tomorrow I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.
PAROLLES. Why, these balls bound; there’s noise in it. ’Tis hard: A young man married is a man that’s marr’d. Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go. The king has done you wrong; but hush ’tis so.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Paris. The King’s palace. Enter Helena and Clown.
HELENA. My mother greets me kindly: is she well?
CLOWN. She is not well, but yet she has her health; she’s very merry, but yet she is not well. But thanks be given, she’s very well, and wants nothing i’ the world; but yet she is not well.
HELENA. If she be very well, what does she ail that she’s not very well?
CLOWN. Truly, she’s very well indeed, but for two things.
HELENA. What two things?
CLOWN. One, that she’s not in heaven, whither God send her quickly! The other, that she’s in earth, from whence God send her quickly!
Enter Parolles.
PAROLLES. Bless you, my fortunate lady!
HELENA. I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine own good fortune.
PAROLLES. You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them on, have them still. O, my knave how does my old lady?
CLOWN. So that you had her wrinkles and I her money, I would she did as you say.
PAROLLES. Why, I say nothing.
CLOWN. Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man’s tongue shakes out his master’s undoing. To say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to have nothing, is to be a great part of your title; which is within a very little of nothing.
PAROLLES. Away! Thou art a knave.
CLOWN. You should have said, sir, before a knave thou art a knave; that is before me thou art a knave. This had been truth, sir.
PAROLLES. Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found thee.
CLOWN. Did you find me in yourself, sir? or were you taught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable; and much fool may you find in you, even to the world’s pleasure and the increase of laughter.
PAROLLES. A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed. Madam, my lord will go away tonight; A very serious business calls on him. The great prerogative and right of love, Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge; But puts it off to a compell’d restraint; Whose want, and whose delay, is strew’d with sweets; Which they distil now in the curbed time, To make the coming hour o’erflow with joy And pleasure drown the brim.
HELENA. What’s his will else?
PAROLLES. That you will take your instant leave o’ the king, And make this haste as your own good proceeding, Strengthen’d with what apology you think May make it probable need.
HELENA. What more commands he?
PAROLLES. That, having this obtain’d, you presently Attend his further pleasure.
HELENA. In everything I wait upon his will.
PAROLLES. I shall report it so.
HELENA. I pray you. Come, sirrah.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Another room in the same. Enter Lafew and Bertram.
LAFEW. But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier.
BERTRAM. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.
LAFEW. You have it from his own deliverance.
BERTRAM. And by other warranted testimony.
LAFEW. Then my dial goes not true; I took this lark for a bunting.
BERTRAM. I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in knowledge, and accordingly valiant.
LAFEW. I have, then, sinned against his experience and transgressed against his valour; and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent. Here he comes; I pray you make us friends; I will pursue the amity
Enter Parolles.
PAROLLES. [To Bertram.] These things shall be done, sir.
LAFEW. Pray you, sir, who’s his tailor?
PAROLLES. Sir!
LAFEW. O, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, is a good workman, a very good tailor.
BERTRAM. [Aside to Parolles.] Is she gone to the king?
PAROLLES. She is.
BERTRAM. Will she away tonight?
PAROLLES. As you’ll have her.
BERTRAM. I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure, Given order for our horses; and tonight, When I should take possession of the bride, End ere I do begin.
LAFEW. A good traveller is something at the latter end of a dinner; but one that lies three-thirds and uses a known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should be once heard and thrice beaten.— God save you, Captain.
BERTRAM. Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?
PAROLLES. I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord’s displeasure.
LAFEW. You have made shift to run into ’t, boots and spurs and all, like him that leapt into the custard; and out of it you’ll run again, rather than suffer question for your residence.
BERTRAM. It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.
LAFEW. And shall do so ever, though I took him at his prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe this of me, there can be no kernal in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes; trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures. Farewell, monsieur; I have spoken better of you than you have or will to deserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil.
[Exit.]
PAROLLES. An idle lord, I swear.
BERTRAM. I think so.
PAROLLES. Why, do you not know him?
BERTRAM. Yes, I do know him well; and common speech Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.
Enter Helena.
HELENA. I have, sir, as I was commanded from you, Spoke with the king, and have procur’d his leave For present parting; only he desires Some private speech with you.
BERTRAM. I shall obey his will. You must not marvel, Helen, at my course, Which holds not colour with the time, nor does The ministration and required office On my particular. Prepared I was not For such a business; therefore am I found So much unsettled: this drives me to entreat you; That presently you take your way for home, And rather muse than ask why I entreat you: For my respects are better than they seem; And my appointments have in them a need Greater than shows itself at the first view To you that know them not. This to my mother.
[Giving a letter.]
’Twill be two days ere I shall see you; so I leave you to your wisdom.
HELENA. Sir, I can nothing say But that I am your most obedient servant.
BERTRAM. Come, come, no more of that.
HELENA. And ever shall With true observance seek to eke out that Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail’d To equal my great fortune.
BERTRAM. Let that go. My haste is very great. Farewell; hie home.
HELENA. Pray, sir, your pardon.
BERTRAM. Well, what would you say?
HELENA. I am not worthy of the wealth I owe; Nor dare I say ’tis mine, and yet it is; But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal What law does vouch mine own.
BERTRAM. What would you have?
HELENA. Something; and scarce so much; nothing indeed. I would not tell you what I would, my lord. Faith, yes, Strangers and foes do sunder and not kiss.
BERTRAM. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.
HELENA. I shall not break your bidding, good my lord. Where are my other men, monsieur? Farewell,
[Exit Helena.]
BERTRAM. Go thou toward home, where I will never come Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum. Away, and for our flight.
PAROLLES. Bravely, coragio!
[Exeunt.]
ACT III. SCENE I. Florence. A room in the Duke’s palace. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence attended; two French Lords, and Soldiers.
DUKE. So that, from point to point, now have you heard The fundamental reasons of this war, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth, And more thirsts after.
FIRST LORD. Holy seems the quarrel Upon your Grace’s part; black and fearful On the opposer.
DUKE. Therefore we marvel much our cousin France Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom Against our borrowing prayers.
SECOND LORD. Good my lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yield, But like a common and an outward man That the great figure of a council frames By self-unable motion; therefore dare not Say what I think of it, since I have found Myself in my incertain grounds to fail As often as I guess’d.
DUKE. Be it his pleasure.
FIRST LORD. But I am sure the younger of our nature, That surfeit on their ease, will day by day Come here for physic.
DUKE. Welcome shall they be; And all the honours that can fly from us Shall on them settle. You know your places well; When better fall, for your avails they fell. Tomorrow to the field.
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Enter Countess and Clown.
COUNTESS. It hath happen’d all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.
CLOWN. By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man.
COUNTESS. By what observance, I pray you?
CLOWN. Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.
COUNTESS. Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.
[Opening a letter.]
CLOWN. I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court. Our old lings and our Isbels o’ th’ country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o’ th’ court. The brains of my Cupid’s knock’d out, and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.
COUNTESS. What have we here?
CLOWN. E’en that you have there.
[Exit.]
COUNTESS. [Reads.] I have sent you a daughter-in-law; she hath recovered the king and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her, and sworn to make the “not” eternal. You shall hear I am run away; know it before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your unfortunate son, BERTRAM.
This is not well, rash and unbridled boy, To fly the favours of so good a king, To pluck his indignation on thy head By the misprizing of a maid too virtuous For the contempt of empire.
Enter Clown.
CLOWN. O madam, yonder is heavy news within between two soldiers and my young lady.
COUNTESS. What is the matter?
CLOWN. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not be kill’d so soon as I thought he would.
COUNTESS. Why should he be kill’d?
CLOWN. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does; the danger is in standing to’t; that’s the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come will tell you more. For my part, I only hear your son was run away.
[Exit.]
Enter Helena and the two Gentlemen.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Save you, good madam.
HELENA. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. Do not say so.
COUNTESS. Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen,— I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me unto ’t. Where is my son, I pray you?
SECOND GENTLEMAN. Madam, he’s gone to serve the Duke of Florence; We met him thitherward, for thence we came, And, after some despatch in hand at court, Thither we bend again.
HELENA. Look on this letter, madam; here’s my passport.
[Reads.] When thou canst get the ring upon my finger, which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband; but in such a “then” I write a “never”. This is a dreadful sentence.
COUNTESS. Brought you this letter, gentlemen?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, madam; And for the contents’ sake, are sorry for our pains.
COUNTESS. I pr’ythee, lady, have a better cheer; If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, Thou robb’st me of a moiety. He was my son, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he?
SECOND GENTLEMAN. Ay, madam.
COUNTESS. And to be a soldier?
SECOND GENTLEMAN. Such is his noble purpose, and, believe’t, The duke will lay upon him all the honour That good convenience claims.
COUNTESS. Return you thither?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.
HELENA. [Reads.] Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. ’Tis bitter.
COUNTESS. Find you that there?
HELENA. Ay, madam.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis but the boldness of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting to.
COUNTESS. Nothing in France until he have no wife! There’s nothing here that is too good for him But only she, and she deserves a lord That twenty such rude boys might tend upon, And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. A servant only, and a gentleman which I have sometime known.
COUNTESS. Parolles, was it not?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, my good lady, he.
COUNTESS. A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness. My son corrupts a well-derived nature With his inducement.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Indeed, good lady, The fellow has a deal of that too much, Which holds him much to have.
COUNTESS. Y’are welcome, gentlemen. I will entreat you, when you see my son, To tell him that his sword can never win The honour that he loses: more I’ll entreat you Written to bear along.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. We serve you, madam, In that and all your worthiest affairs.
COUNTESS. Not so, but as we change our courtesies. Will you draw near?
[Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen.]
HELENA. “Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.” Nothing in France until he has no wife! Thou shalt have none, Rossillon, none in France; Then hast thou all again. Poor lord, is’t I That chase thee from thy country, and expose Those tender limbs of thine to the event Of the none-sparing war? And is it I That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride upon the violent speed of fire, Fly with false aim; move the still-peering air, That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord. Whoever shoots at him, I set him there; Whoever charges on his forward breast, I am the caitiff that do hold him to’t; And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected. Better ’twere I met the ravin lion when he roar’d With sharp constraint of hunger; better ’twere That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No; come thou home, Rossillon, Whence honour but of danger wins a scar, As oft it loses all. I will be gone; My being here it is that holds thee hence. Shall I stay here to do’t? No, no, although The air of paradise did fan the house, And angels offic’d all. I will be gone, That pitiful rumour may report my flight To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day; For with the dark, poor thief, I’ll steal away.
[Exit.]
SCENE III. Florence. Before the Duke’s palace. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram, drum and trumpets, Soldiers, Parolles.
DUKE. The general of our horse thou art, and we, Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence Upon thy promising fortune.
BERTRAM. Sir, it is A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet We’ll strive to bear it for your worthy sake To th’extreme edge of hazard.
DUKE. Then go thou forth; And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm, As thy auspicious mistress!
BERTRAM. This very day, Great Mars, I put myself into thy file; Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove A lover of thy drum, hater of love.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Enter Countess and Steward.
COUNTESS. Alas! and would you take the letter of her? Might you not know she would do as she has done, By sending me a letter? Read it again.
STEWARD. [Reads.] I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone. Ambitious love hath so in me offended That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon, With sainted vow my faults to have amended. Write, write, that from the bloody course of war My dearest master, your dear son, may hie. Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far His name with zealous fervour sanctify. His taken labours bid him me forgive; I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth From courtly friends, with camping foes to live, Where death and danger dog the heels of worth. He is too good and fair for death and me; Whom I myself embrace to set him free.
COUNTESS. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words! Rynaldo, you did never lack advice so much As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her, I could have well diverted her intents, Which thus she hath prevented.
STEWARD. Pardon me, madam; If I had given you this at over-night, She might have been o’erta’en; and yet she writes Pursuit would be but vain.
COUNTESS. What angel shall Bless this unworthy husband? He cannot thrive, Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rynaldo, To this unworthy husband of his wife; Let every word weigh heavy of her worth, That he does weigh too light; my greatest grief, Though little he do feel it, set down sharply. Dispatch the most convenient messenger. When haply he shall hear that she is gone He will return; and hope I may that she, Hearing so much, will speed her foot again, Led hither by pure love. Which of them both Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense To make distinction. Provide this messenger. My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak; Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Without the walls of Florence. Enter an old Widow of Florence, Diana, Violenta, Mariana and other Citizens.
WIDOW. Nay, come; for if they do approach the city, we shall lose all the sight.
DIANA. They say the French count has done most honourable service.
WIDOW. It is reported that he has taken their great’st commander, and that with his own hand he slew the duke’s brother.
[A tucket afar off.]
We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary way. Hark! you may know by their trumpets.
MARIANA. Come, let’s return again, and suffice ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl; the honour of a maid is her name; and no legacy is so rich as honesty.
WIDOW. I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited by a gentleman his companion.
MARIANA. I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles; a filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the young earl. Beware of them, Diana; their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go under; many a maid hath been seduced by them; and the misery is, example, that so terrible shows in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade succession, but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope I need not to advise you further; but I hope your own grace will keep you where you are, though there were no further danger known but the modesty which is so lost.
DIANA. You shall not need to fear me.
Enter Helena in the dress of a pilgrim.
WIDOW. I hope so. Look, here comes a pilgrim. I know she will lie at my house; thither they send one another; I’ll question her. God save you, pilgrim! Whither are bound?
HELENA. To Saint Jaques le Grand. Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?
WIDOW. At the Saint Francis here, beside the port.
HELENA. Is this the way?
[A march afar.]
WIDOW. Ay, marry, is’t. Hark you, they come this way. If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, But till the troops come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg’d; The rather for I think I know your hostess As ample as myself.
HELENA. Is it yourself?
WIDOW. If you shall please so, pilgrim.
HELENA. I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.
WIDOW. You came, I think, from France?
HELENA. I did so.
WIDOW. Here you shall see a countryman of yours That has done worthy service.
HELENA. His name, I pray you.
DIANA. The Count Rossillon. Know you such a one?
HELENA. But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him; His face I know not.
DIANA. Whatsome’er he is, He’s bravely taken here. He stole from France, As ’tis reported, for the king had married him Against his liking. Think you it is so?
HELENA. Ay, surely, mere the truth; I know his lady.
DIANA. There is a gentleman that serves the count Reports but coarsely of her.
HELENA. What’s his name?
DIANA. Monsieur Parolles.
HELENA. O, I believe with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great count himself, she is too mean To have her name repeated; all her deserving Is a reserved honesty, and that I have not heard examin’d.
DIANA. Alas, poor lady! ’Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting lord.
WIDOW. Ay, right; good creature, wheresoe’er she is, Her heart weighs sadly. This young maid might do her A shrewd turn, if she pleas’d.
HELENA. How do you mean? Maybe the amorous count solicits her In the unlawful purpose.
WIDOW. He does indeed, And brokes with all that can in such a suit Corrupt the tender honour of a maid; But she is arm’d for him, and keeps her guard In honestest defence.
Enter, with a drum and colours, a party of the Florentine army, Bertram and Parolles.
MARIANA. The gods forbid else!
WIDOW. So, now they come. That is Antonio, the Duke’s eldest son; That Escalus.
HELENA. Which is the Frenchman?
DIANA. He; That with the plume; ’tis a most gallant fellow. I would he lov’d his wife; if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is’t not a handsome gentleman?
HELENA. I like him well.
DIANA. ’Tis pity he is not honest. Yond’s that same knave That leads him to these places. Were I his lady I would poison that vile rascal.
HELENA. Which is he?
DIANA. That jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is he melancholy?
HELENA. Perchance he’s hurt i’ the battle.
PAROLLES. Lose our drum! Well.
MARIANA. He’s shrewdly vex’d at something. Look, he has spied us.
WIDOW. Marry, hang you!
MARIANA. And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier!
[Exeunt Bertram, Parolles, Officers and Soldiers.]
WIDOW. The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you Where you shall host; of enjoin’d penitents There’s four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound, Already at my house.
HELENA. I humbly thank you. Please it this matron and this gentle maid To eat with us tonight; the charge and thanking Shall be for me; and, to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this virgin, Worthy the note.
BOTH. We’ll take your offer kindly.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. Camp before Florence. Enter Bertram and the two French Lords.
FIRST LORD. Nay, good my lord, put him to’t; let him have his way.
SECOND LORD. If your lordship find him not a hilding, hold me no more in your respect.
FIRST LORD. On my life, my lord, a bubble.
BERTRAM. Do you think I am so far deceived in him?
FIRST LORD. Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him as my kinsman, he’s a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one good quality worthy your lordship’s entertainment.
SECOND LORD. It were fit you knew him; lest, reposing too far in his virtue, which he hath not, he might at some great and trusty business, in a main danger fail you.
BERTRAM. I would I knew in what particular action to try him.
SECOND LORD. None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you hear him so confidently undertake to do.
FIRST LORD. I with a troop of Florentines will suddenly surprise him; such I will have whom I am sure he knows not from the enemy; we will bind and hoodwink him so that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the leaguer of the adversaries when we bring him to our own tents. Be but your lordship present at his examination; if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base fear, offer to betray you, and deliver all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never trust my judgment in anything.
SECOND LORD. O, for the love of laughter, let him fetch his drum; he says he has a stratagem for’t. When your lordship sees the bottom of his success in’t, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of ore will be melted, if you give him not John Drum’s entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. Here he comes.
Enter Parolles.
FIRST LORD. O, for the love of laughter, hinder not the honour of his design: let him fetch off his drum in any hand.
BERTRAM. How now, monsieur! This drum sticks sorely in your disposition.
SECOND LORD. A pox on ’t; let it go; ’tis but a drum.
PAROLLES. But a drum! Is’t but a drum? A drum so lost! There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers.
SECOND LORD. That was not to be blam’d in the command of the service; it was a disaster of war that Caesar himself could not have prevented, if he had been there to command.
BERTRAM. Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success: some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum, but it is not to be recovered.
PAROLLES. It might have been recovered.
BERTRAM. It might, but it is not now.
PAROLLES. It is to be recovered. But that the merit of service is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have that drum or another, or hic jacet.
BERTRAM. Why, if you have a stomach, to’t, monsieur, if you think your mystery in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour again into his native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise, and go on; I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit; if you speed well in it, the duke shall both speak of it and extend to you what further becomes his greatness, even to the utmost syllable of your worthiness.
PAROLLES. By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.
BERTRAM. But you must not now slumber in it.
PAROLLES. I’ll about it this evening; and I will presently pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my certainty, put myself into my mortal preparation; and by midnight look to hear further from me.
BERTRAM. May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it?
PAROLLES. I know not what the success will be, my lord, but the attempt I vow.
BERTRAM. I know th’art valiant; and to the possibility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. Farewell.
PAROLLES. I love not many words.
[Exit.]
FIRST LORD. No more than a fish loves water. Is not this a strange fellow, my lord, that so confidently seems to undertake this business, which he knows is not to be done; damns himself to do, and dares better be damn’d than to do’t.
SECOND LORD. You do not know him, my lord, as we do; certain it is that he will steal himself into a man’s favour, and for a week escape a great deal of discoveries, but when you find him out, you have him ever after.
BERTRAM. Why, do you think he will make no deed at all of this, that so seriously he does address himself unto?
FIRST LORD. None in the world; but return with an invention, and clap upon you two or three probable lies; but we have almost embossed him; you shall see his fall tonight; for indeed he is not for your lordship’s respect.
SECOND LORD. We’ll make you some sport with the fox ere we case him. He was first smok’d by the old Lord Lafew; when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall find him; which you shall see this very night.
FIRST LORD. I must go look my twigs. He shall be caught.
BERTRAM. Your brother, he shall go along with me.
FIRST LORD. As’t please your lordship. I’ll leave you.
[Exit.]
BERTRAM. Now will I lead you to the house, and show you The lass I spoke of.
SECOND LORD. But you say she’s honest.
BERTRAM. That’s all the fault. I spoke with her but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same coxcomb that we have i’ the wind Tokens and letters which she did re-send, And this is all I have done. She’s a fair creature; Will you go see her?
SECOND LORD. With all my heart, my lord.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VII. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house. Enter Helena and Widow.
HELENA. If you misdoubt me that I am not she, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.
WIDOW. Though my estate be fall’n, I was well born, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act.
HELENA. Nor would I wish you. First give me trust, the count he is my husband, And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken Is so from word to word; and then you cannot, By the good aid that I of you shall borrow, Err in bestowing it.
WIDOW. I should believe you, For you have show’d me that which well approves Y’are great in fortune.
HELENA. Take this purse of gold, And let me buy your friendly help thus far, Which I will over-pay, and pay again When I have found it. The count he woos your daughter Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty, Resolv’d to carry her; let her in fine consent, As we’ll direct her how ’tis best to bear it. Now his important blood will naught deny That she’ll demand; a ring the county wears, That downward hath succeeded in his house From son to son, some four or five descents Since the first father wore it. This ring he holds In most rich choice; yet, in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seem too dear, Howe’er repented after.
WIDOW. Now I see The bottom of your purpose.
HELENA. You see it lawful then; it is no more But that your daughter, ere she seems as won, Desires this ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, delivers me to fill the time, Herself most chastely absent. After, To marry her, I’ll add three thousand crowns To what is pass’d already.
WIDOW. I have yielded. Instruct my daughter how she shall persever, That time and place with this deceit so lawful May prove coherent. Every night he comes With musics of all sorts, and songs compos’d To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us To chide him from our eaves; for he persists As if his life lay on ’t.
HELENA. Why then tonight Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed, And lawful meaning in a lawful act, Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact. But let’s about it.
[Exeunt.]
ACT IV. SCENE I. Without the Florentine camp. Enter first Lord with five or six Soldiers in ambush.
FIRST LORD. He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner. When you sally upon him, speak what terrible language you will; though you understand it not yourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to understand him, unless someone among us, whom we must produce for an interpreter.
FIRST SOLDIER. Good captain, let me be th’ interpreter.
FIRST LORD. Art not acquainted with him? Knows he not thy voice?
FIRST SOLDIER. No sir, I warrant you.
FIRST LORD. But what linsey-woolsey has thou to speak to us again?
FIRST SOLDIER. E’en such as you speak to me.
FIRST LORD. He must think us some band of strangers i’ the adversary’s entertainment. Now he hath a smack of all neighbouring languages, therefore we must every one be a man of his own fancy; not to know what we speak one to another, so we seem to know, is to know straight our purpose: choughs’ language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you, interpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch, ho! Here he comes; to beguile two hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear the lies he forges.
Enter Parolles.
PAROLLES. Ten o’clock. Within these three hours ’twill be time enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It must be a very plausive invention that carries it. They begin to smoke me, and disgraces have of late knock’d too often at my door. I find my tongue is too foolhardy, but my heart hath the fear of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue.
FIRST LORD. [Aside.] This is the first truth that e’er thine own tongue was guilty of.
PAROLLES. What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and say I got them in exploit; yet slight ones will not carry it. They will say “Came you off with so little?” and great ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what’s the instance? Tongue, I must put you into a butter-woman’s mouth, and buy myself another of Bajazet’s mule, if you prattle me into these perils.
FIRST LORD. [Aside.] Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?
PAROLLES. I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn, or the breaking of my Spanish sword.
FIRST LORD. [Aside.] We cannot afford you so.
PAROLLES. Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem.
FIRST LORD. [Aside.] ’Twould not do.
PAROLLES. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped.
FIRST LORD. [Aside.] Hardly serve.
PAROLLES. Though I swore I leap’d from the window of the citadel,—
FIRST LORD. [Aside.] How deep?
PAROLLES. Thirty fathom.
FIRST LORD. [Aside.] Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.
PAROLLES. I would I had any drum of the enemy’s; I would swear I recover’d it.
FIRST LORD. [Aside.] You shall hear one anon.
PAROLLES. A drum now of the enemy’s!
[Alarum within.]
FIRST LORD. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.
ALL. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo.
[They seize and blindfold him.]
PAROLLES. O, ransom, ransom! Do not hide mine eyes.
FIRST SOLDIER. Boskos thromuldo boskos.
PAROLLES. I know you are the Muskos’ regiment, And I shall lose my life for want of language. If there be here German, or Dane, Low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speak to me, I’ll discover that which shall undo the Florentine.
FIRST SOLDIER. Boskos vauvado. I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue. Kerelybonto. Sir, Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards are at thy bosom.
PAROLLES. O!
FIRST SOLDIER. O, pray, pray, pray! Manka revania dulche.
FIRST LORD. Oscorbidulchos volivorco.
FIRST SOLDIER. The General is content to spare thee yet; And, hoodwink’d as thou art, will lead thee on To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst inform Something to save thy life.
PAROLLES. O, let me live, And all the secrets of our camp I’ll show, Their force, their purposes; nay, I’ll speak that Which you will wonder at.
FIRST SOLDIER. But wilt thou faithfully?
PAROLLES. If I do not, damn me.
FIRST SOLDIER. Acordo linta. Come on; thou art granted space.
[Exit, with Parolles guarded.]
A short alarum within.
FIRST LORD. Go tell the Count Rossillon and my brother We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled Till we do hear from them.
SECOND SOLDIER. Captain, I will.
FIRST LORD. ’A will betray us all unto ourselves; Inform on that.
SECOND SOLDIER. So I will, sir.
FIRST LORD. Till then I’ll keep him dark, and safely lock’d.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house. Enter Bertram and Diana.
BERTRAM. They told me that your name was Fontybell.
DIANA. No, my good lord, Diana.
BERTRAM. Titled goddess; And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul, In your fine frame hath love no quality? If the quick fire of youth light not your mind, You are no maiden but a monument; When you are dead, you should be such a one As you are now; for you are cold and stern, And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet self was got.
DIANA. She then was honest.
BERTRAM. So should you be.
DIANA. No. My mother did but duty; such, my lord, As you owe to your wife.
BERTRAM. No more a’ that! I pr’ythee do not strive against my vows; I was compell’d to her; but I love thee By love’s own sweet constraint, and will for ever Do thee all rights of service.
DIANA. Ay, so you serve us Till we serve you; but when you have our roses, You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves, And mock us with our bareness.
BERTRAM. How have I sworn?
DIANA. ’Tis not the many oaths that makes the truth, But the plain single vow that is vow’d true. What is not holy, that we swear not by, But take the highest to witness: then, pray you, tell me, If I should swear by Jove’s great attributes I lov’d you dearly, would you believe my oaths When I did love you ill? This has no holding, To swear by him whom I protest to love That I will work against him. Therefore your oaths Are words and poor conditions; but unseal’d,— At least in my opinion.
BERTRAM. Change it, change it. Be not so holy-cruel. Love is holy; And my integrity ne’er knew the crafts That you do charge men with. Stand no more off, But give thyself unto my sick desires, Who then recovers. Say thou art mine, and ever My love as it begins shall so persever.
DIANA. I see that men make hopes in such a case, That we’ll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.
BERTRAM. I’ll lend it thee, my dear, but have no power To give it from me.
DIANA. Will you not, my lord?
BERTRAM. It is an honour ’longing to our house, Bequeathed down from many ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world In me to lose.
DIANA. Mine honour’s such a ring; My chastity’s the jewel of our house, Bequeathed down from many ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom Brings in the champion honour on my part Against your vain assault.
BERTRAM. Here, take my ring; My house, mine honour, yea, my life be thine, And I’ll be bid by thee.
DIANA. When midnight comes, knock at my chamber window; I’ll order take my mother shall not hear. Now will I charge you in the band of truth, When you have conquer’d my yet maiden-bed, Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me. My reasons are most strong; and you shall know them When back again this ring shall be deliver’d; And on your finger in the night, I’ll put Another ring, that what in time proceeds May token to the future our past deeds. Adieu till then; then fail not. You have won A wife of me, though there my hope be done.
BERTRAM. A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.
[Exit.]
DIANA. For which live long to thank both heaven and me! You may so in the end. My mother told me just how he would woo, As if she sat in’s heart. She says all men Have the like oaths. He had sworn to marry me When his wife’s dead; therefore I’ll lie with him When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid, Marry that will, I live and die a maid. Only, in this disguise, I think’t no sin To cozen him that would unjustly win.
[Exit.]
SCENE III. The Florentine camp. Enter the two French Lords and two or three Soldiers.
FIRST LORD. You have not given him his mother’s letter?
SECOND LORD. I have deliv’red it an hour since; there is something in’t that stings his nature; for on the reading it, he chang’d almost into another man.
FIRST LORD. He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a lady.
SECOND LORD. Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king, who had even tun’d his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.
FIRST LORD. When you have spoken it, ’tis dead, and I am the grave of it.
SECOND LORD. He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown, and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour; he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.
FIRST LORD. Now, God delay our rebellion! As we are ourselves, what things are we!
SECOND LORD. Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves till they attain to their abhorr’d ends; so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream, o’erflows himself.
FIRST LORD. Is it not meant damnable in us to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company tonight?
SECOND LORD. Not till after midnight; for he is dieted to his hour.
FIRST LORD. That approaches apace. I would gladly have him see his company anatomized, that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.
SECOND LORD. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other.
FIRST LORD. In the meantime, what hear you of these wars?
SECOND LORD. I hear there is an overture of peace.
FIRST LORD. Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.
SECOND LORD. What will Count Rossillon do then? Will he travel higher, or return again into France?
FIRST LORD. I perceive by this demand, you are not altogether of his council.
SECOND LORD. Let it be forbid, sir! So should I be a great deal of his act.
FIRST LORD. Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his house. Her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she accomplished; and there residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven.
SECOND LORD. How is this justified?
FIRST LORD. The stronger part of it by her own letters, which makes her story true, even to the point of her death. Her death itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully confirm’d by the rector of the place.
SECOND LORD. Hath the count all this intelligence?
FIRST LORD. Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the verity.
SECOND LORD. I am heartily sorry that he’ll be glad of this.
FIRST LORD. How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!
SECOND LORD. And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquir’d for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.
FIRST LORD. The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherish’d by our virtues.
Enter a Messenger.
How now? Where’s your master?
MESSENGER. He met the duke in the street, sir; of whom he hath taken a solemn leave: his lordship will next morning for France. The duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the king.
SECOND LORD. They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they can commend.
Enter Bertram.
FIRST LORD. They cannot be too sweet for the king’s tartness. Here’s his lordship now. How now, my lord, is’t not after midnight?
BERTRAM. I have tonight despatch’d sixteen businesses, a month’s length apiece; by an abstract of success: I have congied with the duke, done my adieu with his nearest; buried a wife, mourn’d for her, writ to my lady mother I am returning, entertained my convoy, and between these main parcels of despatch effected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet.
SECOND LORD. If the business be of any difficulty and this morning your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship.
BERTRAM. I mean the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between the Fool and the Soldier? Come, bring forth this counterfeit module has deceiv’d me like a double-meaning prophesier.
SECOND LORD. Bring him forth.
[Exeunt Soldiers.]
Has sat i’ the stocks all night, poor gallant knave.
BERTRAM. No matter; his heels have deserv’d it, in usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself?
FIRST LORD. I have told your lordship already; the stocks carry him. But to answer you as you would be understood: he weeps like a wench that had shed her milk; he hath confessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i’ the stocks. And what think you he hath confessed?
BERTRAM. Nothing of me, has he?
SECOND LORD. His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his face; if your lordship be in’t, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to hear it.
Enter Soldiers with Parolles.
BERTRAM. A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothing of me; hush, hush!
FIRST LORD. Hoodman comes! Portotartarossa.
FIRST SOLDIER. He calls for the tortures. What will you say without ’em?
PAROLLES. I will confess what I know without constraint. If ye pinch me like a pasty I can say no more.
FIRST SOLDIER. Bosko chimurcho.
FIRST LORD. Boblibindo chicurmurco.
FIRST SOLDIER. You are a merciful general. Our general bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.
PAROLLES. And truly, as I hope to live.
FIRST SOLDIER. ‘First demand of him how many horse the duke is strong.’ What say you to that?
PAROLLES. Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to live.
FIRST SOLDIER. Shall I set down your answer so?
PAROLLES. Do. I’ll take the sacrament on ’t, how and which way you will.
BERTRAM. All’s one to him. What a past-saving slave is this!
FIRST LORD. You are deceived, my lord; this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist (that was his own phrase), that had the whole theoric of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger.
SECOND LORD. I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean, nor believe he can have everything in him by wearing his apparel neatly.
FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that’s set down.
PAROLLES. ‘Five or six thousand horse’ I said—I will say true—or thereabouts, set down,—for I’ll speak truth.
FIRST LORD. He’s very near the truth in this.
BERTRAM. But I con him no thanks for’t in the nature he delivers it.
PAROLLES. Poor rogues, I pray you say.
FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that’s set down.
PAROLLES. I humbly thank you, sir; a truth’s a truth, the rogues are marvellous poor.
FIRST SOLDIER. ‘Demand of him of what strength they are a-foot.’ What say you to that?
PAROLLES. By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present hour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred and fifty, Sebastian, so many; Corambus, so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred fifty each; mine own company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each: so that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand poll; half of the which dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks lest they shake themselves to pieces.
BERTRAM. What shall be done to him?
FIRST LORD. Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my condition, and what credit I have with the duke.
FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that’s set down. ‘You shall demand of him whether one Captain Dumaine be i’ the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the duke, what his valour, honesty and expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not possible with well-weighing sums of gold to corrupt him to a revolt.’ What say you to this? What do you know of it?
PAROLLES. I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of the inter’gatories. Demand them singly.
FIRST SOLDIER. Do you know this Captain Dumaine?
PAROLLES. I know him: he was a botcher’s ’prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve’s fool with child, a dumb innocent that could not say him nay.
[First Lord lifts up his hand in anger.]
BERTRAM. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.
FIRST SOLDIER. Well, is this captain in the Duke of Florence’s camp?
PAROLLES. Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.
FIRST LORD. Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon.
FIRST SOLDIER. What is his reputation with the duke?
PAROLLES. The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine, and writ to me this other day to turn him out o’ the band. I think I have his letter in my pocket.
FIRST SOLDIER. Marry, we’ll search.
PAROLLES. In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there or it is upon a file, with the duke’s other letters, in my tent.
FIRST SOLDIER. Here ’tis; here’s a paper; shall I read it to you?
PAROLLES. I do not know if it be it or no.
BERTRAM. Our interpreter does it well.
FIRST LORD. Excellently.
FIRST SOLDIER. [Reads.] Dian, the Count’s a fool, and full of gold.
PAROLLES. That is not the duke’s letter, sir; that is an advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count Rossillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very ruttish. I pray you, sir, put it up again.
FIRST SOLDIER. Nay, I’ll read it first by your favour.
PAROLLES. My meaning in’t, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity, and devours up all the fry it finds.
BERTRAM. Damnable both sides rogue!
FIRST SOLDIER. [Reads.] When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it; After he scores, he never pays the score. Half won is match well made; match, and well make it; He ne’er pays after-debts, take it before. And say a soldier, ‘Dian,’ told thee this: Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss; For count of this, the count’s a fool, I know it, Who pays before, but not when he does owe it. Thine, as he vow’d to thee in thine ear, PAROLLES.
BERTRAM. He shall be whipped through the army with this rhyme in’s forehead.
SECOND LORD. This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist, and the armipotent soldier.
BERTRAM. I could endure anything before but a cat, and now he’s a cat to me.
FIRST SOLDIER. I perceive, sir, by our general’s looks we shall be fain to hang you.
PAROLLES. My life, sir, in any case. Not that I am afraid to die, but that, my offences being many, I would repent out the remainder of nature. Let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i’ the stocks, or anywhere, so I may live.
FIRST SOLDIER. We’ll see what may be done, so you confess freely. Therefore, once more to this Captain Dumaine: you have answer’d to his reputation with the duke, and to his valour. What is his honesty?
PAROLLES. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus. He professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking them he is stronger than Hercules. He will lie, sir, with such volubility that you would think truth were a fool: drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk, and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bedclothes about him; but they know his conditions and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of his honesty; he has everything that an honest man should not have; what an honest man should have, he has nothing.
FIRST LORD. I begin to love him for this.
BERTRAM. For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon him for me, he’s more and more a cat.
FIRST SOLDIER. What say you to his expertness in war?
PAROLLES. Faith, sir, has led the drum before the English tragedians,—to belie him I will not,—and more of his soldiership I know not, except in that country he had the honour to be the officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certain.
FIRST LORD. He hath out-villain’d villainy so far that the rarity redeems him.
BERTRAM. A pox on him! He’s a cat still.
FIRST SOLDIER. His qualities being at this poor price, I need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt.
PAROLLES. Sir, for a quart d’ecu he will sell the fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it, and cut the entail from all remainders, and a perpetual succession for it perpetually.
FIRST SOLDIER. What’s his brother, the other Captain Dumaine?
SECOND LORD. Why does he ask him of me?
FIRST SOLDIER. What’s he?
PAROLLES. E’en a crow o’ the same nest; not altogether so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil. He excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreat he outruns any lackey; marry, in coming on he has the cramp.
FIRST SOLDIER. If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray the Florentine?
PAROLLES. Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count Rossillon.
FIRST SOLDIER. I’ll whisper with the general, and know his pleasure.
PAROLLES. [Aside.] I’ll no more drumming; a plague of all drums! Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy the count, have I run into this danger: yet who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken?
FIRST SOLDIER. There is no remedy, sir, but you must die. The general says you that have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army, and made such pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head.
PAROLLES. O Lord! sir, let me live, or let me see my death.
FIRST SOLDIER. That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends.
[Unmuffling him.]
So, look about you; know you any here?
BERTRAM. Good morrow, noble captain.
SECOND LORD. God bless you, Captain Parolles.
FIRST LORD. God save you, noble captain.
SECOND LORD. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France.
FIRST LORD. Good Captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rossillon? And I were not a very coward I’d compel it of you; but fare you well.
[Exeunt Bertram, Lords &c.]
FIRST SOLDIER. You are undone, captain: all but your scarf; that has a knot on’t yet.
PAROLLES. Who cannot be crushed with a plot?
FIRST SOLDIER. If you could find out a country where but women were that had received so much shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare ye well, sir. I am for France too; we shall speak of you there.
[Exeunt.]
PAROLLES. Yet am I thankful. If my heart were great ’Twould burst at this. Captain I’ll be no more, But I will eat, and drink, and sleep as soft As captain shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart shall be found an ass. Rust, sword; cool, blushes; and, Parolles live Safest in shame; being fool’d, by foolery thrive. There’s place and means for every man alive. I’ll after them.
[Exit.]
SCENE IV. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house. Enter Helena, Widow and Diana.
HELENA. That you may well perceive I have not wrong’d you One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my surety; fore whose throne ’tis needful, Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel. Time was I did him a desired office, Dear almost as his life; which gratitude Through flinty Tartar’s bosom would peep forth, And answer thanks. I duly am inform’d His grace is at Marseilles; to which place We have convenient convoy. You must know I am supposed dead. The army breaking, My husband hies him home, where, heaven aiding, And by the leave of my good lord the king, We’ll be before our welcome.
WIDOW. Gentle madam, You never had a servant to whose trust Your business was more welcome.
HELENA. Nor you, mistress, Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour To recompense your love. Doubt not but heaven Hath brought me up to be your daughter’s dower, As it hath fated her to be my motive And helper to a husband. But, O strange men! That can such sweet use make of what they hate, When saucy trusting of the cozen’d thoughts Defiles the pitchy night; so lust doth play With what it loathes, for that which is away. But more of this hereafter. You, Diana, Under my poor instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalf.
DIANA. Let death and honesty Go with your impositions, I am yours Upon your will to suffer.
HELENA. Yet, I pray you; But with the word the time will bring on summer, When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns, And be as sweet as sharp. We must away; Our waggon is prepar’d, and time revives us. All’s well that ends well; still the fine’s the crown. Whate’er the course, the end is the renown.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Enter Clown, Countess and Lafew.
LAFEW. No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow there, whose villanous saffron would have made all the unbak’d and doughy youth of a nation in his colour. Your daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more advanc’d by the king than by that red-tail’d humble-bee I speak of.
COUNTESS. I would I had not known him; it was the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating. If she had partaken of my flesh and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I could not have owed her a more rooted love.
LAFEW. ’Twas a good lady, ’twas a good lady. We may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such another herb.
CLOWN. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the salad, or, rather, the herb of grace.
LAFEW. They are not herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs.
CLOWN. I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in grass.
LAFEW. Whether dost thou profess thyself,—a knave or a fool?
CLOWN. A fool, sir, at a woman’s service, and a knave at a man’s.
LAFEW. Your distinction?
CLOWN. I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his service.
LAFEW. So you were a knave at his service indeed.
CLOWN. And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service.
LAFEW. I will subscribe for thee; thou art both knave and fool.
CLOWN. At your service.
LAFEW. No, no, no.
CLOWN. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a prince as you are.
LAFEW. Who’s that? a Frenchman?
CLOWN. Faith, sir, ’a has an English name; but his phisnomy is more hotter in France than there.
LAFEW. What prince is that?
CLOWN. The black prince, sir; alias the prince of darkness; alias the devil.
LAFEW. Hold thee, there’s my purse. I give thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talk’st of; serve him still.
CLOWN. I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire, and the master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. But sure he is the prince of the world; let his nobility remain in’s court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some that humble themselves may, but the many will be too chill and tender, and they’ll be for the flow’ry way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire.
LAFEW. Go thy ways, I begin to be a-weary of thee; and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways; let my horses be well look’d to, without any tricks.
CLOWN. If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall be jades’ tricks, which are their own right by the law of nature.
[Exit.]
LAFEW. A shrewd knave, and an unhappy.
COUNTESS. So he is. My lord that’s gone made himself much sport out of him; by his authority he remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his sauciness; and indeed he has no pace, but runs where he will.
LAFEW. I like him well; ’tis not amiss. And I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good lady’s death, and that my lord your son was upon his return home, I moved the king my master to speak in the behalf of my daughter; which, in the minority of them both, his majesty out of a self-gracious remembrance did first propose. His highness hath promis’d me to do it; and, to stop up the displeasure he hath conceived against your son, there is no fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it?
COUNTESS. With very much content, my lord, and I wish it happily effected.
LAFEW. His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as when he number’d thirty; he will be here tomorrow, or I am deceived by him that in such intelligence hath seldom fail’d.
COUNTESS. It rejoices me that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I have letters that my son will be here tonight. I shall beseech your lordship to remain with me till they meet together.
LAFEW. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted.
COUNTESS. You need but plead your honourable privilege.
LAFEW. Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but, I thank my God, it holds yet.
Enter Clown.
CLOWN. O madam, yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of velvet on’s face; whether there be a scar under’t or no, the velvet knows; but ’tis a goodly patch of velvet. His left cheek is a cheek of two pile and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare.
LAFEW. A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honour; so belike is that.
CLOWN. But it is your carbonado’d face.
LAFEW. Let us go see your son, I pray you. I long to talk with the young noble soldier.
CLOWN. Faith, there’s a dozen of ’em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod at every man.
[Exeunt.]
ACT V. SCENE I. Marseilles. A street. Enter Helena, Widow and Diana with two Attendants.
HELENA. But this exceeding posting day and night Must wear your spirits low. We cannot help it. But since you have made the days and nights as one, To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs, Be bold you do so grow in my requital As nothing can unroot you. In happy time;—
Enter a Gentleman.
This man may help me to his majesty’s ear, If he would spend his power. God save you, sir.
GENTLEMAN. And you.
HELENA. Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.
GENTLEMAN. I have been sometimes there.
HELENA. I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen From the report that goes upon your goodness; And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The use of your own virtues, for the which I shall continue thankful.
GENTLEMAN. What’s your will?
HELENA. That it will please you To give this poor petition to the king, And aid me with that store of power you have To come into his presence.
GENTLEMAN. The king’s not here.
HELENA. Not here, sir?
GENTLEMAN. Not indeed. He hence remov’d last night, and with more haste Than is his use.
WIDOW. Lord, how we lose our pains!
HELENA. All’s well that ends well yet, Though time seem so adverse and means unfit. I do beseech you, whither is he gone?
GENTLEMAN. Marry, as I take it, to Rossillon; Whither I am going.
HELENA. I do beseech you, sir, Since you are like to see the king before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thank your pains for it. I will come after you with what good speed Our means will make us means.
GENTLEMAN. This I’ll do for you.
HELENA. And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d, Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again. Go, go, provide.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Rossillon. The inner court of the Countess’s palace. Enter Clown and Parolles.
PAROLLES. Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafew this letter; I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in Fortune’s mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure.
CLOWN. Truly, Fortune’s displeasure is but sluttish, if it smell so strongly as thou speak’st of. I will henceforth eat no fish of Fortune’s buttering. Pr’ythee, allow the wind.
PAROLLES. Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir. I spake but by a metaphor.
CLOWN. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose, or against any man’s metaphor. Pr’ythee, get thee further.
PAROLLES. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.
CLOWN. Foh, pr’ythee stand away. A paper from Fortune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look here he comes himself.
Enter Lafew.
Here is a pur of Fortune’s, sir, or of Fortune’s cat, but not a musk-cat, that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and as he says, is muddied withal. Pray you, sir, use the carp as you may, for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort, and leave him to your lordship.
[Exit.]
PAROLLES. My lord, I am a man whom Fortune hath cruelly scratch’d.
LAFEW. And what would you have me to do? ’Tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played the knave with Fortune that she should scratch you, who of herself is a good lady, and would not have knaves thrive long under her? There’s a quart d’ecu for you. Let the justices make you and Fortune friends; I am for other business.
PAROLLES. I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.
LAFEW. You beg a single penny more. Come, you shall ha’t; save your word.
PAROLLES. My name, my good lord, is Parolles.
LAFEW. You beg more than word then. Cox my passion! Give me your hand. How does your drum?
PAROLLES. O my good lord, you were the first that found me.
LAFEW. Was I, in sooth? And I was the first that lost thee.
PAROLLES. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out.
LAFEW. Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once both the office of God and the devil? One brings the in grace, and the other brings thee out.
[Trumpets sound.]
The king’s coming; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me. I had talk of you last night; though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat. Go to; follow.
PAROLLES. I praise God for you.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. The same. A room in the Countess’s palace. Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafew, Lords, Gentlemen, Guards &c.
KING. We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem Was made much poorer by it; but your son, As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know Her estimation home.
COUNTESS. ’Tis past, my liege, And I beseech your majesty to make it Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth, When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force, O’erbears it and burns on.
KING. My honour’d lady, I have forgiven and forgotten all, Though my revenges were high bent upon him, And watch’d the time to shoot.
LAFEW. This I must say,— But first, I beg my pardon,—the young lord Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady, Offence of mighty note; but to himself The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife Whose beauty did astonish the survey Of richest eyes; whose words all ears took captive; Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve Humbly call’d mistress.
KING. Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither; We are reconcil’d, and the first view shall kill All repetition. Let him not ask our pardon; The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper than oblivion do we bury Th’ incensing relics of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and inform him So ’tis our will he should.
GENTLEMAN. I shall, my liege.
[Exit Gentleman.]
KING. What says he to your daughter? Have you spoke?
LAFEW. All that he is hath reference to your highness.
KING. Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me That sets him high in fame.
Enter Bertram.
LAFEW. He looks well on ’t.
KING. I am not a day of season, For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail In me at once. But to the brightest beams Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth; The time is fair again.
BERTRAM. My high-repented blames Dear sovereign, pardon to me.
KING. All is whole. Not one word more of the consumed time. Let’s take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees Th’inaudible and noiseless foot of time Steals ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this lord?
BERTRAM. Admiringly, my liege. At first I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold herald of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye infixing, Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me, Which warp’d the line of every other favour, Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous object. Thence it came That she whom all men prais’d, and whom myself, Since I have lost, have lov’d, was in mine eye The dust that did offend it.
KING. Well excus’d: That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offence, Crying, That’s good that’s gone. Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious things we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave. Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust: Our own love waking cries to see what’s done, While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon. Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin. The main consents are had, and here we’ll stay To see our widower’s second marriage-day.
COUNTESS. Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless! Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse!
LAFEW. Come on, my son, in whom my house’s name Must be digested; give a favour from you, To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come.
[Bertram gives a ring to Lafew.]
By my old beard, And ev’ry hair that’s on ’t, Helen that’s dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that e’er I took her leave at court, I saw upon her finger.
BERTRAM. Hers it was not.
KING. Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to it. This ring was mine; and when I gave it Helen I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood Necessitied to help, that by this token I would relieve her. Had you that craft to ’reave her Of what should stead her most?
BERTRAM. My gracious sovereign, Howe’er it pleases you to take it so, The ring was never hers.
COUNTESS. Son, on my life, I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it At her life’s rate.
LAFEW. I am sure I saw her wear it.
BERTRAM. You are deceiv’d, my lord; she never saw it. In Florence was it from a casement thrown me, Wrapp’d in a paper, which contain’d the name Of her that threw it. Noble she was, and thought I stood engag’d; but when I had subscrib’d To mine own fortune, and inform’d her fully I could not answer in that course of honour As she had made the overture, she ceas’d, In heavy satisfaction, and would never Receive the ring again.
KING. Plutus himself, That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine, Hath not in nature’s mystery more science Than I have in this ring. ’Twas mine, ’twas Helen’s, Whoever gave it you. Then if you know That you are well acquainted with yourself, Confess ’twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call’d the saints to surety That she would never put it from her finger Unless she gave it to yourself in bed, Where you have never come, or sent it us Upon her great disaster.
BERTRAM. She never saw it.
KING. Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine honour, And mak’st conjectural fears to come into me Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove That thou art so inhuman,—’twill not prove so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly. And she is dead; which nothing but to close Her eyes myself, could win me to believe More than to see this ring. Take him away.
[Guards seize Bertram.]
My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall, Shall tax my fears of little vanity, Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with him. We’ll sift this matter further.
BERTRAM. If you shall prove This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where she yet never was.
[Exit, guarded.]
KING. I am wrapp’d in dismal thinkings.
Enter a Gentleman.
GENTLEMAN. Gracious sovereign, Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not: Here’s a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for four or five removes come short To tender it herself. I undertook it, Vanquish’d thereto by the fair grace and speech Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know, Is here attending: her business looks in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern Your highness with herself.
KING. [Reads.] Upon his many protestations to marry me when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the Count Rossillon a widower; his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour’s paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to his country for justice. Grant it me, O king, in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone. DIANA CAPILET.
LAFEW. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for this. I’ll none of him.
KING. The heavens have thought well on thee, Lafew, To bring forth this discovery. Seek these suitors. Go speedily, and bring again the count.
[Exeunt Gentleman and some Attendants.]
I am afeard the life of Helen, lady, Was foully snatch’d.
COUNTESS. Now, justice on the doers!
Enter Bertram, guarded.
KING. I wonder, sir, since wives are monsters to you, And that you fly them as you swear them lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman’s that?
Enter Widow and Diana.
DIANA. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine, Derived from the ancient Capilet; My suit, as I do understand, you know, And therefore know how far I may be pitied.
WIDOW. I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour Both suffer under this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedy.
KING. Come hither, count; do you know these women?
BERTRAM. My lord, I neither can nor will deny But that I know them. Do they charge me further?
DIANA. Why do you look so strange upon your wife?
BERTRAM. She’s none of mine, my lord.
DIANA. If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and that is mine, You give away heaven’s vows, and those are mine, You give away myself, which is known mine; For I by vow am so embodied yours That she which marries you must marry me, Either both or none.
LAFEW. [To Bertram] Your reputation comes too short for my daughter; you are no husband for her.
BERTRAM. My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature Whom sometime I have laugh’d with. Let your highness Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour Than for to think that I would sink it here.
KING. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend Till your deeds gain them; fairer prove your honour Than in my thought it lies!
DIANA. Good my lord, Ask him upon his oath, if he does think He had not my virginity.
KING. What say’st thou to her?
BERTRAM. She’s impudent, my lord, And was a common gamester to the camp.
DIANA. He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so He might have bought me at a common price. Do not believe him. O, behold this ring, Whose high respect and rich validity Did lack a parallel; yet for all that He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp, If I be one.
COUNTESS. He blushes, and ’tis it. Of six preceding ancestors, that gem Conferr’d by testament to th’ sequent issue, Hath it been owed and worn. This is his wife; That ring’s a thousand proofs.
KING. Methought you said You saw one here in court could witness it.
DIANA. I did, my lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument; his name’s Parolles.
LAFEW. I saw the man today, if man he be.
KING. Find him, and bring him hither.
[Exit an Attendant.]
BERTRAM. What of him? He’s quoted for a most perfidious slave, With all the spots o’ the world tax’d and debauch’d: Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth. Am I or that or this for what he’ll utter, That will speak anything?
KING. She hath that ring of yours.
BERTRAM. I think she has. Certain it is I lik’d her And boarded her i’ the wanton way of youth. She knew her distance, and did angle for me, Madding my eagerness with her restraint, As all impediments in fancy’s course Are motives of more fancy; and in fine, Her infinite cunning with her modern grace, Subdu’d me to her rate; she got the ring, And I had that which any inferior might At market-price have bought.
DIANA. I must be patient. You that have turn’d off a first so noble wife May justly diet me. I pray you yet,— Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband— Send for your ring, I will return it home, And give me mine again.
BERTRAM. I have it not.
KING. What ring was yours, I pray you?
DIANA. Sir, much like The same upon your finger.
KING. Know you this ring? This ring was his of late.
DIANA. And this was it I gave him, being abed.
KING. The story then goes false you threw it him Out of a casement.
DIANA. I have spoke the truth.
Enter Attendant with Parolles.
BERTRAM. My lord, I do confess the ring was hers.
KING. You boggle shrewdly; every feather starts you. Is this the man you speak of?
DIANA. Ay, my lord.
KING. Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master, Which on your just proceeding, I’ll keep off,— By him and by this woman here what know you?
PAROLLES. So please your majesty, my master hath been an honourable gentleman. Tricks he hath had in him, which gentlemen have.
KING. Come, come, to the purpose. Did he love this woman?
PAROLLES. Faith, sir, he did love her; but how?
KING. How, I pray you?
PAROLLES. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.
KING. How is that?
PAROLLES. He lov’d her, sir, and lov’d her not.
KING. As thou art a knave and no knave. What an equivocal companion is this!
PAROLLES. I am a poor man, and at your majesty’s command.
LAFEW. He’s a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator.
DIANA. Do you know he promised me marriage?
PAROLLES. Faith, I know more than I’ll speak.
KING. But wilt thou not speak all thou know’st?
PAROLLES. Yes, so please your majesty. I did go between them as I said; but more than that, he loved her, for indeed he was mad for her, and talked of Satan, and of Limbo, and of furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time that I knew of their going to bed; and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would derive me ill will to speak of; therefore I will not speak what I know.
KING. Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou canst say they are married; but thou art too fine in thy evidence; therefore stand aside. This ring, you say, was yours?
DIANA. Ay, my good lord.
KING. Where did you buy it? Or who gave it you?
DIANA. It was not given me, nor I did not buy it.
KING. Who lent it you?
DIANA. It was not lent me neither.
KING. Where did you find it then?
DIANA. I found it not.
KING. If it were yours by none of all these ways, How could you give it him?
DIANA. I never gave it him.
LAFEW. This woman’s an easy glove, my lord; she goes off and on at pleasure.
KING. This ring was mine, I gave it his first wife.
DIANA. It might be yours or hers for ought I know.
KING. Take her away, I do not like her now. To prison with her. And away with him. Unless thou tell’st me where thou hadst this ring, Thou diest within this hour.
DIANA. I’ll never tell you.
KING. Take her away.
DIANA. I’ll put in bail, my liege.
KING. I think thee now some common customer.
DIANA. By Jove, if ever I knew man, ’twas you.
KING. Wherefore hast thou accus’d him all this while?
DIANA. Because he’s guilty, and he is not guilty. He knows I am no maid, and he’ll swear to’t: I’ll swear I am a maid, and he knows not. Great King, I am no strumpet, by my life; I am either maid, or else this old man’s wife.
[Pointing to Lafew.]
KING. She does abuse our ears; to prison with her.
DIANA. Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal sir;
[Exit Widow.]
The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this lord Who hath abus’d me as he knows himself, Though yet he never harm’d me, here I quit him. He knows himself my bed he hath defil’d; And at that time he got his wife with child. Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick; So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick, And now behold the meaning.
Enter Widow with Helena.
KING. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes? Is’t real that I see?
HELENA. No, my good lord; ’Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing.
BERTRAM. Both, both. O, pardon!
HELENA. O, my good lord, when I was like this maid; I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring, And, look you, here’s your letter. This it says, ‘When from my finger you can get this ring, And is by me with child, &c.’ This is done; Will you be mine now you are doubly won?
BERTRAM. If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly, I’ll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.
HELENA. If it appear not plain, and prove untrue, Deadly divorce step between me and you! O my dear mother, do I see you living?
LAFEW. Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon. [to Parolles] Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher. So, I thank thee. Wait on me home, I’ll make sport with thee. Let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones.
KING. Let us from point to point this story know, To make the even truth in pleasure flow. [To Diana.] If thou beest yet a fresh uncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and I’ll pay thy dower; For I can guess that by thy honest aid, Thou kept’st a wife herself, thyself a maid. Of that and all the progress more and less, Resolvedly more leisure shall express. All yet seems well, and if it end so meet, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.
[Flourish.]
[EPILOGUE] The king’s a beggar, now the play is done; All is well ended if this suit be won, That you express content; which we will pay With strife to please you, day exceeding day. Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts; Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.
[Exeunt omnes.]
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA Contents ACT I Scene I. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace. Scene II. Alexandria. Another Room in Cleopatra’s palace. Scene III. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace. Scene IV. Rome. An Apartment in Caesar’s House Scene V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
ACT II Scene I. Messina. A Room in Pompey’s house. Scene II. Rome. A Room in the House of Lepidus. Scene III. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House. Scene IV. Rome. A street. Scene V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene VI. Near Misenum. Scene VII. On board Pompey’s Galley, lying near Misenum.
ACT III Scene I. A plain in Syria. Scene II. Rome. An Ante-chamber in Caesar’s house. Scene III. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene IV. Athens. A Room in Antony’s House. Scene V. Athens. Another Room in Antony’s House. Scene VI. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House. Scene VII. Antony’s Camp near the Promontory of Actium. Scene VIII. A plain near Actium. Scene IX. Another part of the Plain. Scene X. Another part of the Plain. Scene XI. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene XII. Caesar’s camp in Egypt. Scene XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
ACT IV Scene I. Caesar’s Camp at Alexandria. Scene II. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene III. Alexandria. Before the Palace. Scene IV. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene V. Antony’s camp near Alexandria. Scene VI. Alexandria. Caesar’s camp. Scene VII. Field of battle between the Camps. Scene VIII. Under the Walls of Alexandria. Scene IX. Caesar’s camp. Scene X. Ground between the two Camps. Scene XI. Another part of the Ground. Scene XII. Another part of the Ground. Scene XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene XIV. Alexandria. Another Room. Scene XV. Alexandria. A monument.
ACT V Scene I. Caesar’s Camp before Alexandria. Scene II. Alexandria. A Room in the Monument. Dramatis Personæ MARK ANTONY, Triumvir OCTAVIUS CAESAR, Triumvir LEPIDUS, Triumvir SEXTUS POMPEIUS, DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS, friend to Antony VENTIDIUS, friend to Antony EROS, friend to Antony SCARUS, friend to Antony DERCETUS, friend to Antony DEMETRIUS, friend to Antony PHILO, friend to Antony MAECENAS, friend to Caesar AGRIPPA, friend to Caesar DOLABELLA, friend to Caesar PROCULEIUS, friend to Caesar THIDIAS, friend to Caesar GALLUS, friend to Caesar MENAS, friend to Pompey MENECRATES, friend to Pompey VARRIUS, friend to Pompey TAURUS, Lieutenant-General to Caesar CANIDIUS, Lieutenant-General to Antony SILIUS, an Officer in Ventidius’s army EUPHRONIUS, an Ambassador from Antony to Caesar ALEXAS, attendant on Cleopatra MARDIAN, attendant on Cleopatra SELEUCUS, attendant on Cleopatra DIOMEDES, attendant on Cleopatra A SOOTHSAYER A CLOWN
CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt OCTAVIA, sister to Caesar and wife to Antony CHARMIAN, Attendant on Cleopatra IRAS, Attendant on Cleopatra
Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants
SCENE: Dispersed, in several parts of the Roman Empire. ACT I SCENE I. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace. Enter Demetrius and Philo.
PHILO. Nay, but this dotage of our general’s O’erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes, That o’er the files and musters of the war Have glowed like plated Mars, now bend, now turn The office and devotion of their view Upon a tawny front. His captain’s heart, Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper And is become the bellows and the fan To cool a gipsy’s lust.
Flourish. Enter Antony and Cleopatra, her Ladies, the Train, with Eunuchs fanning her.
Look where they come: Take but good note, and you shall see in him The triple pillar of the world transform’d Into a strumpet’s fool. Behold and see.
CLEOPATRA. If it be love indeed, tell me how much.
ANTONY. There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.
CLEOPATRA. I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved.
ANTONY. Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. News, my good lord, from Rome.
ANTONY. Grates me, the sum.
CLEOPATRA. Nay, hear them, Antony. Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent His powerful mandate to you: “Do this or this; Take in that kingdom and enfranchise that. Perform’t, or else we damn thee.”
ANTONY. How, my love?
CLEOPATRA. Perchance! Nay, and most like. You must not stay here longer; your dismission Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony. Where’s Fulvia’s process?—Caesar’s I would say? Both? Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s queen, Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine Is Caesar’s homager; else so thy cheek pays shame When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers!
ANTONY. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space. Kingdoms are clay. Our dungy earth alike Feeds beast as man. The nobleness of life Is to do thus [Embracing]; when such a mutual pair And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind, On pain of punishment, the world to weet We stand up peerless.
CLEOPATRA. Excellent falsehood! Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her? I’ll seem the fool I am not. Antony Will be himself.
ANTONY. But stirred by Cleopatra. Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours, Let’s not confound the time with conference harsh. There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch Without some pleasure now. What sport tonight?
CLEOPATRA. Hear the ambassadors.
ANTONY. Fie, wrangling queen! Whom everything becomes—to chide, to laugh, To weep; whose every passion fully strives To make itself, in thee fair and admired! No messenger but thine, and all alone Tonight we’ll wander through the streets and note The qualities of people. Come, my queen, Last night you did desire it. Speak not to us.
[Exeunt Antony and Cleopatra with the Train.]
DEMETRIUS. Is Caesar with Antonius prized so slight?
PHILO. Sir, sometimes when he is not Antony, He comes too short of that great property Which still should go with Antony.
DEMETRIUS. I am full sorry That he approves the common liar who Thus speaks of him at Rome, but I will hope Of better deeds tomorrow. Rest you happy!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Alexandria. Another Room in Cleopatra’s palace. Enter Enobarbus, a Soothsayer, Charmian, Iras, Mardian and Alexas.
CHARMIAN. Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas, where’s the soothsayer that you praised so to th’ queen? O, that I knew this husband which you say must charge his horns with garlands!
ALEXAS. Soothsayer!
SOOTHSAYER. Your will?
CHARMIAN. Is this the man? Is’t you, sir, that know things?
SOOTHSAYER. In nature’s infinite book of secrecy A little I can read.
ALEXAS. Show him your hand.
ENOBARBUS. Bring in the banquet quickly; wine enough Cleopatra’s health to drink.
CHARMIAN. Good, sir, give me good fortune.
SOOTHSAYER. I make not, but foresee.
CHARMIAN. Pray, then, foresee me one.
SOOTHSAYER. You shall be yet far fairer than you are.
CHARMIAN. He means in flesh.
IRAS. No, you shall paint when you are old.
CHARMIAN. Wrinkles forbid!
ALEXAS. Vex not his prescience. Be attentive.
CHARMIAN. Hush!
SOOTHSAYER. You shall be more beloving than beloved.
CHARMIAN. I had rather heat my liver with drinking.
ALEXAS. Nay, hear him.
CHARMIAN. Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married to three kings in a forenoon and widow them all. Let me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry may do homage. Find me to marry me with Octavius Caesar, and companion me with my mistress.
SOOTHSAYER. You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.
CHARMIAN. O, excellent! I love long life better than figs.
SOOTHSAYER. You have seen and proved a fairer former fortune Than that which is to approach.
CHARMIAN. Then belike my children shall have no names. Prithee, how many boys and wenches must I have?
SOOTHSAYER. If every of your wishes had a womb, And fertile every wish, a million.
CHARMIAN. Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.
ALEXAS. You think none but your sheets are privy to your wishes.
CHARMIAN. Nay, come, tell Iras hers.
ALEXAS. We’ll know all our fortunes.
ENOBARBUS. Mine, and most of our fortunes tonight, shall be drunk to bed.
IRAS. There’s a palm presages chastity, if nothing else.
CHARMIAN. E’en as the o’erflowing Nilus presageth famine.
IRAS. Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.
CHARMIAN. Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear. Prithee, tell her but workaday fortune.
SOOTHSAYER. Your fortunes are alike.
IRAS. But how, but how? give me particulars.
SOOTHSAYER. I have said.
IRAS. Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?
CHARMIAN. Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I, where would you choose it?
IRAS. Not in my husband’s nose.
CHARMIAN. Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas—come, his fortune! his fortune! O, let him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech thee, and let her die too, and give him a worse, and let worse follow worse, till the worst of all follow him laughing to his grave, fiftyfold a cuckold! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a matter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech thee!
IRAS. Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people! For, as it is a heartbreaking to see a handsome man loose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded. Therefore, dear Isis, keep decorum and fortune him accordingly!
CHARMIAN. Amen.
ALEXAS. Lo now, if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they would make themselves whores but they’d do’t!
Enter Cleopatra.
ENOBARBUS. Hush, Here comes Antony.
CHARMIAN. Not he, the queen.
CLEOPATRA. Saw you my lord?
ENOBARBUS. No, lady.
CLEOPATRA. Was he not here?
CHARMIAN. No, madam.
CLEOPATRA. He was disposed to mirth; but on the sudden A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus!
ENOBARBUS. Madam?
CLEOPATRA. Seek him and bring him hither. Where’s Alexas?
ALEXAS. Here, at your service. My lord approaches.
Enter Antony with a Messenger.
CLEOPATRA. We will not look upon him. Go with us.
[Exeunt Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, Iras, Alexas and Soothsayer.]
MESSENGER. Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.
ANTONY. Against my brother Lucius.
MESSENGER. Ay. But soon that war had end, and the time’s state Made friends of them, jointing their force ’gainst Caesar, Whose better issue in the war from Italy Upon the first encounter drave them.
ANTONY. Well, what worst?
MESSENGER. The nature of bad news infects the teller.
ANTONY. When it concerns the fool or coward. On. Things that are past are done with me. ’Tis thus: Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death, I hear him as he flattered.
MESSENGER. Labienus— This is stiff news—hath with his Parthian force Extended Asia from Euphrates His conquering banner shook from Syria To Lydia and to Ionia, Whilst—
ANTONY. “Antony”, thou wouldst say—
MESSENGER. O, my lord!
ANTONY. Speak to me home; mince not the general tongue. Name Cleopatra as she is called in Rome; Rail thou in Fulvia’s phrase, and taunt my faults With such full licence as both truth and malice Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds When our quick minds lie still, and our ills told us Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile.
MESSENGER. At your noble pleasure.
[Exit Messenger.]
Enter another Messenger.
ANTONY. From Sicyon, ho, the news? Speak there!
SECOND MESSENGER. The man from Sicyon—
ANTONY. Is there such a one?
SECOND MESSENGER. He stays upon your will.
ANTONY. Let him appear. [Exit second Messenger.]
These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, Or lose myself in dotage.
Enter another Messenger with a letter.
What are you?
THIRD MESSENGER. Fulvia thy wife is dead.
ANTONY. Where died she?
THIRD MESSENGER. In Sicyon: Her length of sickness, with what else more serious Importeth thee to know, this bears.
[Gives a letter.]
ANTONY. Forbear me.
[Exit third Messenger.]
There’s a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it. What our contempts doth often hurl from us, We wish it ours again. The present pleasure, By revolution lowering, does become The opposite of itself. She’s good, being gone. The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on. I must from this enchanting queen break off. Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know, My idleness doth hatch. How now, Enobarbus!
Enter Enobarbus.
ENOBARBUS. What’s your pleasure, sir?
ANTONY. I must with haste from hence.
ENOBARBUS. Why then we kill all our women. We see how mortal an unkindness is to them. If they suffer our departure, death’s the word.
ANTONY. I must be gone.
ENOBARBUS. Under a compelling occasion, let women die. It were pity to cast them away for nothing, though, between them and a great cause they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly. I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment. I do think there is mettle in death which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying.
ANTONY. She is cunning past man’s thought.
ENOBARBUS. Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report. This cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.
ANTONY. Would I had never seen her!
ENOBARBUS. O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work, which not to have been blest withal would have discredited your travel.
ANTONY. Fulvia is dead.
ENOBARBUS. Sir?
ANTONY. Fulvia is dead.
ENOBARBUS. Fulvia?
ANTONY. Dead.
ENOBARBUS. Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the earth; comforting therein that when old robes are worn out, there are members to make new. If there were no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented. This grief is crowned with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat: and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
ANTONY. The business she hath broached in the state Cannot endure my absence.
ENOBARBUS. And the business you have broached here cannot be without you, especially that of Cleopatra’s, which wholly depends on your abode.
ANTONY. No more light answers. Let our officers Have notice what we purpose. I shall break The cause of our expedience to the Queen, And get her leave to part. For not alone The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches, Do strongly speak to us, but the letters too Of many our contriving friends in Rome Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands The empire of the sea. Our slippery people, Whose love is never linked to the deserver Till his deserts are past, begin to throw Pompey the Great and all his dignities Upon his son, who, high in name and power, Higher than both in blood and life, stands up For the main soldier; whose quality, going on, The sides o’ th’ world may danger. Much is breeding Which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but life And not a serpent’s poison. Say our pleasure To such whose place is under us, requires Our quick remove from hence.
ENOBARBUS. I shall do’t.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace. Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Alexas and Iras.
CLEOPATRA. Where is he?
CHARMIAN. I did not see him since.
CLEOPATRA. See where he is, who’s with him, what he does. I did not send you. If you find him sad, Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report That I am sudden sick. Quick, and return.
[Exit Alexas.]
CHARMIAN. Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly, You do not hold the method to enforce The like from him.
CLEOPATRA. What should I do I do not?
CHARMIAN. In each thing give him way; cross him in nothing.
CLEOPATRA. Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him.
CHARMIAN. Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear. In time we hate that which we often fear. But here comes Antony.
Enter Antony.
CLEOPATRA. I am sick and sullen.
ANTONY. I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose—
CLEOPATRA. Help me away, dear Charmian! I shall fall. It cannot be thus long; the sides of nature Will not sustain it.
ANTONY. Now, my dearest queen—
CLEOPATRA. Pray you, stand farther from me.
ANTONY. What’s the matter?
CLEOPATRA. I know by that same eye there’s some good news. What, says the married woman you may go? Would she had never given you leave to come! Let her not say ’tis I that keep you here. I have no power upon you; hers you are.
ANTONY. The gods best know—
CLEOPATRA. O, never was there queen So mightily betrayed! Yet at the first I saw the treasons planted.
ANTONY. Cleopatra—
CLEOPATRA. Why should I think you can be mine and true, Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness, To be entangled with those mouth-made vows Which break themselves in swearing!
ANTONY. Most sweet queen—
CLEOPATRA. Nay, pray you seek no colour for your going, But bid farewell and go. When you sued staying, Then was the time for words. No going then, Eternity was in our lips and eyes, Bliss in our brows’ bent; none our parts so poor But was a race of heaven. They are so still, Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world, Art turned the greatest liar.
ANTONY. How now, lady!
CLEOPATRA. I would I had thy inches, thou shouldst know There were a heart in Egypt.
ANTONY. Hear me, queen: The strong necessity of time commands Our services awhile, but my full heart Remains in use with you. Our Italy Shines o’er with civil swords; Sextus Pompeius Makes his approaches to the port of Rome; Equality of two domestic powers Breed scrupulous faction; the hated, grown to strength, Are newly grown to love; the condemned Pompey, Rich in his father’s honour, creeps apace Into the hearts of such as have not thrived Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten; And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge By any desperate change. My more particular, And that which most with you should safe my going, Is Fulvia’s death.
CLEOPATRA. Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?
ANTONY. She’s dead, my queen. Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read The garboils she awaked; at the last, best, See when and where she died.
CLEOPATRA. O most false love! Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see, In Fulvia’s death how mine received shall be.
ANTONY. Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know The purposes I bear; which are, or cease, As you shall give th’ advice. By the fire That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from hence Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war As thou affects.
CLEOPATRA. Cut my lace, Charmian, come! But let it be; I am quickly ill and well, So Antony loves.
ANTONY. My precious queen, forbear, And give true evidence to his love, which stands An honourable trial.
CLEOPATRA. So Fulvia told me. I prithee, turn aside and weep for her, Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene Of excellent dissembling, and let it look Like perfect honour.
ANTONY. You’ll heat my blood. No more.
CLEOPATRA. You can do better yet, but this is meetly.
ANTONY. Now, by my sword—
CLEOPATRA. And target. Still he mends. But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian, How this Herculean Roman does become The carriage of his chafe.
ANTONY. I’ll leave you, lady.
CLEOPATRA. Courteous lord, one word. Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it; Sir, you and I have loved, but there’s not it; That you know well. Something it is I would— O, my oblivion is a very Antony, And I am all forgotten.
ANTONY. But that your royalty Holds idleness your subject, I should take you For idleness itself.
CLEOPATRA. ’Tis sweating labour To bear such idleness so near the heart As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me, Since my becomings kill me when they do not Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence; Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword Sit laurel victory, and smooth success Be strewed before your feet!
ANTONY. Let us go. Come. Our separation so abides and flies That thou, residing here, goes yet with me, And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee. Away!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Rome. An Apartment in Caesar’s House. Enter Octavius [Caesar], Lepidus and their train.
CAESAR. You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know, It is not Caesar’s natural vice to hate Our great competitor. From Alexandria This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes The lamps of night in revel: is not more manlike Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or Vouchsafed to think he had partners. You shall find there A man who is the abstract of all faults That all men follow.
LEPIDUS. I must not think there are Evils enough to darken all his goodness. His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven, More fiery by night’s blackness; hereditary Rather than purchased; what he cannot change Than what he chooses.
CAESAR. You are too indulgent. Let’s grant it is not Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy, To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit And keep the turn of tippling with a slave, To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet With knaves that smell of sweat. Say this becomes him— As his composure must be rare indeed Whom these things cannot blemish—yet must Antony No way excuse his foils when we do bear So great weight in his lightness. If he filled His vacancy with his voluptuousness, Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones Call on him for’t. But to confound such time That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud As his own state and ours, ’tis to be chid As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge, Pawn their experience to their present pleasure And so rebel to judgment.
Enter a Messenger.
LEPIDUS. Here’s more news.
MESSENGER. Thy biddings have been done, and every hour, Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report How ’tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea, And it appears he is beloved of those That only have feared Caesar. To the ports The discontents repair, and men’s reports Give him much wronged.
CAESAR. I should have known no less. It hath been taught us from the primal state That he which is was wished until he were, And the ebbed man, ne’er loved till ne’er worth love, Comes deared by being lacked. This common body, Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide, To rot itself with motion.
Enter a second Messenger.
SECOND MESSENGER. Caesar, I bring thee word Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates, Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound With keels of every kind. Many hot inroads They make in Italy—the borders maritime Lack blood to think on’t—and flush youth revolt. No vessel can peep forth but ’tis as soon Taken as seen; for Pompey’s name strikes more Than could his war resisted.
CAESAR. Antony, Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel Did famine follow, whom thou fought’st against, Though daintily brought up, with patience more Than savages could suffer. Thou didst drink The stale of horses and the gilded puddle Which beasts would cough at. Thy palate then did deign The roughest berry on the rudest hedge. Yea, like the stag when snow the pasture sheets, The barks of trees thou browsed. On the Alps It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh Which some did die to look on. And all this— It wounds thine honour that I speak it now— Was borne so like a soldier that thy cheek So much as lanked not.
LEPIDUS. ’Tis pity of him.
CAESAR. Let his shames quickly Drive him to Rome. ’Tis time we twain Did show ourselves i’ th’ field, and to that end Assemble we immediate council. Pompey Thrives in our idleness.
LEPIDUS. Tomorrow, Caesar, I shall be furnished to inform you rightly Both what by sea and land I can be able To front this present time.
CAESAR. Till which encounter It is my business too. Farewell.
LEPIDUS. Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir, To let me be partaker.
CAESAR. Doubt not, sir. I knew it for my bond.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Mardian.
CLEOPATRA. Charmian!
CHARMIAN. Madam?
CLEOPATRA. Ha, ha! Give me to drink mandragora.
CHARMIAN. Why, madam?
CLEOPATRA. That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away.
CHARMIAN. You think of him too much.
CLEOPATRA. O, ’tis treason!
CHARMIAN. Madam, I trust not so.
CLEOPATRA. Thou, eunuch Mardian!
MARDIAN. What’s your highness’ pleasure?
CLEOPATRA. Not now to hear thee sing. I take no pleasure In aught an eunuch has. ’Tis well for thee That, being unseminared, thy freer thoughts May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?
MARDIAN. Yes, gracious madam.
CLEOPATRA. Indeed?
MARDIAN. Not in deed, madam, for I can do nothing But what indeed is honest to be done. Yet have I fierce affections, and think What Venus did with Mars.
CLEOPATRA. O, Charmian, Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he? Or does he walk? Or is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! Do bravely, horse, for wot’st thou whom thou mov’st? The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now, Or murmuring “Where’s my serpent of old Nile?” For so he calls me. Now I feed myself With most delicious poison. Think on me That am with Phœbus’ amorous pinches black, And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar, When thou wast here above the ground, I was A morsel for a monarch. And great Pompey Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow; There would he anchor his aspect, and die With looking on his life.
Enter Alexas.
ALEXAS. Sovereign of Egypt, hail!
CLEOPATRA. How much unlike art thou Mark Antony! Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath With his tinct gilded thee. How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?
ALEXAS. Last thing he did, dear queen, He kissed—the last of many doubled kisses— This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.
CLEOPATRA. Mine ear must pluck it thence.
ALEXAS. “Good friend,” quoth he, “Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot, To mend the petty present, I will piece Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the east, Say thou, shall call her mistress.” So he nodded And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed, Who neighed so high that what I would have spoke Was beastly dumbed by him.
CLEOPATRA. What, was he sad or merry?
ALEXAS. Like to the time o’ th’ year between the extremes Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry.
CLEOPATRA. O well-divided disposition!—Note him, Note him, good Charmian, ’tis the man; but note him: He was not sad, for he would shine on those That make their looks by his; he was not merry, Which seemed to tell them his remembrance lay In Egypt with his joy; but between both. O heavenly mingle!—Be’st thou sad or merry, The violence of either thee becomes, So does it no man else.—Met’st thou my posts?
ALEXAS. Ay, madam, twenty several messengers. Why do you send so thick?
CLEOPATRA. Who’s born that day When I forget to send to Antony Shall die a beggar.—Ink and paper, Charmian.— Welcome, my good Alexas.—Did I, Charmian, Ever love Caesar so?
CHARMIAN. O that brave Caesar!
CLEOPATRA. Be choked with such another emphasis! Say “the brave Antony.”
CHARMIAN. The valiant Caesar!
CLEOPATRA. By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth If thou with Caesar paragon again My man of men.
CHARMIAN. By your most gracious pardon, I sing but after you.
CLEOPATRA. My salad days, When I was green in judgment, cold in blood, To say as I said then. But come, away, Get me ink and paper. He shall have every day a several greeting, Or I’ll unpeople Egypt.
[Exeunt.]
ACT II SCENE I. Messina. A Room in Pompey’s house. Enter Pompey, Menecrates and Menas in warlike manner.
POMPEY. If the great gods be just, they shall assist The deeds of justest men.
MENECRATES. Know, worthy Pompey, That what they do delay they not deny.
POMPEY. Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays The thing we sue for.
MENECRATES. We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.
POMPEY. I shall do well. The people love me, and the sea is mine; My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope Says it will come to th’ full. Mark Antony In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make No wars without doors. Caesar gets money where He loses hearts. Lepidus flatters both, Of both is flattered; but he neither loves Nor either cares for him.
MENAS. Caesar and Lepidus Are in the field. A mighty strength they carry.
POMPEY. Where have you this? ’Tis false.
MENAS. From Silvius, sir.
POMPEY. He dreams. I know they are in Rome together, Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love, Salt Cleopatra, soften thy waned lip! Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both; Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts; Keep his brain fuming. Epicurean cooks Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite, That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour Even till a Lethe’d dullness—
Enter Varrius.
How now, Varrius!
VARRIUS. This is most certain that I shall deliver: Mark Antony is every hour in Rome Expected. Since he went from Egypt ’tis A space for farther travel.
POMPEY. I could have given less matter A better ear.—Menas, I did not think This amorous surfeiter would have donned his helm For such a petty war. His soldiership Is twice the other twain. But let us rear The higher our opinion, that our stirring Can from the lap of Egypt’s widow pluck The ne’er lust-wearied Antony.
MENAS. I cannot hope Caesar and Antony shall well greet together. His wife that’s dead did trespasses to Caesar; His brother warred upon him, although I think, Not moved by Antony.
POMPEY. I know not, Menas, How lesser enmities may give way to greater. Were’t not that we stand up against them all, ’Twere pregnant they should square between themselves, For they have entertained cause enough To draw their swords. But how the fear of us May cement their divisions, and bind up The petty difference, we yet not know. Be’t as our gods will have’t! It only stands Our lives upon to use our strongest hands. Come, Menas.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Rome. A Room in the House of Lepidus. Enter Enobarbus and Lepidus.
LEPIDUS. Good Enobarbus, ’tis a worthy deed, And shall become you well, to entreat your captain To soft and gentle speech.
ENOBARBUS. I shall entreat him To answer like himself. If Caesar move him, Let Antony look over Caesar’s head And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter, Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard, I would not shave’t today.
LEPIDUS. ’Tis not a time For private stomaching.
ENOBARBUS. Every time Serves for the matter that is then born in’t.
LEPIDUS. But small to greater matters must give way.
ENOBARBUS. Not if the small come first.
LEPIDUS. Your speech is passion; But pray you stir no embers up. Here comes The noble Antony.
Enter Antony and Ventidius.
ENOBARBUS. And yonder Caesar.
Enter Caesar, Maecenas and Agrippa.
ANTONY. If we compose well here, to Parthia. Hark, Ventidius.
CAESAR. I do not know, Maecenas. Ask Agrippa.
LEPIDUS. Noble friends, That which combined us was most great, and let not A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss, May it be gently heard. When we debate Our trivial difference loud, we do commit Murder in healing wounds. Then, noble partners, The rather for I earnestly beseech, Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms, Nor curstness grow to th’ matter.
ANTONY. ’Tis spoken well. Were we before our armies, and to fight, I should do thus.
CAESAR. Welcome to Rome.
ANTONY. Thank you.
CAESAR. Sit.
ANTONY. Sit, sir.
CAESAR. Nay, then.
ANTONY. I learn you take things ill which are not so, Or being, concern you not.
CAESAR. I must be laughed at If, or for nothing or a little, I Should say myself offended, and with you Chiefly i’ th’ world; more laughed at that I should Once name you derogately when to sound your name It not concerned me.
ANTONY. My being in Egypt, Caesar, What was’t to you?
CAESAR. No more than my residing here at Rome Might be to you in Egypt. Yet if you there Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt Might be my question.
ANTONY. How intend you, practised?
CAESAR. You may be pleased to catch at mine intent By what did here befall me. Your wife and brother Made wars upon me, and their contestation Was theme for you; you were the word of war.
ANTONY. You do mistake your business. My brother never Did urge me in his act. I did inquire it, And have my learning from some true reports That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather Discredit my authority with yours, And make the wars alike against my stomach, Having alike your cause? Of this my letters Before did satisfy you. If you’ll patch a quarrel, As matter whole you have not to make it with, It must not be with this.
CAESAR. You praise yourself By laying defects of judgment to me; but You patched up your excuses.
ANTONY. Not so, not so. I know you could not lack—I am certain on’t— Very necessity of this thought, that I, Your partner in the cause ’gainst which he fought, Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another. The third o’ th’ world is yours, which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife.
ENOBARBUS. Would we had all such wives, that the men Might go to wars with the women.
ANTONY. So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar, Made out of her impatience—which not wanted Shrewdness of policy too—I grieving grant Did you too much disquiet. For that you must But say I could not help it.
CAESAR. I wrote to you When rioting in Alexandria; you Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts Did gibe my missive out of audience.
ANTONY. Sir, He fell upon me ere admitted, then. Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want Of what I was i’ th’ morning. But next day I told him of myself, which was as much As to have asked him pardon. Let this fellow Be nothing of our strife; if we contend, Out of our question wipe him.
CAESAR. You have broken The article of your oath, which you shall never Have tongue to charge me with.
LEPIDUS. Soft, Caesar!
ANTONY. No, Lepidus, let him speak. The honour is sacred which he talks on now, Supposing that I lacked it. But on, Caesar: The article of my oath?
CAESAR. To lend me arms and aid when I required them, The which you both denied.
ANTONY. Neglected, rather; And then when poisoned hours had bound me up From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may I’ll play the penitent to you. But mine honesty Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power Work without it. Truth is that Fulvia, To have me out of Egypt, made wars here, For which myself, the ignorant motive, do So far ask pardon as befits mine honour To stoop in such a case.
LEPIDUS. ’Tis noble spoken.
MAECENAS. If it might please you to enforce no further The griefs between ye; to forget them quite Were to remember that the present need Speaks to atone you.
LEPIDUS. Worthily spoken, Maecenas.
ENOBARBUS. Or, if you borrow one another’s love for the instant, you may, when you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again. You shall have time to wrangle in when you have nothing else to do.
ANTONY. Thou art a soldier only. Speak no more.
ENOBARBUS. That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.
ANTONY. You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.
ENOBARBUS. Go to, then. Your considerate stone!
CAESAR. I do not much dislike the matter, but The manner of his speech; for’t cannot be We shall remain in friendship, our conditions So differing in their acts. Yet if I knew What hoop should hold us staunch, from edge to edge O’ th’ world I would pursue it.
AGRIPPA. Give me leave, Caesar.
CAESAR. Speak, Agrippa.
AGRIPPA. Thou hast a sister by the mother’s side, Admired Octavia. Great Mark Antony Is now a widower.
CAESAR. Say not so, Agrippa. If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof Were well deserved of rashness.
ANTONY. I am not married, Caesar. Let me hear Agrippa further speak.
AGRIPPA. To hold you in perpetual amity, To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts With an unslipping knot, take Antony Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims No worse a husband than the best of men; Whose virtue and whose general graces speak That which none else can utter. By this marriage All little jealousies, which now seem great, And all great fears, which now import their dangers, Would then be nothing. Truths would be tales, Where now half-tales be truths. Her love to both Would each to other, and all loves to both, Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke, For ’tis a studied, not a present thought, By duty ruminated.
ANTONY. Will Caesar speak?
CAESAR. Not till he hears how Antony is touched With what is spoke already.
ANTONY. What power is in Agrippa, If I would say “Agrippa, be it so,” To make this good?
CAESAR. The power of Caesar, and His power unto Octavia.
ANTONY. May I never To this good purpose, that so fairly shows, Dream of impediment! Let me have thy hand. Further this act of grace; and from this hour The heart of brothers govern in our loves And sway our great designs!
CAESAR. There’s my hand. A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother Did ever love so dearly. Let her live To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never Fly off our loves again!
LEPIDUS. Happily, amen!
ANTONY. I did not think to draw my sword ’gainst Pompey, For he hath laid strange courtesies and great Of late upon me. I must thank him only, Lest my remembrance suffer ill report; At heel of that, defy him.
LEPIDUS. Time calls upon ’s. Of us must Pompey presently be sought, Or else he seeks out us.
ANTONY. Where lies he?
CAESAR. About the Mount Misena.
ANTONY. What is his strength by land?
CAESAR. Great and increasing; but by sea He is an absolute master.
ANTONY. So is the fame. Would we had spoke together! Haste we for it. Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we The business we have talked of.
CAESAR. With most gladness, And do invite you to my sister’s view, Whither straight I’ll lead you.
ANTONY. Let us, Lepidus, not lack your company.
LEPIDUS. Noble Antony, not sickness should detain me.
[Flourish. Exeunt all except Enobarbus, Agrippa and Maecenas.]
MAECENAS. Welcome from Egypt, sir.
ENOBARBUS. Half the heart of Caesar, worthy Maecenas! My honourable friend, Agrippa!
AGRIPPA. Good Enobarbus!
MAECENAS. We have cause to be glad that matters are so well digested. You stayed well by ’t in Egypt.
ENOBARBUS. Ay, sir, we did sleep day out of countenance and made the night light with drinking.
MAECENAS. Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast, and but twelve persons there. Is this true?
ENOBARBUS. This was but as a fly by an eagle. We had much more monstrous matter of feast, which worthily deserved noting.
MAECENAS. She’s a most triumphant lady, if report be square to her.
ENOBARBUS. When she first met Mark Antony, she pursed up his heart upon the river of Cydnus.
AGRIPPA. There she appeared indeed, or my reporter devised well for her.
ENOBARBUS. I will tell you. The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, Burned on the water. The poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggared all description: she did lie In her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue, O’erpicturing that Venus where we see The fancy outwork nature. On each side her Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With divers-coloured fans, whose wind did seem To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, And what they undid did.
AGRIPPA. O, rare for Antony!
ENOBARBUS. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i’ th’ eyes, And made their bends adornings. At the helm A seeming mermaid steers. The silken tackle Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her, and Antony, Enthroned i’ th’ market-place, did sit alone, Whistling to th’ air, which, but for vacancy, Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in nature.
AGRIPPA. Rare Egyptian!
ENOBARBUS. Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, Invited her to supper. She replied It should be better he became her guest, Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony, Whom ne’er the word of “No” woman heard speak, Being barbered ten times o’er, goes to the feast, And, for his ordinary, pays his heart For what his eyes eat only.
AGRIPPA. Royal wench! She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed. He ploughed her, and she cropped.
ENOBARBUS. I saw her once Hop forty paces through the public street And, having lost her breath, she spoke and panted, That she did make defect perfection, And, breathless, pour breath forth.
MAECENAS. Now Antony must leave her utterly.
ENOBARBUS. Never. He will not. Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety. Other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies. For vilest things Become themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish.
MAECENAS. If beauty, wisdom, modesty can settle The heart of Antony, Octavia is A blessed lottery to him.
AGRIPPA. Let us go. Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest Whilst you abide here.
ENOBARBUS. Humbly, sir, I thank you.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House. Enter Antony, Caesar, Octavia between them.
ANTONY. The world and my great office will sometimes Divide me from your bosom.
OCTAVIA. All which time Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers To them for you.
ANTONY. Good night, sir.—My Octavia, Read not my blemishes in the world’s report. I have not kept my square, but that to come Shall all be done by th’ rule. Good night, dear lady.
OCTAVIA. Good night, sir.
CAESAR. Good night.
[Exeunt Caesar and Octavia.]
Enter Soothsayer.
ANTONY. Now, sirrah, you do wish yourself in Egypt?
SOOTHSAYER. Would I had never come from thence, nor you thither!
ANTONY. If you can, your reason.
SOOTHSAYER. I see it in my motion, have it not in my tongue. But yet hie you to Egypt again.
ANTONY. Say to me, Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesar’s or mine?
SOOTHSAYER. Caesar’s. Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side. Thy dæmon—that thy spirit which keeps thee—is Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable, Where Caesar’s is not. But near him, thy angel Becomes afeard, as being o’erpowered. Therefore Make space enough between you.
ANTONY. Speak this no more.
SOOTHSAYER. To none but thee; no more but when to thee. If thou dost play with him at any game, Thou art sure to lose; and of that natural luck He beats thee ’gainst the odds. Thy lustre thickens When he shines by. I say again, thy spirit Is all afraid to govern thee near him; But, he away, ’tis noble.
ANTONY. Get thee gone. Say to Ventidius I would speak with him.
[Exit Soothsayer.]
He shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap, He hath spoken true. The very dice obey him, And in our sports my better cunning faints Under his chance. If we draw lots, he speeds; His cocks do win the battle still of mine When it is all to naught, and his quails ever Beat mine, inhooped, at odds. I will to Egypt: And though I make this marriage for my peace, I’ th’ East my pleasure lies.
Enter Ventidius.
O, come, Ventidius, You must to Parthia. Your commission’s ready. Follow me and receive ’t.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Rome. A street. Enter Lepidus, Maecenas and Agrippa.
LEPIDUS. Trouble yourselves no further. Pray you hasten Your generals after.
AGRIPPA. Sir, Mark Antony Will e’en but kiss Octavia, and we’ll follow.
LEPIDUS. Till I shall see you in your soldier’s dress, Which will become you both, farewell.
MAECENAS. We shall, As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount Before you, Lepidus.
LEPIDUS. Your way is shorter; My purposes do draw me much about. You’ll win two days upon me.
BOTH. Sir, good success!
LEPIDUS. Farewell.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, Alexas.
CLEOPATRA. Give me some music—music, moody food Of us that trade in love.
ALL. The music, ho!
Enter Mardian, the eunuch.
CLEOPATRA. Let it alone. Let’s to billiards. Come, Charmian.
CHARMIAN. My arm is sore. Best play with Mardian.
CLEOPATRA. As well a woman with an eunuch played As with a woman. Come, you’ll play with me, sir?
MARDIAN. As well as I can, madam.
CLEOPATRA. And when good will is showed, though’t come too short, The actor may plead pardon. I’ll none now. Give me mine angle; we’ll to the river. There, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finned fishes. My bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws, and as I draw them up I’ll think them every one an Antony, And say “Ah, ha! You’re caught.”
CHARMIAN. ’Twas merry when You wagered on your angling; when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.
CLEOPATRA. That time?—O times!— I laughed him out of patience; and that night I laughed him into patience, and next morn, Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed, Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst I wore his sword Philippan.
Enter Messenger.
O! from Italy! Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears, That long time have been barren.
MESSENGER. Madam, madam—
CLEOPATRA. Antony’s dead! If thou say so, villain, Thou kill’st thy mistress. But well and free, If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here My bluest veins to kiss, a hand that kings Have lipped, and trembled kissing.
MESSENGER. First, madam, he’s well.
CLEOPATRA. Why, there’s more gold. But sirrah, mark, we use To say the dead are well. Bring it to that, The gold I give thee will I melt and pour Down thy ill-uttering throat.
MESSENGER. Good madam, hear me.
CLEOPATRA. Well, go to, I will. But there’s no goodness in thy face if Antony Be free and healthful. So tart a favour To trumpet such good tidings! If not well, Thou shouldst come like a Fury crowned with snakes, Not like a formal man.
MESSENGER. Will’t please you hear me?
CLEOPATRA. I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak’st. Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well, Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, I’ll set thee in a shower of gold and hail Rich pearls upon thee.
MESSENGER. Madam, he’s well.
CLEOPATRA. Well said.
MESSENGER. And friends with Caesar.
CLEOPATRA. Th’ art an honest man.
MESSENGER. Caesar and he are greater friends than ever.
CLEOPATRA. Make thee a fortune from me.
MESSENGER. But yet, madam—
CLEOPATRA. I do not like “But yet”, it does allay The good precedence. Fie upon “But yet”! “But yet” is as a gaoler to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend, Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, The good and bad together: he’s friends with Caesar, In state of health, thou say’st; and, thou say’st, free.
MESSENGER. Free, madam? No. I made no such report. He��s bound unto Octavia.
CLEOPATRA. For what good turn?
MESSENGER. For the best turn i’ th’ bed.
CLEOPATRA. I am pale, Charmian.
MESSENGER. Madam, he’s married to Octavia.
CLEOPATRA. The most infectious pestilence upon thee!
[Strikes him down.]
MESSENGER. Good madam, patience.
CLEOPATRA. What say you?
[Strikes him again.]
Hence, horrible villain, or I’ll spurn thine eyes Like balls before me! I’ll unhair thy head!
[She hales him up and down.]
Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, Smarting in ling’ring pickle.
MESSENGER. Gracious madam, I that do bring the news made not the match.
CLEOPATRA. Say ’tis not so, a province I will give thee, And make thy fortunes proud. The blow thou hadst Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage, And I will boot thee with what gift beside Thy modesty can beg.
MESSENGER. He’s married, madam.
CLEOPATRA. Rogue, thou hast lived too long.
[Draws a knife.]
MESSENGER. Nay then I’ll run. What mean you, madam? I have made no fault.
[Exit.]
CHARMIAN. Good madam, keep yourself within yourself. The man is innocent.
CLEOPATRA. Some innocents ’scape not the thunderbolt. Melt Egypt into Nile, and kindly creatures Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again. Though I am mad, I will not bite him. Call!
CHARMIAN. He is afeard to come.
CLEOPATRA. I will not hurt him.
[Exit Charmian.]
These hands do lack nobility that they strike A meaner than myself, since I myself Have given myself the cause.
Enter the Messenger again with Charmian.
Come hither, sir. Though it be honest, it is never good To bring bad news. Give to a gracious message An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.
MESSENGER. I have done my duty.
CLEOPATRA. Is he married? I cannot hate thee worser than I do If thou again say “Yes.”
MESSENGER. He’s married, madam.
CLEOPATRA. The gods confound thee! Dost thou hold there still!
MESSENGER. Should I lie, madam?
CLEOPATRA. O, I would thou didst, So half my Egypt were submerged and made A cistern for scaled snakes! Go, get thee hence. Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married?
MESSENGER. I crave your highness’ pardon.
CLEOPATRA. He is married?
MESSENGER. Take no offence that I would not offend you. To punish me for what you make me do Seems much unequal. He’s married to Octavia.
CLEOPATRA. O, that his fault should make a knave of thee That art not what thou’rt sure of! Get thee hence! The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome Are all too dear for me. Lie they upon thy hand, And be undone by ’em!
[Exit Messenger.]
CHARMIAN. Good your highness, patience.
CLEOPATRA. In praising Antony I have dispraised Caesar.
CHARMIAN. Many times, madam.
CLEOPATRA. I am paid for’t now. Lead me from hence; I faint. O Iras, Charmian! ’Tis no matter. Go to the fellow, good Alexas, bid him Report the feature of Octavia, her years, Her inclination; let him not leave out The colour of her hair. Bring me word quickly.
[Exit Alexas.]
Let him for ever go—let him not, Charmian. Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, The other way ’s a Mars. [To Mardian] Bid you Alexas Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian, But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. Near Misenum. Flourish. Enter Pompey and Menas at one door, with drum and trumpet; at another, Caesar, Lepidus, Antony, Enobarbus, Maecenas, Agrippa, with Soldiers marching.
POMPEY. Your hostages I have, so have you mine, And we shall talk before we fight.
CAESAR. Most meet That first we come to words, and therefore have we Our written purposes before us sent, Which if thou hast considered, let us know If ’twill tie up thy discontented sword And carry back to Sicily much tall youth That else must perish here.
POMPEY. To you all three, The senators alone of this great world, Chief factors for the gods: I do not know Wherefore my father should revengers want, Having a son and friends, since Julius Caesar, Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted, There saw you labouring for him. What was’t That moved pale Cassius to conspire? And what Made the all-honoured, honest Roman, Brutus, With the armed rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom, To drench the Capitol, but that they would Have one man but a man? And that is it Hath made me rig my navy, at whose burden The angered ocean foams, with which I meant To scourge th’ ingratitude that despiteful Rome Cast on my noble father.
CAESAR. Take your time.
ANTONY. Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails. We’ll speak with thee at sea. At land thou know’st How much we do o’ercount thee.
POMPEY. At land indeed Thou dost o’ercount me of my father’s house; But since the cuckoo builds not for himself, Remain in’t as thou mayst.
LEPIDUS. Be pleased to tell us— For this is from the present—how you take The offers we have sent you.
CAESAR. There’s the point.
ANTONY. Which do not be entreated to, but weigh What it is worth embraced.
CAESAR. And what may follow To try a larger fortune.
POMPEY. You have made me offer Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must Rid all the sea of pirates; then to send Measures of wheat to Rome. This ’greed upon, To part with unhacked edges and bear back Our targes undinted.
CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS. That’s our offer.
POMPEY. Know, then, I came before you here a man prepared To take this offer. But Mark Antony Put me to some impatience. Though I lose The praise of it by telling, you must know When Caesar and your brother were at blows, Your mother came to Sicily and did find Her welcome friendly.
ANTONY. I have heard it, Pompey, And am well studied for a liberal thanks Which I do owe you.
POMPEY. Let me have your hand. I did not think, sir, to have met you here.
ANTONY. The beds i’ th’ East are soft; and thanks to you, That called me timelier than my purpose hither, For I have gained by ’t.
CAESAR. Since I saw you last, There is a change upon you.
POMPEY. Well, I know not What counts harsh Fortune casts upon my face, But in my bosom shall she never come To make my heart her vassal.
LEPIDUS. Well met here.
POMPEY. I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed. I crave our composition may be written And sealed between us.
CAESAR. That’s the next to do.
POMPEY. We’ll feast each other ere we part, and let’s Draw lots who shall begin.
ANTONY. That will I, Pompey.
POMPEY. No, Antony, take the lot. But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar Grew fat with feasting there.
ANTONY. You have heard much.
POMPEY. I have fair meanings, sir.
ANTONY. And fair words to them.
POMPEY. Then so much have I heard. And I have heard Apollodorus carried—
ENOBARBUS. No more of that. He did so.
POMPEY. What, I pray you?
ENOBARBUS. A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress.
POMPEY. I know thee now. How far’st thou, soldier?
ENOBARBUS. Well; And well am like to do, for I perceive Four feasts are toward.
POMPEY. Let me shake thy hand. I never hated thee. I have seen thee fight When I have envied thy behaviour.
ENOBARBUS. Sir, I never loved you much, but I ha’ praised ye When you have well deserved ten times as much As I have said you did.
POMPEY. Enjoy thy plainness; It nothing ill becomes thee. Aboard my galley I invite you all. Will you lead, lords?
CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS. Show’s the way, sir.
POMPEY. Come.
[Exeunt all but Enobarbus and Menas.]
MENAS. [Aside.] Thy father, Pompey, would ne’er have made this treaty.— You and I have known, sir.
ENOBARBUS. At sea, I think.
MENAS. We have, sir.
ENOBARBUS. You have done well by water.
MENAS. And you by land.
ENOBARBUS. I will praise any man that will praise me, though it cannot be denied what I have done by land.
MENAS. Nor what I have done by water.
ENOBARBUS. Yes, something you can deny for your own safety: you have been a great thief by sea.
MENAS. And you by land.
ENOBARBUS. There I deny my land service. But give me your hand, Menas. If our eyes had authority, here they might take two thieves kissing.
MENAS. All men’s faces are true, whatsome’er their hands are.
ENOBARBUS. But there is never a fair woman has a true face.
MENAS. No slander. They steal hearts.
ENOBARBUS. We came hither to fight with you.
MENAS. For my part, I am sorry it is turned to a drinking. Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune.
ENOBARBUS. If he do, sure he cannot weep ’t back again.
MENAS. You have said, sir. We looked not for Mark Antony here. Pray you, is he married to Cleopatra?
ENOBARBUS. Caesar’s sister is called Octavia.
MENAS. True, sir. She was the wife of Caius Marcellus.
ENOBARBUS. But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius.
MENAS. Pray you, sir?
ENOBARBUS. ’Tis true.
MENAS. Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.
ENOBARBUS. If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so.
MENAS. I think the policy of that purpose made more in the marriage than the love of the parties.
ENOBARBUS. I think so too. But you shall find the band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity. Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation.
MENAS. Who would not have his wife so?
ENOBARBUS. Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony. He will to his Egyptian dish again. Then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in Caesar, and, as I said before, that which is the strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author of their variance. Antony will use his affection where it is. He married but his occasion here.
MENAS. And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a health for you.
ENOBARBUS. I shall take it, sir. We have used our throats in Egypt.
MENAS. Come, let’s away.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VII. On board Pompey’s Galley, lying near Misenum. Music. Enter two or three Servants with a banquet.
FIRST SERVANT. Here they’ll be, man. Some o’ their plants are ill-rooted already; the least wind i’ th’ world will blow them down.
SECOND SERVANT. Lepidus is high-coloured.
FIRST SERVANT. They have made him drink alms-drink.
SECOND SERVANT. As they pinch one another by the disposition, he cries out “no more”, reconciles them to his entreaty and himself to th’ drink.
FIRST SERVANT. But it raises the greater war between him and his discretion.
SECOND SERVANT. Why, this it is to have a name in great men’s fellowship. I had as lief have a reed that will do me no service as a partisan I could not heave.
FIRST SERVANT. To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in ’t, are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks.
A sennet sounded. Enter Caesar, Antony, Pompey, Lepidus, Agrippa, Maecenas, Enobarbus, Menas with other Captains.
ANTONY. [To Caesar.] Thus do they, sir: they take the flow o’ th’ Nile By certain scales i’ th’ pyramid; they know By th’ height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth Or foison follow. The higher Nilus swells, The more it promises. As it ebbs, the seedsman Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain, And shortly comes to harvest.
LEPIDUS. You’ve strange serpents there?
ANTONY. Ay, Lepidus.
LEPIDUS. Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the operation of your sun; so is your crocodile.
ANTONY. They are so.
POMPEY. Sit, and some wine! A health to Lepidus!
LEPIDUS. I am not so well as I should be, but I’ll ne’er out.
ENOBARBUS. Not till you have slept. I fear me you’ll be in till then.
LEPIDUS. Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies’ pyramises are very goodly things. Without contradiction I have heard that.
MENAS. [Aside to Pompey.] Pompey, a word.
POMPEY. [Aside to Menas.] Say in mine ear what is ’t?
MENAS. [Whispers in ’s ear.] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee, captain, And hear me speak a word.
POMPEY. [Aside to Menas.] Forbear me till anon.— This wine for Lepidus!
LEPIDUS. What manner o’ thing is your crocodile?
ANTONY. It is shaped, sir, like itself, and it is as broad as it hath breadth. It is just so high as it is, and moves with it own organs. It lives by that which nourisheth it, and the elements once out of it, it transmigrates.
LEPIDUS. What colour is it of?
ANTONY. Of its own colour too.
LEPIDUS. ’Tis a strange serpent.
ANTONY. ’Tis so, and the tears of it are wet.
CAESAR. Will this description satisfy him?
ANTONY. With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a very epicure.
POMPEY. [Aside to Menas.] Go hang, sir, hang! Tell me of that? Away! Do as I bid you.—Where’s this cup I called for?
MENAS. [Aside to Pompey.] If for the sake of merit thou wilt hear me, Rise from thy stool.
POMPEY. [Aside to Menas.] I think thou’rt mad.
[Rises and walks aside.]
The matter?
MENAS. I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes.
POMPEY. Thou hast served me with much faith. What’s else to say?— Be jolly, lords.
ANTONY. These quicksands, Lepidus, Keep off them, for you sink.
MENAS. Wilt thou be lord of all the world?
POMPEY. What sayst thou?
MENAS. Wilt thou be lord of the whole world? That’s twice.
POMPEY. How should that be?
MENAS. But entertain it, And though you think me poor, I am the man Will give thee all the world.
POMPEY. Hast thou drunk well?
MENAS. No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup. Thou art, if thou dar’st be, the earthly Jove. Whate’er the ocean pales or sky inclips Is thine, if thou wilt have’t.
POMPEY. Show me which way.
MENAS. These three world-sharers, these competitors, Are in thy vessel. Let me cut the cable, And when we are put off, fall to their throats. All then is thine.
POMPEY. Ah, this thou shouldst have done And not have spoke on ’t! In me ’tis villainy; In thee ’t had been good service. Thou must know ’Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour; Mine honour it. Repent that e’er thy tongue Hath so betray’d thine act. Being done unknown, I should have found it afterwards well done, But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.
MENAS. [Aside.] For this, I’ll never follow thy palled fortunes more. Who seeks, and will not take when once ’tis offered, Shall never find it more.
POMPEY. This health to Lepidus!
ANTONY. Bear him ashore. I’ll pledge it for him, Pompey.
ENOBARBUS. Here’s to thee, Menas!
MENAS. Enobarbus, welcome!
POMPEY. Fill till the cup be hid.
ENOBARBUS. There’s a strong fellow, Menas.
[Pointing to the servant who carries off Lepidus.]
MENAS. Why?
ENOBARBUS. ’A bears the third part of the world, man. Seest not?
MENAS. The third part, then, is drunk. Would it were all, That it might go on wheels!
ENOBARBUS. Drink thou. Increase the reels.
MENAS. Come.
POMPEY. This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.
ANTONY. It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho! Here is to Caesar!
CAESAR. I could well forbear’t. It’s monstrous labour when I wash my brain And it grows fouler.
ANTONY. Be a child o’ the time.
CAESAR. Possess it, I’ll make answer. But I had rather fast from all, four days, Than drink so much in one.
ENOBARBUS. [To Antony.] Ha, my brave emperor, Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals And celebrate our drink?
POMPEY. Let’s ha’t, good soldier.
ANTONY. Come, let’s all take hands Till that the conquering wine hath steeped our sense In soft and delicate Lethe.
ENOBARBUS. All take hands. Make battery to our ears with the loud music, The while I’ll place you; then the boy shall sing. The holding every man shall beat as loud As his strong sides can volley.
Music plays. Enobarbus places them hand in hand.
THE SONG.
Come, thou monarch of the vine, Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne! In thy vats our cares be drowned, With thy grapes our hairs be crowned. Cup us till the world go round, Cup us till the world go round!
CAESAR. What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother, Let me request you off. Our graver business Frowns at this levity.—Gentle lords, let’s part. You see we have burnt our cheeks. Strong Enobarb Is weaker than the wine, and mine own tongue Splits what it speaks. The wild disguise hath almost Anticked us all. What needs more words. Good night. Good Antony, your hand.
POMPEY. I’ll try you on the shore.
ANTONY. And shall, sir. Give’s your hand.
POMPEY. O Antony, You have my father’s house. But, what? We are friends. Come, down into the boat.
ENOBARBUS. Take heed you fall not.
[Exeunt Pompey, Caesar, Antony and Attendants.]
Menas, I’ll not on shore.
MENAS. No, to my cabin. These drums, these trumpets, flutes! What! Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell To these great fellows. Sound and be hanged, sound out!
[Sound a flourish with drums.]
ENOBARBUS. Hoo, says ’a! There’s my cap!
MENAS. Hoo! Noble captain, come.
[Exeunt.]
ACT III SCENE I. A plain in Syria. Enter Ventidius as it were in triumph, with Silius and other Romans, Officers and Soldiers; the dead body of Pacorus borne before him.
VENTIDIUS. Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck, and now Pleased Fortune does of Marcus Crassus’ death Make me revenger. Bear the king’s son’s body Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes, Pays this for Marcus Crassus.
SILIUS. Noble Ventidius, Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm, The fugitive Parthians follow. Spur through Media, Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither The routed fly. So thy grand captain Antony Shall set thee on triumphant chariots, and Put garlands on thy head.
VENTIDIUS. O Silius, Silius, I have done enough. A lower place, note well, May make too great an act. For learn this, Silius: Better to leave undone than by our deed Acquire too high a fame when him we serve’s away. Caesar and Antony have ever won More in their officer, than person. Sossius, One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant, For quick accumulation of renown, Which he achieved by th’ minute, lost his favour. Who does i’ th’ wars more than his captain can Becomes his captain’s captain; and ambition, The soldier’s virtue, rather makes choice of loss Than gain which darkens him. I could do more to do Antonius good, But ’twould offend him, and in his offence Should my performance perish.
SILIUS. Thou hast, Ventidius, that Without the which a soldier and his sword Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony?
VENTIDIUS. I’ll humbly signify what in his name, That magical word of war, we have effected; How, with his banners, and his well-paid ranks, The ne’er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia We have jaded out o’ th’ field.
SILIUS. Where is he now?
VENTIDIUS. He purposeth to Athens, whither, with what haste The weight we must convey with ’s will permit, We shall appear before him.—On there, pass along!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Rome. An Ante-chamber in Caesar’s house. Enter Agrippa at one door, Enobarbus at another.
AGRIPPA. What, are the brothers parted?
ENOBARBUS. They have dispatched with Pompey; he is gone. The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps To part from Rome. Caesar is sad, and Lepidus, Since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says, is troubled With the greensickness.
AGRIPPA. ’Tis a noble Lepidus.
ENOBARBUS. A very fine one. O, how he loves Caesar!
AGRIPPA. Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!
ENOBARBUS. Caesar? Why he’s the Jupiter of men.
AGRIPPA. What’s Antony? The god of Jupiter.
ENOBARBUS. Spake you of Caesar? How, the nonpareil!
AGRIPPA. O, Antony! O thou Arabian bird!
ENOBARBUS. Would you praise Caesar, say “Caesar”. Go no further.
AGRIPPA. Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.
ENOBARBUS. But he loves Caesar best, yet he loves Antony. Hoo! Hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number—hoo!— His love to Antony. But as for Caesar, Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.
AGRIPPA. Both he loves.
ENOBARBUS. They are his shards, and he their beetle.
[Trumpets within.]
So, This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.
AGRIPPA. Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell.
Enter Caesar, Antony, Lepidus and Octavia.
ANTONY. No further, sir.
CAESAR. You take from me a great part of myself. Use me well in’t. Sister, prove such a wife As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest bond Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony, Let not the piece of virtue which is set Betwixt us, as the cement of our love To keep it builded, be the ram to batter The fortress of it. For better might we Have loved without this mean, if on both parts This be not cherished.
ANTONY. Make me not offended In your distrust.
CAESAR. I have said.
ANTONY. You shall not find, Though you be therein curious, the least cause For what you seem to fear. So the gods keep you, And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends. We will here part.
CAESAR. Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well. The elements be kind to thee, and make Thy spirits all of comfort! Fare thee well.
OCTAVIA. My noble brother!
ANTONY. The April’s in her eyes. It is love’s spring, And these the showers to bring it on.—Be cheerful.
OCTAVIA. Sir, look well to my husband’s house, and—
CAESAR. What, Octavia?
OCTAVIA. I’ll tell you in your ear.
ANTONY. Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can Her heart inform her tongue—the swan’s-down feather, That stands upon the swell at the full of tide, And neither way inclines.
ENOBARBUS. [Aside to Agrippa.] Will Caesar weep?
AGRIPPA. [Aside to Enobarbus.] He has a cloud in ’s face.
ENOBARBUS. [Aside to Agrippa.] He were the worse for that were he a horse; So is he, being a man.
AGRIPPA. [Aside to Enobarbus.] Why, Enobarbus, When Antony found Julius Caesar dead, He cried almost to roaring, and he wept When at Philippi he found Brutus slain.
ENOBARBUS. [Aside to Agrippa.] That year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum; What willingly he did confound he wailed, Believe ’t, till I weep too.
CAESAR. No, sweet Octavia, You shall hear from me still. The time shall not Outgo my thinking on you.
ANTONY. Come, sir, come, I’ll wrestle with you in my strength of love. Look, here I have you, thus I let you go, And give you to the gods.
CAESAR. Adieu, be happy!
LEPIDUS. Let all the number of the stars give light To thy fair way!
CAESAR. Farewell, farewell!
[Kisses Octavia.]
ANTONY. Farewell!
[Trumpets sound. Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Alexas.
CLEOPATRA. Where is the fellow?
ALEXAS. Half afeared to come.
CLEOPATRA. Go to, go to.
Enter a Messenger as before.
Come hither, sir.
ALEXAS. Good majesty, Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you But when you are well pleased.
CLEOPATRA. That Herod’s head I’ll have! But how, when Antony is gone, Through whom I might command it?—Come thou near.
MESSENGER. Most gracious majesty!
CLEOPATRA. Didst thou behold Octavia?
MESSENGER. Ay, dread queen.
CLEOPATRA. Where?
MESSENGER. Madam, in Rome I looked her in the face, and saw her led Between her brother and Mark Antony.
CLEOPATRA. Is she as tall as me?
MESSENGER. She is not, madam.
CLEOPATRA. Didst hear her speak? Is she shrill-tongued or low?
MESSENGER. Madam, I heard her speak. She is low-voiced.
CLEOPATRA. That’s not so good. He cannot like her long.
CHARMIAN. Like her? O Isis! ’Tis impossible.
CLEOPATRA. I think so, Charmian: dull of tongue and dwarfish! What majesty is in her gait? Remember, If e’er thou look’dst on majesty.
MESSENGER. She creeps. Her motion and her station are as one. She shows a body rather than a life, A statue than a breather.
CLEOPATRA. Is this certain?
MESSENGER. Or I have no observance.
CHARMIAN. Three in Egypt Cannot make better note.
CLEOPATRA. He’s very knowing; I do perceive’t. There’s nothing in her yet. The fellow has good judgment.
CHARMIAN. Excellent.
CLEOPATRA. Guess at her years, I prithee.
MESSENGER. Madam, She was a widow.
CLEOPATRA. Widow! Charmian, hark!
MESSENGER. And I do think she’s thirty.
CLEOPATRA. Bear’st thou her face in mind? Is’t long or round?
MESSENGER. Round even to faultiness.
CLEOPATRA. For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so. Her hair, what colour?
MESSENGER. Brown, madam, and her forehead As low as she would wish it.
CLEOPATRA. There’s gold for thee. Thou must not take my former sharpness ill. I will employ thee back again; I find thee Most fit for business. Go make thee ready; Our letters are prepared.
[Exit Messenger.]
CHARMIAN. A proper man.
CLEOPATRA. Indeed, he is so. I repent me much That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him, This creature’s no such thing.
CHARMIAN. Nothing, madam.
CLEOPATRA. The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.
CHARMIAN. Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend, And serving you so long!
CLEOPATRA. I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmian. But ’tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me Where I will write. All may be well enough.
CHARMIAN. I warrant you, madam.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Athens. A Room in Antony’s House. Enter Antony and Octavia.
ANTONY. Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that— That were excusable, that and thousands more Of semblable import—but he hath waged New wars ’gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it To public ear; Spoke scantly of me; when perforce he could not But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly He vented them; most narrow measure lent me; When the best hint was given him, he not took ’t, Or did it from his teeth.
OCTAVIA. O, my good lord, Believe not all, or if you must believe, Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady, If this division chance, ne’er stood between, Praying for both parts. The good gods will mock me presently When I shall pray “O, bless my lord and husband!” Undo that prayer by crying out as loud “O, bless my brother!” Husband win, win brother, Prays and destroys the prayer; no midway ’Twixt these extremes at all.
ANTONY. Gentle Octavia, Let your best love draw to that point which seeks Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honour, I lose myself; better I were not yours Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested, Yourself shall go between’s. The meantime, lady, I’ll raise the preparation of a war Shall stain your brother. Make your soonest haste, So your desires are yours.
OCTAVIA. Thanks to my lord. The Jove of power make me, most weak, most weak, Your reconciler! Wars ’twixt you twain would be As if the world should cleave, and that slain men Should solder up the rift.
ANTONY. When it appears to you where this begins, Turn your displeasure that way, for our faults Can never be so equal that your love Can equally move with them. Provide your going; Choose your own company, and command what cost Your heart has mind to.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Athens. Another Room in Antony’s House. Enter Enobarbus and Eros meeting.
ENOBARBUS. How now, friend Eros?
EROS. There’s strange news come, sir.
ENOBARBUS. What, man?
EROS. Caesar and Lepidus have made wars upon Pompey.
ENOBARBUS. This is old. What is the success?
EROS. Caesar, having made use of him in the wars ’gainst Pompey, presently denied him rivality; would not let him partake in the glory of the action, and, not resting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes him. So the poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine.
ENOBARBUS. Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, no more, And throw between them all the food thou hast, They’ll grind the one the other. Where’s Antony?
EROS. He’s walking in the garden, thus, and spurns The rush that lies before him; cries “Fool Lepidus!” And threats the throat of that his officer That murdered Pompey.
ENOBARBUS. Our great navy’s rigged.
EROS. For Italy and Caesar. More, Domitius: My lord desires you presently. My news I might have told hereafter.
ENOBARBUS. ’Twill be naught, But let it be. Bring me to Antony.
EROS. Come, sir.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House. Enter Agrippa, Maecenas and Caesar.
CAESAR. Contemning Rome, he has done all this, and more In Alexandria. Here’s the manner of ’t: I’ th’ market-place, on a tribunal silvered, Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold Were publicly enthroned. At the feet sat Caesarion, whom they call my father’s son, And all the unlawful issue that their lust Since then hath made between them. Unto her He gave the stablishment of Egypt; made her Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia, Absolute queen.
MAECENAS. This in the public eye?
CAESAR. I’ th’ common showplace where they exercise. His sons he there proclaimed the kings of kings: Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia He gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assigned Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia. She In th’ habiliments of the goddess Isis That day appeared, and oft before gave audience, As ’tis reported, so.
MAECENAS. Let Rome be thus informed.
AGRIPPA. Who, queasy with his insolence already, Will their good thoughts call from him.
CAESAR. The people knows it and have now received His accusations.
AGRIPPA. Who does he accuse?
CAESAR. Caesar, and that, having in Sicily Sextus Pompeius spoiled, we had not rated him His part o’ th’ isle. Then does he say he lent me Some shipping, unrestored. Lastly, he frets That Lepidus of the triumvirate Should be deposed and, being, that we detain All his revenue.
AGRIPPA. Sir, this should be answered.
CAESAR. ’Tis done already, and messenger gone. I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel, That he his high authority abused, And did deserve his change. For what I have conquered I grant him part; but then in his Armenia And other of his conquered kingdoms, I Demand the like.
MAECENAS. He’ll never yield to that.
CAESAR. Nor must not then be yielded to in this.
Enter Octavia with her train.
OCTAVIA. Hail, Caesar, and my lord! Hail, most dear Caesar!
CAESAR. That ever I should call thee castaway!
OCTAVIA. You have not called me so, nor have you cause.
CAESAR. Why have you stolen upon us thus? You come not Like Caesar’s sister. The wife of Antony Should have an army for an usher, and The neighs of horse to tell of her approach Long ere she did appear. The trees by th’ way Should have borne men, and expectation fainted, Longing for what it had not. Nay, the dust Should have ascended to the roof of heaven, Raised by your populous troops. But you are come A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, Is often left unloved. We should have met you By sea and land, supplying every stage With an augmented greeting.
OCTAVIA. Good my lord, To come thus was I not constrained, but did it On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony, Hearing that you prepared for war, acquainted My grieved ear withal, whereon I begged His pardon for return.
CAESAR. Which soon he granted, Being an abstract ’tween his lust and him.
OCTAVIA. Do not say so, my lord.
CAESAR. I have eyes upon him, And his affairs come to me on the wind. Where is he now?
OCTAVIA. My lord, in Athens.
CAESAR. No, my most wronged sister. Cleopatra Hath nodded him to her. He hath given his empire Up to a whore, who now are levying The kings o’ th’ earth for war. He hath assembled Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos, king Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas; King Manchus of Arabia; King of Pont; Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king Of Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas, The kings of Mede and Lycaonia, With a more larger list of sceptres.
OCTAVIA. Ay me, most wretched, That have my heart parted betwixt two friends That does afflict each other!
CAESAR. Welcome hither. Your letters did withhold our breaking forth Till we perceived both how you were wrong led And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart. Be you not troubled with the time, which drives O’er your content these strong necessities, But let determined things to destiny Hold unbewailed their way. Welcome to Rome, Nothing more dear to me. You are abused Beyond the mark of thought, and the high gods, To do you justice, make their ministers Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort, And ever welcome to us.
AGRIPPA. Welcome, lady.
MAECENAS. Welcome, dear madam. Each heart in Rome does love and pity you. Only th’ adulterous Antony, most large In his abominations, turns you off And gives his potent regiment to a trull That noises it against us.
OCTAVIA. Is it so, sir?
CAESAR. Most certain. Sister, welcome. Pray you Be ever known to patience. My dear’st sister!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VII. Antony’s Camp near the Promontory of Actium. Enter Cleopatra and Enobarbus.
CLEOPATRA. I will be even with thee, doubt it not.
ENOBARBUS. But why, why, why?
CLEOPATRA. Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars And say’st it is not fit.
ENOBARBUS. Well, is it, is it?
CLEOPATRA. Is ’t not denounced against us? Why should not we Be there in person?
ENOBARBUS. Well, I could reply: If we should serve with horse and mares together, The horse were merely lost. The mares would bear A soldier and his horse.
CLEOPATRA. What is’t you say?
ENOBARBUS. Your presence needs must puzzle Antony, Take from his heart, take from his brain, from ’s time, What should not then be spared. He is already Traduced for levity, and ’tis said in Rome That Photinus, an eunuch, and your maids Manage this war.
CLEOPATRA. Sink Rome, and their tongues rot That speak against us! A charge we bear i’ th’ war, And, as the president of my kingdom, will Appear there for a man. Speak not against it. I will not stay behind.
Enter Antony and Canidius.
ENOBARBUS. Nay, I have done. Here comes the Emperor.
ANTONY. Is it not strange, Canidius, That from Tarentum and Brundusium He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea And take in Toryne?—You have heard on ’t, sweet?
CLEOPATRA. Celerity is never more admired Than by the negligent.
ANTONY. A good rebuke, Which might have well becomed the best of men To taunt at slackness.—Canidius, we Will fight with him by sea.
CLEOPATRA. By sea, what else?
CANIDIUS. Why will my lord do so?
ANTONY. For that he dares us to ’t.
ENOBARBUS. So hath my lord dared him to single fight.
CANIDIUS. Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia, Where Caesar fought with Pompey. But these offers, Which serve not for his vantage, he shakes off, And so should you.
ENOBARBUS. Your ships are not well manned, Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people Engrossed by swift impress. In Caesar’s fleet Are those that often have ’gainst Pompey fought. Their ships are yare, yours heavy. No disgrace Shall fall you for refusing him at sea, Being prepared for land.
ANTONY. By sea, by sea.
ENOBARBUS. Most worthy sir, you therein throw away The absolute soldiership you have by land; Distract your army, which doth most consist Of war-marked footmen; leave unexecuted Your own renowned knowledge; quite forgo The way which promises assurance; and Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard From firm security.
ANTONY. I’ll fight at sea.
CLEOPATRA. I have sixty sails, Caesar none better.
ANTONY. Our overplus of shipping will we burn, And with the rest full-manned, from th’ head of Actium Beat th’ approaching Caesar. But if we fail, We then can do ’t at land.
Enter a Messenger.
Thy business?
MESSENGER. The news is true, my lord; he is descried. Caesar has taken Toryne.
ANTONY. Can he be there in person? ’Tis impossible; Strange that his power should be. Canidius, Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land, And our twelve thousand horse. We’ll to our ship. Away, my Thetis!
Enter a Soldier.
How now, worthy soldier?
SOLDIER. O noble emperor, do not fight by sea. Trust not to rotten planks. Do you misdoubt This sword and these my wounds? Let th’ Egyptians And the Phoenicians go a-ducking. We Have used to conquer standing on the earth And fighting foot to foot.
ANTONY. Well, well, away.
[Exeunt Antony, Cleopatra and Enobarbus.]
SOLDIER. By Hercules, I think I am i’ th’ right.
CANIDIUS. Soldier, thou art. But his whole action grows Not in the power on ’t. So our leader’s led, And we are women’s men.
SOLDIER. You keep by land The legions and the horse whole, do you not?
CANIDIUS. Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius, Publicola, and Caelius are for sea, But we keep whole by land. This speed of Caesar’s Carries beyond belief.
SOLDIER. While he was yet in Rome, His power went out in such distractions as Beguiled all spies.
CANIDIUS. Who’s his lieutenant, hear you?
SOLDIER. They say one Taurus.
CANIDIUS. Well I know the man.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. The Emperor calls Canidius.
CANIDIUS. With news the time’s with labour, and throes forth Each minute some.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VIII. A plain near Actium. Enter Caesar with his army and Taurus marching.
CAESAR. Taurus!
TAURUS. My lord?
CAESAR. Strike not by land; keep whole; provoke not battle Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed The prescript of this scroll. Our fortune lies Upon this jump.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IX. Another part of the Plain. Enter Antony and Enobarbus.
ANTONY. Set we our squadrons on yon side o’ th’ hill In eye of Caesar’s battle, from which place We may the number of the ships behold And so proceed accordingly.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE X. Another part of the Plain. Canidius marching with his land army one way over the stage, and Taurus, the Lieutenant of Caesar, with his Army, the other way. After their going in, is heard the noise of a sea fight.
Alarum. Enter Enobarbus.
ENOBARBUS. Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no longer. Th’ Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral, With all their sixty, fly and turn the rudder. To see ’t mine eyes are blasted.
Enter Scarus.
SCARUS. Gods and goddesses, All the whole synod of them!
ENOBARBUS. What’s thy passion?
SCARUS. The greater cantle of the world is lost With very ignorance. We have kissed away Kingdoms and provinces.
ENOBARBUS. How appears the fight?
SCARUS. On our side like, the tokened pestilence, Where death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt, Whom leprosy o’ertake, i’ th’ midst o’ th’ fight, When vantage like a pair of twins appeared, Both as the same—or, rather, ours the elder— The breeze upon her, like a cow in June, Hoists sails and flies.
ENOBARBUS. That I beheld. Mine eyes did sicken at the sight and could not Endure a further view.
SCARUS. She once being loofed, The noble ruin of her magic, Antony, Claps on his sea-wing and, like a doting mallard, Leaving the fight in height, flies after her. I never saw an action of such shame. Experience, manhood, honour, ne’er before Did violate so itself.
ENOBARBUS. Alack, alack!
Enter Canidius.
CANIDIUS. Our fortune on the sea is out of breath And sinks most lamentably. Had our general Been what he knew himself, it had gone well. O, he has given example for our flight Most grossly by his own!
ENOBARBUS. Ay, are you thereabouts? Why, then, good night indeed.
CANIDIUS. Toward Peloponnesus are they fled.
SCARUS. ’Tis easy to’t, and there I will attend What further comes.
CANIDIUS. To Caesar will I render My legions and my horse. Six kings already Show me the way of yielding.
ENOBARBUS. I’ll yet follow The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason Sits in the wind against me.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE XI. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Enter Antony with attendants.
ANTONY. Hark, the land bids me tread no more upon’t. It is ashamed to bear me. Friends, come hither. I am so lated in the world that I Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship Laden with gold. Take that, divide it. Fly, And make your peace with Caesar.
ALL. Fly? Not we.
ANTONY. I have fled myself, and have instructed cowards To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone. I have myself resolved upon a course Which has no need of you. Be gone. My treasure’s in the harbour. Take it. O, I followed that I blush to look upon. My very hairs do mutiny, for the white Reprove the brown for rashness, and they them For fear and doting. Friends, be gone. You shall Have letters from me to some friends that will Sweep your way for you. Pray you, look not sad, Nor make replies of loathness. Take the hint Which my despair proclaims. Let that be left Which leaves itself. To the sea-side straightway. I will possess you of that ship and treasure. Leave me, I pray, a little—pray you, now, Nay, do so; for indeed I have lost command. Therefore I pray you. I’ll see you by and by.
[Sits down.]
Enter Cleopatra led by Charmian, Iras and Eros.
EROS. Nay, gentle madam, to him! Comfort him.
IRAS. Do, most dear queen.
CHARMIAN. Do! Why, what else?
CLEOPATRA. Let me sit down. O Juno!
ANTONY. No, no, no, no, no.
EROS. See you here, sir?
ANTONY. O, fie, fie, fie!
CHARMIAN. Madam.
IRAS. Madam, O good empress!
EROS. Sir, sir!
ANTONY. Yes, my lord, yes. He at Philippi kept His sword e’en like a dancer, while I struck The lean and wrinkled Cassius, and ’twas I That the mad Brutus ended. He alone Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had In the brave squares of war. Yet now—no matter.
CLEOPATRA. Ah, stand by.
EROS. The Queen, my lord, the Queen!
IRAS. Go to him, madam; speak to him. He is unqualitied with very shame.
CLEOPATRA. Well then, sustain me. O!
EROS. Most noble sir, arise. The Queen approaches. Her head’s declined, and death will seize her but Your comfort makes the rescue.
ANTONY. I have offended reputation, A most unnoble swerving.
EROS. Sir, the Queen.
ANTONY. O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See How I convey my shame out of thine eyes By looking back what I have left behind ’Stroyed in dishonour.
CLEOPATRA. O my lord, my lord, Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought You would have followed.
ANTONY. Egypt, thou knew’st too well My heart was to thy rudder tied by th’ strings, And thou shouldst tow me after. O’er my spirit Thy full supremacy thou knew’st, and that Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods Command me.
CLEOPATRA. O, my pardon!
ANTONY. Now I must To the young man send humble treaties, dodge And palter in the shifts of lowness, who With half the bulk o’ th’ world played as I pleased, Making and marring fortunes. You did know How much you were my conqueror, and that My sword, made weak by my affection, would Obey it on all cause.
CLEOPATRA. Pardon, pardon!
ANTONY. Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss. Even this repays me. We sent our schoolmaster. Is he come back? Love, I am full of lead. Some wine Within there, and our viands! Fortune knows We scorn her most when most she offers blows.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE XII. Caesar’s camp in Egypt. Enter Caesar, Agrippa, Dolabella with others.
CAESAR. Let him appear that’s come from Antony. Know you him?
DOLABELLA. Caesar, ’tis his schoolmaster— An argument that he is plucked, when hither He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, Which had superfluous kings for messengers Not many moons gone by.
Enter Ambassador from Anthony.
CAESAR. Approach, and speak.
AMBASSADOR. Such as I am, I come from Antony. I was of late as petty to his ends As is the morn-dew on the myrtle leaf To his grand sea.
CAESAR. Be’t so. Declare thine office.
AMBASSADOR. Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and Requires to live in Egypt, which not granted, He lessens his requests, and to thee sues To let him breathe between the heavens and earth, A private man in Athens. This for him. Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness, Submits her to thy might, and of thee craves The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs, Now hazarded to thy grace.
CAESAR. For Antony, I have no ears to his request. The queen Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend, Or take his life there. This if she perform, She shall not sue unheard. So to them both.
AMBASSADOR. Fortune pursue thee!
CAESAR. Bring him through the bands.
[Exit Ambassador, attended.]
[To Thidias.] To try thy eloquence now ’tis time. Dispatch. From Antony win Cleopatra. Promise, And in our name, what she requires; add more, From thine invention, offers. Women are not In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure The ne’er-touch’d vestal. Try thy cunning, Thidias; Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we Will answer as a law.
THIDIAS. Caesar, I go.
CAESAR. Observe how Antony becomes his flaw, And what thou think’st his very action speaks In every power that moves.
THIDIAS. Caesar, I shall.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Enter Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian and Iras.
CLEOPATRA. What shall we do, Enobarbus?
ENOBARBUS. Think, and die.
CLEOPATRA. Is Antony or we in fault for this?
ENOBARBUS. Antony only, that would make his will Lord of his reason. What though you fled From that great face of war, whose several ranges Frighted each other? Why should he follow? The itch of his affection should not then Have nicked his captainship, at such a point, When half to half the world opposed, he being The mered question. ’Twas a shame no less Than was his loss, to course your flying flags And leave his navy gazing.
CLEOPATRA. Prithee, peace.
Enter the Ambassador with Antony.
ANTONY. Is that his answer?
AMBASSADOR. Ay, my lord.
ANTONY. The Queen shall then have courtesy, so she Will yield us up.
AMBASSADOR. He says so.
ANTONY. Let her know’t.— To the boy Caesar send this grizzled head, And he will fill thy wishes to the brim With principalities.
CLEOPATRA. That head, my lord?
ANTONY. To him again. Tell him he wears the rose Of youth upon him, from which the world should note Something particular: his coin, ships, legions, May be a coward’s; whose ministers would prevail Under the service of a child as soon As i’ th’ command of Caesar. I dare him therefore To lay his gay comparisons apart, And answer me declined, sword against sword, Ourselves alone. I’ll write it. Follow me.
[Exeunt Antony and Ambassador.]
ENOBARBUS. Yes, like enough high-battled Caesar will Unstate his happiness, and be staged to th’ show Against a sworder! I see men’s judgments are A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them To suffer all alike. That he should dream, Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will Answer his emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdued His judgment too.
Enter a Servant.
SERVANT. A messenger from Caesar.
CLEOPATRA. What, no more ceremony? See, my women, Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneeled unto the buds. Admit him, sir.
[Exit Servant.]
ENOBARBUS. [Aside.] Mine honesty and I begin to square. The loyalty well held to fools does make Our faith mere folly. Yet he that can endure To follow with allegiance a fallen lord Does conquer him that did his master conquer, And earns a place i’ th’ story.
Enter Thidias.
CLEOPATRA. Caesar’s will?
THIDIAS. Hear it apart.
CLEOPATRA. None but friends. Say boldly.
THIDIAS. So haply are they friends to Antony.
ENOBARBUS. He needs as many, sir, as Caesar has, Or needs not us. If Caesar please, our master Will leap to be his friend. For us, you know Whose he is we are, and that is Caesar’s.
THIDIAS. So.— Thus then, thou most renowned: Caesar entreats Not to consider in what case thou stand’st Further than he is Caesar.
CLEOPATRA. Go on; right royal.
THIDIAS. He knows that you embrace not Antony As you did love, but as you feared him.
CLEOPATRA. O!
THIDIAS. The scars upon your honour, therefore, he Does pity as constrained blemishes, Not as deserved.
CLEOPATRA. He is a god and knows What is most right. Mine honour was not yielded, But conquered merely.
ENOBARBUS. [Aside.] To be sure of that, I will ask Antony. Sir, sir, thou art so leaky That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for Thy dearest quit thee.
[Exit Enobarbus.]
THIDIAS. Shall I say to Caesar What you require of him? For he partly begs To be desired to give. It much would please him That of his fortunes you should make a staff To lean upon. But it would warm his spirits To hear from me you had left Antony, And put yourself under his shroud, The universal landlord.
CLEOPATRA. What’s your name?
THIDIAS. My name is Thidias.
CLEOPATRA. Most kind messenger, Say to great Caesar this in deputation: I kiss his conqu’ring hand. Tell him I am prompt To lay my crown at’s feet, and there to kneel. Tell him, from his all-obeying breath I hear The doom of Egypt.
THIDIAS. ’Tis your noblest course. Wisdom and fortune combating together, If that the former dare but what it can, No chance may shake it. Give me grace to lay My duty on your hand.
CLEOPATRA. Your Caesar’s father oft, When he hath mused of taking kingdoms in, Bestowed his lips on that unworthy place As it rained kisses.
Enter Antony and Enobarbus.
ANTONY. Favours, by Jove that thunders! What art thou, fellow?
THIDIAS. One that but performs The bidding of the fullest man and worthiest To have command obeyed.
ENOBARBUS. [Aside.] You will be whipped.
ANTONY. Approach there.—Ah, you kite!—Now, gods and devils, Authority melts from me. Of late when I cried “Ho!” Like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth And cry “Your will?” Have you no ears? I am Antony yet.
Enter Servants.
Take hence this jack and whip him.
ENOBARBUS. ’Tis better playing with a lion’s whelp Than with an old one dying.
ANTONY. Moon and stars! Whip him. Were’t twenty of the greatest tributaries That do acknowledge Caesar, should I find them So saucy with the hand of she here—what’s her name Since she was Cleopatra? Whip him, fellows, Till like a boy you see him cringe his face And whine aloud for mercy. Take him hence.
THIDIAS. Mark Antony—
ANTONY. Tug him away. Being whipp’d, Bring him again. This jack of Caesar’s shall Bear us an errand to him.
[Exeunt Servants with Thidias.]
You were half blasted ere I knew you. Ha! Have I my pillow left unpressed in Rome, Forborne the getting of a lawful race, And by a gem of women, to be abused By one that looks on feeders?
CLEOPATRA. Good my lord—
ANTONY. You have been a boggler ever. But when we in our viciousness grow hard— O misery on’t!—the wise gods seal our eyes, In our own filth drop our clear judgments, make us Adore our errors, laugh at’s while we strut To our confusion.
CLEOPATRA. O, is’t come to this?
ANTONY. I found you as a morsel cold upon Dead Caesar’s trencher; nay, you were a fragment Of Gneius Pompey’s, besides what hotter hours, Unregistered in vulgar fame, you have Luxuriously pick’d out. For I am sure, Though you can guess what temperance should be, You know not what it is.
CLEOPATRA. Wherefore is this?
ANTONY. To let a fellow that will take rewards And say “God quit you!” be familiar with My playfellow, your hand, this kingly seal And plighter of high hearts! O that I were Upon the hill of Basan, to outroar The horned herd! For I have savage cause, And to proclaim it civilly were like A haltered neck which does the hangman thank For being yare about him.
Enter a Servant with Thidias.
Is he whipped?
SERVANT. Soundly, my lord.
ANTONY. Cried he? And begged he pardon?
SERVANT. He did ask favour.
ANTONY. If that thy father live, let him repent Thou wast not made his daughter; and be thou sorry To follow Caesar in his triumph, since Thou hast been whipped for following him. Henceforth The white hand of a lady fever thee; Shake thou to look on’t. Get thee back to Caesar; Tell him thy entertainment. Look thou say He makes me angry with him; for he seems Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am, Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry, And at this time most easy ’tis to do’t, When my good stars that were my former guides Have empty left their orbs and shot their fires Into th’ abysm of hell. If he mislike My speech and what is done, tell him he has Hipparchus, my enfranched bondman, whom He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture, As he shall like, to quit me. Urge it thou. Hence with thy stripes, be gone.
[Exit Thidias.]
CLEOPATRA. Have you done yet?
ANTONY. Alack, our terrene moon is now eclipsed, And it portends alone the fall of Antony.
CLEOPATRA. I must stay his time.
ANTONY. To flatter Caesar, would you mingle eyes With one that ties his points?
CLEOPATRA. Not know me yet?
ANTONY. Cold-hearted toward me?
CLEOPATRA. Ah, dear, if I be so, From my cold heart let heaven engender hail And poison it in the source, and the first stone Drop in my neck; as it determines, so Dissolve my life! The next Caesarion smite, Till, by degrees the memory of my womb, Together with my brave Egyptians all, By the discandying of this pelleted storm, Lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile Have buried them for prey!
ANTONY. I am satisfied. Caesar sits down in Alexandria, where I will oppose his fate. Our force by land Hath nobly held; our severed navy too Have knit again, and fleet, threat’ning most sea-like. Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady? If from the field I shall return once more To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood. I and my sword will earn our chronicle. There’s hope in’t yet.
CLEOPATRA. That’s my brave lord!
ANTONY. I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously. For when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests. But now I’ll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me. Come, Let’s have one other gaudy night. Call to me All my sad captains. Fill our bowls once more Let’s mock the midnight bell.
CLEOPATRA. It is my birthday. I had thought t’have held it poor, but since my lord Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.
ANTONY. We will yet do well.
CLEOPATRA. Call all his noble captains to my lord.
ANTONY. Do so; we’ll speak to them; and tonight I’ll force The wine peep through their scars. Come on, my queen, There’s sap in’t yet. The next time I do fight I’ll make Death love me, for I will contend Even with his pestilent scythe.
[Exeunt all but Enobarbus.]
ENOBARBUS. Now he’ll outstare the lightning. To be furious Is to be frighted out of fear, and in that mood The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still A diminution in our captain’s brain Restores his heart. When valour preys on reason, It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek Some way to leave him.
[Exit.]
ACT IV SCENE I. Caesar’s Camp at Alexandria. Enter Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas, with his army. Caesar reading a letter.
CAESAR. He calls me boy, and chides as he had power To beat me out of Egypt. My messenger He hath whipped with rods; dares me to personal combat, Caesar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know I have many other ways to die; meantime Laugh at his challenge.
MAECENAS. Caesar must think, When one so great begins to rage, he’s hunted Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now Make boot of his distraction. Never anger Made good guard for itself.
CAESAR. Let our best heads Know that tomorrow the last of many battles We mean to fight. Within our files there are, Of those that served Mark Antony but late, Enough to fetch him in. See it done, And feast the army; we have store to do’t, And they have earned the waste. Poor Antony!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Enter Antony, Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, Iras, Alexas with others.
ANTONY. He will not fight with me, Domitius?
ENOBARBUS. No.
ANTONY. Why should he not?
ENOBARBUS. He thinks, being twenty times of better fortune, He is twenty men to one.
ANTONY. Tomorrow, soldier, By sea and land I’ll fight. Or I will live, Or bathe my dying honour in the blood Shall make it live again. Woo’t thou fight well?
ENOBARBUS. I’ll strike, and cry “Take all.”
ANTONY. Well said. Come on. Call forth my household servants. Let’s tonight Be bounteous at our meal.—
Enter Servants.
Give me thy hand. Thou has been rightly honest; so hast thou, Thou, and thou, and thou. You have served me well, And kings have been your fellows.
CLEOPATRA. [Aside to Enobarbus.] What means this?
ENOBARBUS. [Aside to Cleopatra.] ’Tis one of those odd tricks which sorrow shoots Out of the mind.
ANTONY. And thou art honest too. I wish I could be made so many men, And all of you clapped up together in An Antony, that I might do you service So good as you have done.
ALL THE SERVANTS. The gods forbid!
ANTONY. Well, my good fellows, wait on me tonight. Scant not my cups, and make as much of me As when mine empire was your fellow too And suffered my command.
CLEOPATRA. [Aside to Enobarbus.] What does he mean?
ENOBARBUS. [Aside to Cleopatra.] To make his followers weep.
ANTONY. Tend me tonight; May be it is the period of your duty. Haply you shall not see me more, or if, A mangled shadow. Perchance tomorrow You’ll serve another master. I look on you As one that takes his leave. Mine honest friends, I turn you not away, but, like a master Married to your good service, stay till death. Tend me tonight two hours, I ask no more, And the gods yield you for’t!
ENOBARBUS. What mean you, sir, To give them this discomfort? Look, they weep, And I, an ass, am onion-eyed. For shame, Transform us not to women.
ANTONY. Ho, ho, ho! Now the witch take me if I meant it thus! Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty friends, You take me in too dolorous a sense, For I spake to you for your comfort, did desire you To burn this night with torches. Know, my hearts, I hope well of tomorrow, and will lead you Where rather I’ll expect victorious life Than death and honour. Let’s to supper, come, And drown consideration.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Alexandria. Before the Palace. Enter a Company of Soldiers.
FIRST SOLDIER. Brother, good night. Tomorrow is the day.
SECOND SOLDIER. It will determine one way. Fare you well. Heard you of nothing strange about the streets?
FIRST SOLDIER. Nothing. What news?
SECOND SOLDIER. Belike ’tis but a rumour. Good night to you.
FIRST SOLDIER. Well, sir, good night.
Enter two other Soldiers.
SECOND SOLDIER. Soldiers, have careful watch.
THIRD SOLDIER. And you. Good night, good night.
[They place themselves in every corner of the stage.]
SECOND SOLDIER. Here we. And if tomorrow Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope Our landmen will stand up.
FIRST SOLDIER. ’Tis a brave army, and full of purpose.
[Music of the hautboys under the stage.]
SECOND SOLDIER. Peace, what noise?
FIRST SOLDIER. List, list!
SECOND SOLDIER. Hark!
FIRST SOLDIER. Music i’ th’ air.
THIRD SOLDIER. Under the earth.
FOURTH SOLDIER. It signs well, does it not?
THIRD SOLDIER. No.
FIRST SOLDIER. Peace, I say! What should this mean?
SECOND SOLDIER. ’Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony loved, Now leaves him.
FIRST SOLDIER. Walk. Let’s see if other watchmen Do hear what we do.
[They advance to another post.]
SECOND SOLDIER. How now, masters!
ALL. How now! How now! Do you hear this?
FIRST SOLDIER. Ay. Is’t not strange?
THIRD SOLDIER. Do you hear, masters? Do you hear?
FIRST SOLDIER. Follow the noise so far as we have quarter. Let’s see how it will give off.
ALL. Content. ’Tis strange.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Enter Antony and Cleopatra with others.
ANTONY. Eros! Mine armour, Eros!
CLEOPATRA. Sleep a little.
ANTONY. No, my chuck.—Eros! Come, mine armour, Eros!
Enter Eros with armour.
Come, good fellow, put thine iron on. If fortune be not ours today, it is Because we brave her. Come.
CLEOPATRA. Nay, I’ll help too. What’s this for?
ANTONY. Ah, let be, let be! Thou art The armourer of my heart. False, false. This, this!
CLEOPATRA. Sooth, la, I’ll help. Thus it must be.
ANTONY. Well, well, We shall thrive now. Seest thou, my good fellow? Go put on thy defences.
EROS. Briefly, sir.
CLEOPATRA. Is not this buckled well?
ANTONY. Rarely, rarely. He that unbuckles this, till we do please To daff’t for our repose, shall hear a storm. Thou fumblest, Eros, and my queen’s a squire More tight at this than thou. Dispatch. O love, That thou couldst see my wars today, and knew’st The royal occupation, thou shouldst see A workman in’t.
Enter an Officer, armed.
Good morrow to thee. Welcome. Thou look’st like him that knows a warlike charge. To business that we love we rise betime And go to’t with delight.
OFFICER. A thousand, sir, Early though’t be, have on their riveted trim And at the port expect you.
[Shout. Trumpets flourish.]
Enter other Captains and Soldiers.
CAPTAIN. The morn is fair. Good morrow, general.
ALL. Good morrow, general.
ANTONY. ’Tis well blown, lads. This morning, like the spirit of a youth That means to be of note, begins betimes. So, so. Come, give me that. This way. Well said. Fare thee well, dame. Whate’er becomes of me, This is a soldier’s kiss. [Kisses her.] Rebukeable And worthy shameful check it were, to stand On more mechanic compliment. I’ll leave thee Now like a man of steel.—You that will fight, Follow me close, I’ll bring you to’t. Adieu.
[Exeunt Antony, Eros, Captains and Soldiers.]
CHARMIAN. Please you, retire to your chamber.
CLEOPATRA. Lead me. He goes forth gallantly. That he and Caesar might Determine this great war in single fight! Then Antony—but now—. Well, on.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Antony’s camp near Alexandria. Trumpets sound. Enter Antony and Eros, a Soldier meeting them.
SOLDIER. The gods make this a happy day to Antony!
ANTONY. Would thou and those thy scars had once prevailed To make me fight at land!
SOLDIER. Hadst thou done so, The kings that have revolted and the soldier That has this morning left thee would have still Followed thy heels.
ANTONY. Who’s gone this morning?
SOLDIER. Who? One ever near thee. Call for Enobarbus, He shall not hear thee, or from Caesar’s camp Say “I am none of thine.”
ANTONY. What sayest thou?
SOLDIER. Sir, He is with Caesar.
EROS. Sir, his chests and treasure He has not with him.
ANTONY. Is he gone?
SOLDIER. Most certain.
ANTONY. Go, Eros, send his treasure after. Do it. Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him— I will subscribe—gentle adieus and greetings. Say that I wish he never find more cause To change a master. O, my fortunes have Corrupted honest men! Dispatch.—Enobarbus!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. Alexandria. Caesar’s camp. Flourish. Enter Agrippa, Caesar with Enobarbus and Dolabella.
CAESAR. Go forth, Agrippa, and begin the fight. Our will is Antony be took alive; Make it so known.
AGRIPPA. Caesar, I shall.
[Exit.]
CAESAR. The time of universal peace is near. Prove this a prosp’rous day, the three-nooked world Shall bear the olive freely.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. Antony Is come into the field.
CAESAR. Go charge Agrippa Plant those that have revolted in the van That Antony may seem to spend his fury Upon himself.
[Exeunt Caesar and his Train.]
ENOBARBUS. Alexas did revolt and went to Jewry on Affairs of Antony; there did dissuade Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar And leave his master Antony. For this pains Casaer hath hanged him. Canidius and the rest That fell away have entertainment but No honourable trust. I have done ill, Of which I do accuse myself so sorely That I will joy no more.
Enter a Soldier of Caesar’s.
SOLDIER. Enobarbus, Antony Hath after thee sent all thy treasure, with His bounty overplus. The messenger Came on my guard, and at thy tent is now Unloading of his mules.
ENOBARBUS. I give it you.
SOLDIER. Mock not, Enobarbus. I tell you true. Best you safed the bringer Out of the host. I must attend mine office, Or would have done’t myself. Your emperor Continues still a Jove.
[Exit.]
ENOBARBUS. I am alone the villain of the earth, And feel I am so most. O Antony, Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have paid My better service, when my turpitude Thou dost so crown with gold! This blows my heart. If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean Shall outstrike thought, but thought will do’t, I feel. I fight against thee! No, I will go seek Some ditch wherein to die; the foul’st best fits My latter part of life.
[Exit.]
SCENE VII. Field of battle between the Camps. Alarum. Drums and Trumpets. Enter Agrippa and others.
AGRIPPA. Retire! We have engaged ourselves too far. Caesar himself has work, and our oppression Exceeds what we expected.
[Exeunt.]
Alarums. Enter Antony and Scarus wounded.
SCARUS. O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed! Had we done so at first, we had droven them home With clouts about their heads.
ANTONY. Thou bleed’st apace.
SCARUS. I had a wound here that was like a T, But now ’tis made an H.
Sounds retreat far off.
ANTONY. They do retire.
SCARUS. We’ll beat ’em into bench-holes. I have yet Room for six scotches more.
Enter Eros.
EROS. They are beaten, sir, and our advantage serves For a fair victory.
SCARUS. Let us score their backs And snatch ’em up as we take hares, behind. ’Tis sport to maul a runner.
ANTONY. I will reward thee Once for thy sprightly comfort, and tenfold For thy good valour. Come thee on.
SCARUS. I’ll halt after.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VIII. Under the Walls of Alexandria. Alarum. Enter Antony again in a march; Scarus with others.
ANTONY. We have beat him to his camp. Run one before And let the Queen know of our gests. Tomorrow, Before the sun shall see’s, we’ll spill the blood That has today escaped. I thank you all, For doughty-handed are you, and have fought Not as you served the cause, but as’t had been Each man’s like mine. You have shown all Hectors. Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends, Tell them your feats; whilst they with joyful tears Wash the congealment from your wounds and kiss The honoured gashes whole.
Enter Cleopatra.
[To Scarus.] Give me thy hand. To this great fairy I’ll commend thy acts, Make her thanks bless thee. O thou day o’ th’ world, Chain mine armed neck. Leap thou, attire and all, Through proof of harness to my heart, and there Ride on the pants triumphing.
CLEOPATRA. Lord of lords! O infinite virtue, com’st thou smiling from The world’s great snare uncaught?
ANTONY. Mine nightingale, We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! Though grey Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha’ we A brain that nourishes our nerves and can Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man. Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand.— Kiss it, my warrior. He hath fought today As if a god, in hate of mankind, had Destroyed in such a shape.
CLEOPATRA. I’ll give thee, friend, An armour all of gold. It was a king’s.
ANTONY. He has deserved it, were it carbuncled Like holy Phœbus’ car. Give me thy hand. Through Alexandria make a jolly march; Bear our hacked targets like the men that owe them. Had our great palace the capacity To camp this host, we all would sup together And drink carouses to the next day’s fate, Which promises royal peril.—Trumpeters, With brazen din blast you the city’s ear; Make mingle with our rattling tabourines, That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together, Applauding our approach.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IX. Caesar’s camp. Enter a Sentry and his company. Enobarbus follows.
SENTRY. If we be not relieved within this hour, We must return to th’ court of guard. The night Is shiny, and they say we shall embattle By th’ second hour i’ th’ morn.
FIRST WATCH. This last day was a shrewd one to’s.
ENOBARBUS. O, bear me witness, night.—
SECOND WATCH. What man is this?
FIRST WATCH. Stand close and list him.
ENOBARBUS. Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon, When men revolted shall upon record Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did Before thy face repent.
SENTRY. Enobarbus?
SECOND WATCH. Peace! Hark further.
ENOBARBUS. O sovereign mistress of true melancholy, The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me, That life, a very rebel to my will, May hang no longer on me. Throw my heart Against the flint and hardness of my fault, Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony, Nobler than my revolt is infamous, Forgive me in thine own particular, But let the world rank me in register A master-leaver and a fugitive. O Antony! O Antony!
[Dies.]
FIRST WATCH. Let’s speak to him.
SENTRY. Let’s hear him, for the things he speaks may concern Caesar.
SECOND WATCH. Let’s do so. But he sleeps.
SENTRY. Swoons rather, for so bad a prayer as his Was never yet for sleep.
FIRST WATCH. Go we to him.
SECOND WATCH. Awake, sir, awake! Speak to us.
FIRST WATCH. Hear you, sir?
SENTRY. The hand of death hath raught him.
[Drums afar off.]
Hark! The drums Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him To th’ court of guard; he is of note. Our hour Is fully out.
SECOND WATCH. Come on, then. He may recover yet.
[Exeunt with the body.]
SCENE X. Ground between the two Camps. Enter Antony and Scarus with their army.
ANTONY. Their preparation is today by sea; We please them not by land.
SCARUS. For both, my lord.
ANTONY. I would they’d fight i’ th’ fire or i’ th’ air; We’d fight there too. But this it is: our foot Upon the hills adjoining to the city Shall stay with us—order for sea is given; They have put forth the haven— Where their appointment we may best discover And look on their endeavour.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE XI. Another part of the Ground. Enter Caesar and his army.
CAESAR. But being charged, we will be still by land, Which, as I take’t, we shall, for his best force Is forth to man his galleys. To the vales, And hold our best advantage.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE XII. Another part of the Ground. Alarum afar off, as at a sea fight. Enter Antony and Scarus.
ANTONY. Yet they are not joined. Where yond pine does stand I shall discover all. I’ll bring thee word Straight how ’tis like to go.
[Exit.]
SCARUS. Swallows have built In Cleopatra’s sails their nests. The augurs Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly, And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony Is valiant and dejected, and by starts His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear Of what he has and has not.
Enter Antony.
ANTONY. All is lost! This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me. My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder They cast their caps up and carouse together Like friends long lost. Triple-turned whore! ’Tis thou Hast sold me to this novice, and my heart Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly; For when I am revenged upon my charm, I have done all. Bid them all fly! Be gone!
[Exit Scarus.]
O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more. Fortune and Antony part here; even here Do we shake hands. All come to this! The hearts That spanieled me at heels, to whom I gave Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets On blossoming Caesar, and this pine is barked That overtopped them all. Betray’d I am: O this false soul of Egypt! This grave charm, Whose eye becked forth my wars and called them home, Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end, Like a right gypsy hath at fast and loose Beguiled me to the very heart of loss. What, Eros, Eros!
Enter Cleopatra.
Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!
CLEOPATRA. Why is my lord enraged against his love?
ANTONY. Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving And blemish Caesar’s triumph. Let him take thee And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians! Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot Of all thy sex; most monster-like be shown For poor’st diminutives, for dolts, and let Patient Octavia plough thy visage up With her prepared nails.
[Exit Cleopatra.]
’Tis well thou’rt gone, If it be well to live; but better ’twere Thou fell’st into my fury, for one death Might have prevented many.—Eros, ho!— The shirt of Nessus is upon me. Teach me, Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage. Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o’ th’ moon, And with those hands that grasped the heaviest club Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die. To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall Under this plot. She dies for’t.—Eros, ho!
[Exit.]
SCENE XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Mardian.
CLEOPATRA. Help me, my women! O, he is more mad Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly Was never so embossed.
CHARMIAN. To th’ monument! There lock yourself and send him word you are dead. The soul and body rive not more in parting Than greatness going off.
CLEOPATRA. To th’ monument! Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself. Say that the last I spoke was “Antony”, And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence, Mardian, And bring me how he takes my death.—To th’ monument!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE XIV. Alexandria. Another Room. Enter Antony and Eros.
ANTONY. Eros, thou yet behold’st me?
EROS. Ay, noble lord.
ANTONY. Sometime we see a cloud that’s dragonish, A vapour sometime like a bear or lion, A towered citadel, a pendant rock, A forked mountain, or blue promontory With trees upon’t, that nod unto the world And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs. They are black vesper’s pageants.
EROS. Ay, my lord.
ANTONY. That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimns and makes it indistinct As water is in water.
EROS. It does, my lord.
ANTONY. My good knave Eros, now thy captain is Even such a body. Here I am Antony, Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave. I made these wars for Egypt, and the Queen, Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine, Which, whilst it was mine, had annexed unto’t A million more, now lost—she, Eros, has Packed cards with Caesar, and false-played my glory Unto an enemy’s triumph. Nay, weep not, gentle Eros. There is left us Ourselves to end ourselves.
Enter Mardian.
O, thy vile lady! She has robbed me of my sword.
MARDIAN. No, Antony, My mistress loved thee and her fortunes mingled With thine entirely.
ANTONY. Hence, saucy eunuch! Peace! She hath betrayed me and shall die the death.
MARDIAN. Death of one person can be paid but once, And that she has discharged. What thou wouldst do Is done unto thy hand. The last she spake Was “Antony! Most noble Antony!” Then in the midst a tearing groan did break The name of Antony; it was divided Between her heart and lips. She rendered life, Thy name so buried in her.
ANTONY. Dead, then?
MARDIAN. Dead.
ANTONY. Unarm, Eros. The long day’s task is done, And we must sleep.—That thou depart’st hence safe Does pay thy labour richly. Go.
[Exit Mardian.]
Off, pluck off! The sevenfold shield of Ajax cannot keep The battery from my heart. O, cleave, my sides! Heart, once be stronger than thy continent; Crack thy frail case! Apace, Eros, apace! No more a soldier. Bruised pieces, go; You have been nobly borne. From me awhile.
[Exit Eros.]
I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now All length is torture. Since the torch is out, Lie down, and stray no farther. Now all labour Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles Itself with strength. Seal then, and all is done. Eros!—I come, my queen.—Eros!—Stay for me. Where souls do couch on flowers, we’ll hand in hand, And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze. Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops, And all the haunt be ours.—Come, Eros, Eros!
Enter Eros.
EROS. What would my lord?
ANTONY. Since Cleopatra died, I have lived in such dishonour that the gods Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword Quartered the world, and o’er green Neptune’s back With ships made cities, condemn myself to lack The courage of a woman; less noble mind Than she which, by her death, our Caesar tells “I am conqueror of myself.” Thou art sworn, Eros, That when the exigent should come, which now Is come indeed, when I should see behind me Th’ inevitable prosecution of Disgrace and horror, that on my command Thou then wouldst kill me. Do’t. The time is come. Thou strik’st not me; ’tis Caesar thou defeat’st. Put colour in thy cheek.
EROS. The gods withhold me! Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts, Though enemy, lost aim and could not?
ANTONY. Eros, Wouldst thou be windowed in great Rome and see Thy master thus with pleached arms, bending down His corrigible neck, his face subdued To penetrative shame, whilst the wheeled seat Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded His baseness that ensued?
EROS. I would not see’t.
ANTONY. Come, then, for with a wound I must be cured. Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn Most useful for thy country.
EROS. O, sir, pardon me!
ANTONY. When I did make thee free, swor’st thou not then To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once, Or thy precedent services are all But accidents unpurposed. Draw, and come.
EROS. Turn from me then that noble countenance Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.
ANTONY. Lo thee!
[Turning from him.]
EROS. My sword is drawn.
ANTONY. Then let it do at once The thing why thou hast drawn it.
EROS. My dear master, My captain and my emperor, let me say, Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.
ANTONY. ’Tis said, man, and farewell.
EROS. Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now?
ANTONY. Now, Eros.
EROS. Why, there then! [kills himself] Thus do I escape the sorrow Of Antony’s death.
[Dies.]
ANTONY. Thrice nobler than myself! Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what I should and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros Have by their brave instruction got upon me A nobleness in record. But I will be A bridegroom in my death and run into’t As to a lover’s bed. Come then, and, Eros, Thy master dies thy scholar. To do thus
[Falling on his sword.]
I learned of thee. How? Not dead? Not dead? The guard, ho! O, dispatch me!
Enter a company of the Guard, one of them Dercetus.
FIRST GUARD. What’s the noise?
ANTONY. I have done my work ill, friends. O, make an end Of what I have begun.
SECOND GUARD. The star is fallen.
FIRST GUARD. And time is at his period.
ALL. Alas, and woe!
ANTONY. Let him that loves me strike me dead.
FIRST GUARD. Not I.
SECOND GUARD. Nor I.
THIRD GUARD. Nor anyone.
[Exeunt guard.]
DERCETUS. Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly. This sword but shown to Caesar with this tidings, Shall enter me with him.
Enter Diomedes.
DIOMEDES. Where’s Antony?
DERCETUS. There, Diomed, there.
DIOMEDES. Lives he? Wilt thou not answer, man?
[Exit Dercetus.]
ANTONY. Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword and give me Sufficing strokes for death.
DIOMEDES. Most absolute lord, My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee.
ANTONY. When did she send thee?
DIOMEDES. Now, my lord.
ANTONY. Where is she?
DIOMEDES. Locked in her monument. She had a prophesying fear Of what hath come to pass. For when she saw— Which never shall be found—you did suspect She had disposed with Caesar, and that your rage Would not be purged, she sent you word she was dead; But fearing since how it might work, hath sent Me to proclaim the truth, and I am come, I dread, too late.
ANTONY. Too late, good Diomed. Call my guard, I prithee.
DIOMEDES. What, ho! The emperor’s guard! The guard, what ho! Come, your lord calls!
Enter four or five of the Guard of Antony.
ANTONY. Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides. ’Tis the last service that I shall command you.
FIRST GUARD. Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not live to wear All your true followers out.
ALL. Most heavy day!
ANTONY. Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate To grace it with your sorrows. Bid that welcome Which comes to punish us, and we punish it, Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up. I have led you oft; carry me now, good friends, And have my thanks for all.
[Exeunt, bearing Antony.]
SCENE XV. Alexandria. A monument. Enter Cleopatra and her maids aloft, with Charmian and Iras.
CLEOPATRA. O Charmian, I will never go from hence.
CHARMIAN. Be comforted, dear madam.
CLEOPATRA. No, I will not. All strange and terrible events are welcome, But comforts we despise. Our size of sorrow, Proportioned to our cause, must be as great As that which makes it.
Enter, below Diomedes.
How now! Is he dead?
DIOMEDES. His death’s upon him, but not dead. Look out o’ th’ other side your monument; His guard have brought him thither.
Enter, below Antony borne by the Guard.
CLEOPATRA. O sun, Burn the great sphere thou mov’st in! Darkling stand The varying shore o’ th’ world. O Antony, Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian! Help, Iras, help! Help, friends below! Let’s draw him hither.
ANTONY. Peace! Not Caesar’s valour hath o’erthrown Antony, But Antony’s hath triumphed on itself.
CLEOPATRA. So it should be, that none but Antony Should conquer Antony, but woe ’tis so!
ANTONY. I am dying, Egypt, dying. Only I here importune death awhile until Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips.
CLEOPATRA. I dare not, dear Dear my lord, pardon. I dare not, Lest I be taken. Not th’ imperious show Of the full-fortuned Caesar ever shall Be brooched with me; if knife, drugs, serpents, have Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe. Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony— Help me, my women—we must draw thee up. Assist, good friends.
ANTONY. O, quick, or I am gone.
CLEOPATRA. Here’s sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord! Our strength is all gone into heaviness; That makes the weight. Had I great Juno’s power, The strong-winged Mercury should fetch thee up And set thee by Jove’s side. Yet come a little; Wishers were ever fools. O come, come come,
[They heave Antony aloft to Cleopatra.]
And welcome, welcome! Die where thou hast lived; Quicken with kissing. Had my lips that power, Thus would I wear them out.
ALL. A heavy sight!
ANTONY. I am dying, Egypt, dying. Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.
CLEOPATRA. No, let me speak, and let me rail so high That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel, Provoked by my offence.
ANTONY. One word, sweet queen: Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. O!
CLEOPATRA. They do not go together.
ANTONY. Gentle, hear me. None about Caesar trust but Proculeius.
CLEOPATRA. My resolution and my hands I’ll trust; None about Caesar.
ANTONY. The miserable change now at my end Lament nor sorrow at, but please your thoughts In feeding them with those my former fortunes Wherein I lived the greatest prince o’ th’ world, The noblest; and do now not basely die, Not cowardly put off my helmet to My countryman; a Roman by a Roman Valiantly vanquished. Now my spirit is going; I can no more.
CLEOPATRA. Noblest of men, woo’t die? Hast thou no care of me? Shall I abide In this dull world, which in thy absence is No better than a sty? O, see, my women,
[ Antony dies.]
The crown o’ th’ earth doth melt.—My lord! O, withered is the garland of the war, The soldier’s pole is fallen; young boys and girls Are level now with men. The odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.
[Faints.]
CHARMIAN. O, quietness, lady!
IRAS. She is dead too, our sovereign.
CHARMIAN. Lady!
IRAS. Madam!
CHARMIAN. O madam, madam, madam!
IRAS. Royal Egypt, Empress!
CHARMIAN. Peace, peace, Iras!
CLEOPATRA. No more but e’en a woman, and commanded By such poor passion as the maid that milks And does the meanest chares. It were for me To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods, To tell them that this world did equal theirs Till they had stolen our jewel. All’s but naught; Patience is sottish, and impatience does Become a dog that’s mad. Then is it sin To rush into the secret house of death Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women? What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian? My noble girls! Ah, women, women! Look, Our lamp is spent, it’s out! Good sirs, take heart. We’ll bury him; and then, what’s brave, what’s noble, Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion And make death proud to take us. Come, away. This case of that huge spirit now is cold. Ah, women, women! Come, we have no friend But resolution and the briefest end.
[Exeunt, bearing off Antony’s body.]
ACT V SCENE I. Caesar’s Camp before Alexandria. Enter Caesar, Agrippa, Dolabella, Maecenas, Gallus, Proculeius with his council of war.
CAESAR. Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield. Being so frustrate, tell him, he mocks The pauses that he makes.
DOLABELLA. Caesar, I shall.
[Exit.]
Enter Dercetus with the sword of Antony.
CAESAR. Wherefore is that? And what art thou that dar’st Appear thus to us?
DERCETUS. I am called Dercetus. Mark Antony I served, who best was worthy Best to be served. Whilst he stood up and spoke, He was my master, and I wore my life To spend upon his haters. If thou please To take me to thee, as I was to him I’ll be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not, I yield thee up my life.
CAESAR. What is’t thou say’st?
DERCETUS. I say, O Caesar, Antony is dead.
CAESAR. The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack. The round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens. The death of Antony Is not a single doom; in the name lay A moiety of the world.
DERCETUS. He is dead, Caesar, Not by a public minister of justice, Nor by a hired knife, but that self hand Which writ his honour in the acts it did Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it, Splitted the heart. This is his sword. I robbed his wound of it. Behold it stained With his most noble blood.
CAESAR. Look you sad, friends? The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings To wash the eyes of kings.
AGRIPPA. And strange it is That nature must compel us to lament Our most persisted deeds.
MAECENAS. His taints and honours Waged equal with him.
AGRIPPA. A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity, but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men. Caesar is touched.
MAECENAS. When such a spacious mirror’s set before him, He needs must see himself.
CAESAR. O Antony, I have followed thee to this, but we do lance Diseases in our bodies. I must perforce Have shown to thee such a declining day Or look on thine. We could not stall together In the whole world. But yet let me lament With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts, That thou, my brother, my competitor In top of all design, my mate in empire, Friend and companion in the front of war, The arm of mine own body, and the heart Where mine his thoughts did kindle, that our stars, Unreconciliable, should divide Our equalness to this. Hear me, good friends—
Enter an Egyptian.
But I will tell you at some meeter season. The business of this man looks out of him; We’ll hear him what he says. Whence are you?
EGYPTIAN. A poor Egyptian yet. The queen, my mistress, Confined in all she has, her monument, Of thy intents desires instruction, That she preparedly may frame herself To the way she’s forced to.
CAESAR. Bid her have good heart. She soon shall know of us, by some of ours, How honourable and how kindly we Determine for her. For Caesar cannot lean To be ungentle.
EGYPTIAN. So the gods preserve thee!
[Exit.]
CAESAR. Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say We purpose her no shame. Give her what comforts The quality of her passion shall require, Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke She do defeat us, for her life in Rome Would be eternal in our triumph. Go, And with your speediest bring us what she says And how you find of her.
PROCULEIUS. Caesar, I shall.
[Exit Proculeius.]
CAESAR. Gallus, go you along.
[Exit Gallus.]
Where’s Dolabella, to second Proculeius?
ALL. Dolabella!
CAESAR. Let him alone, for I remember now How he’s employed. He shall in time be ready. Go with me to my tent, where you shall see How hardly I was drawn into this war, How calm and gentle I proceeded still In all my writings. Go with me and see What I can show in this.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Alexandria. A Room in the Monument. Enter Cleopatra, Charmian and Iras.
CLEOPATRA. My desolation does begin to make A better life. ’Tis paltry to be Caesar; Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’s knave, A minister of her will. And it is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents and bolts up change, Which sleeps and never palates more the dung, The beggar’s nurse and Caesar’s.
Enter Proculeius.
PROCULEIUS. Caesar sends greetings to the queen of Egypt, And bids thee study on what fair demands Thou mean’st to have him grant thee.
CLEOPATRA. What’s thy name?
PROCULEIUS. My name is Proculeius.
CLEOPATRA. Antony Did tell me of you, bade me trust you, but I do not greatly care to be deceived That have no use for trusting. If your master Would have a queen his beggar, you must tell him That majesty, to keep decorum, must No less beg than a kingdom. If he please To give me conquered Egypt for my son, He gives me so much of mine own as I Will kneel to him with thanks.
PROCULEIUS. Be of good cheer. You are fallen into a princely hand; fear nothing. Make your full reference freely to my lord, Who is so full of grace that it flows over On all that need. Let me report to him Your sweet dependency, and you shall find A conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness Where he for grace is kneeled to.
CLEOPATRA. Pray you tell him I am his fortune’s vassal and I send him The greatness he has got. I hourly learn A doctrine of obedience, and would gladly Look him i’ th’ face.
PROCULEIUS. This I’ll report, dear lady. Have comfort, for I know your plight is pitied Of him that caused it.
Enter Gallus and Roman Soldiers.
You see how easily she may be surprised. Guard her till Caesar come.
IRAS. Royal queen!
CHARMIAN. O Cleopatra, thou art taken, queen!
CLEOPATRA. Quick, quick, good hands.
[Drawing a dagger.]
PROCULEIUS. Hold, worthy lady, hold!
[Seizes and disarms her.]
Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this Relieved, but not betrayed.
CLEOPATRA. What, of death too, That rids our dogs of languish?
PROCULEIUS. Cleopatra, Do not abuse my master’s bounty by Th’ undoing of yourself. Let the world see His nobleness well acted, which your death Will never let come forth.
CLEOPATRA. Where art thou, Death? Come hither, come! Come, come, and take a queen Worth many babes and beggars!
PROCULEIUS. O, temperance, lady!
CLEOPATRA. Sir, I will eat no meat; I’ll not drink, sir; If idle talk will once be necessary, I’ll not sleep neither. This mortal house I’ll ruin, Do Caesar what he can. Know, sir, that I Will not wait pinioned at your master’s court, Nor once be chastised with the sober eye Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up And show me to the shouting varletry Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt Be gentle grave unto me! Rather on Nilus’ mud Lay me stark-naked, and let the water-flies Blow me into abhorring! Rather make My country’s high pyramides my gibbet And hang me up in chains!
PROCULEIUS. You do extend These thoughts of horror further than you shall Find cause in Caesar.
Enter Dolabella.
DOLABELLA. Proculeius, What thou hast done thy master Caesar knows, And he hath sent for thee. For the queen, I’ll take her to my guard.
PROCULEIUS. So, Dolabella, It shall content me best. Be gentle to her. [To Cleopatra.] To Caesar I will speak what you shall please, If you’ll employ me to him.
CLEOPATRA. Say I would die.
[Exeunt Proculeius and Soldiers.]
DOLABELLA. Most noble empress, you have heard of me?
CLEOPATRA. I cannot tell.
DOLABELLA. Assuredly you know me.
CLEOPATRA. No matter, sir, what I have heard or known. You laugh when boys or women tell their dreams; Is’t not your trick?
DOLABELLA. I understand not, madam.
CLEOPATRA. I dreamt there was an Emperor Antony. O, such another sleep, that I might see But such another man!
DOLABELLA. If it might please you—
CLEOPATRA. His face was as the heavens, and therein stuck A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted The little O, the earth.
DOLABELLA. Most sovereign creature—
CLEOPATRA. His legs bestrid the ocean; his reared arm Crested the world; his voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, There was no winter in’t; an autumn ’twas That grew the more by reaping. His delights Were dolphin-like; they showed his back above The element they lived in. In his livery Walked crowns and crownets; realms and islands were As plates dropped from his pocket.
DOLABELLA. Cleopatra—
CLEOPATRA. Think you there was or might be such a man As this I dreamt of?
DOLABELLA. Gentle madam, no.
CLEOPATRA. You lie up to the hearing of the gods! But if there be nor ever were one such, It’s past the size of dreaming. Nature wants stuff To vie strange forms with fancy; yet t’ imagine An Antony were nature’s piece ’gainst fancy, Condemning shadows quite.
DOLABELLA. Hear me, good madam. Your loss is, as yourself, great; and you bear it As answering to the weight. Would I might never O’ertake pursued success, but I do feel, By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites My very heart at root.
CLEOPATRA. I thank you, sir. Know you what Caesar means to do with me?
DOLABELLA. I am loath to tell you what I would you knew.
CLEOPATRA. Nay, pray you, sir.
DOLABELLA. Though he be honourable—
CLEOPATRA. He’ll lead me, then, in triumph.
DOLABELLA. Madam, he will. I know it.
Flourish. Enter Caesar, Proculeius, Gallus, Maecenas and others of his train.
ALL. Make way there! Caesar!
CAESAR. Which is the Queen of Egypt?
DOLABELLA. It is the Emperor, madam.
[Cleopatra kneels.]
CAESAR. Arise, you shall not kneel. I pray you, rise. Rise, Egypt.
CLEOPATRA. Sir, the gods Will have it thus. My master and my lord I must obey.
CAESAR. Take to you no hard thoughts. The record of what injuries you did us, Though written in our flesh, we shall remember As things but done by chance.
CLEOPATRA. Sole sir o’ th’ world, I cannot project mine own cause so well To make it clear, but do confess I have Been laden with like frailties which before Have often shamed our sex.
CAESAR. Cleopatra, know We will extenuate rather than enforce. If you apply yourself to our intents, Which towards you are most gentle, you shall find A benefit in this change; but if you seek To lay on me a cruelty by taking Antony’s course, you shall bereave yourself Of my good purposes, and put your children To that destruction which I’ll guard them from If thereon you rely. I’ll take my leave.
CLEOPATRA. And may, through all the world. ’Tis yours, and we, Your scutcheons and your signs of conquest, shall Hang in what place you please. Here, my good lord.
CAESAR. You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra.
CLEOPATRA. This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels I am possessed of. ’Tis exactly valued, Not petty things admitted. Where’s Seleucus?
Enter Seleucus.
SELEUCUS. Here, madam.
CLEOPATRA. This is my treasurer. Let him speak, my lord, Upon his peril, that I have reserved To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus.
SELEUCUS. Madam, I had rather seal my lips Than to my peril speak that which is not.
CLEOPATRA. What have I kept back?
SELEUCUS. Enough to purchase what you have made known.
CAESAR. Nay, blush not, Cleopatra. I approve Your wisdom in the deed.
CLEOPATRA. See, Caesar! O, behold, How pomp is followed! Mine will now be yours And should we shift estates, yours would be mine. The ingratitude of this Seleucus does Even make me wild. O slave, of no more trust Than love that’s hired! What, goest thou back? Thou shalt Go back, I warrant thee! But I’ll catch thine eyes Though they had wings. Slave, soulless villain, dog! O rarely base!
CAESAR. Good queen, let us entreat you.
CLEOPATRA. O Caesar, what a wounding shame is this, That thou vouchsafing here to visit me, Doing the honour of thy lordliness To one so meek, that mine own servant should Parcel the sum of my disgraces by Addition of his envy! Say, good Caesar, That I some lady trifles have reserved, Immoment toys, things of such dignity As we greet modern friends withal; and say Some nobler token I have kept apart For Livia and Octavia, to induce Their mediation, must I be unfolded With one that I have bred? The gods! It smites me Beneath the fall I have. [To Seleucus.] Prithee go hence, Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through th’ ashes of my chance. Wert thou a man, Thou wouldst have mercy on me.
CAESAR. Forbear, Seleucus.
[Exit Seleucus.]
CLEOPATRA. Be it known that we, the greatest, are misthought For things that others do; and when we fall, We answer others’ merits in our name, Are therefore to be pitied.
CAESAR. Cleopatra, Not what you have reserved nor what acknowledged Put we i’ th’ roll of conquest. Still be’t yours; Bestow it at your pleasure, and believe Caesar’s no merchant to make prize with you Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheered; Make not your thoughts your prisons. No, dear queen; For we intend so to dispose you as Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed and sleep. Our care and pity is so much upon you That we remain your friend; and so, adieu.
CLEOPATRA. My master and my lord!
CAESAR. Not so. Adieu.
[Flourish. Exeunt Caesar and his train.]
CLEOPATRA. He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not Be noble to myself. But hark thee, Charmian!
[Whispers to Charmian.]
IRAS. Finish, good lady. The bright day is done, And we are for the dark.
CLEOPATRA. Hie thee again. I have spoke already, and it is provided. Go put it to the haste.
CHARMIAN. Madam, I will.
Enter Dolabella.
DOLABELLA. Where’s the Queen?
CHARMIAN. Behold, sir.
[Exit.]
CLEOPATRA. Dolabella!
DOLABELLA. Madam, as thereto sworn by your command, Which my love makes religion to obey, I tell you this: Caesar through Syria Intends his journey, and within three days You with your children will he send before. Make your best use of this. I have performed Your pleasure and my promise.
CLEOPATRA. Dolabella, I shall remain your debtor.
DOLABELLA. I your servant. Adieu, good queen. I must attend on Caesar.
CLEOPATRA. Farewell, and thanks.
[Exit Dolabella.]
Now, Iras, what think’st thou? Thou an Egyptian puppet shall be shown In Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers shall Uplift us to the view. In their thick breaths, Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded, And forced to drink their vapour.
IRAS. The gods forbid!
CLEOPATRA. Nay, ’tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors Will catch at us like strumpets, and scald rhymers Ballad us out o’ tune. The quick comedians Extemporally will stage us and present Our Alexandrian revels; Antony Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness I’ th’ posture of a whore.
IRAS. O the good gods!
CLEOPATRA. Nay, that’s certain.
IRAS. I’ll never see’t, for I am sure mine nails Are stronger than mine eyes.
CLEOPATRA. Why, that’s the way To fool their preparation and to conquer Their most absurd intents.
Enter Charmian.
Now, Charmian! Show me, my women, like a queen. Go fetch My best attires. I am again for Cydnus To meet Mark Antony. Sirrah, Iras, go. Now, noble Charmian, we’ll dispatch indeed, And when thou hast done this chare, I’ll give thee leave To play till doomsday. Bring our crown and all.
[Exit Iras. A noise within.]
Wherefore’s this noise?
Enter a Guardsman.
GUARDSMAN. Here is a rural fellow That will not be denied your highness’ presence. He brings you figs.
CLEOPATRA. Let him come in.
[Exit Guardsman.]
What poor an instrument May do a noble deed! He brings me liberty. My resolution’s placed, and I have nothing Of woman in me. Now from head to foot I am marble-constant. Now the fleeting moon No planet is of mine.
Enter Guardsman and Clown with a basket.
GUARDSMAN. This is the man.
CLEOPATRA. Avoid, and leave him.
[Exit Guardsman.]
Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there That kills and pains not?
CLOWN. Truly, I have him, but I would not be the party that should desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal. Those that do die of it do seldom or never recover.
CLEOPATRA. Remember’st thou any that have died on’t?
CLOWN. Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them no longer than yesterday—a very honest woman, but something given to lie; as a woman should not do but in the way of honesty—how she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt. Truly she makes a very good report o’ th’ worm; but he that will believe all that they say shall never be saved by half that they do. But this is most falliable, the worm’s an odd worm.
CLEOPATRA. Get thee hence. Farewell.
CLOWN. I wish you all joy of the worm.
[Sets down the basket.]
CLEOPATRA. Farewell.
CLOWN. You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind.
CLEOPATRA. Ay, ay, farewell.
CLOWN. Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of wise people; for indeed there is no goodness in the worm.
CLEOPATRA. Take thou no care; it shall be heeded.
CLOWN. Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the feeding.
CLEOPATRA. Will it eat me?
CLOWN. You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman. I know that a woman is a dish for the gods if the devil dress her not. But truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women, for in every ten that they make, the devils mar five.
CLEOPATRA. Well, get thee gone. Farewell.
CLOWN. Yes, forsooth. I wish you joy o’ th’ worm.
[Exit.]
Enter Iras with a robe, crown, &c.
CLEOPATRA. Give me my robe. Put on my crown. I have Immortal longings in me. Now no more The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip. Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear Antony call. I see him rouse himself To praise my noble act. I hear him mock The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men To excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come! Now to that name my courage prove my title! I am fire and air; my other elements I give to baser life.—So, have you done? Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. Farewell, kind Charmian. Iras, long farewell.
[Kisses them. Iras falls and dies.]
Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall? If thou and nature can so gently part, The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, Which hurts and is desired. Dost thou lie still? If thus thou vanishest, thou tell’st the world It is not worth leave-taking.
CHARMIAN. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain, that I may say The gods themselves do weep!
CLEOPATRA. This proves me base. If she first meet the curled Antony, He’ll make demand of her, and spend that kiss Which is my heaven to have.—Come, thou mortal wretch,
[To an asp, which she applies to her breast.]
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate Of life at once untie. Poor venomous fool, Be angry and dispatch. O couldst thou speak, That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass Unpolicied!
CHARMIAN. O eastern star!
CLEOPATRA. Peace, peace! Dost thou not see my baby at my breast That sucks the nurse asleep?
CHARMIAN. O, break! O, break!
CLEOPATRA. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle— O Antony!—Nay, I will take thee too.
[Applying another asp to her arm.]
What should I stay—
[Dies.]
CHARMIAN. In this vile world? So, fare thee well. Now boast thee, Death, in thy possession lies A lass unparalleled. Downy windows, close, And golden Phœbus never be beheld Of eyes again so royal! Your crown’s awry; I’ll mend it and then play.
Enter the Guard rustling in.
FIRST GUARD. Where’s the queen?
CHARMIAN. Speak softly. Wake her not.
FIRST GUARD. Caesar hath sent—
CHARMIAN. Too slow a messenger.
[Applies an asp.]
O, come apace, dispatch! I partly feel thee.
FIRST GUARD. Approach, ho! All’s not well. Caesar’s beguiled.
SECOND GUARD. There’s Dolabella sent from Caesar. Call him.
FIRST GUARD. What work is here, Charmian? Is this well done?
CHARMIAN. It is well done, and fitting for a princess Descended of so many royal kings. Ah, soldier!
[Charmian dies.]
Enter Dolabella.
DOLABELLA. How goes it here?
SECOND GUARD. All dead.
DOLABELLA. Caesar, thy thoughts Touch their effects in this. Thyself art coming To see performed the dreaded act which thou So sought’st to hinder.
Enter Caesar and all his train, marching.
ALL. A way there, a way for Caesar!
DOLABELLA. O sir, you are too sure an augurer: That you did fear is done.
CAESAR. Bravest at the last, She levelled at our purposes and, being royal, Took her own way. The manner of their deaths? I do not see them bleed.
DOLABELLA. Who was last with them?
FIRST GUARD. A simple countryman that brought her figs. This was his basket.
CAESAR. Poisoned then.
FIRST GUARD. O Caesar, This Charmian lived but now; she stood and spake. I found her trimming up the diadem On her dead mistress; tremblingly she stood, And on the sudden dropped.
CAESAR. O noble weakness! If they had swallowed poison ’twould appear By external swelling; but she looks like sleep, As she would catch another Antony In her strong toil of grace.
DOLABELLA. Here on her breast There is a vent of blood, and something blown. The like is on her arm.
FIRST GUARD. This is an aspic’s trail, and these fig leaves Have slime upon them, such as th’ aspic leaves Upon the caves of Nile.
CAESAR. Most probable That so she died, for her physician tells me She hath pursued conclusions infinite Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed, And bear her women from the monument. She shall be buried by her Antony. No grave upon the earth shall clip in it A pair so famous. High events as these Strike those that make them; and their story is No less in pity than his glory which Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall In solemn show attend this funeral, And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see High order in this great solemnity.
[Exeunt omnes.]
AS YOU LIKE IT DRAMATIS PERSONAE. DUKE, living in exile FREDERICK, his brother, and usurper of his dominions AMIENS, lord attending on the banished Duke JAQUES, " " " " " " LE BEAU, a courtier attending upon Frederick CHARLES, wrestler to Frederick OLIVER, son of Sir Rowland de Boys JAQUES, " " " " " " ORLANDO, " " " " " " ADAM, servant to Oliver DENNIS, " " " TOUCHSTONE, the court jester SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a vicar CORIN, shepherd SILVIUS, " WILLIAM, a country fellow, in love with Audrey A person representing HYMEN ROSALIND, daughter to the banished Duke CELIA, daughter to Frederick PHEBE, a shepherdes AUDREY, a country wench Lords, Pages, Foresters, and Attendants
SCENE: OLIVER'S house; FREDERICK'S court; and the Forest of Arden ACT I. SCENE I. Orchard of OLIVER'S house Enter ORLANDO and ADAM
ORLANDO. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well; and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit. For my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly hir'd; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave me his countenance seems to take from me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.
Enter OLIVER
ADAM. Yonder comes my master, your brother. ORLANDO. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up. [ADAM retires] OLIVER. Now, sir! what make you here? ORLANDO. Nothing; I am not taught to make any thing. OLIVER. What mar you then, sir? ORLANDO. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness. OLIVER. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be nought awhile. ORLANDO. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What prodigal portion have I spent that I should come to such penury? OLIVER. Know you where you are, sir? ORLANDO. O, sir, very well; here in your orchard. OLIVER. Know you before whom, sir? ORLANDO. Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are my eldest brother; and in the gentle condition of blood, you should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming before me is nearer to his reverence. OLIVER. What, boy! [Strikes him] ORLANDO. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this. OLIVER. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain? ORLANDO. I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. He was my father; and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pull'd out thy tongue for saying so. Thou has rail'd on thyself. ADAM. [Coming forward] Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's remembrance, be at accord. OLIVER. Let me go, I say. ORLANDO. I will not, till I please; you shall hear me. My father charg'd you in his will to give me good education: you have train'd me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it; therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go buy my fortunes. OLIVER. And what wilt thou do? Beg, when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in. I will not long be troubled with you; you shall have some part of your will. I pray you leave me. ORLANDO. I no further offend you than becomes me for my good. OLIVER. Get you with him, you old dog. ADAM. Is 'old dog' my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old master! He would not have spoke such a word. Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM OLIVER. Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis! Enter DENNIS
DENNIS. Calls your worship? OLIVER. not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here to speak with me? DENNIS. So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access to you. OLIVER. Call him in. [Exit DENNIS] 'Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is. Enter CHARLES
CHARLES. Good morrow to your worship. OLIVER. Good Monsieur Charles! What's the new news at the new court? CHARLES. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news; that is, the old Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke; and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke; therefore he gives them good leave to wander. OLIVER. Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, be banished with her father? CHARLES. O, no; for the Duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do. OLIVER. Where will the old Duke live? CHARLES. They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world. OLIVER. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new Duke? CHARLES. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come in; therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is thing of his own search and altogether against my will. OLIVER. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me his natural brother. Therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder. CHARLES. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come to-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again, I'll never wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep your worship! Exit OLIVER. Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle; never school'd and yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly beloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprised. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither, which now I'll go about. Exit SCENE II. A lawn before the DUKE'S palace Enter ROSALIND and CELIA
CELIA. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. ROSALIND. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure. CELIA. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine; so wouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously temper'd as mine is to thee. ROSALIND. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to rejoice in yours. CELIA. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir; for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection. By mine honour, I will; and when I break that oath, let me turn monster; therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry. ROSALIND. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. Let me see; what think you of falling in love? CELIA. Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal; but love no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again. ROSALIND. What shall be our sport, then? CELIA. Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally. ROSALIND. I would we could do so; for her benefits are mightily misplaced; and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women. CELIA. 'Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest; and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly. ROSALIND. Nay; now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's: Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of Nature. Enter TOUCHSTONE
CELIA. No; when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument? ROSALIND. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when Fortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit. CELIA. Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but Nature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How now, wit! Whither wander you? TOUCHSTONE. Mistress, you must come away to your father. CELIA. Were you made the messenger? TOUCHSTONE. No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come for you. ROSALIND. Where learned you that oath, fool? TOUCHSTONE. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught. Now I'll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn. CELIA. How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowledge? ROSALIND. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom. TOUCHSTONE. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave. CELIA. By our beards, if we had them, thou art. TOUCHSTONE. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were. But if you swear by that that not, you are not forsworn; no more was this knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or that mustard. CELIA. Prithee, who is't that thou mean'st? TOUCHSTONE. One that old Frederick, your father, loves. CELIA. My father's love is enough to honour him. Enough, speak no more of him; you'll be whipt for taxation one of these days. TOUCHSTONE. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly. CELIA. By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau. Enter LE BEAU
ROSALIND. With his mouth full of news. CELIA. Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young. ROSALIND. Then shall we be news-cramm'd. CELIA. All the better; we shall be the more marketable. Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau. What's the news? LE BEAU. Fair Princess, you have lost much good sport. CELIA. Sport! of what colour? LE BEAU. What colour, madam? How shall I answer you? ROSALIND. As wit and fortune will. TOUCHSTONE. Or as the Destinies decrees. CELIA. Well said; that was laid on with a trowel. TOUCHSTONE. Nay, if I keep not my rank- ROSALIND. Thou losest thy old smell. LE BEAU. You amaze me, ladies. I would have told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of. ROSALIND. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. LE BEAU. I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please your ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do; and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it. CELIA. Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried. LE BEAU. There comes an old man and his three sons- CELIA. I could match this beginning with an old tale. LE BEAU. Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence. ROSALIND. With bills on their necks: 'Be it known unto all men by these presents'- LE BEAU. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke's wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him. So he serv'd the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders take his part with weeping. ROSALIND. Alas! TOUCHSTONE. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost? LE BEAU. Why, this that I speak of. TOUCHSTONE. Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. CELIA. Or I, I promise thee. ROSALIND. But is there any else longs to see this broken music in his sides? Is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin? LE BEAU. You must, if you stay here; for here is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it. CELIA. Yonder, sure, they are coming. Let us now stay and see it. Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, LORDS, ORLANDO, CHARLES, and ATTENDANTS FREDERICK. Come on; since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness. ROSALIND. Is yonder the man? LE BEAU. Even he, madam. CELIA. Alas, he is too young; yet he looks successfully. FREDERICK. How now, daughter and cousin! Are you crept hither to see the wrestling? ROSALIND. Ay, my liege; so please you give us leave. FREDERICK. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you, there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger's youth I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you can move him. CELIA. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau. FREDERICK. Do so; I'll not be by. [DUKE FREDERICK goes apart] LE BEAU. Monsieur the Challenger, the Princess calls for you. ORLANDO. I attend them with all respect and duty. ROSALIND. Young man, have you challeng'd Charles the wrestler? ORLANDO. No, fair Princess; he is the general challenger. I come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth. CELIA. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength; if you saw yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgment, the fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own safety and give over this attempt. ROSALIND. Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be misprised: we will make it our suit to the Duke that the wrestling might not go forward. ORLANDO. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial; wherein if I be foil'd there is but one sham'd that was never gracious; if kill'd, but one dead that is willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty. ROSALIND. The little strength that I have, I would it were with you. CELIA. And mine to eke out hers. ROSALIND. Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceiv'd in you! CELIA. Your heart's desires be with you! CHARLES. Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth? ORLANDO. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working. FREDERICK. You shall try but one fall. CHARLES. No, I warrant your Grace, you shall not entreat him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first. ORLANDO. You mean to mock me after; you should not have mock'd me before; but come your ways. ROSALIND. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man! CELIA. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. [They wrestle] ROSALIND. O excellent young man! CELIA. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down. [CHARLES is thrown. Shout] FREDERICK. No more, no more. ORLANDO. Yes, I beseech your Grace; I am not yet well breath'd. FREDERICK. How dost thou, Charles? LE BEAU. He cannot speak, my lord. FREDERICK. Bear him away. What is thy name, young man? ORLANDO. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. FREDERICK. I would thou hadst been son to some man else. The world esteem'd thy father honourable, But I did find him still mine enemy. Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed, Hadst thou descended from another house. But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth; I would thou hadst told me of another father. Exeunt DUKE, train, and LE BEAU CELIA. Were I my father, coz, would I do this? ORLANDO. I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son, His youngest son- and would not change that calling To be adopted heir to Frederick. ROSALIND. My father lov'd Sir Rowland as his soul, And all the world was of my father's mind; Had I before known this young man his son, I should have given him tears unto entreaties Ere he should thus have ventur'd. CELIA. Gentle cousin, Let us go thank him, and encourage him; My father's rough and envious disposition Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv'd; If you do keep your promises in love But justly as you have exceeded all promise, Your mistress shall be happy. ROSALIND. Gentleman, [Giving him a chain from her neck] Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune, That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. Shall we go, coz? CELIA. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman. ORLANDO. Can I not say 'I thank you'? My better parts Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. ROSALIND. He calls us back. My pride fell with my fortunes; I'll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir? Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown More than your enemies. CELIA. Will you go, coz? ROSALIND. Have with you. Fare you well. Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA ORLANDO. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue? I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference. O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown! Or Charles or something weaker masters thee. Re-enter LE BEAU
LE BEAU. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd High commendation, true applause, and love, Yet such is now the Duke's condition That he misconstrues all that you have done. The Duke is humorous; what he is, indeed, More suits you to conceive than I to speak of. ORLANDO. I thank you, sir; and pray you tell me this: Which of the two was daughter of the Duke That here was at the wrestling? LE BEAU. Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners; But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter; The other is daughter to the banish'd Duke, And here detain'd by her usurping uncle, To keep his daughter company; whose loves Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. But I can tell you that of late this Duke Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece, Grounded upon no other argument But that the people praise her for her virtues And pity her for her good father's sake; And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well. Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you. ORLANDO. I rest much bounden to you; fare you well. Exit LE BEAU Thus must I from the smoke into the smother; From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother. But heavenly Rosalind! Exit SCENE III. The DUKE's palace Enter CELIA and ROSALIND
CELIA. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! Not a word? ROSALIND. Not one to throw at a dog. CELIA. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons. ROSALIND. Then there were two cousins laid up, when the one should be lam'd with reasons and the other mad without any. CELIA. But is all this for your father? ROSALIND. No, some of it is for my child's father. O, how full of briers is this working-day world! CELIA. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them. ROSALIND. I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart. CELIA. Hem them away. ROSALIND. I would try, if I could cry 'hem' and have him. CELIA. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. ROSALIND. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself. CELIA. O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time, in despite of a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son? ROSALIND. The Duke my father lov'd his father dearly. CELIA. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando. ROSALIND. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake. CELIA. Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well? Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS
ROSALIND. Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I do. Look, here comes the Duke. CELIA. With his eyes full of anger. FREDERICK. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste, And get you from our court. ROSALIND. Me, uncle? FREDERICK. You, cousin. Within these ten days if that thou beest found So near our public court as twenty miles, Thou diest for it. ROSALIND. I do beseech your Grace, Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me. If with myself I hold intelligence, Or have acquaintance with mine own desires; If that I do not dream, or be not frantic- As I do trust I am not- then, dear uncle, Never so much as in a thought unborn Did I offend your Highness. FREDERICK. Thus do all traitors; If their purgation did consist in words, They are as innocent as grace itself. Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not. ROSALIND. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor. Tell me whereon the likelihood depends. FREDERICK. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough. ROSALIND. SO was I when your Highness took his dukedom; So was I when your Highness banish'd him. Treason is not inherited, my lord; Or, if we did derive it from our friends, What's that to me? My father was no traitor. Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much To think my poverty is treacherous. CELIA. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. FREDERICK. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake, Else had she with her father rang'd along. CELIA. I did not then entreat to have her stay; It was your pleasure, and your own remorse; I was too young that time to value her, But now I know her. If she be a traitor, Why so am I: we still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together; And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, Still we went coupled and inseparable. FREDERICK. She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness, Her very silence and her patience, Speak to the people, and they pity her. Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name; And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous When she is gone. Then open not thy lips. Firm and irrevocable is my doom Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd. CELIA. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege; I cannot live out of her company. FREDERICK. You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself. If you outstay the time, upon mine honour, And in the greatness of my word, you die. Exeunt DUKE and LORDS CELIA. O my poor Rosalind! Whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee be not thou more griev'd than I am. ROSALIND. I have more cause. CELIA. Thou hast not, cousin. Prithee be cheerful. Know'st thou not the Duke Hath banish'd me, his daughter? ROSALIND. That he hath not. CELIA. No, hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one. Shall we be sund'red? Shall we part, sweet girl? No; let my father seek another heir. Therefore devise with me how we may fly, Whither to go, and what to bear with us; And do not seek to take your charge upon you, To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out; For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee. ROSALIND. Why, whither shall we go? CELIA. To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden. ROSALIND. Alas, what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel forth so far! Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. CELIA. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire, And with a kind of umber smirch my face; The like do you; so shall we pass along, And never stir assailants. ROSALIND. Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me all points like a man? A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, A boar spear in my hand; and- in my heart Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will- We'll have a swashing and a martial outside, As many other mannish cowards have That do outface it with their semblances. CELIA. What shall I call thee when thou art a man? ROSALIND. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page, And therefore look you call me Ganymede. But what will you be call'd? CELIA. Something that hath a reference to my state: No longer Celia, but Aliena. ROSALIND. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal The clownish fool out of your father's court? Would he not be a comfort to our travel? CELIA. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me; Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away, And get our jewels and our wealth together; Devise the fittest time and safest way To hide us from pursuit that will be made After my flight. Now go we in content To liberty, and not to banishment. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE I. The Forest of Arden Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and two or three LORDS, like foresters
DUKE SENIOR. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference; as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say 'This is no flattery; these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.' Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. I would not change it. AMIENS. Happy is your Grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style. DUKE SENIOR. Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should, in their own confines, with forked heads Have their round haunches gor'd. FIRST LORD. Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that; And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you. To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him as he lay along Under an oak whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood! To the which place a poor sequest'red stag, That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt, Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting; and the big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears. DUKE SENIOR. But what said Jaques? Did he not moralize this spectacle? FIRST LORD. O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream: 'Poor deer,' quoth he 'thou mak'st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much.' Then, being there alone, Left and abandoned of his velvet friends: ''Tis right'; quoth he 'thus misery doth part The flux of company.' Anon, a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him And never stays to greet him. 'Ay,' quoth Jaques 'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens; 'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?' Thus most invectively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse, To fright the animals, and to kill them up In their assign'd and native dwelling-place. DUKE SENIOR. And did you leave him in this contemplation? SECOND LORD. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer. DUKE SENIOR. Show me the place; I love to cope him in these sullen fits, For then he's full of matter. FIRST LORD. I'll bring you to him straight. Exeunt SCENE II. The DUKE'S palace Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS
FREDERICK. Can it be possible that no man saw them? It cannot be; some villains of my court Are of consent and sufferance in this. FIRST LORD. I cannot hear of any that did see her. The ladies, her attendants of her chamber, Saw her abed, and in the morning early They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress. SECOND LORD. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. Hisperia, the Princess' gentlewoman, Confesses that she secretly o'erheard Your daughter and her cousin much commend The parts and graces of the wrestler That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles; And she believes, wherever they are gone, That youth is surely in their company. FREDERICK. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither. If he be absent, bring his brother to me; I'll make him find him. Do this suddenly; And let not search and inquisition quail To bring again these foolish runaways. Exeunt SCENE III. Before OLIVER'S house Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting
ORLANDO. Who's there? ADAM. What, my young master? O my gentle master! O my sweet master! O you memory Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here? Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you? And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? Why would you be so fond to overcome The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. Know you not, master, to some kind of men Their graces serve them but as enemies? No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master, Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. O, what a world is this, when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it! ORLANDO. Why, what's the matter? ADAM. O unhappy youth! Come not within these doors; within this roof The enemy of all your graces lives. Your brother- no, no brother; yet the son- Yet not the son; I will not call him son Of him I was about to call his father- Hath heard your praises; and this night he means To burn the lodging where you use to lie, And you within it. If he fail of that, He will have other means to cut you off; I overheard him and his practices. This is no place; this house is but a butchery; Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. ORLANDO. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go? ADAM. No matter whither, so you come not here. ORLANDO. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food, Or with a base and boist'rous sword enforce A thievish living on the common road? This I must do, or know not what to do; Yet this I will not do, do how I can. I rather will subject me to the malice Of a diverted blood and bloody brother. ADAM. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns, The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father, Which I did store to be my foster-nurse, When service should in my old limbs lie lame, And unregarded age in corners thrown. Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed, Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold; All this I give you. Let me be your servant; Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood, Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo The means of weakness and debility; Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you; I'll do the service of a younger man In all your business and necessities. ORLANDO. O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having; it is not so with thee. But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. But come thy ways, we'll go along together, And ere we have thy youthful wages spent We'll light upon some settled low content. ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow the To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. From seventeen years till now almost four-score Here lived I, but now live here no more. At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, But at fourscore it is too late a week; Yet fortune cannot recompense me better Than to die well and not my master's debtor. Exeunt SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden Enter ROSALIND for GANYMEDE, CELIA for ALIENA, and CLOWN alias TOUCHSTONE
ROSALIND. O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits! TOUCHSTONE. I Care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary. ROSALIND. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat; therefore, courage, good Aliena. CELIA. I pray you bear with me; I cannot go no further. TOUCHSTONE. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you have no money in your purse. ROSALIND. Well,. this is the Forest of Arden. TOUCHSTONE. Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content. Enter CORIN and SILVIUS
ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a young man and an old in solemn talk. CORIN. That is the way to make her scorn you still. SILVIUS. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her! CORIN. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now. SILVIUS. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess, Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow. But if thy love were ever like to mine, As sure I think did never man love so, How many actions most ridiculous Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy? CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily! If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into, Thou hast not lov'd; Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise, Thou hast not lov'd; Or if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, Thou hast not lov'd. O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! Exit Silvius ROSALIND. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound, I have by hard adventure found mine own. TOUCHSTONE. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember the wooing of peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears 'Wear these for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly. ROSALIND. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of. TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it. ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion Is much upon my fashion. TOUCHSTONE. And mine; but it grows something stale with me. CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man If he for gold will give us any food; I faint almost to death. TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown! ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy Ensman. CORIN. Who calls? TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir. CORIN. Else are they very wretched. ROSALIND. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend. CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. ROSALIND. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold Can in this desert place buy entertainment, Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed. Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd, And faints for succour. CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her, And wish, for her sake more than for mine own, My fortunes were more able to relieve her; But I am shepherd to another man, And do not shear the fleeces that I graze. My master is of churlish disposition, And little recks to find the way to heaven By doing deeds of hospitality. Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed, Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now, By reason of his absence, there is nothing That you will feed on; but what is, come see, And in my voice most welcome shall you be. ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture? CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile, That little cares for buying any thing. ROSALIND. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place, And willingly could waste my time in it. CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold. Go with me; if you like upon report The soil, the profit, and this kind of life, I will your very faithful feeder be, And buy it with your gold right suddenly. Exeunt SCENE V. Another part of the forest Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and OTHERS
SONG
AMIENS. Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. JAQUES. More, more, I prithee, more. AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques. JAQUES. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more. AMIENS. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you. JAQUES. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more; another stanzo. Call you 'em stanzos? AMIENS. What you will, Monsieur Jaques. JAQUES. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing? AMIENS. More at your request than to please myself. JAQUES. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you; but that they call compliment is like th' encounter of two dog-apes; and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks have given him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues. AMIENS. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the Duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look you. JAQUES. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is to disputable for my company. I think of as many matters as he; but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come. SONG [All together here] Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' th' sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleas'd with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. JAQUES. I'll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of my invention. AMIENS. And I'll sing it. JAQUES. Thus it goes: If it do come to pass That any man turn ass, Leaving his wealth and ease A stubborn will to please, Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame; Here shall he see Gross fools as he, An if he will come to me. AMIENS. What's that 'ducdame'? JAQUES. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. I'll go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the first-born of Egypt. AMIENS. And I'll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepar'd. Exeunt severally SCENE VI. The forest Enter ORLANDO and ADAM
ADAM. Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for food! Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master. ORLANDO. Why, how now, Adam! No greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake be comfortable; hold death awhile at the arm's end. I will here be with the presently; and if I bring thee not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou look'st cheerly; and I'll be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air. Come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam! Exeunt SCENE VII. The forest A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and LORDS, like outlaws
DUKE SENIOR. I think he be transform'd into a beast; For I can nowhere find him like a man. FIRST LORD. My lord, he is but even now gone hence; Here was he merry, hearing of a song. DUKE SENIOR. If he, compact of jars, grow musical, We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go seek him; tell him I would speak with him. Enter JAQUES
FIRST LORD. He saves my labour by his own approach. DUKE SENIOR. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this, That your poor friends must woo your company? What, you look merrily! JAQUES. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' th' forest, A motley fool. A miserable world! As I do live by food, I met a fool, Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms- and yet a motley fool. 'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I; 'No, sir,' quoth he, 'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.' And then he drew a dial from his poke, And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock; Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags; 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine; And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear The motley fool thus moral on the time, My lungs began to crow like chanticleer That fools should be so deep contemplative; And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial. O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear. DUKE SENIOR. What fool is this? JAQUES. O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier, And says, if ladies be but young and fair, They have the gift to know it; and in his brain, Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd With observation, the which he vents In mangled forms. O that I were a fool! I am ambitious for a motley coat. DUKE SENIOR. Thou shalt have one. JAQUES. It is my only suit, Provided that you weed your better judgments Of all opinion that grows rank in them That I am wise. I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please, for so fools have; And they that are most galled with my folly, They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so? The why is plain as way to parish church: He that a fool doth very wisely hit Doth very foolishly, although he smart, Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not, The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool. Invest me in my motley; give me leave To speak my mind, and I will through and through Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine. DUKE SENIOR. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do. JAQUES. What, for a counter, would I do but good? DUKE SENIOR. Most Mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin; For thou thyself hast been a libertine, As sensual as the brutish sting itself; And all th' embossed sores and headed evils That thou with license of free foot hast caught Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world. JAQUES. Why, who cries out on pride That can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea, Till that the wearer's very means do ebb? What woman in the city do I name When that I say the city-woman bears The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders? Who can come in and say that I mean her, When such a one as she such is her neighbour? Or what is he of basest function That says his bravery is not on my cost, Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits His folly to the mettle of my speech? There then! how then? what then? Let me see wherein My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right, Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free, Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies, Unclaim'd of any man. But who comes here? Enter ORLANDO with his sword drawn
ORLANDO. Forbear, and eat no more. JAQUES. Why, I have eat none yet. ORLANDO. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd. JAQUES. Of what kind should this cock come of? DUKE SENIOR. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress? Or else a rude despiser of good manners, That in civility thou seem'st so empty? ORLANDO. You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show Of smooth civility; yet arn I inland bred, And know some nurture. But forbear, I say; He dies that touches any of this fruit Till I and my affairs are answered. JAQUES. An you will not be answer'd with reason, I must die. DUKE SENIOR. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness. ORLANDO. I almost die for food, and let me have it. DUKE SENIOR. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. ORLANDO. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you; I thought that all things had been savage here, And therefore put I on the countenance Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If ever you have look'd on better days, If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church, If ever sat at any good man's feast, If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear, And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be; In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword. DUKE SENIOR. True is it that we have seen better days, And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church, And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engend'red; And therefore sit you down in gentleness, And take upon command what help we have That to your wanting may be minist'red. ORLANDO. Then but forbear your food a little while, Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn, And give it food. There is an old poor man Who after me hath many a weary step Limp'd in pure love; till he be first suffic'd, Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger, I will not touch a bit. DUKE SENIOR. Go find him out. And we will nothing waste till you return. ORLANDO. I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort! Exit DUKE SENIOR. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in. JAQUES. All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lin'd, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM
DUKE SENIOR. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden. And let him feed. ORLANDO. I thank you most for him. ADAM. So had you need; I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. DUKE SENIOR. Welcome; fall to. I will not trouble you As yet to question you about your fortunes. Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing. SONG Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot; Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend rememb'red not. Heigh-ho! sing, &c. DUKE SENIOR. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son, As you have whisper'd faithfully you were, And as mine eye doth his effigies witness Most truly limn'd and living in your face, Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke That lov'd your father. The residue of your fortune, Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, Thou art right welcome as thy master is. Support him by the arm. Give me your hand, And let me all your fortunes understand. Exeunt ACT III. SCENE I. The palace Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, and LORDS
FREDERICK. Not see him since! Sir, sir, that cannot be. But were I not the better part made mercy, I should not seek an absent argument Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it: Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is; Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more To seek a living in our territory. Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine Worth seizure do we seize into our hands, Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth Of what we think against thee. OLIVER. O that your Highness knew my heart in this! I never lov'd my brother in my life. FREDERICK. More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors; And let my officers of such a nature Make an extent upon his house and lands. Do this expediently, and turn him going. Exeunt SCENE II. The forest Enter ORLANDO, with a paper
ORLANDO. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love; And thou, thrice-crowned Queen of Night, survey With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway. O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books, And in their barks my thoughts I'll character, That every eye which in this forest looks Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where. Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree, The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. Exit Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE
CORIN. And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone? TOUCHSTONE. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is nought. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd? CORIN. No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred. TOUCHSTONE. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd? CORIN. No, truly. TOUCHSTONE. Then thou art damn'd. CORIN. Nay, I hope. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damn'd, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side. CORIN. For not being at court? Your reason. TOUCHSTONE. Why, if thou never wast at court thou never saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd. CORIN. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds. TOUCHSTONE. Instance, briefly; come, instance. CORIN. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you know, are greasy. TOUCHSTONE. Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? And is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say; come. CORIN. Besides, our hands are hard. TOUCHSTONE. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A more sounder instance; come. CORIN. And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are perfum'd with civet. TOUCHSTONE. Most shallow man! thou worm's meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar- the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd. CORIN. You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest. TOUCHSTONE. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in thee! thou art raw. CORIN. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other men's good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck. TOUCHSTONE. That is another simple sin in you: to bring the ewes and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damn'd for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst scape. CORIN. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother. Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper
ROSALIND. 'From the east to western Inde, No jewel is like Rosalinde. Her worth, being mounted on the wind, Through all the world bears Rosalinde. All the pictures fairest lin'd Are but black to Rosalinde. Let no face be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalinde.' TOUCHSTONE. I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours, excepted. It is the right butter-women's rank to market. ROSALIND. Out, fool! TOUCHSTONE. For a taste: If a hart do lack a hind, Let him seek out Rosalinde. If the cat will after kind, So be sure will Rosalinde. Winter garments must be lin'd, So must slender Rosalinde. They that reap must sheaf and bind, Then to cart with Rosalinde. Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, Such a nut is Rosalinde. He that sweetest rose will find Must find love's prick and Rosalinde. This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect yourself with them? ROSALIND. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. ROSALIND. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i' th' country; for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar. TOUCHSTONE. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge. Enter CELIA, with a writing
ROSALIND. Peace! Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside. CELIA. 'Why should this a desert be? For it is unpeopled? No; Tongues I'll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show. Some, how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage, That the streching of a span Buckles in his sum of age; Some, of violated vows 'Twixt the souls of friend and friend; But upon the fairest boughs, Or at every sentence end, Will I Rosalinda write, Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite Heaven would in little show. Therefore heaven Nature charg'd That one body should be fill'd With all graces wide-enlarg'd. Nature presently distill'd Helen's cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra's majesty, Atalanta's better part, Sad Lucretia's modesty. Thus Rosalinde of many parts By heavenly synod was devis'd, Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, To have the touches dearest priz'd. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave.' ROSALIND. O most gentle pulpiter! What tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried 'Have patience, good people.' CELIA. How now! Back, friends; shepherd, go off a little; go with him, sirrah. TOUCHSTONE. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE CELIA. Didst thou hear these verses? ROSALIND. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear. CELIA. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses. ROSALIND. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse. CELIA. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hang'd and carved upon these trees? ROSALIND. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so berhym'd since Pythagoras' time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember. CELIA. Trow you who hath done this? ROSALIND. Is it a man? CELIA. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour? ROSALIND. I prithee, who? CELIA. O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter. ROSALIND. Nay, but who is it? CELIA. Is it possible? ROSALIND. Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is. CELIA. O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping! ROSALIND. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would thou could'st stammer, that thou mightst pour this conceal'd man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd bottle- either too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings. CELIA. So you may put a man in your belly. ROSALIND. Is he of God's making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard? CELIA. Nay, he hath but a little beard. ROSALIND. Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin. CELIA. It is young Orlando, that tripp'd up the wrestler's heels and your heart both in an instant. ROSALIND. Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and true maid. CELIA. I' faith, coz, 'tis he. ROSALIND. Orlando? CELIA. Orlando. ROSALIND. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word. CELIA. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first; 'tis a word too great for any mouth of this age's size. To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism. ROSALIND. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled? CELIA. It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn. ROSALIND. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit. CELIA. Give me audience, good madam. ROSALIND. Proceed. CELIA. There lay he, stretch'd along like a wounded knight. ROSALIND. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground. CELIA. Cry 'Holla' to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a hunter. ROSALIND. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart. CELIA. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bring'st me out of tune. ROSALIND. Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. CELIA. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here? Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES
ROSALIND. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him. JAQUES. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. ORLANDO. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your society. JAQUES. God buy you; let's meet as little as we can. ORLANDO. I do desire we may be better strangers. JAQUES. I pray you mar no more trees with writing love songs in their barks. ORLANDO. I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly. JAQUES. Rosalind is your love's name? ORLANDO. Yes, just. JAQUES. I do not like her name. ORLANDO. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christen'd. JAQUES. What stature is she of? ORLANDO. Just as high as my heart. JAQUES. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conn'd them out of rings? ORLANDO. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions. JAQUES. You have a nimble wit; I think 'twas made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery. ORLANDO. I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults. JAQUES. The worst fault you have is to be in love. ORLANDO. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you. JAQUES. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you. ORLANDO. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you shall see him. JAQUES. There I shall see mine own figure. ORLANDO. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. JAQUES. I'll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good Signior Love. ORLANDO. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy. Exit JAQUES ROSALIND. [Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him.- Do you hear, forester? ORLANDO. Very well; what would you? ROSALIND. I pray you, what is't o'clock? ORLANDO. You should ask me what time o' day; there's no clock in the forest. ROSALIND. Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock. ORLANDO. And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as proper? ROSALIND. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. ORLANDO. I prithee, who doth he trot withal? ROSALIND. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year. ORLANDO. Who ambles Time withal? ROSALIND. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain; the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles withal. ORLANDO. Who doth he gallop withal? ROSALIND. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there. ORLANDO. Who stays it still withal? ROSALIND. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves. ORLANDO. Where dwell you, pretty youth? ROSALIND. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. ORLANDO. Are you native of this place? ROSALIND. As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled. ORLANDO. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling. ROSALIND. I have been told so of many; but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal. ORLANDO. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women? ROSALIND. There were none principal; they were all like one another as halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it. ORLANDO. I prithee recount some of them. ROSALIND. No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young plants with carving 'Rosalind' on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him. ORLANDO. I am he that is so love-shak'd; I pray you tell me your remedy. ROSALIND. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner. ORLANDO. What were his marks? ROSALIND. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue. Then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other. ORLANDO. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. ROSALIND. Me believe it! You may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does. That is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees wherein Rosalind is so admired? ORLANDO. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. ROSALIND. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak? ORLANDO. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. ROSALIND. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. ORLANDO. Did you ever cure any so? ROSALIND. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me; at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cur'd him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in 't. ORLANDO. I would not be cured, youth. ROSALIND. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me. ORLANDO. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is. ROSALIND. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you; and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go? ORLANDO. With all my heart, good youth. ROSALIND. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go? Exeunt
SCENE III. The forest Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES behind
TOUCHSTONE. Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey, am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you? AUDREY. Your features! Lord warrant us! What features? TOUCHSTONE. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths. JAQUES. [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatch'd house! TOUCHSTONE. When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's good wit seconded with the forward child understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical. AUDREY. I do not know what 'poetical' is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing? TOUCHSTONE. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning, and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do feign. AUDREY. Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical? TOUCHSTONE. I do, truly, for thou swear'st to me thou art honest; now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign. AUDREY. Would you not have me honest? TOUCHSTONE. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar. JAQUES. [Aside] A material fool! AUDREY. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish. AUDREY. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul. TOUCHSTONE. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness; sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee; and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who hath promis'd to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us. JAQUES. [Aside] I would fain see this meeting. AUDREY. Well, the gods give us joy! TOUCHSTONE. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said: 'Many a man knows no end of his goods.' Right! Many a man has good horns and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No; as a wall'd town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Here comes Sir Oliver. Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT
Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here
under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?
MARTEXT. Is there none here to give the woman? TOUCHSTONE. I will not take her on gift of any man. MARTEXT. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful. JAQUES. [Discovering himself] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her. TOUCHSTONE. Good even, good Master What-ye-call't; how do you, sir? You are very well met. Goddild you for your last company. I am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay; pray be cover'd. JAQUES. Will you be married, motley? TOUCHSTONE. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling. JAQUES. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is; this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and like green timber warp, warp. TOUCHSTONE. [Aside] I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him than of another; for he is not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. JAQUES. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. TOUCHSTONE. Come, sweet Audrey; We must be married or we must live in bawdry. Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not- O sweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, Leave me not behind thee. But- Wind away, Begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee. Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY MARTEXT. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. Exit SCENE IV. The forest Enter ROSALIND and CELIA
ROSALIND. Never talk to me; I will weep. CELIA. Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man. ROSALIND. But have I not cause to weep? CELIA. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep. ROSALIND. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. CELIA. Something browner than Judas's. Marry, his kisses are Judas's own children. ROSALIND. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour. CELIA. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour. ROSALIND. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread. CELIA. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them. ROSALIND. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not? CELIA. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. ROSALIND. Do you think so? CELIA. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut. ROSALIND. Not true in love? CELIA. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in. ROSALIND. You have heard him swear downright he was. CELIA. 'Was' is not 'is'; besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke, your father. ROSALIND. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laugh'd and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as Orlando? CELIA. O, that's a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here? Enter CORIN
CORIN. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired After the shepherd that complain'd of love, Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress. CELIA. Well, and what of him? CORIN. If you will see a pageant truly play'd Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, If you will mark it. ROSALIND. O, come, let us remove! The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. Bring us to this sight, and you shall say I'll prove a busy actor in their play. Exeunt SCENE V. Another part of the forest Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE
SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe. Say that you love me not; but say not so In bitterness. The common executioner, Whose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops? Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance
PHEBE. I would not be thy executioner; I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye. 'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable, That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomies, Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers! Now I do frown on thee with all my heart; And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee. Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down; Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee. Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains Some scar of it; lean upon a rush, The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not; Nor, I am sure, there is not force in eyes That can do hurt. SILVIUS. O dear Phebe, If ever- as that ever may be near- You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wounds invisible That love's keen arrows make. PHEBE. But till that time Come not thou near me; and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; As till that time I shall not pity thee. ROSALIND. [Advancing] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty- As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed- Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature's sale-work. 'Od's my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes too! No faith, proud mistress, hope not after it; 'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship. You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children. 'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her; And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her. But, mistress, know yourself. Down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love; For I must tell you friendly in your ear: Sell when you can; you are not for all markets. Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer; Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well. PHEBE. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together; I had rather hear you chide than this man woo. ROSALIND. He's fall'n in love with your foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me? PHEBE. For no ill will I bear you. ROSALIND. I pray you do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine; Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house, 'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by. Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard. Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud; though all the world could see, None could be so abus'd in sight as he. Come, to our flock. Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN PHEBE. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might: 'Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?' SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe. PHEBE. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius? SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, pity me. PHEBE. Why, I arn sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. SILVIUS. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Were both extermin'd. PHEBE. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly? SILVIUS. I would have you. PHEBE. Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was that I hated thee; And yet it is not that I bear thee love; But since that thou canst talk of love so well, Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, I will endure; and I'll employ thee too. But do not look for further recompense Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd. SILVIUS. So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps; loose now and then A scatt'red smile, and that I'll live upon. PHEBE. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile? SILVIUS. Not very well; but I have met him oft; And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds That the old carlot once was master of. PHEBE. Think not I love him, though I ask for him; 'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well. But what care I for words? Yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth- not very pretty; But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him. He'll make a proper man. The best thing in him Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall; His leg is but so-so; and yet 'tis well. There was a pretty redness in his lip, A little riper and more lusty red Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him; but, for my 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 rememb'red, scorn'd at me. I marvel why I answer'd 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. Phebe, with all my heart. PHEBE. 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 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 gain'd my experience. Enter ORLANDO
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. ORLANDO. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind! JAQUES. Nay, then, God buy 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 clapp'd him o' th' 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 woo'd 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 gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking- God warn us!- matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss. 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 dash'd out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have liv'd many a fair year, though Hero had turn'd nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drown'd; 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 wing'd. ROSALIND. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have possess'd 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 dispos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou are inclin'd 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 key-hole; 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 misus'd our sex in your love-prate. We must have your doublet and hose pluck'd 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, conceiv'd of spleen, and born of madness; that blind rascally boy, that abuses every one'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. The forest Enter JAQUES and LORDS, in the habit of foresters
JAQUES. Which is he that killed the deer? 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? LORD. Yes, sir. JAQUES. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough. SONG.
What shall he have that kill'd the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.
[The rest shall hear this burden:]
Then sing him home.
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. 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. Look, who comes here. Enter SILVIUS
SILVIUS. My errand is to you, fair youth; My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this. 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 tenour. 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; Phebe did write it. ROSALIND. Come, come, you are a fool, And turn'd into the extremity of love. I saw her hand; she has a leathern hand, A freestone-colour'd 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 Ethiope 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 Phebe's cruelty. ROSALIND. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads] 'Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?' 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 the
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 endur'd! Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee 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 sheep-cote fenc'd 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 ask'd, 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 handkercher was stain'd. 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 moss'd with age, And high top bald with dry antiquity, A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, Lay sleeping on his back. About his neck A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself, Who with her head nimble in threats approach'd The opening of his mouth; but suddenly, Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself, And with indented glides did slip away Into a bush; under which bush's shade A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, When that the sleeping man should stir; for '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 liv'd 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 suck'd and hungry lioness? OLIVER. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so; But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, Made him give battle to the lioness, Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling From miserable slumber I awak'd. CELIA. Are you his brother? ROSALIND. Was't you he rescu'd? 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 bath'd, As how I came into that desert place- In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke, Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, Committing me unto my brother's love; Who led me instantly unto his cave, There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm The lioness had torn some flesh away, Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted, And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound, And, after some small space, being strong at heart, He sent me hither, stranger as I am, To tell this story, that you might excuse His broken promise, and to give this napkin, Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd youth That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. [ROSALIND swoons] 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 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; here comes the man you mean. Enter WILLIAM
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 cover'd. 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 say'st 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 pour'd 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'er-run 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 seeks you; come away, away. TOUCHSTONE. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey. I attend, I attend. Exeunt SCENE II. 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. ORLANDO. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow. Thither will I invite the Duke and all's contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind. Enter 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 show'd me your handkercher? ORLANDO. Ay, and greater wonders than that. ROSALIND. O, I know where you are. Nay, 'tis true. There was never any thing 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 look'd; no sooner look'd but they lov'd; no sooner lov'd but they sigh'd; no sooner sigh'd but they ask'd 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 to-morrow; 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 to-morrow 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, to-morrow 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, convers'd 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 to-morrow, 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 to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind, if you will. Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE
Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.
PHEBE. 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 follow'd by a faithful shepherd; Look upon him, love him; he worships you. PHEBE. 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 Phebe. PHEBE. 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 Phebe. PHEBE. 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 obedience; And so am I for Phebe. PHEBE. And so am I for Ganymede. ORLANDO. And so am I for Rosalind. ROSALIND. And so am I for no woman. PHEBE. If this be so, why blame you me to love you? SILVIUS. 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 PHEBE] I would love you if I could.- To-morrow meet me all together. [ To PHEBE ] I will marry you if ever I marry woman, and I'll be married to-morrow. [To ORLANDO] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To Silvius] I will content you if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To ORLANDO] As you love Rosalind, meet. [To SILVIUS] As you love Phebe, 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. PHEBE. Nor I. ORLANDO. Nor I. Exeunt SCENE III. The forest Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY
TOUCHSTONE. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audre'y; to-morrow 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. Here come two of the banish'd Duke's pages. Enter two 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. It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers 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, &c. 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, &c. 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, &c. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable. FIRST PAGE. YOU are deceiv'd, 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 buy you; and God mend your voices. Come, Audrey. Exeunt SCENE IV. 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 PHEBE
ROSALIND. Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd: 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. And you say you will have her when I bring her? ORLANDO. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. ROSALIND. You say you'll marry me, if I be willing? PHEBE. 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? PHEBE. So is the bargain. ROSALIND. You say that you'll have Phebe, if she will? SILVIUS. Though to have her and death were both one thing. ROSALIND. I have promis'd 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, Phebe, 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 tutor'd in the rudiments Of many desperate studies by his uncle, Whom he reports to be a great magician, Obscured in the circle of this forest. Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY
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 call'd 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 flatt'red 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-favour'd thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that 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 call'd the Retort Courteous. If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he would send me word he cut it to please himself. This is call'd the Quip Modest. If again it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment. This is call'd the Reply Churlish. If again it was not well cut, he would answer I spake not true. This is call'd the Reproof Valiant. If again it was not well cut, he would say I lie. This is call'd 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 measur'd 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 peace-maker; much virtue in If. JAQUES. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? He's as good at any thing, 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, 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] 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. PHEBE. If sight and shape be true, Why then, my love adieu! ROSALIND. I'll have no father, if you be not he; I'll have no husband, if you be not he; 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. You and you no cross shall part; You and you are heart in heart; You to his love must accord, Or have a woman to your lord; 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. PHEBE. 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, Address'd 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 banish'd brother, And all their lands restor'd to them again That were with him exil'd. This to be true I do engage my life. DUKE SENIOR. Welcome, young man. Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding: To one, his lands withheld; and to the other, A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. First, in this forest let us do those ends That here were well begun and well begot; And after, every of this happy number, That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us, Shall share the good of our returned fortune, According to the measure of their states. Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity, And fall into our rustic revelry. Play, music; and you brides and bridegrooms all, With measure heap'd 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 learn'd. [To DUKE] 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 victuall'd.- 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 abandon'd cave. Exit DUKE SENIOR. Proceed, proceed. We will begin these rites, As we do trust they'll end, in true delights. [A dance] Exeunt EPILOGUE 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 furnish'd 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 simp'ring 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 pleas'd me, complexions that lik'd me, and breaths that I defied not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell. 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 judgment, 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 Dramatis Personae
CAIUS MARCIUS, afterwards CAIUS MARCIUS CORIOLANUS
Generals against the Volscians
TITUS LARTIUS COMINIUS MENENIUS AGRIPPA, friend to Coriolanus
Tribunes of the People
SICINIUS VELUTUS JUNIUS BRUTUS YOUNG MARCIUS, son to Coriolanus A ROMAN HERALD NICANOR, a Roman TULLUS AUFIDIUS, General of the Volscians LIEUTENANT, to Aufidius CONSPIRATORS, With Aufidius ADRIAN, a Volscian A CITIZEN of Antium TWO VOLSCIAN GUARDS VOLUMNIA, mother to Coriolanus VIRGILIA, wife to Coriolanus VALERIA, friend to Virgilia GENTLEWOMAN attending on Virgilia Roman and Volscian Senators, Patricians, Aediles, Lictors, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, Servants to Aufidius, and other Attendants SCENE: Rome and the neighbourhood; Corioli and the neighbourhood; Antium 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 resolv'd rather to die than to famish? ALL. Resolv'd, resolv'd. FIRST CITIZEN. First, you know Caius Marcius 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 Marcius? 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-conscienc'd 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. FIRST CITIZEN. Soft! who comes here? Enter MENENIUS AGRIPPA
SECOND CITIZEN. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always lov'd 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 car'd for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and their storehouses cramm'd 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 accus'd 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 Rebell'd against the belly; thus accus'd 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 answer'd- 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 restrain'd, 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. Y'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 MARCIUS
Hail, noble Marcius!
MARCIUS. 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. MARCIUS. 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 stor'd. MARCIUS. 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 quarter'd 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? MARCIUS. They are dissolv'd. Hang 'em! They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd 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 answer'd, 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? MARCIUS. 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 unroof'd the city Ere so prevail'd with me; it will in time Win upon power and throw forth greater themes For insurrection's arguing. MENENIUS. This is strange. MARCIUS. Go get you home, you fragments. Enter a MESSENGER, hastily
MESSENGER. Where's Caius Marcius? MARCIUS. Here. What's the matter? MESSENGER. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. I am glad on't; then we shall ha' means to vent Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. Enter COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with other SENATORS; JUNIUS BRUTUS and SICINIUS VELUTUS FIRST SENATOR. Marcius, 'tis true that you have lately told us: The Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. 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? MARCIUS. 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 Marcius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars. COMINIUS. It is your former promise. MARCIUS. 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? LARTIUS. No, Caius Marcius; I'll lean upon one crutch and fight with t'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. LARTIUS. [To COMINIUS] Lead you on. [To MARCIUS] Follow Cominius; we must follow you; Right worthy you priority. COMINIUS. Noble Marcius! FIRST SENATOR. [To the Citizens] Hence to your homes; be gone. MARCIUS. 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. Ciitzens steal away. Exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius? BRUTUS. He has no equal. SICINIUS. When we were chosen tribunes for the people- BRUTUS. Mark'd you his lip and eyes? SICINIUS. Nay, but his taunts! BRUTUS. Being mov'd, 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 is well grac'd- cannot Better be held nor more attain'd 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 Marcius 'O, if he Had borne the business!' SICINIUS. Besides, if things go well, Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall Of his demerits rob Cominius. BRUTUS. Come. Half all Cominius' honours are to Marcius, Though Marcius earn'd them not; and all his faults To Marcius 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 his singularity, he goes Upon this present action. BRUTUS. Let's along. Exeunt SCENE II. Corioli. The Senate House. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with SENATORS of Corioli
FIRST SENATOR. So, your opinion is, Aufidius, That they of Rome are ent'red 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 press'd a power, but it is not known Whether for east or west. The dearth is great; The people mutinous; and it is rumour'd, Cominius, Marcius 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 veil'd till when They needs must show themselves; which in the hatching, It seem'd, appear'd to Rome. By the discovery We shall be short'ned 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 Corioli. If they set down before's, for the remove Bring up your army; but I think you'll find Th' have not prepar'd 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 Marcius 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. MARCIUS' house Enter VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA, mother and wife to MARCIUS; 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 pluck'd 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 pleas'd to let him seek danger where he was to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he return'd 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 Marcius, 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 mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes, Like to a harvest-man that's task'd 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, look'd 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. Re-enter GENTLEWOMAN, With VALERIA and an usher
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 look'd upon him a Wednesday half an hour together; has such a confirm'd 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, catch'd it again; or whether his fall enrag'd him, or how 'twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it. O, I warrant, how he mammock'd 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 Corioli; 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 Corioli Enter MARCIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with drum and colours, with CAPTAINS and soldiers. To them a MESSENGER
MARCIUS. Yonder comes news; a wager- they have met. LARTIUS. My horse to yours- no. MARCIUS. 'Tis done. LARTIUS. Agreed. MARCIUS. 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. MARCIUS. 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. MARCIUS. How far off lie these armies? MESSENGER. Within this mile and half. MARCIUS. 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 Corioli 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 pinn'd 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. MARCIUS. O, they are at it! LARTIUS. Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho! Enter the army of the Volsces
MARCIUS. 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. Alarum. The Romans are beat back to their trenches. Re-enter MARCIUS, cursing MARCIUS. 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 abhorr'd 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 me. Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and MARCIUS follows them to the gates 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. [MARCIUS enters the gates]
FIRST SOLDIER. Fool-hardiness; not I. SECOND SOLDIER. Not I. [MARCIUS is shut in] FIRST SOLDIER. See, they have shut him in. ALL. To th' pot, I warrant him. [Alarum continues] Re-enter TITUS LARTIUS
LARTIUS. What is become of Marcius? ALL. Slain, sir, doubtless. FIRST SOLDIER. Following the fliers at the very heels, With them he enters; who, upon the sudden, Clapp'd 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, Marcius; 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 thunder-like percussion of thy sounds Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the world Were feverous and did tremble. Re-enter MARCIUS, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy
FIRST SOLDIER. Look, sir. LARTIUS. O, 'tis Marcius! Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike. [They fight, and all enter the city] SCENE V. Within Corioli. 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. [Alarum continues still afar off] Enter MARCIUS and TITUS LARTIUS With a trumpeter
MARCIUS. See here these movers that do prize their hours At a crack'd 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! Exeunt pillagers 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. MARCIUS. Sir, praise me not; My work hath yet not warm'd 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! MARCIUS. Thy friend no less Than those she placeth highest! So farewell. LARTIUS. Thou worthiest Marcius! Exit MARCIUS Go sound thy trumpet in the market-place; 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 charg'd 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 Corioli have issued And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle; I saw our party to their trenches driven, And then I came away. COMINIUS. Though thou speak'st 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 forc'd to wheel Three or four miles about; else had I, sir, Half an hour since brought my report. Enter MARCIUS
COMINIUS. Who's yonder That does appear as he were flay'd? O gods! He has the stamp of Marcius, and I have Before-time seen him thus. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue From every meaner man. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, But mantled in your own. MARCIUS. O! let me clip ye In arms as sound as when I woo'd, in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done, And tapers burn'd to bedward. COMINIUS. Flower of warriors, How is't with Titus Lartius? MARCIUS. As with a man busied about decrees: Condemning some to death and some to exile; Ransoming him or pitying, threat'ning th' other; Holding Corioli 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 is he? Call him hither. MARCIUS. Let him alone; He did inform the truth. But for our gentlemen, The common file- a plague! tribunes for them! The mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat as they did budge From rascals worse than they. COMINIUS. But how prevail'd you? MARCIUS. 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. Marcius, We have at disadvantage fought, and did Retire to win our purpose. MARCIUS. How lies their battle? Know you on which side They have plac'd their men of trust? COMINIUS. As I guess, Marcius, Their bands i' th' vaward are the Antiates, Of their best trust; o'er them Aufidius, Their very heart of hope. MARCIUS. 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 advanc'd 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. MARCIUS. 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 smear'd; 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 Marcius. [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 obey'd. Please you to march; And four shall quickly draw out my command, Which men are best inclin'd. COMINIUS. March on, my fellows; Make good this ostentation, and you shall Divide in all with us. Exeunt SCENE VII. The gates of Corioli TITUS LARTIUS, having set a guard upon Corioli, going with drum and trumpet toward COMINIUS and CAIUS MARCIUS, 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 MARCIUS and AUFIDIUS at several doors
MARCIUS. 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. MARCIUS. Let the first budger die the other's slave, And the gods doom him after! AUFIDIUS. If I fly, Marcius, Halloa me like a hare. MARCIUS. Within these three hours, Tullus, Alone I fought in your Corioli walls, And made what work I pleas'd. 'Tis not my blood Wherein thou seest me mask'd. For thy revenge Wrench up thy power to th' highest. AUFIDIUS. Wert thou the Hector That was the whip of your bragg'd progeny, Thou shouldst not scape me here. Here they fight, and certain Volsces come in the aid of AUFIDIUS. MARCIUS fights till they be driven in breathless Officious, and not valiant, you have sham'd me In your condemned seconds. Exeunt SCENE IX. The Roman camp Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Enter, at one door, COMINIUS with the Romans; at another door, MARCIUS, 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 quak'd, 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 din'd before. Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the pursuit
LARTIUS. O General, Here is the steed, we the caparison. Hadst thou beheld- MARCIUS. 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; induc'd 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 vouch'd, 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. MARCIUS. I have some wounds upon me, and they smart To hear themselves rememb'red. 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 achiev'd and city, We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth Before the common distribution at Your only choice. MARCIUS. 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 'Marcius, Marcius!' 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-fac'd soothing. When steel grows Soft as the parasite's silk, let him be made An overture for th' wars. No more, I say. For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled, Or foil'd some debile wretch, which without note Here's many else have done, you shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical, As if I lov'd my little should be dieted In praises sauc'd 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 incens'd, 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 Marcius 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 Corioli, can him With all th' applause-and clamour of the host, Caius Marcius Coriolanus. Bear th' addition nobly ever! [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums] ALL. Caius Marcius 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 Corioli 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 Refus'd 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 Corioli At a poor man's house; he us'd me kindly. He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; But then Aufidius was within my view, And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity. I request you To give my poor host freedom. COMINIUS. O, well begg'd! Were he the butcher of my son, he should Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. LARTIUS. Marcius, his name? CORIOLANUS. By Jupiter, forgot! I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd. Have we no wine here? COMINIUS. Go we to our tent. The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time It should be look'd to. Come. 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. FIRST SOLDIER. 'Twill be deliver'd 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, Marcius, 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. FIRST SOLDIER. He's the devil. AUFIDIUS. Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour's poison'd 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 Marcius. 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. FIRST 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. FIRST 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 Marcius. 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 Marcius. BRUTUS. He's a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear. MENENIUS. He's a bear indeed, that lives fike 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 Marcius poor in that you two have not in abundance? BRUTUS. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd 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 censur'd? 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 Marcius 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 infant-like 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 deliver'd 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 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 any thing. 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 fosset-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 pinch'd 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 entomb'd in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying Marcius 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. God-den 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. [BRUTUS and SICINIUS go 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 Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let's go. MENENIUS. Ha! Marcius coming home? VOLUMNIA. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation. MENENIUS. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo! Marcius coming home! VOLUMNIA, 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 to-night. A letter for me? VIRGILIA. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw't. 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 a 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 disciplin'd 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 stay'd by him, I would not have been so fidius'd for all the chests in Corioli and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate possess'd 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! Marcius 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 Marcius. Before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears; Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie, Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die. A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the GENERAL, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crown'd with an oaken garland; with CAPTAINS and soldiers and a HERALD HERALD. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight Within Corioli gates, where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these In honour follows Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! [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, petition'd all the gods For my prosperity! [Kneels] VOLUMNIA. Nay, my good soldier, up; My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd- What is it? Coriolanus must I can thee? But, O, thy wife! CORIOLANUS. My gracious silence, hail! Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home, That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioli 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 y'are 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 his wife and mother] Your hand, and yours. Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited; From whom I have receiv'd 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. 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 smother'd up, leads fill'd and ridges hors'd 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 veil'd dames Commit the war of white and damask in Their nicely gawded cheeks to th' wanton spoil Of Phoebus' burning kisses. Such a pother, As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slily 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 I 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' market-place, 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, silenc'd 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 he 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 Marcius 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 scarfs and handkerchers, Upon him as he pass'd; 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 every one 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 flatter'd 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, bonneted, 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 car 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. SICINIUS and BRUTUS take their places by themselves. CORIOLANUS stands MENENIUS. Having determin'd 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 perform'd By Caius Marcius 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 bless'd to do, if he remember A kinder value of the people than He hath hereto priz'd 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 disbench'd you not. CORIOLANUS. No, sir; yet oft, When blows have made me stay, I fled from words. You sooth'd 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 monster'd. 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 utter'd 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 counterpois'd. 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'erpress'd 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 prov'd best man i' th' field, and for his meed Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age Man-ent'red thus, he waxed like a sea, And in the brunt of seventeen battles since He lurch'd all swords of the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioli, let me say I cannot speak him home. He stopp'd the fliers, And by his rare example made the coward Turn terror into sport; as weeds before A vessel under sail, so men obey'd 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 tim'd with dying cries. Alone he ent'red The mortal gate of th' city, which he painted With shunless destiny; aidless came off, And with a sudden re-enforcement struck Corioli 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 Re-quick'ned 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 call'd 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 kick'd at, And look'd 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 call'd for. FIRST SENATOR. Call Coriolanus. OFFICER. He doth appear. Re-enter CORIOLANUS
MENENIUS. The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas'd 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 receiv'd 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. Then 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' market-place 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 call'd so of many; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some abram, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely colour'd; 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 wedg'd up in a block-head; 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 resolv'd 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 every one 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 citizens 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 roar'd 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 Re-enter three of the citizens
CORIOLANUS. Bid them wash their faces And keep their teeth clean. So, here comes a brace. You know the cause, sir, 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, 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 begg'd. I have your alms. Adieu. THIRD CITIZEN. But this is something odd. SECOND CITIZEN. An 'twere to give again- but 'tis no matter. Exeunt the three citizens Re-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 do 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 heap'd 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. Re-enter three citizens more
Here come moe voices.
Your voices. For your voices I have fought;
Watch'd 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. Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul! Exeunt citizens CORIOLANUS. Worthy voices! Re-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 discharg'd. The people do admit you, and are summon'd 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's heart. BRUTUS. With a proud heart he wore His humble weeds. Will you dismiss the people? Re-enter citizens
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 mock'd us when he begg'd 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 us'd us scornfully. He should have show'd us His marks of merit, wounds receiv'd 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 lesson'd- 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-advis'd, had touch'd his spirit And tried his inclination; from him pluck'd Either his gracious promise, which you might, As cause had call'd you up, have held him to; Or else it would have gall'd 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 pass'd 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 su'd-for tongues? THIRD CITIZEN. He's not confirm'd: we may deny him yet. SECOND CITIZENS. 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 scorn'd 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 labour'd, 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, Pre-occupied 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' Marcians; from whence came That Ancus Marcius, 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, nobly named so, Twice being by the people chosen 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. CITIZENS. will 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 caus'd 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 retir'd 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 call'd 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 pass'd the noble and the common? BRUTUS. Cominius, no. CORIOLANUS. Have I had children's voices? FIRST SENATOR. Tribunes, give way: he shall to th' market-place. BRUTUS. The people are incens'd 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 purpos'd 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 rul'd. BRUTUS. Call't not a plot. The people cry you mock'd them; and of late, When corn was given them gratis, you repin'd; Scandal'd the suppliants for the people, call'd them Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness. CORIOLANUS. Why, this was known before. BRUTUS. Not to them all. CORIOLANUS. Have you inform'd 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 enquire 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 abus'd; set on. This palt'ring Becomes not Rome; nor has Coriolanus Deserved this so dishonour'd 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 meiny, 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 plough'd for, sow'd, and scatter'd, By mingling them with us, the honour'd 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 here 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 learn'd, 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 frown'd 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' market-place. CORIOLANUS. Whoever gave that counsel to give forth The corn o' th' storehouse gratis, as 'twas us'd Sometime in Greece- MENENIUS. Well, well, no more of that. CORIOLANUS. Though there the people had more absolute pow'r- I say they nourish'd 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 assur'd They ne'er did service for't; being press'd to th' war Even when the navel of the state was touch'd, 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 show'd 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 multiplied 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 barr'd, 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 the 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! Enter an AEDILE
Let him be apprehended.
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! PATRICIANS. We'll surety him. COMINIUS. Ag'd sir, hands off. CORIOLANUS. 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. PLEBEIANS. Down with him! down with him! SECOND SENATOR. Weapons, weapons, weapons! [They all bustle about CORIOLANUS] ALL. Tribunes! patricians! citizens! What, ho! Sicinius! Brutus! Coriolanus! Citizens! PATRICIANS. 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! PLEBEIANS. Let's hear our tribune. Peace! Speak, speak, speak. SICINIUS. You are at point to lose your liberties. Marcius would have all from you; Marcius, Whom late you have nam'd 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? PLEBEIANS. True, The people are the city. BRUTUS. By the consent of all we were establish'd The people's magistrates. 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: Marcius 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. PLEBEIANS. Yield, Marcius, 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 Marcius, help, You that be noble; help him, young and old. 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; be gone, away. All will be nought 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; be gone, beseech you. COMINIUS. Come, sir, along with us. CORIOLANUS. I would they were barbarians, as they are, Though in Rome litter'd; not Romans, as they are not, Though calved i' th' porch o' th' Capitol. MENENIUS. Be gone. 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 call'd 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 us'd to bear. MENENIUS. Pray you be gone. I'll try whether my old wit be in request With those that have but little; this must be patch'd With cloth of any colour. COMINIUS. Nay, come away. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and COMINIUS, with others PATRICIANS. This man has marr'd 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! PATRICIANS. I would they were a-bed. MENENIUS. I would they were in Tiber. What the vengeance, could he not speak 'em fair? Re-enter BRUTUS and SICINIUS, 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 nought. FIRST CITIZEN. He shall well know The noble tribunes are the people's mouths, And we their hands. 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! 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 to-night. MENENIUS. Now the good gods forbid That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude Towards her deserved children is enroll'd 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 kam. BRUTUS. Merely awry. When he did love his country, It honour'd him. SICINIUS. The service of the foot, Being once gangren'd, 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 unscann'd swiftness, will, too late, Tie leaden pounds to's heels. Proceed by process, Lest parties- as he is belov'd- 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 'a could draw a sword, and is ill school'd 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 market-place. We'll attend you there; Where, if you bring not Marcius, we'll proceed In our first way. MENENIUS. I'll bring him to you. [To the 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. The house of CORIOLANUS 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 show'd them how ye were dispos'd, Ere they lack'd 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 counsell'd; 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 unsever'd 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 roted 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 requir'd 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 los Of what is past. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, My son, Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand; And thus far having stretch'd 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 ask'd, as free As words to little purpose. VOLUMNIA. Prithee now, Go, and be rul'd; 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' market-place; 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 unbarb'd 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 Marcius, they to dust should grind it, And throw't against the wind. To th' market-place! 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 turn'd, Which quier'd 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 arm'd knees, Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath receiv'd 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 market-place; Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves, Cog their hearts from them, and come home belov'd 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 COMINIUS. Away! The tribunes do attend you. Arm yourself To answer mildly; for they are prepar'd 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 favour'd him. SICINIUS. Have you a catalogue Of all the voices that we have procur'd, Set down by th' poll? AEDILE. I have; 'tis ready. SICINIUS. Have you corrected 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 confus'd 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 us'd Ever to conquer, and to have his worth Of contradiction; being once chaf'd, he cannot Be rein'd 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 others
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' honour'd 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. Re-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 charg'd 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 prov'd 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 briers, 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 pass'd for consul with full voice, I am so dishonour'd 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 contriv'd to take From Rome all season'd 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 clutch'd 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? 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 Serv'd 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, Ev'n 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. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so! Let him away! He's banish'd, and it shall be so. COMINIUS. Hear me, my masters and my common friends- SICINIUS. He's sentenc'd; 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 banish'd, As enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so. 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, MENENIUS, with the other PATRICIANS AEDILE. The people's enemy is gone, is gone! [They all shout and throw up their caps] PLEBEIANS. Our enemy is banish'd, he is gone! Hoo-oo! SICINIUS. Go see him out at gates, and follow him, As he hath follow'd you, with all despite; Give him deserv'd vexation. Let a guard Attend us through the city. 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 us'd To say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm all boats alike Show'd mastership in floating; fortune's blows, When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves A noble cunning. You were us'd to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conn'd 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 lov'd when I am lack'd. 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 sav'd 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 fear'd and talk'd 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 the 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 unbruis'd; 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 the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS with the AEDILE
SICINIUS. Bid them all home; he's gone, and we'll no further. The nobility are vex'd, 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, Y'are well met; th' 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 BRUTUS] Will you be gone? VIRGILIA. [To SICINIUS] 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. Moe 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 incens'd 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 banish'd does exceed you an. 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 VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie! Exit SCENE III. A highway between Rome and Antium Enter a ROMAN and a VOLSCE, meeting
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 appear'd 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 banish'd! ROMAN. Banish'd, 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 fall'n 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. SCENE IV. Antium. Before AUFIDIUS' house Enter CORIOLANUS, in mean apparel, disguis'd 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. SCENE V. Antium. AUFIDIUS' house Music plays. Enter A SERVINGMAN
FIRST SERVANT. Wine, wine, wine! What service is here! I think our fellows are asleep. Exit
Enter another SERVINGMAN
SECOND SERVANT.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. Re-enter the first SERVINGMAN
FIRST SERVANT. What would you have, friend? Whence are you? Here's no place for you: pray go to the door. Exit CORIOLANUS. I have deserv'd no better entertainment In being Coriolanus. Re-enter second SERVINGMAN
SECOND SERVANT. 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 SERVANT. Away? Get you away. CORIOLANUS. Now th' art troublesome. SECOND SERVANT. Are you so brave? I'll have you talk'd with anon. Enter a third SERVINGMAN. The first meets him
THIRD SERVANT. What fellow's this? FIRST SERVANT. A strange one as ever I look'd on. I cannot get him out o' th' house. Prithee call my master to him. THIRD SERVANT. What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you avoid the house. CORIOLANUS. Let me but stand- I will not hurt your hearth. THIRD SERVANT. What are you? CORIOLANUS. A gentleman. THIRD SERVANT. A marv'llous poor one. CORIOLANUS. True, so I am. THIRD SERVANT. 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 SERVANT. What, you will not? Prithee tell my master what a strange guest he has here. SECOND SERVANT. And I shall. Exit THIRD SERVANT. Where dwell'st thou? CORIOLANUS. Under the canopy. THIRD SERVANT. Under the canopy? CORIOLANUS. Ay. THIRD SERVANT. Where's that? CORIOLANUS. I' th' city of kites and crows. THIRD SERVANT. 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 SERVANT. 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] Enter AUFIDIUS with the second SERVINGMAN
AUFIDIUS. Where is this fellow? SECOND SERVANT. 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. [Unmuffling] 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 Marcius, 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 devour'd the rest, An suffer'd me by th' voice of slaves to be Whoop'd 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 fear'd 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 cank'red country with the spleen Of all the under fiends. But if so be Thou dar'st not this, and that to prove more fortunes Th'art tir'd, 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 Marcius, Marcius! 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 Marcius. Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarr'd 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 lov'd the maid I married; never man Sigh'd 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 the 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 wak'd half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome but that Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all From twelve to seventy, and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o'erbeat. O, come, go in, And take our friendly senators by th' hands, Who now are here, taking their leaves of me Who am prepar'd 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 experienc'd, 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, Marcius, that was much. Your hand; most welcome! Exeunt CORIOLANUS and AUFIDIUS The two SERVINGMEN come forward
FIRST SERVANT. Here's a strange alteration! SECOND SERVANT. 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 SERVANT. What an arm he has! He turn'd me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top. SECOND SERVANT. 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 SERVANT. He had so, looking as it were- Would I were hang'd, but I thought there was more in him than I could think. SECOND SERVANT. So did I, I'll be sworn. He is simply the rarest man i' th' world. FIRST SERVANT. I think he is; but a greater soldier than he you wot on. SECOND SERVANT. Who, my master? FIRST SERVANT. Nay, it's no matter for that. SECOND SERVANT. Worth six on him. FIRST SERVANT. Nay, not so neither; but I take him to be the greater soldier. SECOND SERVANT. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that; for the defence of a town our general is excellent. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and for an assault too. Re-enter the third SERVINGMAN
THIRD SERVANT. O slaves, I can tell you news- news, you rascals! BOTH. What, what, what? Let's partake. THIRD SERVANT. I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lief be a condemn'd man. BOTH. Wherefore? wherefore? THIRD SERVANT. Why, here's he that was wont to thwack our general- Caius Marcius. FIRST SERVANT. Why do you say 'thwack our general'? THIRD SERVANT. I do not say 'thwack our general,' but he was always good enough for him. SECOND SERVANT. Come, we are fellows and friends. He was ever too hard for him, I have heard him say so himself. FIRST SERVANT. He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on't; before Corioli he scotch'd him and notch'd him like a carbonado. SECOND SERVANT. An he had been cannibally given, he might have broil'd and eaten him too. FIRST SERVANT. But more of thy news! THIRD SERVANT. 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 poll'd. SECOND SERVANT. And he's as like to do't as any man I can imagine. THIRD SERVANT. 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, whilst he's in directitude. FIRST SERVANT. Directitude? What's that? THIRD SERVANT. But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows, like conies after rain, and revel an with him. FIRST SERVANT. But when goes this forward? THIRD SERVANT. To-morrow, to-day, 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 SERVANT. Why, then we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers. FIRST SERVANT. Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mull'd, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men. SECOND SERVANT. '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 SERVANT. Ay, and it makes men hate one another. THIRD SERVANT. 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. BOTH. 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 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. Enter MENENIUS
BRUTUS. We stood to't in good time. 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 miss'd 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 He could have temporiz'd. 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
CITIZENS. The gods preserve you both! SICINIUS. God-den, our neighbours. BRUTUS. God-den to you all, god-den to you an. 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 wish'd Coriolanus Had lov'd 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 Marcius was A worthy officer i' the 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 several powers Are ent'red in the Roman territories, And with the deepest malice of the war Destroy what lies before 'em. MENENIUS. 'Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Marcius' banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which were inshell'd when Marcius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out. SICINIUS. Come, what talk you of Marcius? BRUTUS. Go see this rumourer whipp'd. 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 come 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 deliver'd. SICINIUS. What more fearful? MESSENGER. It is spoke freely out of many mouths- How probable I do not know- that Marcius, Join'd 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. Rais'd only that the weaker sort may wish Good Marcius 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 Marcius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O'erborne their way, consum'd 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 dishonour'd 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, confin'd Into an auger's bore. MENENIUS. Pray now, your news? You have made fair work, I fear me. Pray, your news. If Marcius should be join'd wi' th' 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 mock'd 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 charg'd him even As those should do that had deserv'd his hate, And therein show'd fike 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. BOTH TRIBUNES. Say not we brought it. MENENIUS. How! Was't we? We lov'd 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 deserv'd it. PLEBEIANS. 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. Y'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 be not dismay'd; 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 banish'd 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 Join'd 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 dragon-like, 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 controll'd the war; but one of these- As he hath spices of them all- not all, For I dare so far free him- made him fear'd, So hated, and so banish'd. 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 and BRUTUS, the two Tribunes, with others
MENENIUS. No, I'll not go. You hear what he hath said Which was sometime his general, who lov'd him In a most dear particular. He call'd me father; But what o' that? Go, you that banish'd him: A mile before his tent fall down, and knee The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coy'd 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 urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together. 'Coriolanus' He would not answer to; forbid all names; He was a kind of nothing, titleless, Till he had forg'd himself a name i' th' fire Of burning Rome. MENENIUS. Why, so! You have made good work. A pair of tribunes that have wrack'd for 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 punish'd. MENENIUS. Very well. Could he say less? COMINIUS. I offer'd 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 Marcius. MENENIUS. Well, and say that Marcius Return me, as Cominius is return'd, 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 din'd; The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd These pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priest-like 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 gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him; 'Twas very faintly he said 'Rise'; dismiss'd 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. The Volscian camp before Rome Enter MENENIUS to the WATCH on 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 embrac'd 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 touch'd 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 unparallel'd haply 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 stamp'd 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 din'd, canst 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 push'd 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 decay'd 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 deceiv'd; therefore back to Rome and prepare for your execution. You are condemn'd; 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. FIRST 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. 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 be gone. Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force. Yet, for I lov'd thee, Take this along; I writ it for thy sake [Gives a letter] And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius, Was my belov'd in Rome; yet thou behold'st. AUFIDIUS. You keep a constant temper. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and Aufidius 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, y'are 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's the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. Exeunt SCENE III. The tent of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others
CORIOLANUS. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow 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; stopp'd 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 crack'd heart I have sent to Rome, Lov'd 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 show'd sourly to him- once more offer'd 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, in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, VALERIA, YOUNG MARCIUS, with attendants My wife comes foremost, then the honour'd mould Wherein this trunk was fram'd, 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 chang'd 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.' 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 virgin'd 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! 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. [Kneels] CORIOLANUS. What's this? Your knees to me, to your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun, Murd'ring 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 sea-mark, standing every flaw, And saving those that eye thee! VOLUMNIA. Your knee, sirrah. CORIOLANUS. That's my brave boy. VOLUMNIA. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself, Are suitors to you. 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 any thing- 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 nought 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 bar'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 can not 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. BOY. 'A 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. [Rising] 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 show'd,' the Romans 'This we receiv'd,' and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry 'Be blest 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 dogg'd with curses; Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wip'd it out, Destroy'd his country, and his name remains To th' ensuing age abhorr'd.' 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 Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy, When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home Loaden with honour. Say my request's unjust, And spurn me back; but if it he 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; 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. This fellow had a Volscian to his mother; His wife is in Corioli, and his child Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch. I am hush'd 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 prevail'd, 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 mov'd 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'fl 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! 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 ladies] Ay, by and by; But we will drink together; and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have counter-seal'd. 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' th' 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 sentenc'd, 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 Marcius is grown from man to dragon; he has wings, he's more than a creeping thing. SICINIUS. He lov'd 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 finish'd 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 banish'd 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 prevail'd, The Volscians are dislodg'd, and Marcius 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 lurk'd, 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 pray'd well to-day: 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 VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, VALERIA, passing over the stage, 'With other LORDS FIRST 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 banish'd Marcius, Repeal him with the welcome of his mother; ALL. Welcome, ladies, welcome! [A flourish with drums and trumpets. Exeunt] SCENE VI. Corioli. A public place Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with attendents
AUFIDIUS. Go tell the lords o' th' city I am here; Deliver them this paper' having read it, Bid them repair to th' market-place, 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 enter'd and Intends t' appear before the people, hoping To purge himself with words. Dispatch. Exeunt attendants Enter three or four CONSPIRATORS of AUFIDIUS' faction
Most welcome!
FIRST CONSPIRATOR. How is it with our general? AUFIDIUS. Even so As with a man by his own alms empoison'd, And with his charity slain. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. Most noble sir, If you do hold the same intent wherein You wish'd 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 rais'd him, and I pawn'd Mine honour for his truth; who being so heighten'd, He watered his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends; and to this end He bow'd 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 spoken of. Being banish'd 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; serv'd 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 seem'd his follower, not partner; and He wag'd me with his countenance as if I had been mercenary. FIRST CONSPIRATOR. So he did, my lord. The army marvell'd at it; and, in the last, When he had carried Rome and that we look'd For no less spoil than glory- AUFIDIUS. There was it; For which my sinews shall be stretch'd 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 enter'd 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 pronounc'd shall bury His reasons with his body. AUFIDIUS. Say no more: Here come the lords. Enter the LORDS of the city
LORDS. You are most welcome home. AUFIDIUS. I have not deserv'd it. But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused What I have written to you? 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. AUFIDIUS. He approaches; you shall hear him. Enter CORIOLANUS, marching with drum and colours; the commoners being with him CORIOLANUS. Hail, lords! I am return'd 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, Subscrib'd by th' consuls and patricians, Together with the seal o' th' Senate, what We have compounded on. AUFIDIUS. Read it not, noble lords; But tell the traitor in the highest degree He hath abus'd your powers. CORIOLANUS. Traitor! How now? AUFIDIUS. Ay, traitor, Marcius. CORIOLANUS. Marcius! AUFIDIUS. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius! Dost thou think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol'n name Coriolanus, in Corioli? You lords and heads o' th' state, perfidiously He has betray'd 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 whin'd and roar'd away your victory, That pages blush'd at him, and men of heart Look'd wond'ring each at others. 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 forc'd to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie; and his own notion- Who wears my stripes impress'd 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 dove-cote, I Flutter'd your Volscians in Corioli. 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? CONSPIRATORS. Let him die for't. ALL THE PEOPLE. Tear him to pieces. Do it presently. He kill'd my son. My daughter. He kill'd my cousin Marcus. He kill'd 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! CONSPIRATORS. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him! [The CONSPIRATORS draw and kill CORIOLANUS,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, Provok'd 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 um. 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 CORIOLANUS [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 Immogen 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 of 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 of 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 lamp 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 part I come with; so I’ll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o’ th’ Leonati in me! To shame the guise o’ th’ world, I will begin The fashion less without and more within.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps. Enter Lucius, Iachimo and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, Leonatus Posthumus following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, Iachimo and Posthumus. He vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo and then leaves him.
IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on’t Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature’s, have subdu’d me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods.
[Exit.]
The battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken. Then enter to his rescue Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.
BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th’ advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears.
GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight!
Enter Posthumus and seconds the Britons; they rescue Cymbeline and exeunt. Then re-enter Lucius and Iachimo with Imogen.
LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such As war were hoodwink’d.
IACHIMO. ’Tis their fresh supplies.
LUCIUS. It is a day turn’d strangely. Or betimes Let’s reinforce or fly.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Another part of the field. Enter Posthumus and a Briton Lord.
LORD. Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?
POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
LORD. I did.
POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying, Through a strait lane; the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do’t, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm’d With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length’ned shame.
LORD. Where was this lane?
POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier, An honest one, I warrant, who deserv’d So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for’s country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings (lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas’d or shame) Made good the passage, cried to those that fled ‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!’ These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many— For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing—with this word ‘Stand, stand!’ Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn’d A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some turn’d coward But by example (O, a sin in war Damn’d in the first beginners) ’gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o’ th’ hunters. Then began A stop i’ th’ chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o’ th’ need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O’erborne i’ th’ former wave. Ten chas’d by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o’ th’ field.
LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.
POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t, And vent it for a mock’ry? Here is one: ‘Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’
LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir.
POSTHUMUS. ’Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I’ll be his friend; For if he’ll do as he is made to do, I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme.
LORD. Farewell; you’re angry.
[Exit.]
POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i’ th’ field and ask ‘What news?’ of me! Today how many would have given their honours To have sav’d their carcasses! took heel to do’t, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, ’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i’ th’ war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum’d again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th’ Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen.
Enter two British Captains and soldiers.
FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken. ’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th’ affront with them.
FIRST CAPTAIN. So ’tis reported; But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?
POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer’d him.
SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King.
Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio and Roman captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a gaoler.
[Exeunt omnes.]
SCENE IV. Britain. A prison. Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers.
FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture.
SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach.
[Exeunt Gaolers.]
POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that’s sick o’ th’ gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur’d By th’ sure physician death, who is the key T’ unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’d More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is’t enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir’d more than constrain’d. To satisfy, If of my freedom ’tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that’s not my desire. For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though ’Tis not so dear, yet ’tis a life; you coin’d it. ’Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow’rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I’ll speak to thee in silence.
[Sleeps.]
Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, Sicilius Leonatus, father to Posthumus, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his wife and Mother to Posthumus, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping.
SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay’d Attending nature’s law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans’ father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart.
MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp’d, Came crying ’mongst his foes, A thing of pity.
SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv’d the praise o’ th’ world As great Sicilius’ heir.
FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity?
MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock’d, To be exil’d and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen?
SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O’ th’ other’s villainy?
SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our country’s cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius’ right With honour to maintain.
FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform’d. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn’d The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn’d?
SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries.
MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries.
SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th’ shining synod of the rest Against thy deity.
BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly.
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees.
JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flow’rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay’d, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.
[Ascends.]
SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulphurous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop’d as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas’d.
ALL. Thanks, Jupiter!
SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest.
[Ghosts vanish.]
POSTHUMUS. [Waking.] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness’ favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep’d in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise.
[Reads.] When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.
’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I’ll keep, if but for sympathy.
Enter Gaoler.
GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death?
POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook’d.
POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.
GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows.
POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live.
GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.
POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow.
GAOLER. Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have not seen him so pictur’d. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one.
POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them.
GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King.
POSTHUMUS. Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free.
GAOLER. I’ll be hang’d then.
POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.
[Exeunt Posthumus and Messenger.]
GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in’t.
[Exit.]
SCENE V. Britain. Cymbeline’s tent. Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Officers and Attendants.
CYMBELINE. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found. He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so.
BELARIUS. I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such precious deeds in one that promis’d nought But beggary and poor looks.
CYMBELINE. No tidings of him?
PISANIO. He hath been search’d among the dead and living, But no trace of him.
CYMBELINE. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward, [To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus] which I will add To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. ’Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it.
BELARIUS. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen; Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add we are honest.
CYMBELINE. Bow your knees. Arise my knights o’ th’ battle; I create you Companions to our person, and will fit you With dignities becoming your estates.
Enter Cornelius and Ladies.
There’s business in these faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory? You look like Romans, And not o’ th’ court of Britain.
CORNELIUS. Hail, great King! To sour your happiness I must report The Queen is dead.
CYMBELINE. Who worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider By med’cine life may be prolong’d, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?
CORNELIUS. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d I will report, so please you; these her women Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks Were present when she finish’d.
CYMBELINE. Prithee say.
CORNELIUS. First, she confess’d she never lov’d you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you; Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorr’d your person.
CYMBELINE. She alone knew this; And but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.
CORNELIUS. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her flight prevented it, she had Ta’en off by poison.
CYMBELINE. O most delicate fiend! Who is’t can read a woman? Is there more?
CORNELIUS. More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral, which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life, and ling’ring, By inches waste you. In which time she purpos’d, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O’ercome you with her show; and in time, When she had fitted you with her craft, to work Her son into th’ adoption of the crown; But failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate, open’d, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented The evils she hatch’d were not effected; so, Despairing, died.
CYMBELINE. Heard you all this, her women?
LADIES. We did, so please your Highness.
CYMBELINE. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter! That it was folly in me thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!
Enter Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer and other Roman prisoners, guarded; Posthumus behind, and Imogen.
Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute; that The Britons have raz’d out, though with the loss Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeas’d with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So think of your estate.
LUCIUS. Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’d Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call’d ransom, let it come. Sufficeth A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer. Augustus lives to think on’t; and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom’d. Never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join With my request, which I’ll make bold your Highness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm Though he have serv’d a Roman. Save him, sir, And spare no blood beside.
CYMBELINE. I have surely seen him; His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore To say “Live, boy.” Ne’er thank thy master. Live; And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta’en.
IMOGEN. I humbly thank your Highness.
LUCIUS. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt.
IMOGEN. No, no! Alack, There’s other work in hand. I see a thing Bitter to me as death; your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself.
LUCIUS. The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why stands he so perplex’d?
CYMBELINE. What wouldst thou, boy? I love thee more and more; think more and more What’s best to ask. Know’st him thou look’st on? Speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?
IMOGEN. He is a Roman, no more kin to me Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer.
CYMBELINE. Wherefore ey’st him so?
IMOGEN. I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing.
CYMBELINE. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?
IMOGEN. Fidele, sir.
CYMBELINE. Thou’rt my good youth, my page; I’ll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely. [Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart.]
BELARIUS. Is not this boy reviv’d from death?
ARVIRAGUS. One sand another Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad Who died and was Fidele. What think you?
GUIDERIUS. The same dead thing alive.
BELARIUS. Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear. Creatures may be alike; were’t he, I am sure He would have spoke to us.
GUIDERIUS. But we see him dead.
BELARIUS. Be silent; let’s see further.
PISANIO. [Aside.] It is my mistress. Since she is living, let the time run on To good or bad.
[Cymbeline and Imogen advance.]
CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud. [To Iachimo.] Sir, step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely, Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, Which is our honour, bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.
IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.
POSTHUMUS. [Aside.] What’s that to him?
CYMBELINE. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours?
IACHIMO. Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that Which to be spoke would torture thee.
CYMBELINE. How? me?
IACHIMO. I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villainy I got this ring; ’twas Leonatus’ jewel, Whom thou didst banish; and—which more may grieve thee, As it doth me—a nobler sir ne’er liv’d ’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?
CYMBELINE. All that belongs to this.
IACHIMO. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits Quail to remember—Give me leave, I faint.
CYMBELINE. My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength; I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.
IACHIMO. Upon a time, unhappy was the clock That struck the hour: was in Rome, accurs’d The mansion where: ’twas at a feast, O, would Our viands had been poison’d (or at least Those which I heav’d to head) the good Posthumus (What should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Amongst the rar’st of good ones) sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the eye.
CYMBELINE. I stand on fire. Come to the matter.
IACHIMO. All too soon I shall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a noble lord in love and one That had a royal lover, took his hint; And (not dispraising whom we prais’d, therein He was as calm as virtue) he began His mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in’t, either our brags Were crack’d of kitchen trulls, or his description Prov’d us unspeaking sots.
CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th’ purpose.
IACHIMO. Your daughter’s chastity (there it begins) He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch, Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him Pieces of gold ’gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour’d finger, to attain In suit the place of’s bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of Phoebus’ wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth of’s car. Away to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference ’Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench’d Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain Gan in your duller Britain operate Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent; And, to be brief, my practice so prevail’d That I return’d with simular proof enough To make the noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his belief in her renown With tokens thus and thus; averring notes Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet (O cunning, how I got it!) nay, some marks Of secret on her person, that he could not But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d, I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon Methinks I see him now—
POSTHUMUS. [Coming forward.] Ay, so thou dost, Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool, Egregious murderer, thief, anything That’s due to all the villains past, in being, To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison, Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out For torturers ingenious. It is I That all th’ abhorred things o’ th’ earth amend By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, That kill’d thy daughter; villain-like, I lie; That caus’d a lesser villain than myself, A sacrilegious thief, to do’t. The temple Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself. Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set The dogs o’ th’ street to bay me. Every villain Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villainy less than ’twas! O Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!
IMOGEN. Peace, my lord. Hear, hear!
POSTHUMUS. Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page, There lies thy part.
[Strikes her. She falls.]
PISANIO. O gentlemen, help! Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus! You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help! Mine honour’d lady!
CYMBELINE. Does the world go round?
POSTHUMUS. How comes these staggers on me?
PISANIO. Wake, my mistress!
CYMBELINE. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy.
PISANIO. How fares my mistress?
IMOGEN. O, get thee from my sight; Thou gav’st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where princes are.
CYMBELINE. The tune of Imogen!
PISANIO. Lady, The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if That box I gave you was not thought by me A precious thing! I had it from the Queen.
CYMBELINE. New matter still?
IMOGEN. It poison’d me.
CORNELIUS. O gods! I left out one thing which the Queen confess’d, Which must approve thee honest. ‘If Pisanio Have’ said she ‘given his mistress that confection Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv’d As I would serve a rat.’
CYMBELINE. What’s this, Cornelius?
CORNELIUS. The Queen, sir, very oft importun’d me To temper poisons for her; still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge only In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs, Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certain stuff, which, being ta’en would cease The present pow’r of life, but in short time All offices of nature should again Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?
IMOGEN. Most like I did, for I was dead.
BELARIUS. My boys, There was our error.
GUIDERIUS. This is sure Fidele.
IMOGEN. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a rock, and now Throw me again.
[Embracing him.]
POSTHUMUS. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
CYMBELINE. How now, my flesh? my child? What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me?
IMOGEN. [Kneeling.] Your blessing, sir.
BELARIUS. [To Guiderius and Arviragus.] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not; You had a motive for’t.
CYMBELINE. My tears that fall Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mother’s dead.
IMOGEN. I am sorry for’t, my lord.
CYMBELINE. O, she was naught, and long of her it was That we meet here so strangely; but her son Is gone, we know not how nor where.
PISANIO. My lord, Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten, Upon my lady’s missing, came to me With his sword drawn, foam’d at the mouth, and swore, If I discover’d not which way she was gone, It was my instant death. By accident I had a feigned letter of my master’s Then in my pocket, which directed him To seek her on the mountains near to Milford; Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments, Which he enforc’d from me, away he posts With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My lady’s honour. What became of him I further know not.
GUIDERIUS. Let me end the story: I slew him there.
CYMBELINE. Marry, the gods forfend! I would not thy good deeds should from my lips Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth, Deny’t again.
GUIDERIUS. I have spoke it, and I did it.
CYMBELINE. He was a prince.
GUIDERIUS. A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me With language that would make me spurn the sea, If it could so roar to me. I cut off’s head, And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale of mine.
CYMBELINE. I am sorry for thee. By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must Endure our law. Thou’rt dead.
IMOGEN. That headless man I thought had been my lord.
CYMBELINE. Bind the offender, And take him from our presence.
BELARIUS. Stay, sir King. This man is better than the man he slew, As well descended as thyself, and hath More of thee merited than a band of Clotens Had ever scar for. [To the guard.] Let his arms alone; They were not born for bondage.
CYMBELINE. Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we?
ARVIRAGUS. In that he spake too far.
CYMBELINE. And thou shalt die for’t.
BELARIUS. We will die all three; But I will prove that two on’s are as good As I have given out him. My sons, I must For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech, Though haply well for you.
ARVIRAGUS. Your danger’s ours.
GUIDERIUS. And our good his.
BELARIUS. Have at it then by leave! Thou hadst, great King, a subject who Was call’d Belarius.
CYMBELINE. What of him? He is A banish’d traitor.
BELARIUS. He it is that hath Assum’d this age; indeed a banish’d man; I know not how a traitor.
CYMBELINE. Take him hence, The whole world shall not save him.
BELARIUS. Not too hot. First pay me for the nursing of thy sons, And let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have receiv’d it.
CYMBELINE. Nursing of my sons?
BELARIUS. I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee. Ere I arise I will prefer my sons; Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, These two young gentlemen that call me father, And think they are my sons, are none of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting.
CYMBELINE. How? my issue?
BELARIUS. So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d. Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer’d Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes (For such and so they are) these twenty years Have I train’d up; those arts they have as I Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment; I mov’d her to’t, Having receiv’d the punishment before For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, The more of you ’twas felt, the more it shap’d Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, Here are your sons again, and I must lose Two of the sweet’st companions in the world. The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.
CYMBELINE. Thou weep’st and speak’st. The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children. If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier sons.
BELARIUS. Be pleas’d awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius; This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp’d In a most curious mantle, wrought by th’ hand Of his queen mother, which for more probation I can with ease produce.
CYMBELINE. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder.
BELARIUS. This is he, Who hath upon him still that natural stamp. It was wise nature’s end in the donation, To be his evidence now.
CYMBELINE. O, what am I? A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother Rejoic’d deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now! O Imogen, Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.
IMOGEN. No, my lord; I have got two worlds by’t. O my gentle brothers, Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter But I am truest speaker! You call’d me brother, When I was but your sister: I you brothers, When we were so indeed.
CYMBELINE. Did you e’er meet?
ARVIRAGUS. Ay, my good lord.
GUIDERIUS. And at first meeting lov’d, Continu’d so until we thought he died.
CORNELIUS. By the Queen’s dram she swallow’d.
CYMBELINE. O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgement Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv’d you? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your brothers? how first met them? Why fled you from the court? and whither? These, And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be demanded, And all the other by-dependances, From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place Will serve our long interrogatories. See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen; And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting Each object with a joy; the counterchange Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground, And smoke the temple with our sacrifices. [To Belarius.] Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold thee ever.
IMOGEN. You are my father too, and did relieve me To see this gracious season.
CYMBELINE. All o’erjoy’d Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort.
IMOGEN. My good master, I will yet do you service.
LUCIUS. Happy be you!
CYMBELINE. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He would have well becom’d this place and grac’d The thankings of a king.
POSTHUMUS. I am, sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor beseeming; ’twas a fitment for The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he, Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might Have made you finish.
IACHIMO. [Kneeling.] I am down again; But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe; but your ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith.
POSTHUMUS. Kneel not to me. The pow’r that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, And deal with others better.
CYMBELINE. Nobly doom’d! We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law; Pardon’s the word to all.
ARVIRAGUS. You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our brother; Joy’d are we that you are.
POSTHUMUS. Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d, Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows Of mine own kindred. When I wak’d, I found This label on my bosom; whose containing Is so from sense in hardness that I can Make no collection of it. Let him show His skill in the construction.
LUCIUS. Philarmonus!
SOOTHSAYER. Here, my good lord.
LUCIUS. Read, and declare the meaning.
SOOTHSAYER. [Reads.] When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty. Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name, Being Leo-natus, doth import so much. [To Cymbeline] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which we call mollis aer, and mollis aer We term it mulier; which mulier I divine Is this most constant wife, who even now Answering the letter of the oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d about With this most tender air.
CYMBELINE. This hath some seeming.
SOOTHSAYER. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee; and thy lopp’d branches point Thy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol’n, For many years thought dead, are now reviv’d, To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty.
CYMBELINE. Well, My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, Although the victor, we submit to Cæsar And to the Roman empire, promising To pay our wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen, Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers, Have laid most heavy hand.
SOOTHSAYER. The fingers of the pow’rs above do tune The harmony of this peace. The vision Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke Of yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant Is full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle, From south to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessen’d herself and in the beams o’ th’ sun So vanish’d; which foreshow’d our princely eagle, Th’ imperial Cæsar, Cæsar, should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines here in the west.
CYMBELINE. Laud we the gods; And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our bless’d altars. Publish we this peace To all our subjects. Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud’s Town march; And in the temple of great Jupiter Our peace we’ll ratify; seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were wash’d, with such a peace.
[Exeunt.]
THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK Contents ACT I Scene I. Elsinore. A platform before the Castle. Scene II. Elsinore. A room of state in the Castle Scene III. A room in Polonius’s house. Scene IV. The platform. Scene V. A more remote part of the Castle.
ACT II Scene I. A room in Polonius’s house. Scene II. A room in the Castle.
ACT III Scene I. A room in the Castle. Scene II. A hall in the Castle. Scene III. A room in the Castle. Scene IV. Another room in the Castle.
ACT IV Scene I. A room in the Castle. Scene II. Another room in the Castle. Scene III. Another room in the Castle. Scene IV. A plain in Denmark. Scene V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Scene VI. Another room in the Castle. Scene VII. Another room in the Castle.
ACT V Scene I. A churchyard. Scene II. A hall in the Castle.
Dramatis Personæ HAMLET, Prince of Denmark. CLAUDIUS, King of Denmark, Hamlet’s uncle. The GHOST of the late king, Hamlet’s father. GERTRUDE, the Queen, Hamlet’s mother, now wife of Claudius. POLONIUS, Lord Chamberlain. LAERTES, Son to Polonius. OPHELIA, Daughter to Polonius. HORATIO, Friend to Hamlet. FORTINBRAS, Prince of Norway. VOLTEMAND, Courtier. CORNELIUS, Courtier. ROSENCRANTZ, Courtier. GUILDENSTERN, Courtier. MARCELLUS, Officer. BARNARDO, Officer. FRANCISCO, a Soldier OSRIC, Courtier. REYNALDO, Servant to Polonius. Players. A Gentleman, Courtier. A Priest. Two Clowns, Grave-diggers. A Captain. English Ambassadors. Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, and Attendants. SCENE. Elsinore. ACT I SCENE I. Elsinore. A platform before the Castle. Enter Francisco and Barnardo, two sentinels.
BARNARDO. Who’s there? FRANCISCO. Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself. BARNARDO. Long live the King! FRANCISCO. Barnardo? BARNARDO. He. FRANCISCO. You come most carefully upon your hour. BARNARDO. ’Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco. FRANCISCO. For this relief much thanks. ’Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart. BARNARDO. Have you had quiet guard? FRANCISCO. Not a mouse stirring. BARNARDO. Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste. Enter Horatio and Marcellus.
FRANCISCO. I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who is there? HORATIO. Friends to this ground. MARCELLUS. And liegemen to the Dane. FRANCISCO. Give you good night. MARCELLUS. O, farewell, honest soldier, who hath reliev’d you? FRANCISCO. Barnardo has my place. Give you good-night. [Exit.]
MARCELLUS. Holla, Barnardo! BARNARDO. Say, what, is Horatio there? HORATIO. A piece of him. BARNARDO. Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus. MARCELLUS. What, has this thing appear’d again tonight? BARNARDO. I have seen nothing. MARCELLUS. Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us. Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night, That if again this apparition come He may approve our eyes and speak to it. HORATIO. Tush, tush, ’twill not appear. BARNARDO. Sit down awhile, And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we two nights have seen. HORATIO. Well, sit we down, And let us hear Barnardo speak of this. BARNARDO. Last night of all, When yond same star that’s westward from the pole, Had made his course t’illume that part of heaven Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one— MARCELLUS. Peace, break thee off. Look where it comes again. Enter Ghost.
BARNARDO. In the same figure, like the King that’s dead. MARCELLUS. Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio. BARNARDO. Looks it not like the King? Mark it, Horatio. HORATIO. Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder. BARNARDO It would be spoke to. MARCELLUS. Question it, Horatio. HORATIO. What art thou that usurp’st this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee speak. MARCELLUS. It is offended. BARNARDO. See, it stalks away. HORATIO. Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee speak! [Exit Ghost.]
MARCELLUS. ’Tis gone, and will not answer. BARNARDO. How now, Horatio! You tremble and look pale. Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on’t? HORATIO. Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes. MARCELLUS. Is it not like the King? HORATIO. As thou art to thyself: Such was the very armour he had on When he th’ambitious Norway combated; So frown’d he once, when in an angry parle He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. ’Tis strange. MARCELLUS. Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. HORATIO. In what particular thought to work I know not; But in the gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state. MARCELLUS. Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land, And why such daily cast of brazen cannon And foreign mart for implements of war; Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week. What might be toward, that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day: Who is’t that can inform me? HORATIO. That can I; At least, the whisper goes so. Our last King, Whose image even but now appear’d to us, Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride, Dar’d to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet, For so this side of our known world esteem’d him, Did slay this Fortinbras; who by a seal’d compact, Well ratified by law and heraldry, Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands Which he stood seiz’d of, to the conqueror; Against the which, a moiety competent Was gaged by our King; which had return’d To the inheritance of Fortinbras, Had he been vanquisher; as by the same cov’nant And carriage of the article design’d, His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Of unimproved mettle, hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there, Shark’d up a list of lawless resolutes, For food and diet, to some enterprise That hath a stomach in’t; which is no other, As it doth well appear unto our state, But to recover of us by strong hand And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost. And this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch, and the chief head Of this post-haste and rummage in the land. BARNARDO. I think it be no other but e’en so: Well may it sort that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch so like the King That was and is the question of these wars. HORATIO. A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star, Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands, Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse. And even the like precurse of fierce events, As harbingers preceding still the fates And prologue to the omen coming on, Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climatures and countrymen. Re-enter Ghost.
But, soft, behold! Lo, where it comes again! I’ll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me. If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease, and grace to me, Speak to me. If thou art privy to thy country’s fate, Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O speak! Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, Speak of it. Stay, and speak!
[The cock crows.]
Stop it, Marcellus! MARCELLUS. Shall I strike at it with my partisan? HORATIO. Do, if it will not stand. BARNARDO. ’Tis here! HORATIO. ’Tis here! [Exit Ghost.]
MARCELLUS. ’Tis gone! We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence, For it is as the air, invulnerable, And our vain blows malicious mockery. BARNARDO. It was about to speak, when the cock crew. HORATIO. And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day; and at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, Th’extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine. And of the truth herein This present object made probation. MARCELLUS. It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm; So hallow’d and so gracious is the time. HORATIO. So have I heard, and do in part believe it. But look, the morn in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill. Break we our watch up, and by my advice, Let us impart what we have seen tonight Unto young Hamlet; for upon my life, This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, fitting our duty? MARCELLUS. Let’s do’t, I pray, and I this morning know Where we shall find him most conveniently. [Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Elsinore. A room of state in the Castle. Enter Claudius King of Denmark, Gertrude the Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltemand, Cornelius, Lords and Attendant.
KING. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death The memory be green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe; Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him, Together with remembrance of ourselves. Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, Th’imperial jointress to this warlike state, Have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy, With one auspicious and one dropping eye, With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole, Taken to wife; nor have we herein barr’d Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this affair along. For all, our thanks. Now follows, that you know young Fortinbras, Holding a weak supposal of our worth, Or thinking by our late dear brother’s death Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, Colleagued with this dream of his advantage, He hath not fail’d to pester us with message, Importing the surrender of those lands Lost by his father, with all bonds of law, To our most valiant brother. So much for him. Now for ourself and for this time of meeting: Thus much the business is: we have here writ To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras, Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears Of this his nephew’s purpose, to suppress His further gait herein; in that the levies, The lists, and full proportions are all made Out of his subject: and we here dispatch You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand, For bearers of this greeting to old Norway, Giving to you no further personal power To business with the King, more than the scope Of these dilated articles allow. Farewell; and let your haste commend your duty. CORNELIUS and VOLTEMAND. In that, and all things, will we show our duty. KING. We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell. [Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius.]
And now, Laertes, what’s the news with you? You told us of some suit. What is’t, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, And lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes, That shall not be my offer, not thy asking? The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes? LAERTES. Dread my lord, Your leave and favour to return to France, From whence though willingly I came to Denmark To show my duty in your coronation; Yet now I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France, And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon. KING. Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius? POLONIUS. He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave By laboursome petition; and at last Upon his will I seal’d my hard consent. I do beseech you give him leave to go. KING. Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will! But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son— HAMLET. [Aside.] A little more than kin, and less than kind. KING. How is it that the clouds still hang on you? HAMLET. Not so, my lord, I am too much i’ the sun. QUEEN. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust. Thou know’st ’tis common, all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity. HAMLET. Ay, madam, it is common. QUEEN. If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee? HAMLET. Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not seems. ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc’d breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, That can denote me truly. These indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play; But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe. KING. ’Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father; But you must know, your father lost a father, That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound In filial obligation, for some term To do obsequious sorrow. But to persevere In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness. ’Tis unmanly grief, It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschool’d; For what we know must be, and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we in our peevish opposition Take it to heart? Fie, ’tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd, whose common theme Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse till he that died today, ‘This must be so.’ We pray you throw to earth This unprevailing woe, and think of us As of a father; for let the world take note You are the most immediate to our throne, And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son Do I impart toward you. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our desire: And we beseech you bend you to remain Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. QUEEN. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet. I pray thee stay with us; go not to Wittenberg. HAMLET. I shall in all my best obey you, madam. KING. Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply. Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come; This gentle and unforc’d accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof, No jocund health that Denmark drinks today But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, And the King’s rouse the heaven shall bruit again, Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away. [Exeunt all but Hamlet.]
HAMLET. O that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon ’gainst self-slaughter. O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on’t! Oh fie! ’tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead—nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was to this Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet, within a month— Let me not think on’t—Frailty, thy name is woman! A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father’s body Like Niobe, all tears.—Why she, even she— O God! A beast that wants discourse of reason Would have mourn’d longer,—married with mine uncle, My father’s brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules. Within a month? Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married. O most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good. But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue. Enter Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo.
HORATIO. Hail to your lordship! HAMLET. I am glad to see you well: Horatio, or I do forget myself. HORATIO. The same, my lord, And your poor servant ever.
HAMLET. Sir, my good friend; I’ll change that name with you: And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?— Marcellus? MARCELLUS. My good lord. HAMLET. I am very glad to see you.—Good even, sir.— But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg? HORATIO. A truant disposition, good my lord. HAMLET. I would not hear your enemy say so; Nor shall you do my ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself. I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. HORATIO. My lord, I came to see your father’s funeral. HAMLET. I prithee do not mock me, fellow-student. I think it was to see my mother’s wedding. HORATIO. Indeed, my lord, it follow’d hard upon. HAMLET. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak’d meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio. My father,—methinks I see my father. HORATIO. Where, my lord? HAMLET. In my mind’s eye, Horatio. HORATIO. I saw him once; he was a goodly king. HAMLET. He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. HORATIO. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. HAMLET. Saw? Who? HORATIO. My lord, the King your father. HAMLET. The King my father! HORATIO. Season your admiration for a while With an attent ear, till I may deliver Upon the witness of these gentlemen This marvel to you. HAMLET. For God’s love let me hear. HORATIO. Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Barnardo, on their watch In the dead waste and middle of the night, Been thus encounter’d. A figure like your father, Armed at point exactly, cap-à-pie, Appears before them, and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk’d By their oppress’d and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon’s length; whilst they, distill’d Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did, And I with them the third night kept the watch, Where, as they had deliver’d, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes. I knew your father; These hands are not more like. HAMLET. But where was this? MARCELLUS. My lord, upon the platform where we watch. HAMLET. Did you not speak to it? HORATIO. My lord, I did; But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up it head, and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak. But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish’d from our sight. HAMLET. ’Tis very strange. HORATIO. As I do live, my honour’d lord, ’tis true; And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it. HAMLET. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch tonight? Mar. and BARNARDO. We do, my lord. HAMLET. Arm’d, say you? Both. Arm’d, my lord. HAMLET. From top to toe? BOTH. My lord, from head to foot. HAMLET. Then saw you not his face? HORATIO. O yes, my lord, he wore his beaver up. HAMLET. What, look’d he frowningly? HORATIO. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. HAMLET. Pale, or red? HORATIO. Nay, very pale. HAMLET. And fix’d his eyes upon you? HORATIO. Most constantly. HAMLET. I would I had been there. HORATIO. It would have much amaz’d you. HAMLET. Very like, very like. Stay’d it long? HORATIO. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred. MARCELLUS and BARNARDO. Longer, longer. HORATIO. Not when I saw’t. HAMLET. His beard was grizzled, no? HORATIO. It was, as I have seen it in his life, A sable silver’d. HAMLET. I will watch tonight; Perchance ’twill walk again. HORATIO. I warrant you it will. HAMLET. If it assume my noble father’s person, I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap tonight, Give it an understanding, but no tongue. I will requite your loves. So, fare ye well. Upon the platform ’twixt eleven and twelve, I’ll visit you. ALL. Our duty to your honour. HAMLET. Your loves, as mine to you: farewell. [Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo.]
My father’s spirit in arms! All is not well; I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes. [Exit.]
SCENE III. A room in Polonius’s house. Enter Laertes and Ophelia.
LAERTES. My necessaries are embark’d. Farewell. And, sister, as the winds give benefit And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you. OPHELIA. Do you doubt that? LAERTES. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood; A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more. OPHELIA. No more but so? LAERTES. Think it no more. For nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will; but you must fear, His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own; For he himself is subject to his birth: He may not, as unvalu’d persons do, Carve for himself; for on his choice depends The sanctity and health of this whole state; And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed; which is no further Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmaster’d importunity. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister; And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon. Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes: The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then, best safety lies in fear. Youth to itself rebels, though none else near. OPHELIA. I shall th’effect of this good lesson keep As watchman to my heart. But good my brother, Do not as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst like a puff’d and reckless libertine Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And recks not his own rede. LAERTES. O, fear me not. I stay too long. But here my father comes. Enter Polonius.
A double blessing is a double grace; Occasion smiles upon a second leave. POLONIUS. Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame. The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stay’d for. There, my blessing with you. [Laying his hand on Laertes’s head.]
And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear’t that th’opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell: my blessing season this in thee. LAERTES. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. POLONIUS. The time invites you; go, your servants tend. LAERTES. Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well What I have said to you. OPHELIA. ’Tis in my memory lock’d, And you yourself shall keep the key of it. LAERTES. Farewell. [Exit.]
POLONIUS. What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you? OPHELIA. So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet. POLONIUS. Marry, well bethought: ’Tis told me he hath very oft of late Given private time to you; and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous. If it be so,—as so ’tis put on me, And that in way of caution,—I must tell you You do not understand yourself so clearly As it behoves my daughter and your honour. What is between you? Give me up the truth. OPHELIA. He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of his affection to me. POLONIUS. Affection! Pooh! You speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his tenders, as you call them? OPHELIA. I do not know, my lord, what I should think. POLONIUS. Marry, I’ll teach you; think yourself a baby; That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay, Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly; Or,—not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, Roaming it thus,—you’ll tender me a fool. OPHELIA. My lord, he hath importun’d me with love In honourable fashion. POLONIUS. Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to. OPHELIA. And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy vows of heaven. POLONIUS. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat, extinct in both, Even in their promise, as it is a-making, You must not take for fire. From this time Be something scanter of your maiden presence; Set your entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him that he is young; And with a larger tether may he walk Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers, Not of that dye which their investments show, But mere implorators of unholy suits, Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, The better to beguile. This is for all. I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth Have you so slander any moment leisure As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. Look to’t, I charge you; come your ways. OPHELIA. I shall obey, my lord. [Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. The platform. Enter Hamlet, Horatio and Marcellus.
HAMLET. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold. HORATIO. It is a nipping and an eager air. HAMLET. What hour now? HORATIO. I think it lacks of twelve. MARCELLUS. No, it is struck. HORATIO. Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. [A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within.]
What does this mean, my lord?
HAMLET. The King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels; And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge. HORATIO. Is it a custom? HAMLET. Ay marry is’t; And to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom More honour’d in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations: They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase Soil our addition; and indeed it takes From our achievements, though perform’d at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute. So oft it chances in particular men That for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin, By their o’ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason; Or by some habit, that too much o’erleavens The form of plausive manners;—that these men, Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being Nature’s livery or Fortune’s star,— His virtues else,—be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo, Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault. The dram of evil Doth all the noble substance often doubt To his own scandal. HORATIO. Look, my lord, it comes! Enter Ghost.
HAMLET. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee. I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell Why thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn’d, Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again! What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do? [Ghost beckons Hamlet.]
HORATIO. It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire To you alone. MARCELLUS. Look with what courteous action It waves you to a more removed ground. But do not go with it. HORATIO. No, by no means. HAMLET. It will not speak; then will I follow it. HORATIO. Do not, my lord. HAMLET. Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin’s fee; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself? It waves me forth again. I’ll follow it. HORATIO. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles o’er his base into the sea, And there assume some other horrible form Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, And draw you into madness? Think of it. The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fadoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath. HAMLET. It waves me still. Go on, I’ll follow thee. MARCELLUS. You shall not go, my lord. HAMLET. Hold off your hands. HORATIO. Be rul’d; you shall not go. HAMLET. My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve. [Ghost beckons.]
Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen.
[Breaking free from them.]
By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me. I say, away!—Go on, I’ll follow thee. [Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet.]
HORATIO. He waxes desperate with imagination. MARCELLUS. Let’s follow; ’tis not fit thus to obey him. HORATIO. Have after. To what issue will this come? MARCELLUS. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. HORATIO. Heaven will direct it. MARCELLUS. Nay, let’s follow him. [Exeunt.]
SCENE V. A more remote part of the Castle. Enter Ghost and Hamlet.
HAMLET. Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak, I’ll go no further. GHOST. Mark me. HAMLET. I will. GHOST. My hour is almost come, When I to sulph’rous and tormenting flames Must render up myself. HAMLET. Alas, poor ghost! GHOST. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing To what I shall unfold. HAMLET. Speak, I am bound to hear. GHOST. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear. HAMLET. What? GHOST. I am thy father’s spirit, Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, And for the day confin’d to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purg’d away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porcupine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list! If thou didst ever thy dear father love— HAMLET. O God! GHOST. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. HAMLET. Murder! GHOST. Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural. HAMLET. Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift As meditation or the thoughts of love May sweep to my revenge. GHOST. I find thee apt; And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear. ’Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark Is by a forged process of my death Rankly abus’d; but know, thou noble youth, The serpent that did sting thy father’s life Now wears his crown. HAMLET. O my prophetic soul! Mine uncle! GHOST. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,— O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!—won to his shameful lust The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen. O Hamlet, what a falling off was there, From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I made to her in marriage; and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine. But virtue, as it never will be mov’d, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven; So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d, Will sate itself in a celestial bed And prey on garbage. But soft! methinks I scent the morning air; Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour The leperous distilment, whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That swift as quicksilver it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body; And with a sudden vigour it doth posset And curd, like eager droppings into milk, The thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine; And a most instant tetter bark’d about, Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust All my smooth body. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand, Of life, of crown, of queen at once dispatch’d: Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhous’led, disappointed, unanel’d; No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head. O horrible! O horrible! most horrible! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; Let not the royal bed of Denmark be A couch for luxury and damned incest. But howsoever thou pursu’st this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once! The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire. Adieu, adieu, adieu. Hamlet, remember me. [Exit.]
HAMLET. O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, my heart; And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix’d with baser matter. Yes, by heaven! O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling damned villain! My tables. Meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain! At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark. [Writing.]
So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; It is ‘Adieu, adieu, remember me.’ I have sworn’t. HORATIO and MARCELLUS. [Within.] My lord, my lord. MARCELLUS. [Within.] Lord Hamlet. HORATIO. [Within.] Heaven secure him. HAMLET. So be it! MARCELLUS. [Within.] Illo, ho, ho, my lord! HAMLET. Hillo, ho, ho, boy! Come, bird, come. Enter Horatio and Marcellus.
MARCELLUS. How is’t, my noble lord? HORATIO. What news, my lord? HAMLET. O, wonderful! HORATIO. Good my lord, tell it. HAMLET. No, you’ll reveal it. HORATIO. Not I, my lord, by heaven. MARCELLUS. Nor I, my lord. HAMLET. How say you then, would heart of man once think it?— But you’ll be secret? HORATIO and MARCELLUS. Ay, by heaven, my lord. HAMLET. There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he’s an arrant knave. HORATIO. There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this. HAMLET. Why, right; you are i’ the right; And so, without more circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part: You, as your business and desires shall point you,— For every man hath business and desire, Such as it is;—and for my own poor part, Look you, I’ll go pray. HORATIO. These are but wild and whirling words, my lord. HAMLET. I’m sorry they offend you, heartily; Yes faith, heartily. HORATIO. There’s no offence, my lord. HAMLET. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, And much offence too. Touching this vision here, It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you. For your desire to know what is between us, O’ermaster’t as you may. And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, Give me one poor request. HORATIO. What is’t, my lord? We will. HAMLET. Never make known what you have seen tonight. HORATIO and MARCELLUS. My lord, we will not. HAMLET. Nay, but swear’t. HORATIO. In faith, my lord, not I. MARCELLUS. Nor I, my lord, in faith. HAMLET. Upon my sword. MARCELLUS. We have sworn, my lord, already. HAMLET. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed. GHOST. [Cries under the stage.] Swear. HAMLET. Ha, ha boy, say’st thou so? Art thou there, truepenny? Come on, you hear this fellow in the cellarage. Consent to swear. HORATIO. Propose the oath, my lord. HAMLET. Never to speak of this that you have seen. Swear by my sword. GHOST. [Beneath.] Swear. HAMLET. Hic et ubique? Then we’ll shift our ground. Come hither, gentlemen, And lay your hands again upon my sword. Never to speak of this that you have heard. Swear by my sword. GHOST. [Beneath.] Swear. HAMLET. Well said, old mole! Canst work i’ th’earth so fast? A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends. HORATIO. O day and night, but this is wondrous strange. HAMLET. And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come, Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, How strange or odd soe’er I bear myself,— As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on— That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With arms encumber’d thus, or this head-shake, Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, As ‘Well, we know’, or ‘We could and if we would’, Or ‘If we list to speak’; or ‘There be and if they might’, Or such ambiguous giving out, to note That you know aught of me:—this not to do. So grace and mercy at your most need help you, Swear. GHOST. [Beneath.] Swear. HAMLET. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit. So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me to you; And what so poor a man as Hamlet is May do t’express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together, And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint. O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right. Nay, come, let’s go together. [Exeunt.]
ACT II SCENE I. A room in Polonius’s house. Enter Polonius and Reynaldo.
POLONIUS. Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo. REYNALDO. I will, my lord. POLONIUS. You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo, Before you visit him, to make inquiry Of his behaviour. REYNALDO. My lord, I did intend it. POLONIUS. Marry, well said; very well said. Look you, sir, Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris; And how, and who, what means, and where they keep, What company, at what expense; and finding By this encompassment and drift of question, That they do know my son, come you more nearer Than your particular demands will touch it. Take you as ’twere some distant knowledge of him, As thus, ‘I know his father and his friends, And in part him’—do you mark this, Reynaldo? REYNALDO. Ay, very well, my lord. POLONIUS. ‘And in part him, but,’ you may say, ‘not well; But if’t be he I mean, he’s very wild; Addicted so and so;’ and there put on him What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank As may dishonour him; take heed of that; But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty. REYNALDO. As gaming, my lord? POLONIUS. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, Quarrelling, drabbing. You may go so far. REYNALDO. My lord, that would dishonour him. POLONIUS. Faith no, as you may season it in the charge. You must not put another scandal on him, That he is open to incontinency; That’s not my meaning: but breathe his faults so quaintly That they may seem the taints of liberty; The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of general assault. REYNALDO. But my good lord— POLONIUS. Wherefore should you do this? REYNALDO. Ay, my lord, I would know that. POLONIUS. Marry, sir, here’s my drift, And I believe it is a fetch of warrant. You laying these slight sullies on my son, As ’twere a thing a little soil’d i’ th’ working, Mark you, Your party in converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur’d He closes with you in this consequence; ‘Good sir,’ or so; or ‘friend,’ or ‘gentleman’— According to the phrase or the addition Of man and country. REYNALDO. Very good, my lord. POLONIUS. And then, sir, does he this,— He does—What was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something. Where did I leave? REYNALDO. At ‘closes in the consequence.’ At ‘friend or so,’ and ‘gentleman.’
POLONIUS. At ‘closes in the consequence’ ay, marry! He closes with you thus: ‘I know the gentleman, I saw him yesterday, or t’other day, Or then, or then, with such and such; and, as you say, There was he gaming, there o’ertook in’s rouse, There falling out at tennis’: or perchance, ‘I saw him enter such a house of sale’— Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth. See you now; Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth; And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses, and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out. So by my former lecture and advice Shall you my son. You have me, have you not? REYNALDO. My lord, I have. POLONIUS. God b’ wi’ you, fare you well. REYNALDO. Good my lord. POLONIUS. Observe his inclination in yourself. REYNALDO. I shall, my lord. POLONIUS. And let him ply his music. REYNALDO. Well, my lord. POLONIUS. Farewell. [Exit Reynaldo.]
Enter Ophelia.
How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter?
OPHELIA. Alas, my lord, I have been so affrighted. POLONIUS. With what, in the name of God? OPHELIA. My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d, No hat upon his head, his stockings foul’d, Ungart’red, and down-gyved to his ankle, Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors, he comes before me. POLONIUS. Mad for thy love? OPHELIA. My lord, I do not know, but truly I do fear it. POLONIUS. What said he? OPHELIA. He took me by the wrist and held me hard; Then goes he to the length of all his arm; And with his other hand thus o’er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so, At last,—a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving up and down, He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk And end his being. That done, he lets me go, And with his head over his shoulder turn’d He seem’d to find his way without his eyes, For out o’ doors he went without their help, And to the last bended their light on me. POLONIUS. Come, go with me. I will go seek the King. This is the very ecstasy of love, Whose violent property fordoes itself, And leads the will to desperate undertakings, As oft as any passion under heaven That does afflict our natures. I am sorry,— What, have you given him any hard words of late? OPHELIA. No, my good lord; but as you did command, I did repel his letters and denied His access to me. POLONIUS. That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and judgment I had not quoted him. I fear’d he did but trifle, And meant to wreck thee. But beshrew my jealousy! It seems it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. Come, go we to the King. This must be known, which, being kept close, might move More grief to hide than hate to utter love. [Exeunt.]
SCENE II. A room in the Castle. Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and Attendants.
KING. Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Moreover that we much did long to see you, The need we have to use you did provoke Our hasty sending. Something have you heard Of Hamlet’s transformation; so I call it, Since nor th’exterior nor the inward man Resembles that it was. What it should be, More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him So much from th’understanding of himself, I cannot dream of. I entreat you both That, being of so young days brought up with him, And since so neighbour’d to his youth and humour, That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court Some little time, so by your companies To draw him on to pleasures and to gather, So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus That, open’d, lies within our remedy. QUEEN. Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d of you, And sure I am, two men there are not living To whom he more adheres. If it will please you To show us so much gentry and good will As to expend your time with us awhile, For the supply and profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits a king’s remembrance. ROSENCRANTZ. Both your majesties Might, by the sovereign power you have of us, Put your dread pleasures more into command Than to entreaty. GUILDENSTERN. We both obey, And here give up ourselves, in the full bent, To lay our service freely at your feet To be commanded. KING. Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern. QUEEN. Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz. And I beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed son. Go, some of you, And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is. GUILDENSTERN. Heavens make our presence and our practices Pleasant and helpful to him. QUEEN. Ay, amen. [Exeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and some Attendants.]
Enter Polonius.
POLONIUS. Th’ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, Are joyfully return’d. KING. Thou still hast been the father of good news. POLONIUS. Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege, I hold my duty, as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious King: And I do think,—or else this brain of mine Hunts not the trail of policy so sure As it hath us’d to do—that I have found The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy. KING. O speak of that, that do I long to hear. POLONIUS. Give first admittance to th’ambassadors; My news shall be the fruit to that great feast. KING. Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in. [Exit Polonius.]
He tells me, my sweet queen, that he hath found The head and source of all your son’s distemper. QUEEN. I doubt it is no other but the main, His father’s death and our o’erhasty marriage. KING. Well, we shall sift him. Enter Polonius with Voltemand and Cornelius.
Welcome, my good friends! Say, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway? VOLTEMAND. Most fair return of greetings and desires. Upon our first, he sent out to suppress His nephew’s levies, which to him appear’d To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack; But better look’d into, he truly found It was against your Highness; whereat griev’d, That so his sickness, age, and impotence Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys, Receives rebuke from Norway; and in fine, Makes vow before his uncle never more To give th’assay of arms against your Majesty. Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee, And his commission to employ those soldiers So levied as before, against the Polack: With an entreaty, herein further shown, [Gives a paper.] That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this enterprise, On such regards of safety and allowance As therein are set down. KING. It likes us well; And at our more consider’d time we’ll read, Answer, and think upon this business. Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour. Go to your rest, at night we’ll feast together:. Most welcome home. [Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius.]
POLONIUS. This business is well ended. My liege and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time. Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. Mad call I it; for to define true madness, What is’t but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go. QUEEN. More matter, with less art. POLONIUS. Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pity; And pity ’tis ’tis true. A foolish figure, But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him then. And now remains That we find out the cause of this effect, Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause. Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend, I have a daughter—have whilst she is mine— Who in her duty and obedience, mark, Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise. [Reads.] To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia— That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase; ‘beautified’ is a vile phrase: but you shall hear. [Reads.] these; in her excellent white bosom, these, &c. QUEEN. Came this from Hamlet to her? POLONIUS. Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful. [Reads.] Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love. O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to reckon my groans. But that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, HAMLET. This in obedience hath my daughter show’d me; And more above, hath his solicitings, As they fell out by time, by means, and place, All given to mine ear. KING. But how hath she receiv’d his love? POLONIUS. What do you think of me? KING. As of a man faithful and honourable. POLONIUS. I would fain prove so. But what might you think, When I had seen this hot love on the wing, As I perceiv’d it, I must tell you that, Before my daughter told me, what might you, Or my dear Majesty your queen here, think, If I had play’d the desk or table-book, Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb, Or look’d upon this love with idle sight, What might you think? No, I went round to work, And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: ‘Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star. This must not be.’ And then I precepts gave her, That she should lock herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. Which done, she took the fruits of my advice, And he, repulsed,—a short tale to make— Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension, Into the madness wherein now he raves, And all we wail for. KING. Do you think ’tis this? QUEEN. It may be, very likely. POLONIUS. Hath there been such a time, I’d fain know that, That I have positively said ‘’Tis so,’ When it prov’d otherwise? KING. Not that I know. POLONIUS. Take this from this, if this be otherwise. [Points to his head and shoulder.] If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre. KING. How may we try it further? POLONIUS. You know sometimes he walks four hours together Here in the lobby. QUEEN. So he does indeed. POLONIUS. At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him. Be you and I behind an arras then, Mark the encounter. If he love her not, And be not from his reason fall’n thereon, Let me be no assistant for a state, But keep a farm and carters. KING. We will try it. Enter Hamlet, reading.
QUEEN. But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading. POLONIUS. Away, I do beseech you, both away I’ll board him presently. O, give me leave. [Exeunt King, Queen and Attendants.]
How does my good Lord Hamlet?
HAMLET. Well, God-a-mercy. POLONIUS. Do you know me, my lord? HAMLET. Excellent well. You’re a fishmonger. POLONIUS. Not I, my lord. HAMLET. Then I would you were so honest a man. POLONIUS. Honest, my lord? HAMLET. Ay sir, to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
POLONIUS. That’s very true, my lord. HAMLET. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion,— Have you a daughter?
POLONIUS. I have, my lord. HAMLET. Let her not walk i’ th’ sun. Conception is a blessing, but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to’t.
POLONIUS. How say you by that? [Aside.] Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone, far gone. And truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?
HAMLET. Words, words, words. POLONIUS. What is the matter, my lord? HAMLET. Between who? POLONIUS. I mean the matter that you read, my lord. HAMLET. Slanders, sir. For the satirical slave says here that old men have grey beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams. All which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down. For you yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward.
POLONIUS. [Aside.] Though this be madness, yet there is a method in’t.— Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET. Into my grave? POLONIUS. Indeed, that is out o’ the air. [Aside.] How pregnant sometimes his replies are! A happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter. My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.
HAMLET. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal, except my life, except my life, except my life.
POLONIUS. Fare you well, my lord. HAMLET. These tedious old fools. Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
POLONIUS. You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is. ROSENCRANTZ. [To Polonius.] God save you, sir. [Exit Polonius.]
GUILDENSTERN. My honoured lord! ROSENCRANTZ. My most dear lord! HAMLET. My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz. Good lads, how do ye both?
ROSENCRANTZ. As the indifferent children of the earth. GUILDENSTERN. Happy in that we are not over-happy; On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button. HAMLET. Nor the soles of her shoe? ROSENCRANTZ. Neither, my lord. HAMLET. Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours?
GUILDENSTERN. Faith, her privates we. HAMLET. In the secret parts of Fortune? O, most true; she is a strumpet. What’s the news?
ROSENCRANTZ. None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest. HAMLET. Then is doomsday near. But your news is not true. Let me question more in particular. What have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune, that she sends you to prison hither?
GUILDENSTERN. Prison, my lord? HAMLET. Denmark’s a prison. ROSENCRANTZ. Then is the world one. HAMLET. A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one o’ th’ worst.
ROSENCRANTZ. We think not so, my lord. HAMLET. Why, then ’tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison.
ROSENCRANTZ. Why, then your ambition makes it one; ’tis too narrow for your mind.
HAMLET. O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
GUILDENSTERN. Which dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
HAMLET. A dream itself is but a shadow. ROSENCRANTZ. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow.
HAMLET. Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretch’d heroes the beggars’ shadows. Shall we to th’ court? For, by my fay, I cannot reason.
ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. We’ll wait upon you. HAMLET. No such matter. I will not sort you with the rest of my servants; for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?
ROSENCRANTZ. To visit you, my lord, no other occasion. HAMLET. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you. And sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, deal justly with me. Come, come; nay, speak.
GUILDENSTERN. What should we say, my lord? HAMLET. Why, anything. But to the purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to colour. I know the good King and Queen have sent for you.
ROSENCRANTZ. To what end, my lord? HAMLET. That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no.
ROSENCRANTZ. [To Guildenstern.] What say you? HAMLET. [Aside.] Nay, then I have an eye of you. If you love me, hold not off.
GUILDENSTERN. My lord, we were sent for. HAMLET. I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the King and Queen moult no feather. I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason? How infinite in faculties, in form and moving, how express and admirable? In action how like an angel? In apprehension, how like a god? The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.
ROSENCRANTZ. My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts. HAMLET. Why did you laugh then, when I said ‘Man delights not me’? ROSENCRANTZ. To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what Lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you. We coted them on the way, and hither are they coming to offer you service.
HAMLET. He that plays the king shall be welcome,—his Majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis, the humorous man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle a’ th’ sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for’t. What players are they?
ROSENCRANTZ. Even those you were wont to take such delight in—the tragedians of the city.
HAMLET. How chances it they travel? Their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways.
ROSENCRANTZ. I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation.
HAMLET. Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed?
ROSENCRANTZ. No, indeed, they are not. HAMLET. How comes it? Do they grow rusty? ROSENCRANTZ. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace; but there is, sir, an ayry of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapped for’t. These are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages—so they call them—that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither.
HAMLET. What, are they children? Who maintains ’em? How are they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? Will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players—as it is most like, if their means are no better—their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim against their own succession?
ROSENCRANTZ. Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy. There was for a while, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question.
HAMLET. Is’t possible? GUILDENSTERN. O, there has been much throwing about of brains. HAMLET. Do the boys carry it away? ROSENCRANTZ. Ay, that they do, my lord. Hercules and his load too. HAMLET. It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little. ’Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.
[Flourish of trumpets within.]
GUILDENSTERN. There are the players. HAMLET. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come. The appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players, which I tell you must show fairly outward, should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome. But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.
GUILDENSTERN. In what, my dear lord? HAMLET. I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Enter Polonius.
POLONIUS. Well be with you, gentlemen. HAMLET. Hark you, Guildenstern, and you too, at each ear a hearer. That great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts.
ROSENCRANTZ. Happily he’s the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child.
HAMLET. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it.—You say right, sir: for a Monday morning ’twas so indeed.
POLONIUS. My lord, I have news to tell you. HAMLET. My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome— POLONIUS. The actors are come hither, my lord. HAMLET. Buzz, buzz. POLONIUS. Upon my honour. HAMLET. Then came each actor on his ass— POLONIUS. The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light, for the law of writ and the liberty. These are the only men.
HAMLET. O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou! POLONIUS. What treasure had he, my lord? HAMLET. Why— ’One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well.’ POLONIUS. [Aside.] Still on my daughter. HAMLET. Am I not i’ th’ right, old Jephthah? POLONIUS. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well.
HAMLET. Nay, that follows not. POLONIUS. What follows then, my lord? HAMLET. Why, As by lot, God wot, and then, you know, It came to pass, as most like it was. The first row of the pious chanson will show you more. For look where my abridgement comes.
Enter four or five Players.
You are welcome, masters, welcome all. I am glad to see thee well. Welcome, good friends. O, my old friend! Thy face is valanc’d since I saw thee last. Com’st thou to beard me in Denmark? What, my young lady and mistress! By’r lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring. Masters, you are all welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers, fly at anything we see. We’ll have a speech straight. Come, give us a taste of your quality. Come, a passionate speech.
FIRST PLAYER. What speech, my lord? HAMLET. I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted, or if it was, not above once, for the play, I remember, pleased not the million, ’twas caviare to the general. But it was—as I received it, and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in the top of mine—an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indite the author of affectation, but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in it, I chiefly loved. ’Twas Aeneas’ tale to Dido, and thereabout of it especially where he speaks of Priam’s slaughter. If it live in your memory, begin at this line, let me see, let me see: The rugged Pyrrhus, like th’ Hyrcanian beast,— It is not so: it begins with Pyrrhus— The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, Black as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in the ominous horse, Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d With heraldry more dismal. Head to foot Now is he total gules, horridly trick’d With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Bak’d and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and a damned light To their vile murders. Roasted in wrath and fire, And thus o’ersized with coagulate gore, With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks. So, proceed you.
POLONIUS. ’Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion.
FIRST PLAYER. Anon he finds him, Striking too short at Greeks. His antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command. Unequal match’d, Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide; But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword Th’unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium, Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear. For lo, his sword, Which was declining on the milky head Of reverend Priam, seem’d i’ th’air to stick. So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood, And like a neutral to his will and matter, Did nothing. But as we often see against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The bold winds speechless, and the orb below As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder Doth rend the region; so after Pyrrhus’ pause, Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work, And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall On Mars’s armour, forg’d for proof eterne, With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword Now falls on Priam. Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you gods, In general synod, take away her power; Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel, And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven, As low as to the fiends. POLONIUS. This is too long. HAMLET. It shall to the barber’s, with your beard.—Prythee say on. He’s for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to Hecuba. FIRST PLAYER. But who, O who, had seen the mobled queen,— HAMLET. ‘The mobled queen’? POLONIUS. That’s good! ‘Mobled queen’ is good. FIRST PLAYER. Run barefoot up and down, threat’ning the flames With bisson rheum. A clout upon that head Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe, About her lank and all o’erteemed loins, A blanket, in th’alarm of fear caught up— Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep’d, ’Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pronounc’d. But if the gods themselves did see her then, When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, The instant burst of clamour that she made,— Unless things mortal move them not at all,— Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven, And passion in the gods. POLONIUS. Look, where he has not turn’d his colour, and has tears in’s eyes. Pray you, no more.
HAMLET. ’Tis well. I’ll have thee speak out the rest of this soon.—Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
POLONIUS. My lord, I will use them according to their desert. HAMLET. God’s bodikin, man, better. Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity. The less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.
POLONIUS. Come, sirs. HAMLET. Follow him, friends. We’ll hear a play tomorrow. [Exeunt Polonius with all the Players but the First.]
Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play The Murder of Gonzago? FIRST PLAYER. Ay, my lord. HAMLET. We’ll ha’t tomorrow night. You could for a need study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would set down and insert in’t, could you not?
FIRST PLAYER. Ay, my lord. HAMLET. Very well. Follow that lord, and look you mock him not. [Exit First Player.]
[To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern] My good friends, I’ll leave you till night. You are welcome to Elsinore.
ROSENCRANTZ. Good my lord. [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
HAMLET. Ay, so, God b’ wi’ ye. Now I am alone. O what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wan’d; Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing! For Hecuba? What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; Make mad the guilty, and appal the free, Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed, The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing. No, not for a king Upon whose property and most dear life A damn’d defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain, breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose, gives me the lie i’ th’ throat As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? Ha! ’Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave’s offal. Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! Oh vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murder’d, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words And fall a-cursing like a very drab, A scullion! Fie upon’t! Foh! About, my brain! I have heard That guilty creatures sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene, Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim’d their malefactions. For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle. I’ll observe his looks; I’ll tent him to the quick. If he but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be the devil, and the devil hath power T’assume a pleasing shape, yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me. I’ll have grounds More relative than this. The play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King. [Exit.]
ACT III SCENE I. A room in the Castle. Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
KING. And can you by no drift of circumstance Get from him why he puts on this confusion, Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy? ROSENCRANTZ. He does confess he feels himself distracted, But from what cause he will by no means speak. GUILDENSTERN. Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, But with a crafty madness keeps aloof When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state. QUEEN. Did he receive you well? ROSENCRANTZ. Most like a gentleman. GUILDENSTERN. But with much forcing of his disposition. ROSENCRANTZ. Niggard of question, but of our demands, Most free in his reply. QUEEN. Did you assay him to any pastime? ROSENCRANTZ. Madam, it so fell out that certain players We o’er-raught on the way. Of these we told him, And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it. They are about the court, And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him. POLONIUS. ’Tis most true; And he beseech’d me to entreat your Majesties To hear and see the matter. KING. With all my heart; and it doth much content me To hear him so inclin’d. Good gentlemen, give him a further edge, And drive his purpose on to these delights. ROSENCRANTZ. We shall, my lord. [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
KING. Sweet Gertrude, leave us too, For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, That he, as ’twere by accident, may here Affront Ophelia. Her father and myself, lawful espials, Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge, And gather by him, as he is behav’d, If’t be th’affliction of his love or no That thus he suffers for. QUEEN. I shall obey you. And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet’s wildness: so shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again, To both your honours. OPHELIA. Madam, I wish it may. [Exit Queen.]
POLONIUS. Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves.—[To Ophelia.] Read on this book, That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness.—We are oft to blame in this, ’Tis too much prov’d, that with devotion’s visage And pious action we do sugar o’er The devil himself. KING. [Aside.] O ’tis too true! How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word. O heavy burden! POLONIUS. I hear him coming. Let’s withdraw, my lord. [Exeunt King and Polonius.]
Enter Hamlet.
HAMLET. To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die—to sleep, No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. Soft you now, The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember’d. OPHELIA. Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day? HAMLET. I humbly thank you; well, well, well. OPHELIA. My lord, I have remembrances of yours That I have longed long to re-deliver. I pray you, now receive them. HAMLET. No, not I. I never gave you aught. OPHELIA. My honour’d lord, you know right well you did, And with them words of so sweet breath compos’d As made the things more rich; their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord. HAMLET. Ha, ha! Are you honest? OPHELIA. My lord? HAMLET. Are you fair? OPHELIA. What means your lordship? HAMLET. That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.
OPHELIA. Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty? HAMLET. Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.
OPHELIA. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. HAMLET. You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not.
OPHELIA. I was the more deceived. HAMLET. Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all, believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father?
OPHELIA. At home, my lord. HAMLET. Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell.
OPHELIA. O help him, you sweet heavens! HAMLET. If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry. Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell.
OPHELIA. O heavenly powers, restore him! HAMLET. I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t, it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages. Those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go.
[Exit.]
OPHELIA. O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword, Th’expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, Th’observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck’d the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh, That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy. O woe is me, T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see. Enter King and Polonius.
KING. Love? His affections do not that way tend, Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little, Was not like madness. There’s something in his soul O’er which his melancholy sits on brood, And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose Will be some danger, which for to prevent, I have in quick determination Thus set it down: he shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected tribute: Haply the seas and countries different, With variable objects, shall expel This something settled matter in his heart, Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus From fashion of himself. What think you on’t? POLONIUS. It shall do well. But yet do I believe The origin and commencement of his grief Sprung from neglected love. How now, Ophelia? You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said, We heard it all. My lord, do as you please, But if you hold it fit, after the play, Let his queen mother all alone entreat him To show his grief, let her be round with him, And I’ll be plac’d, so please you, in the ear Of all their conference. If she find him not, To England send him; or confine him where Your wisdom best shall think. KING. It shall be so. Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go. [Exeunt.]
SCENE II. A hall in the Castle. Enter Hamlet and certain Players.
HAMLET. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant. It out-Herods Herod. Pray you avoid it.
FIRST PLAYER. I warrant your honour. HAMLET. Be not too tame neither; but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as ’twere the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance o’erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play—and heard others praise, and that highly—not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature’s journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.
FIRST PLAYER. I hope we have reform’d that indifferently with us, sir. HAMLET. O reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them. For there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the meantime some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That’s villanous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready.
[Exeunt Players.]
Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
How now, my lord? Will the King hear this piece of work?
POLONIUS. And the Queen too, and that presently. HAMLET. Bid the players make haste. [Exit Polonius.]
Will you two help to hasten them?
ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. We will, my lord. [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
HAMLET. What ho, Horatio! Enter Horatio.
HORATIO. Here, sweet lord, at your service. HAMLET. Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man As e’er my conversation cop’d withal. HORATIO. O my dear lord. HAMLET. Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal’d thee for herself. For thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards Hast ta’en with equal thanks. And bles’d are those Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much of this. There is a play tonight before the King. One scene of it comes near the circumstance Which I have told thee, of my father’s death. I prythee, when thou see’st that act a-foot, Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe mine uncle. If his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen; And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note; For I mine eyes will rivet to his face; And after we will both our judgments join In censure of his seeming. HORATIO. Well, my lord. If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing, And scape detecting, I will pay the theft. HAMLET. They are coming to the play. I must be idle. Get you a place. Danish march. A flourish. Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and others.
KING. How fares our cousin Hamlet? HAMLET. Excellent, i’ faith; of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so.
KING. I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine.
HAMLET. No, nor mine now. [To Polonius.] My lord, you play’d once i’ th’university, you say?
POLONIUS. That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor. HAMLET. What did you enact? POLONIUS. I did enact Julius Caesar. I was kill’d i’ th’ Capitol. Brutus killed me.
HAMLET. It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the players ready?
ROSENCRANTZ. Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience. QUEEN. Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me. HAMLET. No, good mother, here’s metal more attractive. POLONIUS. [To the King.] O ho! do you mark that? HAMLET. Lady, shall I lie in your lap? [Lying down at Ophelia’s feet.]
OPHELIA. No, my lord. HAMLET. I mean, my head upon your lap? OPHELIA. Ay, my lord. HAMLET. Do you think I meant country matters? OPHELIA. I think nothing, my lord. HAMLET. That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs. OPHELIA. What is, my lord? HAMLET. Nothing. OPHELIA. You are merry, my lord. HAMLET. Who, I? OPHELIA. Ay, my lord. HAMLET. O God, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within’s two hours.
OPHELIA. Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord. HAMLET. So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year. But by’r lady, he must build churches then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is ‘For, O, for O, the hobby-horse is forgot!’
Trumpets sound. The dumb show enters.
Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queen embracing him and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck. Lays him down upon a bank of flowers. She, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, pours poison in the King’s ears, and exits. The Queen returns, finds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner with some three or four Mutes, comes in again, seeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried away. The Poisoner woos the Queen with gifts. She seems loth and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts his love.
[Exeunt.]
OPHELIA. What means this, my lord? HAMLET. Marry, this is miching mallicho; it means mischief. OPHELIA. Belike this show imports the argument of the play. Enter Prologue.
HAMLET. We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they’ll tell all.
OPHELIA. Will they tell us what this show meant? HAMLET. Ay, or any show that you’ll show him. Be not you ashamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means.
OPHELIA. You are naught, you are naught: I’ll mark the play. PROLOGUE. For us, and for our tragedy, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing patiently. HAMLET. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? OPHELIA. ’Tis brief, my lord. HAMLET. As woman’s love. Enter a King and a Queen.
PLAYER KING. Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart gone round Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground, And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen About the world have times twelve thirties been, Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands Unite commutual in most sacred bands. PLAYER QUEEN. So many journeys may the sun and moon Make us again count o’er ere love be done. But, woe is me, you are so sick of late, So far from cheer and from your former state, That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must: For women’s fear and love holds quantity, In neither aught, or in extremity. Now what my love is, proof hath made you know, And as my love is siz’d, my fear is so. Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there. PLAYER KING. Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too: My operant powers their functions leave to do: And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, Honour’d, belov’d, and haply one as kind For husband shalt thou— PLAYER QUEEN. O confound the rest. Such love must needs be treason in my breast. In second husband let me be accurst! None wed the second but who kill’d the first. HAMLET. [Aside.] Wormwood, wormwood. PLAYER QUEEN. The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love. A second time I kill my husband dead, When second husband kisses me in bed. PLAYER KING. I do believe you think what now you speak; But what we do determine, oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent birth, but poor validity: Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree, But fall unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary ’tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt. What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy. Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament; Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. This world is not for aye; nor ’tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change, For ’tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favourite flies, The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies; And hitherto doth love on fortune tend: For who not needs shall never lack a friend, And who in want a hollow friend doth try, Directly seasons him his enemy. But orderly to end where I begun, Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices still are overthrown. Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. So think thou wilt no second husband wed, But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead. PLAYER QUEEN. Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light, Sport and repose lock from me day and night, To desperation turn my trust and hope, An anchor’s cheer in prison be my scope, Each opposite that blanks the face of joy, Meet what I would have well, and it destroy! Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife, If, once a widow, ever I be wife. HAMLET. [To Ophelia.] If she should break it now. PLAYER KING. ’Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile. My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. [Sleeps.] PLAYER QUEEN. Sleep rock thy brain, And never come mischance between us twain. [Exit.]
HAMLET. Madam, how like you this play? QUEEN. The lady protests too much, methinks. HAMLET. O, but she’ll keep her word. KING. Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in’t? HAMLET. No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’ th’ world.
KING. What do you call the play? HAMLET. The Mousetrap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna. Gonzago is the Duke’s name, his wife Baptista: you shall see anon; ’tis a knavish piece of work: but what o’ that? Your majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not. Let the gall’d jade wince; our withers are unwrung.
Enter Lucianus.
This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King.
OPHELIA. You are a good chorus, my lord. HAMLET. I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying.
OPHELIA. You are keen, my lord, you are keen. HAMLET. It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge. OPHELIA. Still better, and worse. HAMLET. So you mistake your husbands.—Begin, murderer. Pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.
LUCIANUS. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing, Confederate season, else no creature seeing; Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property On wholesome life usurp immediately. [Pours the poison into the sleeper’s ears.]
HAMLET. He poisons him i’ th’garden for’s estate. His name’s Gonzago. The story is extant, and written in very choice Italian. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife.
OPHELIA. The King rises. HAMLET. What, frighted with false fire? QUEEN. How fares my lord? POLONIUS. Give o’er the play. KING. Give me some light. Away. All. Lights, lights, lights. [Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio.]
HAMLET. Why, let the strucken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep, So runs the world away. Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me; with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?
HORATIO. Half a share. HAMLET. A whole one, I. For thou dost know, O Damon dear, This realm dismantled was Of Jove himself, and now reigns here A very, very—pajock. HORATIO. You might have rhymed. HAMLET. O good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive?
HORATIO. Very well, my lord. HAMLET. Upon the talk of the poisoning? HORATIO. I did very well note him. HAMLET. Ah, ha! Come, some music. Come, the recorders. For if the king like not the comedy, Why then, belike he likes it not, perdie. Come, some music. Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
GUILDENSTERN. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. HAMLET. Sir, a whole history. GUILDENSTERN. The King, sir— HAMLET. Ay, sir, what of him? GUILDENSTERN. Is in his retirement, marvellous distempered. HAMLET. With drink, sir? GUILDENSTERN. No, my lord; rather with choler. HAMLET. Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to the doctor, for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler.
GUILDENSTERN. Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair.
HAMLET. I am tame, sir, pronounce. GUILDENSTERN. The Queen your mother, in most great affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you.
HAMLET. You are welcome. GUILDENSTERN. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s commandment; if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business.
HAMLET. Sir, I cannot. GUILDENSTERN. What, my lord? HAMLET. Make you a wholesome answer. My wit’s diseased. But, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command; or rather, as you say, my mother. Therefore no more, but to the matter. My mother, you say,—
ROSENCRANTZ. Then thus she says: your behaviour hath struck her into amazement and admiration.
HAMLET. O wonderful son, that can so stonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration?
ROSENCRANTZ. She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed. HAMLET. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?
ROSENCRANTZ. My lord, you once did love me. HAMLET. And so I do still, by these pickers and stealers. ROSENCRANTZ. Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend.
HAMLET. Sir, I lack advancement. ROSENCRANTZ. How can that be, when you have the voice of the King himself for your succession in Denmark?
HAMLET. Ay, sir, but while the grass grows—the proverb is something musty.
Re-enter the Players with recorders.
O, the recorders. Let me see one.—To withdraw with you, why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?
GUILDENSTERN. O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly. HAMLET. I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe? GUILDENSTERN. My lord, I cannot. HAMLET. I pray you. GUILDENSTERN. Believe me, I cannot. HAMLET. I do beseech you. GUILDENSTERN. I know no touch of it, my lord. HAMLET. ’Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.
GUILDENSTERN. But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony. I have not the skill.
HAMLET. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
Enter Polonius.
God bless you, sir.
POLONIUS. My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently. HAMLET. Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? POLONIUS. By the mass, and ’tis like a camel indeed. HAMLET. Methinks it is like a weasel. POLONIUS. It is backed like a weasel. HAMLET. Or like a whale. POLONIUS. Very like a whale. HAMLET. Then will I come to my mother by and by.—They fool me to the top of my bent.—I will come by and by.
POLONIUS. I will say so. [Exit.]
HAMLET. By and by is easily said. Leave me, friends.
[Exeunt all but Hamlet.]
’Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft now, to my mother. O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural. I will speak daggers to her, but use none; My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites. How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent. [Exit.]
SCENE III. A room in the Castle. Enter King, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
KING. I like him not, nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you, I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you. The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies. GUILDENSTERN. We will ourselves provide. Most holy and religious fear it is To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your Majesty. ROSENCRANTZ. The single and peculiar life is bound With all the strength and armour of the mind, To keep itself from ’noyance; but much more That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest The lives of many. The cease of majesty Dies not alone; but like a gulf doth draw What’s near it with it. It is a massy wheel Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boist’rous ruin. Never alone Did the King sigh, but with a general groan. KING. Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; For we will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed. ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. We will haste us. [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
Enter Polonius.
POLONIUS. My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet. Behind the arras I’ll convey myself To hear the process. I’ll warrant she’ll tax him home, And as you said, and wisely was it said, ’Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear The speech of vantage. Fare you well, my liege, I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know. KING. Thanks, dear my lord. [Exit Polonius.]
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,— A brother’s murder! Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And what’s in prayer but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up. My fault is past. But O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder! That cannot be; since I am still possess’d Of those effects for which I did the murder,— My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardon’d and retain th’offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law. But ’tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compell’d Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that struggling to be free, Art more engag’d! Help, angels! Make assay: Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All may be well. [Retires and kneels.]
Enter Hamlet.
HAMLET. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying. And now I’ll do’t. And so he goes to heaven; And so am I reveng’d. That would be scann’d: A villain kills my father, and for that I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. He took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, ’Tis heavy with him. And am I then reveng’d, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and season’d for his passage? No. Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent: When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage, Or in th’incestuous pleasure of his bed, At gaming, swearing; or about some act That has no relish of salvation in’t, Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, And that his soul may be as damn’d and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays. This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. [Exit.]
The King rises and advances.
KING. My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go. [Exit.]
SCENE IV. Another room in the Castle. Enter Queen and Polonius.
POLONIUS. He will come straight. Look you lay home to him, Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with, And that your Grace hath screen’d and stood between Much heat and him. I’ll silence me e’en here. Pray you be round with him. HAMLET. [Within.] Mother, mother, mother. QUEEN. I’ll warrant you, Fear me not. Withdraw, I hear him coming.
[Polonius goes behind the arras.]
Enter Hamlet.
HAMLET. Now, mother, what’s the matter? QUEEN. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. HAMLET. Mother, you have my father much offended. QUEEN. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. HAMLET. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. QUEEN. Why, how now, Hamlet? HAMLET. What’s the matter now? QUEEN. Have you forgot me? HAMLET. No, by the rood, not so. You are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife, And, would it were not so. You are my mother. QUEEN. Nay, then I’ll set those to you that can speak. HAMLET. Come, come, and sit you down, you shall not budge. You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you. QUEEN. What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? Help, help, ho! POLONIUS. [Behind.] What, ho! help, help, help! HAMLET. How now? A rat? [Draws.] Dead for a ducat, dead! [Makes a pass through the arras.]
POLONIUS. [Behind.] O, I am slain! [Falls and dies.]
QUEEN. O me, what hast thou done? HAMLET. Nay, I know not. is it the King? [Draws forth Polonius.]
QUEEN. O what a rash and bloody deed is this! HAMLET. A bloody deed. Almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king and marry with his brother. QUEEN. As kill a king? HAMLET. Ay, lady, ’twas my word.— [To Polonius.] Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune, Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger.— Leave wringing of your hands. Peace, sit you down, And let me wring your heart, for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff; If damned custom have not braz’d it so, That it is proof and bulwark against sense. QUEEN. What have I done, that thou dar’st wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me? HAMLET. Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there. Makes marriage vows As false as dicers’ oaths. O such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words. Heaven’s face doth glow, Yea this solidity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act. QUEEN. Ay me, what act, That roars so loud, and thunders in the index? HAMLET. Look here upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this brow, Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill: A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband. Look you now what follows. Here is your husband, like a mildew’d ear Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love; for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble, And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment Would step from this to this? Sense sure you have, Else could you not have motion; but sure that sense Is apoplex’d, for madness would not err Nor sense to ecstacy was ne’er so thrall’d But it reserv’d some quantity of choice To serve in such a difference. What devil was’t That thus hath cozen’d you at hoodman-blind? Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope. O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn, And reason panders will. QUEEN. O Hamlet, speak no more. Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct. HAMLET. Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty. QUEEN. O speak to me no more; These words like daggers enter in mine ears; No more, sweet Hamlet. HAMLET. A murderer and a villain; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord. A vice of kings, A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket! QUEEN. No more. HAMLET. A king of shreds and patches!— Enter Ghost.
Save me and hover o’er me with your wings, You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure? QUEEN. Alas, he’s mad. HAMLET. Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of your dread command? O say! GHOST. Do not forget. This visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But look, amazement on thy mother sits. O step between her and her fighting soul. Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works. Speak to her, Hamlet. HAMLET. How is it with you, lady? QUEEN. Alas, how is’t with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep, And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, Your bedded hairs, like life in excrements, Start up and stand an end. O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look? HAMLET. On him, on him! Look you how pale he glares, His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones, Would make them capable.—Do not look upon me, Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects. Then what I have to do Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood. QUEEN. To whom do you speak this? HAMLET. Do you see nothing there? QUEEN. Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. HAMLET. Nor did you nothing hear? QUEEN. No, nothing but ourselves. HAMLET. Why, look you there! look how it steals away! My father, in his habit as he liv’d! Look where he goes even now out at the portal. [Exit Ghost.]
QUEEN. This is the very coinage of your brain. This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in. HAMLET. Ecstasy! My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music. It is not madness That I have utter’d. Bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word; which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul That not your trespass, but my madness speaks. It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come; And do not spread the compost on the weeds, To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good. QUEEN. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. HAMLET. O throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. Good night. But go not to mine uncle’s bed. Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits evil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence. The next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either curb the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good night, And when you are desirous to be bles’d, I’ll blessing beg of you. For this same lord [Pointing to Polonius.] I do repent; but heaven hath pleas’d it so, To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So again, good night. I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady. QUEEN. What shall I do? HAMLET. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat King tempt you again to bed, Pinch wanton on your cheek, call you his mouse, And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d fingers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, But mad in craft. ’Twere good you let him know, For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib, Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep And break your own neck down. QUEEN. Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me. HAMLET. I must to England, you know that? QUEEN. Alack, I had forgot. ’Tis so concluded on. HAMLET. There’s letters seal’d: and my two schoolfellows, Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d,— They bear the mandate, they must sweep my way And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; For ’tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petard, and ’t shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon. O, ’tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet. This man shall set me packing. I’ll lug the guts into the neighbour room. Mother, good night. Indeed, this counsellor Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, Who was in life a foolish peating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. Good night, mother. [Exit Hamlet dragging out Polonius.]
ACT IV SCENE I. A room in the Castle. Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
KING. There’s matter in these sighs. These profound heaves You must translate. ’tis fit we understand them. Where is your son? QUEEN. Bestow this place on us a little while. [To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who go out.]
Ah, my good lord, what have I seen tonight!
KING. What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet? QUEEN. Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit Behind the arras hearing something stir, Whips out his rapier, cries ‘A rat, a rat!’ And in this brainish apprehension kills The unseen good old man. KING. O heavy deed! It had been so with us, had we been there. His liberty is full of threats to all; To you yourself, to us, to everyone. Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answer’d? It will be laid to us, whose providence Should have kept short, restrain’d, and out of haunt This mad young man. But so much was our love We would not understand what was most fit, But like the owner of a foul disease, To keep it from divulging, let it feed Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone? QUEEN. To draw apart the body he hath kill’d, O’er whom his very madness, like some ore Among a mineral of metals base, Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done. KING. O Gertrude, come away! The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch But we will ship him hence, and this vile deed We must with all our majesty and skill Both countenance and excuse.—Ho, Guildenstern! Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Friends both, go join you with some further aid: Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, And from his mother’s closet hath he dragg’d him. Go seek him out, speak fair, and bring the body Into the chapel. I pray you haste in this. [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
Come, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends, And let them know both what we mean to do And what’s untimely done, so haply slander, Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter, As level as the cannon to his blank, Transports his poison’d shot, may miss our name, And hit the woundless air. O, come away! My soul is full of discord and dismay. [Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Another room in the Castle. Enter Hamlet.
HAMLET. Safely stowed. ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. [Within.] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet! HAMLET. What noise? Who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come. Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
ROSENCRANTZ. What have you done, my lord, with the dead body? HAMLET. Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin. ROSENCRANTZ. Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence, And bear it to the chapel. HAMLET. Do not believe it. ROSENCRANTZ. Believe what? HAMLET. That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge—what replication should be made by the son of a king?
ROSENCRANTZ. Take you me for a sponge, my lord? HAMLET. Ay, sir; that soaks up the King’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the King best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.
ROSENCRANTZ. I understand you not, my lord. HAMLET. I am glad of it. A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear. ROSENCRANTZ. My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the King.
HAMLET. The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body. The King is a thing—
GUILDENSTERN. A thing, my lord! HAMLET. Of nothing. Bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after. [Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Another room in the Castle. Enter King, attended.
KING. I have sent to seek him and to find the body. How dangerous is it that this man goes loose! Yet must not we put the strong law on him: He’s lov’d of the distracted multitude, Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes; And where ’tis so, th’offender’s scourge is weigh’d, But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even, This sudden sending him away must seem Deliberate pause. Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliance are reliev’d, Or not at all. Enter Rosencrantz.
How now? What hath befall’n?
ROSENCRANTZ. Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord, We cannot get from him. KING. But where is he? ROSENCRANTZ. Without, my lord, guarded, to know your pleasure. KING. Bring him before us. ROSENCRANTZ. Ho, Guildenstern! Bring in my lord. Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern.
KING. Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius? HAMLET. At supper. KING. At supper? Where? HAMLET. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service,—two dishes, but to one table. That’s the end.
KING. Alas, alas! HAMLET. A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.
KING. What dost thou mean by this? HAMLET. Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar.
KING. Where is Polonius? HAMLET. In heaven. Send thither to see. If your messenger find him not there, seek him i’ th’other place yourself. But indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby.
KING. [To some Attendants.] Go seek him there. HAMLET. He will stay till you come. [Exeunt Attendants.]
KING. Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,— Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve For that which thou hast done,—must send thee hence With fiery quickness. Therefore prepare thyself; The bark is ready, and the wind at help, Th’associates tend, and everything is bent For England. HAMLET. For England? KING. Ay, Hamlet. HAMLET. Good. KING. So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes. HAMLET. I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; for England! Farewell, dear mother.
KING. Thy loving father, Hamlet. HAMLET. My mother. Father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England.
[Exit.]
KING. Follow him at foot. Tempt him with speed aboard; Delay it not; I’ll have him hence tonight. Away, for everything is seal’d and done That else leans on th’affair. Pray you make haste. [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
And England, if my love thou hold’st at aught,— As my great power thereof may give thee sense, Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red After the Danish sword, and thy free awe Pays homage to us,—thou mayst not coldly set Our sovereign process, which imports at full, By letters conjuring to that effect, The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England; For like the hectic in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done, Howe’er my haps, my joys were ne’er begun. [Exit.]
SCENE IV. A plain in Denmark. Enter Fortinbras and Forces marching.
FORTINBRAS. Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king. Tell him that by his license, Fortinbras Craves the conveyance of a promis’d march Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. If that his Majesty would aught with us, We shall express our duty in his eye; And let him know so. CAPTAIN. I will do’t, my lord. FORTINBRAS. Go softly on. [Exeunt all but the Captain.]
Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern &c.
HAMLET. Good sir, whose powers are these? CAPTAIN. They are of Norway, sir. HAMLET. How purpos’d, sir, I pray you? CAPTAIN. Against some part of Poland. HAMLET. Who commands them, sir? CAPTAIN. The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras. HAMLET. Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, Or for some frontier? CAPTAIN. Truly to speak, and with no addition, We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee. HAMLET. Why, then the Polack never will defend it. CAPTAIN. Yes, it is already garrison’d. HAMLET. Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats Will not debate the question of this straw! This is th’imposthume of much wealth and peace, That inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir. CAPTAIN. God b’ wi’ you, sir. [Exit.]
ROSENCRANTZ. Will’t please you go, my lord? HAMLET. I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before. [Exeunt all but Hamlet.]
How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge. What is a man If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unus’d. Now whether it be Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on th’event,— A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward,—I do not know Why yet I live to say this thing’s to do, Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me, Witness this army of such mass and charge, Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff’d, Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while to my shame I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth. [Exit.]
SCENE V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Enter Queen, Horatio and a Gentleman.
QUEEN. I will not speak with her. GENTLEMAN. She is importunate, indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied. QUEEN. What would she have? GENTLEMAN. She speaks much of her father; says she hears There’s tricks i’ th’ world, and hems, and beats her heart, Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts, Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. ’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. QUEEN. Let her come in. [Exit Gentleman.]
To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. Enter Ophelia.
OPHELIA. Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark? QUEEN. How now, Ophelia? OPHELIA. [Sings.] How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle bat and staff And his sandal shoon. QUEEN. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? OPHELIA. Say you? Nay, pray you mark. [Sings.] He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass green turf, At his heels a stone. QUEEN. Nay, but Ophelia— OPHELIA. Pray you mark. [Sings.] White his shroud as the mountain snow. Enter King.
QUEEN. Alas, look here, my lord! OPHELIA. [Sings.] Larded all with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did go With true-love showers. KING. How do you, pretty lady? OPHELIA. Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!
KING. Conceit upon her father. OPHELIA. Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: [Sings.] Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine. Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes, And dupp’d the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more. KING. Pretty Ophelia! OPHELIA. Indeed la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t. [Sings.] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do’t if they come to’t; By Cock, they are to blame. Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promis’d me to wed. So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed. KING. How long hath she been thus? OPHELIA. I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I cannot choose but weep, to think they would lay him i’ th’ cold ground. My brother shall know of it. And so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.
[Exit.]
KING. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you. [Exit Horatio.]
O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions. First, her father slain; Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him. Poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgment, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts. Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France, Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father’s death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering piece, in many places Gives me superfluous death. [A noise within.]
QUEEN. Alack, what noise is this? KING. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.
Enter a Gentleman.
What is the matter?
GENTLEMAN. Save yourself, my lord. The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, O’erbears your offices. The rabble call him lord, And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry ‘Choose we! Laertes shall be king!’ Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, ‘Laertes shall be king, Laertes king.’ QUEEN. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry. O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs. [A noise within.]
KING. The doors are broke. Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following.
LAERTES. Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without. Danes. No, let’s come in. LAERTES. I pray you, give me leave. DANES. We will, we will. [They retire without the door.]
LAERTES. I thank you. Keep the door. O thou vile king, Give me my father. QUEEN. Calmly, good Laertes. LAERTES. That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard; Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot Even here between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother. KING. What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?— Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude:— Speak, man. LAERTES. Where is my father? KING. Dead. QUEEN. But not by him. KING. Let him demand his fill. LAERTES. How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with. To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, That both the worlds, I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d Most throughly for my father. KING. Who shall stay you? LAERTES. My will, not all the world. And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, They shall go far with little. KING. Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser? LAERTES. None but his enemies. KING. Will you know them then? LAERTES. To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms; And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, Repast them with my blood. KING. Why, now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father’s death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgment ’pear As day does to your eye. DANES. [Within.] Let her come in. LAERTES. How now! What noise is that? Re-enter Ophelia, fantastically dressed with straws and flowers.
O heat, dry up my brains. Tears seven times salt, Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye. By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight, Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits Should be as mortal as an old man’s life? Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves. OPHELIA. [Sings.] They bore him barefac’d on the bier, Hey no nonny, nonny, hey nonny And on his grave rain’d many a tear.— Fare you well, my dove!
LAERTES. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus. OPHELIA. You must sing ‘Down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.’ O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward that stole his master’s daughter.
LAERTES. This nothing’s more than matter. OPHELIA. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.
LAERTES. A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted. OPHELIA. There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you; and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end. [Sings.] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
LAERTES. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself She turns to favour and to prettiness. OPHELIA. [Sings.] And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ha’ mercy on his soul. And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b’ wi’ ye.
[Exit.]
LAERTES. Do you see this, O God? KING. Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me. If by direct or by collateral hand They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give it due content. LAERTES. Let this be so; His means of death, his obscure burial,— No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,— Cry to be heard, as ’twere from heaven to earth, That I must call’t in question. KING. So you shall. And where th’offence is let the great axe fall. I pray you go with me. [Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. Another room in the Castle. Enter Horatio and a Servant.
HORATIO. What are they that would speak with me? SERVANT. Sailors, sir. They say they have letters for you. HORATIO. Let them come in. [Exit Servant.]
I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet. Enter Sailors.
FIRST SAILOR. God bless you, sir. HORATIO. Let him bless thee too. FIRST SAILOR. He shall, sir, and’t please him. There’s a letter for you, sir. It comes from th’ambassador that was bound for England; if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is.
HORATIO. [Reads.] ‘Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked this, give these fellows some means to the King. They have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship, so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy. But they knew what they did; I am to do a good turn for them. Let the King have the letters I have sent, and repair thou to me with as much haste as thou wouldst fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England: of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell. He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.’
Come, I will give you way for these your letters, And do’t the speedier, that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them. [Exeunt.]
SCENE VII. Another room in the Castle. Enter King and Laertes.
KING. Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, That he which hath your noble father slain Pursu’d my life. LAERTES. It well appears. But tell me Why you proceeded not against these feats, So crimeful and so capital in nature, As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, You mainly were stirr’d up. KING. O, for two special reasons, Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d, But yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive, Why to a public count I might not go, Is the great love the general gender bear him, Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows, Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, And not where I had aim’d them. LAERTES. And so have I a noble father lost, A sister driven into desperate terms, Whose worth, if praises may go back again, Stood challenger on mount of all the age For her perfections. But my revenge will come. KING. Break not your sleeps for that. You must not think That we are made of stuff so flat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger, And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more. I lov’d your father, and we love ourself, And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine— Enter a Messenger.
How now? What news?
MESSENGER. Letters, my lord, from Hamlet. This to your Majesty; this to the Queen. KING. From Hamlet! Who brought them? MESSENGER. Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not. They were given me by Claudio. He receiv’d them Of him that brought them. KING. Laertes, you shall hear them. Leave us. [Exit Messenger.]
[Reads.] ‘High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes. When I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions of my sudden and more strange return. HAMLET.’
What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse, and no such thing? LAERTES. Know you the hand? KING. ’Tis Hamlet’s character. ’Naked!’ And in a postscript here he says ‘alone.’ Can you advise me? LAERTES. I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come, It warms the very sickness in my heart That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, ‘Thus diest thou.’ KING. If it be so, Laertes,— As how should it be so? How otherwise?— Will you be rul’d by me? LAERTES. Ay, my lord; So you will not o’errule me to a peace. KING. To thine own peace. If he be now return’d, As checking at his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him To exploit, now ripe in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall; And for his death no wind shall breathe, But even his mother shall uncharge the practice And call it accident. LAERTES. My lord, I will be rul’d; The rather if you could devise it so That I might be the organ. KING. It falls right. You have been talk’d of since your travel much, And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality Wherein they say you shine. Your sum of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one, and that, in my regard, Of the unworthiest siege. LAERTES. What part is that, my lord? KING. A very riband in the cap of youth, Yet needful too, for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Than settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and graveness. Two months since Here was a gentleman of Normandy,— I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French, And they can well on horseback, but this gallant Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat, And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d With the brave beast. So far he topp’d my thought That I in forgery of shapes and tricks, Come short of what he did. LAERTES. A Norman was’t? KING. A Norman. LAERTES. Upon my life, Lamond. KING. The very same. LAERTES. I know him well. He is the brooch indeed And gem of all the nation. KING. He made confession of you, And gave you such a masterly report For art and exercise in your defence, And for your rapier most especially, That he cried out ’twould be a sight indeed If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye, If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o’er to play with him. Now, out of this,— LAERTES. What out of this, my lord? KING. Laertes, was your father dear to you? Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart? LAERTES. Why ask you this? KING. Not that I think you did not love your father, But that I know love is begun by time, And that I see, in passages of proof, Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still, For goodness, growing to a pleurisy, Dies in his own too much. That we would do, We should do when we would; for this ‘would’ changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’ th’ulcer: Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake To show yourself your father’s son in deed, More than in words? LAERTES. To cut his throat i’ th’ church. KING. No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But good Laertes, Will you do this, keep close within your chamber. Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home: We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence, And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together And wager on your heads. He, being remiss, Most generous, and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease, Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated, and in a pass of practice, Requite him for your father. LAERTES. I will do’t. And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death This is but scratch’d withal. I’ll touch my point With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly, It may be death. KING. Let’s further think of this, Weigh what convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape. If this should fail, And that our drift look through our bad performance. ’Twere better not assay’d. Therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold If this did blast in proof. Soft, let me see. We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,— I ha’t! When in your motion you are hot and dry, As make your bouts more violent to that end, And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, Our purpose may hold there. Enter Queen.
How now, sweet Queen?
QUEEN. One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, So fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes. LAERTES. Drown’d! O, where? QUEEN. There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream. There with fantastic garlands did she make Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them. There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke, When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up, Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indued Unto that element. But long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death. LAERTES. Alas, then she is drown’d? QUEEN. Drown’d, drown’d. LAERTES. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears. But yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will. When these are gone, The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord, I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly douts it. [Exit.]
KING. Let’s follow, Gertrude; How much I had to do to calm his rage! Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let’s follow. [Exeunt.]
ACT V SCENE I. A churchyard. Enter two Clowns with spades, &c.
FIRST CLOWN. Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her own salvation?
SECOND CLOWN. I tell thee she is, and therefore make her grave straight. The crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.
FIRST CLOWN. How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?
SECOND CLOWN. Why, ’tis found so.
FIRST CLOWN. It must be se offendendo, it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches. It is to act, to do, and to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.
SECOND CLOWN. Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—
FIRST CLOWN. Give me leave. Here lies the water; good. Here stands the man; good. If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is, will he nill he, he goes,—mark you that. But if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.
SECOND CLOWN. But is this law?
FIRST CLOWN. Ay, marry, is’t, crowner’s quest law.
SECOND CLOWN. Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o’ Christian burial.
FIRST CLOWN. Why, there thou say’st. And the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even Christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they hold up Adam’s profession.
SECOND CLOWN. Was he a gentleman?
FIRST CLOWN. He was the first that ever bore arms.
SECOND CLOWN. Why, he had none.
FIRST CLOWN. What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says Adam digg’d. Could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself—
SECOND CLOWN. Go to.
FIRST CLOWN. What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?
SECOND CLOWN. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.
FIRST CLOWN. I like thy wit well in good faith, the gallows does well. But how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now, thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church; argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come.
SECOND CLOWN. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?
FIRST CLOWN. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
SECOND CLOWN. Marry, now I can tell.
FIRST CLOWN. To’t.
SECOND CLOWN. Mass, I cannot tell.
Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a distance.
FIRST CLOWN. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and when you are asked this question next, say ‘a grave-maker’. The houses he makes last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of liquor.
[Exit Second Clown.]
[Digs and sings.]
In youth when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet; To contract, O, the time for, a, my behove, O methought there was nothing meet. HAMLET. Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?
HORATIO. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness. HAMLET. ’Tis e’en so; the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.
FIRST CLOWN. [Sings.] But age with his stealing steps Hath claw’d me in his clutch, And hath shipp’d me into the land, As if I had never been such. [Throws up a skull.]
HAMLET. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to th’ ground, as if ’twere Cain’s jawbone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician which this ass now o’er-offices, one that would circumvent God, might it not?
HORATIO. It might, my lord. HAMLET. Or of a courtier, which could say ‘Good morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?’ This might be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord such-a-one’s horse when he meant to beg it, might it not?
HORATIO. Ay, my lord. HAMLET. Why, e’en so: and now my Lady Worm’s; chapless, and knocked about the mazard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine revolution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets with ’em? Mine ache to think on’t.
FIRST CLOWN. [Sings.] A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding-sheet; O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet. [Throws up another skull.]
HAMLET. There’s another. Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum. This fellow might be in’s time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries. Is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will scarcely lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha?
HORATIO. Not a jot more, my lord. HAMLET. Is not parchment made of sheep-skins? HORATIO. Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too. HAMLET. They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow.—Whose grave’s this, sir?
FIRST CLOWN. Mine, sir. [Sings.] O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet. HAMLET. I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t. FIRST CLOWN. You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours. For my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine. HAMLET. Thou dost lie in’t, to be in’t and say it is thine. ’Tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.
FIRST CLOWN. ’Tis a quick lie, sir; ’t will away again from me to you.
HAMLET. What man dost thou dig it for? FIRST CLOWN. For no man, sir.
HAMLET. What woman then? FIRST CLOWN. For none neither.
HAMLET. Who is to be buried in’t? FIRST CLOWN. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.
HAMLET. How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it, the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.—How long hast thou been a grave-maker?
FIRST CLOWN. Of all the days i’ th’ year, I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet o’ercame Fortinbras.
HAMLET. How long is that since? FIRST CLOWN. Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was the very day that young Hamlet was born,—he that is mad, and sent into England.
HAMLET. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England? FIRST CLOWN. Why, because he was mad; he shall recover his wits there; or if he do not, it’s no great matter there.
HAMLET. Why? FIRST CLOWN. ’Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.
HAMLET. How came he mad? FIRST CLOWN. Very strangely, they say.
HAMLET. How strangely? FIRST CLOWN. Faith, e’en with losing his wits.
HAMLET. Upon what ground? FIRST CLOWN. Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.
HAMLET. How long will a man lie i’ th’earth ere he rot? FIRST CLOWN. Faith, if he be not rotten before he die,—as we have many pocky corses nowadays that will scarce hold the laying in,—he will last you some eight year or nine year. A tanner will last you nine year.
HAMLET. Why he more than another? FIRST CLOWN. Why, sir, his hide is so tann’d with his trade that he will keep out water a great while. And your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now; this skull hath lain in the earth three-and-twenty years.
HAMLET. Whose was it? FIRST CLOWN. A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it was?
HAMLET. Nay, I know not. FIRST CLOWN. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! A pour’d a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the King’s jester.
HAMLET. This? FIRST CLOWN. E’en that.
HAMLET. Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss’d I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chop-fallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her laugh at that.—Prythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
HORATIO. What’s that, my lord? HAMLET. Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ th’earth? HORATIO. E’en so. HAMLET. And smelt so? Pah! [Throws down the skull.]
HORATIO. E’en so, my lord. HAMLET. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bung-hole?
HORATIO. ’Twere to consider too curiously to consider so. HAMLET. No, faith, not a jot. But to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus. Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam whereto he was converted might they not stop a beer-barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall t’expel the winter’s flaw. But soft! but soft! aside! Here comes the King. Enter priests, &c, in procession; the corpse of Ophelia, Laertes and Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, &c.
The Queen, the courtiers. Who is that they follow? And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo it own life. ’Twas of some estate. Couch we awhile and mark. [Retiring with Horatio.]
LAERTES. What ceremony else? HAMLET. That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark.
LAERTES. What ceremony else? PRIEST. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d As we have warranties. Her death was doubtful; And but that great command o’ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodg’d Till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers, Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her. Yet here she is allowed her virgin rites, Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial. LAERTES. Must there no more be done? PRIEST. No more be done. We should profane the service of the dead To sing sage requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls. LAERTES. Lay her i’ th’earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring. I tell thee, churlish priest, A minist’ring angel shall my sister be When thou liest howling. HAMLET. What, the fair Ophelia? QUEEN. [Scattering flowers.] Sweets to the sweet. Farewell. I hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid, And not have strew’d thy grave. LAERTES. O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Depriv’d thee of. Hold off the earth a while, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms. [Leaps into the grave.] Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, Till of this flat a mountain you have made, To o’ertop old Pelion or the skyish head Of blue Olympus. HAMLET. [Advancing.] What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps into the grave.] LAERTES. [Grappling with him.] The devil take thy soul!
HAMLET. Thou pray’st not well. I prythee take thy fingers from my throat; For though I am not splenative and rash, Yet have I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wiseness fear. Away thy hand! KING. Pluck them asunder. QUEEN. Hamlet! Hamlet! All. Gentlemen! HORATIO. Good my lord, be quiet. [The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.]
HAMLET. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag. QUEEN. O my son, what theme? HAMLET. I lov’d Ophelia; forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her? KING. O, he is mad, Laertes. QUEEN. For love of God forbear him! HAMLET. ’Swounds, show me what thou’lt do: Woul’t weep? woul’t fight? woul’t fast? woul’t tear thyself? Woul’t drink up eisel? eat a crocodile? I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I. And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart. Nay, an thou’lt mouth, I’ll rant as well as thou. QUEEN. This is mere madness: And thus awhile the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclos’d, His silence will sit drooping. HAMLET. Hear you, sir; What is the reason that you use me thus? I lov’d you ever. But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day. [Exit.]
KING. I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him. [Exit Horatio.]
[To Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech; We’ll put the matter to the present push.— Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son. This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till then in patience our proceeding be. [Exeunt.]
SCENE II. A hall in the Castle. Enter Hamlet and Horatio.
HAMLET. So much for this, sir. Now let me see the other; You do remember all the circumstance? HORATIO. Remember it, my lord! HAMLET. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay Worse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly, And prais’d be rashness for it,—let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well, When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will. HORATIO. That is most certain. HAMLET. Up from my cabin, My sea-gown scarf’d about me, in the dark Grop’d I to find out them; had my desire, Finger’d their packet, and in fine, withdrew To mine own room again, making so bold, My fears forgetting manners, to unseal Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio, Oh royal knavery! an exact command, Larded with many several sorts of reasons, Importing Denmark’s health, and England’s too, With ho! such bugs and goblins in my life, That on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, My head should be struck off. HORATIO. Is’t possible? HAMLET. Here’s the commission, read it at more leisure. But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed? HORATIO. I beseech you. HAMLET. Being thus benetted round with villanies,— Or I could make a prologue to my brains, They had begun the play,—I sat me down, Devis’d a new commission, wrote it fair: I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair, and labour’d much How to forget that learning; but, sir, now It did me yeoman’s service. Wilt thou know The effect of what I wrote? HORATIO. Ay, good my lord. HAMLET. An earnest conjuration from the King, As England was his faithful tributary, As love between them like the palm might flourish, As peace should still her wheaten garland wear And stand a comma ’tween their amities, And many such-like ‘as’es of great charge, That on the view and know of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving-time allow’d. HORATIO. How was this seal’d? HAMLET. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. I had my father’s signet in my purse, Which was the model of that Danish seal: Folded the writ up in the form of the other, Subscrib’d it: gave’t th’impression; plac’d it safely, The changeling never known. Now, the next day Was our sea-fight, and what to this was sequent Thou know’st already. HORATIO. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to’t. HAMLET. Why, man, they did make love to this employment. They are not near my conscience; their defeat Does by their own insinuation grow. ’Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell incensed points Of mighty opposites. HORATIO. Why, what a king is this! HAMLET. Does it not, thinks’t thee, stand me now upon,— He that hath kill’d my king, and whor’d my mother, Popp’d in between th’election and my hopes, Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such cozenage—is’t not perfect conscience To quit him with this arm? And is’t not to be damn’d To let this canker of our nature come In further evil? HORATIO. It must be shortly known to him from England What is the issue of the business there. HAMLET. It will be short. The interim is mine; And a man’s life’s no more than to say ‘One’. But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself; For by the image of my cause I see The portraiture of his. I’ll court his favours. But sure the bravery of his grief did put me Into a tow’ring passion. HORATIO. Peace, who comes here? Enter Osric.
OSRIC. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark. HAMLET. I humbly thank you, sir. Dost know this waterfly? HORATIO. No, my good lord. HAMLET. Thy state is the more gracious; for ’tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile; let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king’s mess; ’tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt.
OSRIC. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his Majesty.
HAMLET. I will receive it with all diligence of spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; ’tis for the head.
OSRIC. I thank your lordship, ’tis very hot. HAMLET. No, believe me, ’tis very cold, the wind is northerly. OSRIC. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed. HAMLET. Methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion. OSRIC. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry,—as ’twere—I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter,—
HAMLET. I beseech you, remember,—
[Hamlet moves him to put on his hat.]
OSRIC. Nay, in good faith; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing. Indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see.
HAMLET. Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you, though I know, to divide him inventorially would dizzy th’arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror and who else would trace him his umbrage, nothing more.
OSRIC. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. HAMLET. The concernancy, sir? Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath?
OSRIC. Sir? HORATIO. Is’t not possible to understand in another tongue? You will do’t, sir, really.
HAMLET. What imports the nomination of this gentleman? OSRIC. Of Laertes? HORATIO. His purse is empty already, all’s golden words are spent. HAMLET. Of him, sir. OSRIC. I know you are not ignorant,— HAMLET. I would you did, sir; yet in faith if you did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir?
OSRIC. You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is,— HAMLET. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself.
OSRIC. I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him, by them in his meed he’s unfellowed.
HAMLET. What’s his weapon? OSRIC. Rapier and dagger. HAMLET. That’s two of his weapons. But well. OSRIC. The King, sir, hath wager’d with him six Barbary horses, against the which he has imponed, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so. Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit.
HAMLET. What call you the carriages? HORATIO. I knew you must be edified by the margin ere you had done. OSRIC. The carriages, sir, are the hangers. HAMLET. The phrase would be more german to the matter if we could carry cannon by our sides. I would it might be hangers till then. But on. Six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal conceited carriages: that’s the French bet against the Danish. Why is this all imponed, as you call it?
OSRIC. The King, sir, hath laid that in a dozen passes between you and him, he shall not exceed you three hits. He hath laid on twelve for nine. And it would come to immediate trial if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.
HAMLET. How if I answer no? OSRIC. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial. HAMLET. Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his Majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose, I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits.
OSRIC. Shall I re-deliver you e’en so? HAMLET. To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will. OSRIC. I commend my duty to your lordship. HAMLET. Yours, yours. [Exit Osric.]
He does well to commend it himself, there are no tongues else for’s turn.
HORATIO. This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head. HAMLET. He did comply with his dug before he suck’d it. Thus has he,—and many more of the same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes on,— only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter; a kind of yeasty collection, which carries them through and through the most fanned and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out,
Enter a Lord.
LORD. My lord, his Majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him that you attend him in the hall. He sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes or that you will take longer time.
HAMLET. I am constant to my purposes, they follow the King’s pleasure. If his fitness speaks, mine is ready. Now or whensoever, provided I be so able as now.
LORD. The King and Queen and all are coming down. HAMLET. In happy time. LORD. The Queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to Laertes before you fall to play.
HAMLET. She well instructs me. [Exit Lord.]
HORATIO. You will lose this wager, my lord. HAMLET. I do not think so. Since he went into France, I have been in continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart: but it is no matter.
HORATIO. Nay, good my lord. HAMLET. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps trouble a woman.
HORATIO. If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their repair hither, and say you are not fit.
HAMLET. Not a whit, we defy augury. There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is’t to leave betimes?
Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Lords, Osric and Attendants with foils &c.
KING. Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me. [The King puts Laertes’s hand into Hamlet’s.]
HAMLET. Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong; But pardon’t as you are a gentleman. This presence knows, and you must needs have heard, How I am punish’d with sore distraction. What I have done That might your nature, honour, and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet. If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it, then? His madness. If’t be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong’d; His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy. Sir, in this audience, Let my disclaiming from a purpos’d evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts That I have shot my arrow o’er the house And hurt my brother. LAERTES. I am satisfied in nature, Whose motive in this case should stir me most To my revenge. But in my terms of honour I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement Till by some elder masters of known honour I have a voice and precedent of peace To keep my name ungor’d. But till that time I do receive your offer’d love like love, And will not wrong it. HAMLET. I embrace it freely, And will this brother’s wager frankly play.— Give us the foils; come on. LAERTES. Come, one for me. HAMLET. I’ll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance Your skill shall like a star i’ th’ darkest night, Stick fiery off indeed. LAERTES. You mock me, sir. HAMLET. No, by this hand. KING. Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager? HAMLET. Very well, my lord. Your Grace has laid the odds o’ the weaker side. KING. I do not fear it. I have seen you both; But since he is better’d, we have therefore odds. LAERTES. This is too heavy. Let me see another. HAMLET. This likes me well. These foils have all a length? [They prepare to play.]
OSRIC. Ay, my good lord. KING. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table. If Hamlet give the first or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance fire; The King shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath, And in the cup an union shall he throw Richer than that which four successive kings In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the cups; And let the kettle to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth, ‘Now the King drinks to Hamlet.’ Come, begin. And you, the judges, bear a wary eye. HAMLET. Come on, sir. LAERTES. Come, my lord. [They play.]
HAMLET. One. LAERTES. No. HAMLET. Judgment. OSRIC. A hit, a very palpable hit. LAERTES. Well; again. KING. Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine; Here’s to thy health. [Trumpets sound, and cannon shot off within.]
Give him the cup.
HAMLET. I’ll play this bout first; set it by awhile.
[They play.]
Come. Another hit; what say you? LAERTES. A touch, a touch, I do confess. KING. Our son shall win. QUEEN. He’s fat, and scant of breath. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows. The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet. HAMLET. Good madam. KING. Gertrude, do not drink. QUEEN. I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me. KING. [Aside.] It is the poison’d cup; it is too late. HAMLET. I dare not drink yet, madam. By and by. QUEEN. Come, let me wipe thy face. LAERTES. My lord, I’ll hit him now. KING. I do not think’t. LAERTES. [Aside.] And yet ’tis almost ’gainst my conscience. HAMLET. Come for the third, Laertes. You do but dally. I pray you pass with your best violence. I am afeard you make a wanton of me. LAERTES. Say you so? Come on. [They play.]
OSRIC. Nothing neither way. LAERTES. Have at you now. [Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes.]
KING. Part them; they are incens’d. HAMLET. Nay, come again! [The Queen falls.]
OSRIC. Look to the Queen there, ho! HORATIO. They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord? OSRIC. How is’t, Laertes? LAERTES. Why, as a woodcock to my own springe, Osric. I am justly kill’d with mine own treachery. HAMLET. How does the Queen? KING. She swoons to see them bleed. QUEEN. No, no, the drink, the drink! O my dear Hamlet! The drink, the drink! I am poison’d. [Dies.]
HAMLET. O villany! Ho! Let the door be lock’d: Treachery! Seek it out. [Laertes falls.]
LAERTES. It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain. No medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour of life; The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenom’d. The foul practice Hath turn’d itself on me. Lo, here I lie, Never to rise again. Thy mother’s poison’d. I can no more. The King, the King’s to blame. HAMLET. The point envenom’d too! Then, venom, to thy work. [Stabs the King.]
OSRIC and LORDS. Treason! treason! KING. O yet defend me, friends. I am but hurt. HAMLET. Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion. Is thy union here? Follow my mother. [King dies.]
LAERTES. He is justly serv’d. It is a poison temper’d by himself. Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me. [Dies.]
HAMLET. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio. Wretched Queen, adieu. You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time,—as this fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest,—O, I could tell you,— But let it be. Horatio, I am dead, Thou liv’st; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied. HORATIO. Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here’s yet some liquor left. HAMLET. As th’art a man, Give me the cup. Let go; by Heaven, I’ll have’t. O good Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story. [March afar off, and shot within.]
What warlike noise is this?
OSRIC. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland, To the ambassadors of England gives This warlike volley. HAMLET. O, I die, Horatio. The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit: I cannot live to hear the news from England, But I do prophesy th’election lights On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice. So tell him, with the occurrents more and less, Which have solicited. The rest is silence. [Dies.]
HORATIO. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. Why does the drum come hither? [March within.]
Enter Fortinbras, the English Ambassadors and others.
FORTINBRAS. Where is this sight? HORATIO. What is it you would see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search. FORTINBRAS. This quarry cries on havoc. O proud death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck? FIRST AMBASSADOR. The sight is dismal; And our affairs from England come too late. The ears are senseless that should give us hearing, To tell him his commandment is fulfill’d, That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Where should we have our thanks? HORATIO. Not from his mouth, Had it th’ability of life to thank you. He never gave commandment for their death. But since, so jump upon this bloody question, You from the Polack wars, and you from England Are here arriv’d, give order that these bodies High on a stage be placed to the view, And let me speak to th’ yet unknowing world How these things came about. So shall you hear Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters, Of deaths put on by cunning and forc’d cause, And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall’n on the inventors’ heads. All this can I Truly deliver. FORTINBRAS. Let us haste to hear it, And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune. I have some rights of memory in this kingdom, Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me. HORATIO. Of that I shall have also cause to speak, And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more. But let this same be presently perform’d, Even while men’s minds are wild, lest more mischance On plots and errors happen. FORTINBRAS. Let four captains Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage, For he was likely, had he been put on, To have prov’d most royally; and for his passage, The soldiers’ music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him. Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot. [A dead march.]
[Exeunt, bearing off the bodies, after which a peal of ordnance is shot off.]
THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH Dramatis Personæ KING HENRY the Fourth. HENRY, PRINCE of Wales, son to the King. Prince John of LANCASTER, son to the King. Earl of WESTMORELAND. Sir Walter BLUNT. Thomas Percy, Earl of WORCESTER. Henry Percy, Earl of NORTHUMBERLAND. Henry Percy, surnamed HOTSPUR, his son. Edmund MORTIMER, Earl of March. Scroop, ARCHBISHOP of York. SIR MICHAEL, his Friend. Archibald, Earl of DOUGLAS. Owen GLENDOWER. Sir Richard VERNON. Sir John FALSTAFF. POINS. GADSHILL. PETO. BARDOLPH. LADY PERCY, Wife to Hotspur. Lady Mortimer, Daughter to Glendower. Mrs. Quickly, Hostess in Eastcheap. Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, Carriers, Travellers and Attendants. SCENE. England and Wales. ACT I SCENE I. London. A Room in the Palace. [Enter the King Henry, Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, and others.]
KING. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant, And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenced in strands afar remote. No more the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood; No more shall trenching war channel her fields, Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes, Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in the intestine shock And furious close of civil butchery, Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks, March all one way, and be no more opposed Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies: The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife, No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends, As far as to the sepulchre of Christ— Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross We are impressed and engaged to fight— Forthwith a power of English shall we levy, To chase these pagans in those holy fields Over whose acres walk’d those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail’d For our advantage on the bitter cross. But this our purpose now is twelvemonth old, And bootless ’tis to tell you we will go: Therefore we meet not now.—Then let me hear Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland, What yesternight our Council did decree In forwarding this dear expedience. WESTMORELAND. My liege, this haste was hot in question, And many limits of the charge set down But yesternight; when, all athwart, there came A post from Wales loaden with heavy news; Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer, Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight Against th’ irregular and wild Glendower, Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken; A thousand of his people butchered, Upon whose dead corpse’ there was such misuse, Such beastly, shameless transformation, By those Welshwomen done, as may not be Without much shame re-told or spoken of. KING. It seems, then, that the tidings of this broil Brake off our business for the Holy Land. WESTMORELAND. This, match’d with other, did, my gracious lord; For more uneven and unwelcome news Came from the North, and thus it did import: On Holy-rood day the gallant Hotspur there, Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald, That ever-valiant and approved Scot, At Holmedon met; Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour, As by discharge of their artillery, And shape of likelihood, the news was told; For he that brought them, in the very heat And pride of their contention did take horse, Uncertain of the issue any way. KING. Here is a dear and true-industrious friend, Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse, Stain’d with the variation of each soil Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours; And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news. The Earl of Douglas is discomfited: Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights, Balk’d in their own blood, did Sir Walter see On Holmedon’s plains: of prisoners, Hotspur took Mordake the Earl of Fife and eldest son To beaten Douglas; and the Earls of Athol, Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith. And is not this an honourable spoil, A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not? WESTMORELAND. Faith, ’tis a conquest for a prince to boast of. KING. Yea, there thou makest me sad, and makest me sin In envy that my Lord Northumberland Should be the father to so blest a son,— A son who is the theme of honour’s tongue; Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant; Who is sweet Fortune’s minion and her pride: Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him, See riot and dishonour stain the brow Of my young Harry. O, that it could be proved That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged In cradle-clothes our children where they lay, And call’d mine Percy, his Plantagenet! Then would I have his Harry, and he mine: But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz, Of this young Percy’s pride? the prisoners, Which he in this adventure hath surprised, To his own use he keeps; and sends me word, I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife. WESTMORELAND. This is his uncle’s teaching, this is Worcester, Malevolent to you in all aspects; Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity. KING. But I have sent for him to answer this; And for this cause awhile we must neglect Our holy purpose to Jerusalem. Cousin, on Wednesday next our Council we Will hold at Windsor; so inform the lords: But come yourself with speed to us again; For more is to be said and to be done Than out of anger can be uttered. WESTMORELAND. I will, my liege. [Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The same. An Apartment of Prince Henry’s. [Enter Prince Henry and Falstaff.]
FALSTAFF. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad? PRINCE. Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and the blessed Sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
FALSTAFF. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go by the Moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebus,—he, that wandering knight so fair. And I pr’ythee, sweet wag, when thou art king,—as, God save thy Grace—Majesty I should say, for grace thou wilt have none,—
PRINCE. What, none? FALSTAFF. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.
PRINCE. Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly. FALSTAFF. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night’s body be called thieves of the day’s beauty: let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the Moon; and let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the Moon, under whose countenance we steal.
PRINCE. Thou say’st well, and it holds well too; for the fortune of us that are the Moon’s men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the Moon. As, for proof, now: A purse of gold most resolutely snatch’d on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing Lay by, and spent with crying Bring in; now ill as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and by-and-by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.
FALSTAFF. By the Lord, thou say’st true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?
PRINCE. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
FALSTAFF. How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?
PRINCE. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern? FALSTAFF. Well, thou hast call’d her to a reckoning many a time and oft. PRINCE. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part? FALSTAFF. No; I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there. PRINCE. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not, I have used my credit.
FALSTAFF. Yea, and so used it, that, were it not here apparent that thou art heir-apparent—But I pr’ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fobb’d as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.
PRINCE. No; thou shalt. FALSTAFF. Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge. PRINCE. Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.
FALSTAFF. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour; as well as waiting in the Court, I can tell you.
PRINCE. For obtaining of suits? FALSTAFF. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. ’Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugg’d bear.
PRINCE. Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute. FALSTAFF. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe. PRINCE. What say’st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch? FALSTAFF. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince,—But, Hal, I pr’ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the Council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir,—but I mark’d him not; and yet he talk’d very wisely,—but I regarded him not; and yet he talk’d wisely, and in the street too.
PRINCE. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.
FALSTAFF. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal; God forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain: I’ll be damn’d for never a king’s son in Christendom.
PRINCE. Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack? FALSTAFF. Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I’ll make one: an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me.
PRINCE. I see a good amendment of life in thee,—from praying to purse-taking.
FALSTAFF. Why, Hal, ’tis my vocation, Hal; ’tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.
[Enter Poins.]
POINS. Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what hole in Hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried Stand! to a true man.
PRINCE. Good morrow, Ned. POINS. Good morrow, sweet Hal.—What says Monsieur Remorse? what says Sir John Sack-and-sugar? Jack, how agrees the Devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon’s leg?
PRINCE. Sir John stands to his word,—the Devil shall have his bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs,—he will give the Devil his due. POINS. Then art thou damn’d for keeping thy word with the Devil. PRINCE. Else he had been damn’d for cozening the Devil. POINS. But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o’clock, early at Gads-hill! there are pilgrims gong to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses: I have visards for you all; you have horses for yourselves: Gadshill lies to-night in Rochester: I have bespoke supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap: we may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home and be hang’d.
FALSTAFF. Hear ye, Yedward; if I tarry at home and go not, I’ll hang you for going.
POINS. You will, chops? FALSTAFF. Hal, wilt thou make one? PRINCE. Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith. FALSTAFF. There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.
PRINCE. Well, then, once in my days I’ll be a madcap. FALSTAFF. Why, that’s well said. PRINCE. Well, come what will, I’ll tarry at home. FALSTAFF. By the Lord, I’ll be a traitor, then, when thou art king. PRINCE. I care not. POINS. Sir John, I pr’ythee, leave the Prince and me alone: I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure, that he shall go.
FALSTAFF. Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion, and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move, and what he hears may be believed, that the true Prince may, for recreation- sake, prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell; you shall find me in Eastcheap.
PRINCE. Farewell, thou latter Spring! farewell, All-hallown Summer! [Exit Falstaff.]
POINS. Now, my good sweet honey-lord, ride with us to-morrow: I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill, shall rob those men that we have already waylaid: yourself and I will not be there; and when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my shoulders.
PRINCE. But how shall we part with them in setting forth? POINS. Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves; which they shall have no sooner achieved but we’ll set upon them.
PRINCE. Ay, but ’tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves.
POINS. Tut! our horses they shall not see,—I’ll tie them in the wood; our visards we will change, after we leave them; and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.
PRINCE. But I doubt they will be too hard for us. POINS. Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turn’d back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I’ll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be, the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest.
PRINCE. Well, I’ll go with thee: provide us all things necessary and meet me to-night in Eastcheap; there I’ll sup. Farewell.
POINS. Farewell, my lord. [Exit.]
PRINCE. I know you all, and will awhile uphold The unyok’d humour of your idleness: Yet herein will I imitate the Sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother-up his beauty from the world, That, when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; But, when they seldom come, they wish’d-for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So, when this loose behaviour I throw off, And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes; And, like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glittering o’er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I’ll so offend, to make offence a skill; Redeeming time, when men think least I will. [Exit.]
SCENE III. The Same. A Room in the Palace. [Enter King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, and others.] KING. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, Unapt to stir at these indignities, And you have found me; for, accordingly, You tread upon my patience: but be sure I will from henceforth rather be myself, Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition, Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down, And therefore lost that title of respect Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud. WORCESTER. Our House, my sovereign liege, little deserves The scourge of greatness to be used on it; And that same greatness too which our own hands Have holp to make so portly. NORTHUMBERLAND. My good lord,— KING. Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see Danger and disobedience in thine eye: O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, And majesty might never yet endure The moody frontier of a servant brow. You have good leave to leave us: when we need Your use and counsel, we shall send for you. [Exit Worcester.]
[To Northumberland.]
You were about to speak.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Yea, my good lord. Those prisoners in your Highness’ name demanded, Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, Were, as he says, not with such strength denied As is deliver’d to your Majesty: Either envy, therefore, or misprision Is guilty of this fault, and not my son. HOTSPUR. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress’d, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap’d Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home: He was perfumed like a milliner; And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose, and took’t away again; Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff: and still he smiled and talk’d; And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He question’d me; amongst the rest, demanded My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf. I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, Out of my grief and my impatience To be so pester’d with a popinjay, Answer’d neglectingly, I know not what,— He should, or he should not; for’t made me mad To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman Of guns and drums and wounds,—God save the mark!— And telling me the sovereign’st thing on Earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise; And that it was great pity, so it was, This villainous salt-petre should be digg’d Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier. This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said; And I beseech you, let not his report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high Majesty. BLUNT. The circumstance consider’d, good my lord, Whatever Harry Percy then had said To such a person, and in such a place, At such a time, with all the rest re-told, May reasonably die, and never rise To do him wrong, or any way impeach What then he said, so he unsay it now. KING. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners, But with proviso and exception, That we at our own charge shall ransom straight His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer; Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d The lives of those that he did lead to fight Against that great magician, damn’d Glendower, Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then, Be emptied to redeem a traitor home? Shall we buy treason? and indent with fears When they have lost and forfeited themselves? No, on the barren mountains let him starve; For I shall never hold that man my friend Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost To ransom home revolted Mortimer. HOTSPUR. Revolted Mortimer! He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, But by the chance of war: to prove that true Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took, When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank, In single opposition, hand to hand, He did confound the best part of an hour In changing hardiment with great Glendower. Three times they breathed, and three times did they drink, Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood; Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. Never did base and rotten policy Colour her working with such deadly wounds; Nor never could the noble Mortimer Receive so many, and all willingly: Then let not him be slander’d with revolt. KING. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him; He never did encounter with Glendower: I tell thee, He durst as well have met the Devil alone As Owen Glendower for an enemy. Art not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer: Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, Or you shall hear in such a kind from me As will displease you.—My Lord Northumberland, We license your departure with your son.— Send us your prisoners, or you’ll hear of it. [Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, and train.]
HOTSPUR. An if the Devil come and roar for them, I will not send them: I will after straight, And tell him so; for I will else my heart, Although it be with hazard of my head. NORTHUMBERLAND. What, drunk with choler? stay, and pause awhile: Here comes your uncle. [Re-enter Worcester.]
HOTSPUR. Speak of Mortimer! Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul Want mercy, if I do not join with him: Yea, on his part I’ll empty all these veins, And shed my dear blood drop by drop i’ the dust, But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer As high i’ the air as this unthankful King, As this ingrate and canker’d Bolingbroke. NORTH. [To Worcester.] Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.
WORCESTER. Who struck this heat up after I was gone? HOTSPUR. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners; And when I urged the ransom once again Of my wife’s brother, then his cheek look’d pale, And on my face he turn’d an eye of death, Trembling even at the name of Mortimer. WORCESTER. I cannot blame him: was not he proclaim’d By Richard that dead is the next of blood? NORTHUMBERLAND. He was; I heard the proclamation: And then it was when the unhappy King— Whose wrongs in us God pardon!—did set forth Upon his Irish expedition; From whence he intercepted did return To be deposed, and shortly murdered. WORCESTER. And for whose death we in the world’s wide mouth Live scandalized and foully spoken of. HOTSPUR. But, soft! I pray you; did King Richard then Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer Heir to the crown? NORTHUMBERLAND. He did; myself did hear it. HOTSPUR. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin King, That wish’d him on the barren mountains starve. But shall it be, that you, that set the crown Upon the head of this forgetful man, And for his sake wear the detested blot Of murderous subornation,—shall it be, That you a world of curses undergo, Being the agents, or base second means, The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?— O, pardon me, that I descend so low, To show the line and the predicament Wherein you range under this subtle King;— Shall it, for shame, be spoken in these days, Or fill up chronicles in time to come, That men of your nobility and power Did gage them both in an unjust behalf,— As both of you, God pardon it! have done,— To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke? And shall it, in more shame, be further spoken, That you are fool’d, discarded, and shook off By him for whom these shames ye underwent? No! yet time serves, wherein you may redeem Your banish’d honours, and restore yourselves Into the good thoughts of the world again; Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt Of this proud King, who studies day and night To answer all the debt he owes to you Even with the bloody payment of your deaths: Therefore, I say,— WORCESTER. Peace, cousin, say no more: And now I will unclasp a secret book, And to your quick-conceiving discontent I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous; As full of peril and adventurous spirit As to o’er-walk a current roaring loud On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. HOTSPUR. If we fall in, good night, or sink or swim! Send danger from the east unto the west, So honour cross it from the north to south, And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare! NORTHUMBERLAND. Imagination of some great exploit Drives him beyond the bounds of patience. HOTSPUR. By Heaven, methinks it were an easy leap, To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced Moon; Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned honour by the locks; So he that doth redeem her thence might wear Without corrival all her dignities: But out upon this half-faced fellowship! WORCESTER. He apprehends a world of figures here, But not the form of what he should attend.— Good cousin, give me audience for a while. HOTSPUR. I cry you mercy. WORCESTER. Those same noble Scots That are your prisoners,— HOTSPUR. I’ll keep them all; By God, he shall not have a Scot of them; No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not: I’ll keep them, by this hand. WORCESTER. You start away, And lend no ear unto my purposes. Those prisoners you shall keep;— HOTSPUR. Nay, I will; that’s flat. He said he would not ransom Mortimer; Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer; But I will find him when he lies asleep, And in his ear I’ll holla Mortimer! Nay, I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him, To keep his anger still in motion. WORCESTER. Hear you, cousin; a word. HOTSPUR. All studies here I solemnly defy, Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke: And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales, But that I think his father loves him not, And would be glad he met with some mischance, I’d have him poison’d with a pot of ale. WORCESTER. Farewell, kinsman: I will talk to you When you are better temper’d to attend. NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool Art thou, to break into this woman’s mood, Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own! HOTSPUR. Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scourged with rods, Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. In Richard’s time,—what do you call the place?— A plague upon’t!—it is in Gioucestershire;— ’Twas where the madcap Duke his uncle kept, His uncle York;—where I first bow’d my knee Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke;— When you and he came back from Ravenspurg. NORTHUMBERLAND. At Berkeley-castle. HOTSPUR. You say true:— Why, what a candy deal of courtesy This fawning greyhound then did proffer me! Look, when his infant fortune came to age, And, Gentle Harry Percy, and kind cousin,— O, the Devil take such cozeners!—God forgive me!— Good uncle, tell your tale; for I have done. WORCESTER. Nay, if you have not, to’t again; We’ll stay your leisure. HOTSPUR. I have done, i’faith. WORCESTER. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners. Deliver them up without their ransom straight, And make the Douglas’ son your only mean For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons Which I shall send you written, be assured, Will easily be granted.— [To Northumberland.] You, my lord, Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d, Shall secretly into the bosom creep Of that same noble prelate, well beloved, Th’ Archbishop. HOTSPUR. Of York, is’t not? WORCESTER. True; who bears hard His brother’s death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop. I speak not this in estimation, As what I think might be, but what I know Is ruminated, plotted, and set down, And only stays but to behold the face Of that occasion that shall bring it on. HOTSPUR. I smell’t: upon my life, it will do well. NORTHUMBERLAND. Before the game’s a-foot, thou still lett’st slip. HOTSPUR. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot:— And then the power of Scotland and of York To join with Mortimer, ha? WORCESTER. And so they shall. HOTSPUR. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d.
WORCESTER. And ’tis no little reason bids us speed, To save our heads by raising of a head; For, bear ourselves as even as we can, The King will always think him in our debt, And think we think ourselves unsatisfied, Till he hath found a time to pay us home: And see already how he doth begin To make us strangers to his looks of love. HOTSPUR. He does, he does: we’ll be revenged on him. WORCESTER. Cousin, farewell: no further go in this Than I by letters shall direct your course. When time is ripe,— which will be suddenly,— I’ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer; Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once, As I will fashion it, shall happily meet, To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms, Which now we hold at much uncertainty. NORTHUMBERLAND. Farewell, good brother: we shall thrive, I trust. HOTSPUR. Uncle, adieu: O, let the hours be short, Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport! [Exeunt.]
ACT II SCENE I. Rochester. An Inn-Yard. [Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand.]
FIRST CARRIER. Heigh-ho! an’t be not four by the day, I’ll be hang’d: Charles’ wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse’ not pack’d.—What, ostler! OSTLER. [within.] Anon, anon.
FIRST CARRIER. I pr’ythee, Tom, beat Cut’s saddle, put a few flocks in the point; the poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess.
[Enter another Carrier.]
SECOND CARRIER. Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the bots; this house is turned upside down since Robin ostler died.
FIRST CARRIER. Poor fellow! never joyed since the price of oats rose; it was the death of him.
SECOND CARRIER. I think this be the most villainous house in all London road for fleas: I am stung like a tench.
FIRST CARRIER. Like a tench! by the Mass, there is ne’er a king in Christendom could be better bit than I have been since the first cock.—What,
ostler! come away and be hang’d; come away.
SECOND CARRIER. I have a gammon of bacon and two razes of ginger, to be delivered as far as Charing-cross.
FIRST CARRIER. ’Odsbody! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved.—What, ostler! A plague on thee! hast thou never an eye in thy head? canst not hear? An ’twere not as good a deed as drink to break the pate of thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hang’d: hast no faith in thee?
[Enter Gadshill.]
GADSHILL. Good morrow, carriers. What’s o’clock? FIRST CARRIER. I think it be two o’clock.
GADSHILL. I pr’ythee, lend me thy lantern, to see my gelding in the stable.
FIRST CARRIER. Nay, soft, I pray ye; I know a trick worth two of that, i’faith.
GADSHILL. I pr’ythee, lend me thine. SECOND CARRIER. Ay, when? canst tell? Lend me thy lantern, quoth a? marry, I’ll see thee hang’d first.
GADSHILL. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London? SECOND CARRIER. Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee.— Come, neighbour Muggs, we’ll call up the gentlemen: they will along with company, for they have great charge. [Exeunt Carriers.]
GADSHILL. What, ho! chamberlain! CHAMBERLAIN. [Within.] At hand, quoth pick-purse. GADSHILL. That’s even as fair as—at hand, quoth the chamberlain; for thou variest no more from picking of purses than giving direction doth from labouring; thou lay’st the plot how.
[Enter Chamberlain.]
CHAMBERLAIN. Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that I told you yesternight: there’s a franklin in the wild of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with him in gold: I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at supper; a kind of auditor; one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what. They are up already, and call for eggs and butter; they will away presently.
GADSHILL. Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas’ clerks, I’ll give thee this neck.
CHAMBERLAIN. No, I’ll none of it: I pr’ythee, keep that for the hangman; for I know thou worshippest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may. GADSHILL. What talkest thou to me of the hangman? if I hang, I’ll make a fat pair of gallows; for, if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou know’st he is no starveling. Tut! there are other Trojans that thou dreamest not of, the which, for sport-sake, are content to do the profession some grace; that would, if matters should be look’d into, for their own credit-sake, make all whole. I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms; but with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers; such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray: and yet, zwounds, I lie; for they pray continually to their saint, the Commonwealth; or, rather, not pray to her, but prey on her, for they ride up and down on her, and make her their boots.
CHAMBERLAIN. What, the Commonwealth their boots? will she hold out water in foul way?
GADSHILL. She will, she will; justice hath liquor’d her. We steal as in a castle, cock-sure; we have the receipt of fernseed,—we walk invisible.
CHAMBERLAIN. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fern-seed for your walking invisible.
GADSHILL. Give me thy hand: thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as I am a true man. CHAMBERLAIN. Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief. GADSHILL. Go to; homo is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The Road by Gads-hill. [Enter Prince Henry and Poins; Bardolph and Peto at some distance.]
POINS. Come, shelter, shelter: I have remov’d Falstaff’s horse, and he frets like a gumm’d velvet.
PRINCE. Stand close. [They retire.]
[Enter Falstaff.]
FALSTAFF. Poins! Poins, and be hang’d! Poins! PRINCE. [Coming forward.] Peace, ye fat-kidney’d rascal! what a brawling dost thou keep!
FALSTAFF. Where’s Poins, Hal? PRINCE. He is walk’d up to the top of the hill: I’ll go seek him. [Retires.]
FALSTAFF. I am accursed to rob in that thief’s company: the rascal hath removed my horse, and tied him I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the squire further a-foot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I ’scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company hourly any time this two-and-twenty year, and yet I am bewitch’d with the rogue’s company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I’ll be hang’d; it could not be else: I have drunk medicines.— Poins!—Hal!—a plague upon you both!—Bardolph!—Peto!—I’ll starve, ere I’ll rob a foot further. An ’twere not as good a deed as drink, to turn true man, and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles a-foot with me; and the stony-hearted villains know it well enough: a plague upon’t, when thieves cannot be true one to another! [They whistle.] Whew!—A plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you rogues; give me my horse, and be hang’d!
PRINCE. [Coming forward.] Peace! lie down; lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers.
FALSTAFF. Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down? ’Sblood, I’ll not bear mine own flesh so far a-foot again for all the coin in thy father’s exchequer. What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?
PRINCE. Thou liest; thou art not colted, thou art uncolted. FALSTAFF. I pr’ythee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king’s son.
PRINCE. Out, ye rogue! shall I be your ostler? FALSTAFF. Go, hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters! If I be ta’en, I’ll peach for this. An I have not ballads made on you all, and sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison. When a jest is so forward, and a-foot too, I hate it.
[Enter Gadshill.]
GADSHILL. Stand! FALSTAFF. So I do, against my will. POINS. O, ’tis our setter: I know his voice. [Comes forward with Bardolph and Peto.]
BARDOLPH. What news? GADSHILL. Case ye, case ye; on with your visards: there’s money of the King’s coming down the hill; ’tis going to the King’s exchequer.
FALSTAFF. You lie, ye rogue; ’tis going to the King’s tavern. GADSHILL. There’s enough to make us all. FALSTAFF. To be hang’d. PRINCE. Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane; Ned Poins and I will walk lower; if they ’scape from your encounter, then they light on us. PETO. How many be there of them? GADSHILL. Some eight or ten. FALSTAFF. Zwounds, will they not rob us? PRINCE. What, a coward, Sir John Paunch? FALSTAFF. Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet no coward, Hal.
PRINCE. Well, we leave that to the proof. POINS. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge: when thou need’st him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast.
FALSTAFF. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hang’d. PRINCE. [aside to POINTZ.] Ned, where are our disguises?
POINS. [aside to PRINCE HENRY.] Here, hard by: stand close.
[Exeunt Prince and Poins.]
FALSTAFF. Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I: every man to his business.
[Enter Travellers.]
FIRST TRAVELLER. Come, neighbour: The boy shall lead our horses down the hill; We’ll walk a-foot awhile and ease our legs. FALSTAFF, GADSHILL., &C. Stand! SECOND TRAVELLER. Jesu bless us! FALSTAFF. Strike; down with them; cut the villains’ throats. Ah, whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they hate us youth: down with them; fleece them.
FIRST TRAVELLER. O, we’re undone, both we and ours for ever! FALSTAFF. Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye fat chuffs; I would your store were here! On, bacons on! What, ye knaves! young men must live. You are grand-jurors, are ye? we’ll jure ye, i’faith.
[Exeunt Fals., Gads., &c., driving the Travellers out.]
[Re-enter Prince Henry and Poins, in buckram suits.]
PRINCE. The thieves have bound the true men. Now, could thou and I rob the thieves, and go merrily to London, it would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever.
POINS. Stand close: I hear them coming. [They retire.]
[Re-enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto.]
FALSTAFF. Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse before day. An the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there’s no equity stirring: there’s no more valour in that Poins than in a wild duck.
[As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon them.]
PRINCE. Your money! POINS. Villains! [Falstaff, after a blow or two, and the others run away, leaving the booty behind them.]
PRINCE. Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse: The thieves are scatter’d, and possess’d with fear So strongly that they dare not meet each other; Each takes his fellow for an officer. Away, good Ned. Fat Falstaff sweats to death, And lards the lean earth as he walks along: Were’t not for laughing, I should pity him. POINS. How the rogue roar’d! [Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Warkworth. A Room in the Castle. [Enter Hotspur, reading a letter.]
HOTSPUR. —But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your House.—He could be contented; why is he not, then? In respect of the love he bears our House!—he shows in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some more. The purpose you undertake is dangerous;—Why, that’s certain: ’tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. The purpose you undertake is dangerous; the friends you have named uncertain; the time itself unsorted; and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so great an opposition.— Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, you are a shallow, cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and constant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord of York commends the plot and the general course of the action. Zwounds! an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady’s fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and myself? Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? is there not, besides, the Douglas? have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? and are they not some of them set forward already? What a pagan rascal is this! an infidel! Ha! you shall see now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skimm’d milk with so honourable an action! Hang him! let him tell the King: we are prepared. I will set forward to-night.—
[Enter Lady Percy.]
How now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours.
LADY PERCY. O, my good lord, why are you thus alone? For what offence have I this fortnight been A banish’d woman from my Harry’s bed? Tell me, sweet lord, what is’t that takes from thee Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep? Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth, And start so often when thou sitt’st alone? Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks; And given my treasures and my rights of thee To thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy? In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch’d, And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars; Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed; Cry Courage! to the field! And thou hast talk’d Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents, Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets, Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin, Of prisoners ransomed, and of soldiers slain, And all the currents of a heady fight. Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war, And thus hath so bestirr’d thee in thy sleep, That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow, Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream; And in thy face strange motions have appear’d, Such as we see when men restrain their breath On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these? Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, And I must know it, else he loves me not. HOTSPUR. What, ho! [Enter a Servant.]
Is Gilliams with the packet gone?
SERVANT. He is, my lord, an hour ago. HOTSPUR. Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff? SERVANT. One horse, my lord, he brought even now. HOTSPUR. What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not? SERVANT. It is, my lord. HOTSPUR. That roan shall be my throne. Well, I will back him straight: O esperance!— Bid Butler lead him forth into the park. [Exit Servant.]
LADY PERCY. But hear you, my lord. HOTSPUR. What say’st thou, my lady? LADY PERCY. What is it carries you away? HOTSPUR. Why, my horse, my love, my horse. LADY PERCY. Out, you mad-headed ape! A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen As you are toss’d with. In faith, I’ll know your business, Harry, that I will. I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir About his title, and hath sent for you To line his enterprise: but if you go,— HOTSPUR. So far a-foot, I shall be weary, love. LADY PERCY. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me Directly to this question that I ask: In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry, An if thou wilt not tell me true. HOTSPUR. Away, Away, you trifler! Love? I love thee not, I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world To play with mammets and to tilt with lips: We must have bloody noses and crack’d crowns, And pass them current too.—Gods me, my horse!— What say’st thou, Kate? what wouldst thou have with me? LADY PERCY. Do you not love me? do you not indeed? Well, do not, then; for, since you love me not, I will not love myself. Do you not love me? Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no. HOTSPUR. Come, wilt thou see me ride? And when I am o’ horseback, I will swear I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate; I must not have you henceforth question me Whither I go, nor reason whereabout: Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude, This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate. I know you wise; but yet no further wise Than Harry Percy’s wife; constant you are; But yet a woman: and, for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know; And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate. LADY PERCY. How! so far? HOTSPUR. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate: Whither I go, thither shall you go too; To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you. Will this content you, Kate? LADY PERCY. It must of force. [Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar’s-Head Tavern. [Enter Prince Henry.]
PRINCE. Ned, pr’ythee, come out of that fat room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.
[Enter Poins.]
POINS. Where hast been, Hal? PRINCE. With three or four loggerheads amongst three or fourscore hogsheads. I have sounded the very base-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers; and can call them all by their Christian names, as, Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their salvation, that though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy; and tell me flatly I am no proud Jack, like Falstaff, but a corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy,—by the Lord, so they call me;—and, when I am King of England, I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dying scarlet; and, when you breathe in your watering, they cry hem! and bid you play it off. To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost much honour, that thou wert not with me in this action. But, sweet Ned,—to sweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapp’d even now into my hand by an under-skinker; one that never spake other English in his life than Eight shillings and sixpence, and You are welcome; with this shrill addition, Anon, anon, sir! Score a pint of bastard in the Half-moon,—or so. But, Ned, to drive away the time till Falstaff come, I pr’ythee, do thou stand in some by-room, while I question my puny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar; and do thou never leave calling Francis! that his tale to me may be nothing but Anon. Step aside, and I’ll show thee a precedent.
[Exit Poins.]
POINS. [Within.] Francis! PRINCE.
Thou art perfect.
POINS. [Within.] Francis! [Enter Francis.]
FRANCIS. Anon, anon, sir.—Look down into the Pomegranate, Ralph. PRINCE. Come hither, Francis. FRANCIS. My lord? PRINCE. How long hast thou to serve, Francis? FRANCIS. Forsooth, five years, and as much as to— POINS. [within.] Francis!
FRANCIS. Anon, anon, sir. PRINCE. Five year! by’r Lady, a long lease for the clinking of pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture and show it a fair pair of heels and run from it?
FRANCIS. O Lord, sir, I’ll be sworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart— POINS. [within.] Francis!
FRANCIS. Anon, anon, sir. PRINCE. How old art thou, Francis? FRANCIS. Let me see,—about Michaelmas next I shall be— POINS. [within.] Francis!
FRANCIS. Anon, sir.—Pray you, stay a little, my lord. PRINCE. Nay, but hark you, Francis: for the sugar thou gavest me, ’twas a pennyworth, was’t not?
FRANCIS. O Lord, sir, I would it had been two! PRINCE. I will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.
POINS. [within.] Francis!
FRANCIS. Anon, anon. PRINCE. Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis; or, Francis, a Thursday; or, indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis,— FRANCIS. My lord? PRINCE. —wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button, nott-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,—
FRANCIS. O Lord, sir, who do you mean? PRINCE. Why, then, your brown bastard is your only drink; for, look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully: in Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much.
FRANCIS. What, sir? POINS. [within.] Francis!
PRINCE. Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear them call? [Here they both call him; Francis stands amazed, not knowing which way to go.]
[Enter Vintner.]
VINTNER. What, stand’st thou still, and hear’st such a calling? Look to the guests within. [Exit Francis.]—My lord, old Sir John, with half-a-dozen more, are at the door: shall I let them in?
PRINCE. Let them alone awhile, and then open the door. [Exit Vintner.]
Poins!
[Re-enter Poins.]
POINS. Anon, anon, sir. PRINCE. Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the door: shall we be merry?
POINS. As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye; what cunning match have you made with this jest of the drawer? Come, what’s the issue?
PRINCE. I am now of all humours that have showed themselves humours since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o’clock at midnight.—What’s o’clock, Francis?
FRANCIS. [Within.] Anon, anon, sir. PRINCE. That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is up-stairs and down-stairs; his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy’s mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, Fie upon this quiet life! I want work. O my sweet Harry, says she, how many hast thou kill’d to-day? Give my roan horse a drench, says he; and answers, Some fourteen, an hour after,—a trifle, a trifle. I pr’ythee, call in Falstaff: I’ll play Percy, and that damn’d brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. Rivo! says the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow.
[Enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto; followed by Francis with wine.] POINS. Welcome, Jack: where hast thou been? FALSTAFF. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! marry, and amen!— Give me a cup of sack, boy.—Ere I lead this life long, I’ll sew nether-stocks, and mend them and foot them too. A plague of all cowards!— Give me a cup of sack, rogue.—Is there no virtue extant? [Drinks.]
PRINCE. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? pitiful-hearted butter, that melted at the sweet tale of the Sun! if thou didst, then behold that compound.
FALSTAFF. You rogue, here’s lime in this sack too: there is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man: yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it, a villanous coward.—Go thy ways, old Jack: die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the Earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhang’d in England; and one of them is fat, and grows old: God help the while! a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or any thing. A plague of all cowards! I say still.
PRINCE. How now, wool-sack? what mutter you? FALSTAFF. A king’s son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese, I’ll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales!
PRINCE. Why, you whoreson round man, what’s the matter? FALSTAFF. Are not you a coward? answer me to that:—and Poins there? POINS. Zwounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the Lord, I’ll stab thee.
FALSTAFF. I call thee coward! I’ll see thee damn’d ere I call thee coward: but I would give a thousand pound, I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back: call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing! give me them that will face me.—Give me a cup of sack: I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day.
PRINCE. O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk’st last. FALSTAFF. All is one for that. A plague of all cowards! still say I. [Drinks.]
PRINCE. What’s the matter? FALSTAFF. What’s the matter? there be four of us here have ta’en a thousand pound this day morning.
PRINCE. Where is it, Jack? where is it? FALSTAFF. Where is it! taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us! PRINCE. What, a hundred, man? FALSTAFF. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have ’scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hack’d like a hand-saw,—ecce signum! I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards! Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains and the sons of darkness.
PRINCE. Speak, sirs; how was it? GADSHILL. We four set upon some dozen,— FALSTAFF. Sixteen at least, my lord. GADSHILL. —and bound them.
PETO. No, no; they were not bound. FALSTAFF. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.
GADSHILL. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men sea upon us,— FALSTAFF. And unbound the rest, and then come in the other. PRINCE. What, fought you with them all? FALSTAFF. All? I know not what you call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged creature.
PRINCE. Pray God you have not murdered some of them. FALSTAFF. Nay, that’s past praying for: I have pepper’d two of them; two I am sure I have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward: here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me,— PRINCE. What, four? thou saidst but two even now. FALSTAFF. Four, Hal; I told thee four. POINS. Ay, ay, he said four. FALSTAFF. These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado but took all their seven points in my target, thus.
PRINCE. Seven? why, there were but four even now. FALSTAFF. In buckram? POINS. Ay, four, in buckram suits. FALSTAFF. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. PRINCE. [aside to Poins.] Pr’ythee let him alone; we shall have more anon.
FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear me, Hal? PRINCE. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. FALSTAFF. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of,—
PRINCE. So, two more already. FALSTAFF. —their points being broken,—
POINS. Down fell their hose. FALSTAFF. —began to give me ground: but I followed me close, came in foot and hand; and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid.
PRINCE. O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two! FALSTAFF. But, as the Devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves in Kendal Green came at my back and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand. PRINCE. These lies are like the father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou nott-pated fool, thou whoreson, obscene greasy tallow-keech,—
FALSTAFF. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth the truth? PRINCE. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us your reason: what sayest thou to this?
POINS. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason. FALSTAFF. What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.
PRINCE. I’ll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh,—
FALSTAFF. Away, you starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you stock-fish,— O, for breath to utter what is like thee!—you tailor’s-yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck,— PRINCE. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again: and, when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this:—
POINS. Mark, Jack. PRINCE. —We two saw you four set on four; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth.—Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down.— Then did we two set on you four; and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house: and, Falstaff, you carried yourself away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roar’d, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?
POINS. Come, let’s hear, Jack; what trick hast thou now? FALSTAFF. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters: Was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? should I turn upon the true Prince? why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules: but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true Prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was now a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money.— [To Hostess within.] Hostess, clap-to the doors: watch to-night, pray to-morrow.—Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore?
PRINCE. Content; and the argument shall be thy running away. FALSTAFF. Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me! [Enter the Hostess.]
HOSTESS. O Jesu, my lord the Prince,— PRINCE. How now, my lady the hostess! What say’st thou to me? HOSTESS. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the Court at door would speak with you: he says he comes from your father.
PRINCE. Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and send him back again to my mother.
FALSTAFF. What manner of man is he? HOSTESS. An old man. FALSTAFF. What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall I give him his answer?
PRINCE. Pr’ythee, do, Jack. FALSTAFF. Faith, and I’ll send him packing. [Exit.]
PRINCE. Now, sirs:—by’r Lady, you fought fair;—so did you, Peto;—so did you, Bardolph: you are lions, too, you ran away upon instinct, you will not touch the true Prince; no,—fie! BARDOLPH. Faith, I ran when I saw others run. PRINCE. Tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff’s sword so hack’d? PETO. Why, he hack’d it with his dagger; and said he would swear truth out of England, but he would make you believe it was done in fight; and persuaded us to do the like. BARDOLPH. Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear-grass to make them bleed; and then to beslubber our garments with it, and swear it was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seven year before; I blush’d to hear his monstrous devices.
PRINCE. O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever since thou hast blush’d extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou rann’st away: what instinct hadst thou for it?
BARDOLPH. My lord, do you see these meteors? do you behold these exhalations?
PRINCE. I do. BARDOLPH. What think you they portend? PRINCE. Hot livers and cold purses. BARDOLPH. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken. PRINCE. No, if rightly taken, halter.—Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone.—
[Enter Falstaff.]
How now, my sweet creature of bombast! How long is’t ago, Jack, since thou saw’st thine own knee?
FALSTAFF. My own knee! when I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle’s talon in the waist; I could have crept into any alderman’s thumb-ring: a plague of sighing and grief! it blows a man up like a bladder. There’s villanous news abroad: here was Sir John Bracy from your father; you must to the Court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the North, Percy; and he of Wales, that gave Amaimon the bastinado, and swore the Devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook,—what a plague call you him?
POINS. O, Glendower. FALSTAFF. Owen, Owen,—the same; and his son-in-law Mortimer; and old Northumberland; and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs o’ horseback up a hill perpendicular,— PRINCE. He that rides at high speed and with his pistol kills a sparrow flying.
FALSTAFF. You have hit it. PRINCE. So did he never the sparrow. FALSTAFF. Well, that rascal hath good metal in him; he will not run. PRINCE. Why, what a rascal art thou, then, to praise him so for running! FALSTAFF. O’ horseback, ye cuckoo! but a-foot he will not budge a foot. PRINCE. Yes, Jack, upon instinct. FALSTAFF. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more: Worcester is stolen away to-night; thy father’s beard is turn’d white with the news: you may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel. But, tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible afeard? thou being heir-apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? art thou not horribly afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at it?
PRINCE. Not a whit, i’faith; I lack some of thy instinct. FALSTAFF. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow when thou comest to thy father. If thou love life, practise an answer.
PRINCE. Do thou stand for my father and examine me upon the particulars of my life.
FALSTAFF. Shall I? content: this chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.
PRINCE. Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown.
FALSTAFF. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved.— Give me a cup of sack, to make my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses’ vein.
PRINCE. Well, here is my leg. FALSTAFF. And here is my speech.—Stand aside, nobility. HOSTESS. O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i faith! FALSTAFF. Weep not, sweet Queen; for trickling tears are vain. HOSTESS. O, the Father, how he holds his countenance! FALSTAFF. For God’s sake, lords, convey my tristful Queen; For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes. HOSTESS. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see! FALSTAFF. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain.—Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied: for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother’s word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If, then, thou be son to me, here lies the point: Why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed Sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries? a question not to be ask’d. Shall the son of England prove a thief, and take purses? a question to be ask’d. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest: for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also. And yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.
PRINCE. What manner of man, an it like your Majesty? FALSTAFF. A goodly portly man, i’faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by’r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If, then, the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me where hast thou been this month?
PRINCE. Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I’ll play my father.
FALSTAFF. Depose me! if thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker or a poulter’s hare.
PRINCE. Well, here I am set. FALSTAFF. And here I stand.—Judge, my masters. PRINCE. Now, Harry, whence come you? FALSTAFF. My noble lord, from Eastcheap. PRINCE. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous. FALSTAFF. ’Sblood, my lord, they are false.—Nay, I’ll tickle ye for a young prince, i’faith.
PRINCE. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne’er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace: there is a devil haunts thee, in the likeness of an old fat man,—a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend Vice, that grey Iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?
FALSTAFF. I would your Grace would take me with you: whom means your Grace? PRINCE. That villainous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.
FALSTAFF. My lord, the man I know. PRINCE. I know thou dost. FALSTAFF. But to say I know more harm in him than in myself, were to say more than I know. That he is old,—(the more the pity,—his white hairs do witness it. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! if to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damn’d: if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh’s lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but, for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry’s company, banish not him thy Harry’s company: banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.
PRINCE. I do, I will. [A knocking heard.]
[Exeunt Hostess, Francis, and Bardolph.]
[Enter Bardolph, running.]
BARDOLPH. O, my lord, my lord! the sheriff with a most monstrous watch is at the door.
FALSTAFF. Out, ye rogue!—Play out the play: I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.
[Re-enter the Hostess, hastily.]
HOSTESS. O Jesu, my lord, my lord,— PRINCE. Heigh, heigh! the Devil rides upon a fiddlestick: what’s the matter? HOSTESS. The sheriff and all the watch are at the door: they are come to search the house. Shall I let them in?
FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit: thou art essentially mad without seeming so.
PRINCE. And thou a natural coward, without instinct. FALSTAFF. I deny your major: if you will deny the sheriff, so; if not, let him enter: if I become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on my bringing up! I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter as another.
PRINCE. Go, hide thee behind the arras:—the rest walk, up above. Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience.
FALSTAFF. Both which I have had; but their date is out, and therefore I’ll hide me.
PRINCE. Call in the sheriff.— [Exeunt all but the Prince and Poins.]
[Enter Sheriff and Carrier.]
Now, master sheriff, what’s your will with me?
SHERIFF. First, pardon me, my lord. A hue-and-cry Hath followed certain men unto this house. PRINCE. What men? SHERIFF. One of them is well known, my gracious lord,— A gross fat man. CARRIER. As fat as butter. PRINCE. The man, I do assure you, is not here; For I myself at this time have employ’d him. And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee, That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time, Send him to answer thee, or any man, For any thing he shall be charged withal: And so, let me entreat you leave the house. SHERIFF. I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks. PRINCE. It may be so: if he have robb’d these men, He shall be answerable; and so, farewell. SHERIFF. Good night, my noble lord. PRINCE. I think it is good morrow, is it not? SHERIFF. Indeed, my lord, I think’t be two o’clock. [Exit Sheriff and Carrier.]
PRINCE. This oily rascal is known as well as Paul’s. Go, call him forth. POINS. Falstaff!—fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a horse.
PRINCE. Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search his pockets. [Poins searches.]
What hast thou found?
POINS. Nothing but papers, my lord. PRINCE. Let’s see what they be: read them. POINS. [reads] Item, A capon, . . . . . . . . . 2s. 2d. Item, Sauce, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4d. Item, Sack two gallons ,. . . 5s. 8d. Item, Anchovies and sack after supper, 2s. 6d. Item, Bread, . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ob. PRINCE. O monstrous! but one half-pennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! What there is else, keep close; we’ll read it at more advantage: there let him sleep till day. I’ll to the Court in the morning. We must all to the wars, and thy place shall be honourable. I’ll procure this fat rogue a charge of foot; and I know his death will be a march of twelve-score. The money shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning; and so, good morrow, Poins.
POINS. Good morrow, good my lord. [Exeunt.]
ACT III SCENE I. Bangor. A Room in the Archdeacon’s House. [Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and Glendower.]
MORTIMER. These promises are fair, the parties sure, And our induction full of prosperous hope. HOTSPUR. Lord Mortimer,—and cousin Glendower,—Will you sit down?— And uncle Worcester,—A plague upon it! I have forgot the map. GLENDOWER. No, here it is. Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur; For by that name as oft as Lancaster Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale, and with A rising sigh he wisheth you in Heaven. HOTSPUR. And you in Hell, as oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of. GLENDOWER. I cannot blame him: at my nativity The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, Of burning cressets; ay, and at my birth The frame and huge foundation of the Earth Shaked like a coward. HOTSPUR. Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your mother’s cat had but kitten’d, though yourself had never been born.
GLENDOWER. I say the Earth did shake when I was born. HOTSPUR. And I say the Earth was not of my mind, if you suppose as fearing you it shook.
GLENDOWER. The Heavens were all on fire, the Earth did tremble. HOTSPUR. O, then th’ Earth shook to see the Heavens on fire, And not in fear of your nativity. Diseased Nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions; oft the teeming Earth Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d By the imprisoning of unruly wind Within her womb; which, for enlargement striving, Shakes the old beldam Earth, and topples down Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth, Our grandam Earth, having this distemperature, In passion shook. GLENDOWER. Cousin, of many men I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave To tell you once again, that at my birth The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes; The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields. These signs have mark’d me extraordinary; And all the courses of my life do show I am not in the roll of common men. Where is he living,—clipp’d in with the sea That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,— Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me? And bring him out that is but woman’s son Can trace me in the tedious ways of art, And hold me pace in deep experiments. HOTSPUR. I think there is no man speaks better Welsh.—I’ll to dinner. MORTIMER. Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad. GLENDOWER. I can call spirits from the vasty deep. HOTSPUR. Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come when you do call for them? GLENDOWER. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the Devil. HOTSPUR. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the Devil By telling truth: tell truth, and shame the Devil. If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, And I’ll be sworn I’ve power to shame him hence. O, while you live, tell truth, and shame the Devil! MORTIMER. Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat. GLENDOWER. Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye And sandy-bottom’d Severn have I sent Him bootless home and weather-beaten back. HOTSPUR. Home without boots, and in foul weather too! How ’scaped he agues, in the Devil’s name! GLENDOWER. Come, here’s the map: shall we divide our right According to our threefold order ta’en? MORTIMER. Th’ archdeacon hath divided it Into three limits very equally. England, from Trent and Severn hitherto, By south and east is to my part assign’d: All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore, And all the fertile land within that bound, To Owen Glendower:—and, dear coz, to you The remnant northward, lying off from Trent. And our indentures tripartite are drawn; Which being sealed interchangeably,— A business that this night may execute,— To-morrow, cousin Percy, you, and I, And my good Lord of Worcester, will set forth To meet your father and the Scottish power, As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury. My father Glendower is not ready yet, Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days:— [To Glend.] Within that space you may have drawn together Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen. GLENDOWER. A shorter time shall send me to you, lords: And in my conduct shall your ladies come; From whom you now must steal, and take no leave, For there will be a world of water shed Upon the parting of your wives and you. HOTSPUR. Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here, In quantity equals not one of yours. See how this river comes me cranking in, And cuts me from the best of all my land A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out. I’ll have the current in this place damn’d up; And here the smug and sliver Trent shall run In a new channel, fair and evenly: It shall not wind with such a deep indent, To rob me of so rich a bottom here. GLENDOWER. Not wind? it shall, it must; you see it doth. MORTIMER. Yea, but Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up With like advantage on the other side; Gelding th’ opposed continent as much As on the other side it takes from you. WORCESTER. Yea, but a little charge will trench him here, And on this north side win this cape of land; And then he runneth straight and evenly. HOTSPUR. I’ll have it so: a little charge will do it. GLENDOWER. I will not have it alter’d. HOTSPUR. Will not you? GLENDOWER. No, nor you shall not. HOTSPUR. Who shall say me nay? GLENDOWER. Why, that will I. HOTSPUR. Let me not understand you, then; speak it in Welsh. GLENDOWER. I can speak English, lord, as well as you; For I was train’d up in the English Court; Where, being but young, I framed to the harp Many an English ditty lovely well, And gave the tongue a helpful ornament, A virtue that was never seen in you. HOTSPUR. Marry, and I am glad of it with all my heart: I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers; I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn’d, Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree; And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, Nothing so much as mincing poetry: ’Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag. GLENDOWER. Come, you shall have Trent turn’d. HOTSPUR. I do not care: I’ll give thrice so much land To any well-deserving friend; But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, I’ll cavil on the ninth part of a hair. Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone? GLEND. The Moon shines fair; you may away by night: I’ll in and haste the writer, and withal Break with your wives of your departure hence: I am afraid my daughter will run mad, So much she doteth on her Mortimer. [Exit.]
MORTIMER. Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father! HOTSPUR. I cannot choose: sometimes he angers me With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant, Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, And of a dragon and a finless fish, A clip-wing’d griffin and a moulten raven, A couching lion and a ramping cat, And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff As puts me from my faith. I tell you what, He held me last night at the least nine hours In reckoning up the several devils’ names That were his lacqueys: I cried hum, and well, But mark’d him not a word. O, he’s as tedious As a tired horse, a railing wife; Worse than a smoky house: I had rather live With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far, Than feed on cates and have him talk to me In any summer-house in Christendom. MORTIMER. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman; Exceedingly well-read, and profited In strange concealments; valiant as a lion, And wondrous affable, and as bountiful As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin? He holds your temper in a high respect, And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you do cross his humour; faith, he does: I warrant you, that man is not alive Might so have tempted him as you have done, Without the taste of danger and reproof: But do not use it oft, let me entreat you. WORCESTER. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blunt; And since your coming hither have done enough To put him quite beside his patience. You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault: Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood— And that’s the dearest grace it renders you,— Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, Defect of manners, want of government, Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain; The least of which haunting a nobleman Loseth men’s hearts, and leaves behind a stain Upon the beauty of all parts besides, Beguiling them of commendation. HOTSPUR. Well, I am school’d: good manners be your speed! Here come our wives, and let us take our leave. [Re-enter Glendower, with Lady Mortimer and Lady Percy.]
MORTIMER. This is the deadly spite that angers me, My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh. GLENDOWER. My daughter weeps: she will not part with you; She’ll be a soldier too, she’ll to the wars. MORTIMER. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy Shall follow in your conduct speedily. [Glendower speaks to Lady Mortimer in Welsh, and she answers him in the same.]
GLENDOWER. She’s desperate here; a peevish self-will’d harlotry, One that no persuasion can do good upon. [Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer in Welsh.]
MORTIMER. I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh Which thou pour’st down from these swelling heavens I am too perfect in; and, but for shame, In such a parley should I answer thee. [Lady Mortimer speaks to him again in Welsh.]
I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that’s a feeling disputation: But I will never be a truant, love, Till I have learn’d thy language; for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d, Sung by a fair queen in a Summer’s bower, With ravishing division, to her lute. GLENDOWER. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad. [Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer again in Welsh.]
MORTIMER. O, I am ignorance itself in this! GLENDOWER. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down, And rest your gentle head upon her lap, And she will sing the song that pleaseth you, And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness; Making such difference betwixt wake and sleep, As is the difference betwixt day and night, The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team Begins his golden progress in the East. MORTIMER. With all my heart I’ll sit and hear her sing: By that time will our book, I think, be drawn. GLENDOWER. Do so: An those musicians that shall play to you Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence, And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend. HOTSPUR. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.
LADY PERCY. Go, ye giddy goose. [The music plays.]
HOTSPUR. Now I perceive the Devil understands Welsh; And ’tis no marvel he’s so humorous. By’r Lady, he’s a good musician. LADY PERCY. Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.
HOTSPUR. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish. LADY PERCY. Wouldst thou have thy head broken? HOTSPUR. No. LADY PERCY. Then be still. HOTSPUR. Neither; ’tis a woman’s fault. LADY PERCY. Now God help thee! HOTSPUR. Peace! she sings. [A Welsh song by Lady Mortimer.]
Come, Kate, I’ll have your song too.
LADY PERCY. Not mine, in good sooth. HOTSPUR. Not yours, in good sooth! ’Heart! you swear like a comfit-maker’s wife. Not mine, in good sooth; and, As true as I live; and, As God shall mend me; and, As sure as day; And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths, As if thou ne’er walk’dst further than Finsbury. Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art, A good mouth-filling oath; and leave in sooth, And such protest of pepper-gingerbread, To velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens. Come, sing. LADY PERCY. I will not sing. HOTSPUR. ’Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be redbreast-teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I’ll away within these two hours; and so, come in when ye will. [Exit.]
GLENDOWER. Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. By this our book’s drawn; we’ll but seal, and then To horse immediately. MORTIMER. With all my heart. [Exeunt.]
SCENE II. London. A Room in the Palace. [Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, and Lords.]
KING. Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I Must have some private conference: but be near at hand, For we shall presently have need of you. [Exeunt Lords.]
I know not whether God will have it so, For some displeasing service I have done, That, in His secret doom, out of my blood He’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me; But thou dost, in thy passages of life, Make me believe that thou art only mark’d For the hot vengeance and the rod of Heaven To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else, Could such inordinate and low desires, Such poor, such base, such lewd, such mean attempts, Such barren pleasures, rude society, As thou art match’d withal and grafted to, Accompany the greatness of thy blood, And hold their level with thy princely heart? PRINCE. So please your Majesty, I would I could Quit all offences with as clear excuse As well as I am doubtless I can purge Myself of many I am charged withal: Yet such extenuation let me beg, As, in reproof of many tales devised By smiling pick-thanks and base news-mongers,— Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,— I may, for some things true, wherein my youth Hath faulty wander’d and irregular, Find pardon on my true submission. KING. God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder, Harry, At thy affections, which do hold a wing Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors. Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost, Which by thy younger brother is supplied; And art almost an alien to the hearts Of all the Court and princes of my blood: The hope and expectation of thy time Is ruin’d; and the soul of every man Prophetically does forethink thy fall. Had I so lavish of my presence been, So common-hackney’d in the eyes of men, So stale and cheap to vulgar company, Opinion, that did help me to the crown, Had still kept loyal to possession, And left me in reputeless banishment, A fellow of no mark nor likelihood. By being seldom seen, I could not stir But, like a comet, I was wonder’d at; That men would tell their children, This is he; Others would say, Where, which is Bolingbroke? And then I stole all courtesy from Heaven, And dress’d myself in such humility, That I did pluck allegiance from men’s hearts, Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths, Even in the presence of the crowned King. Thus did I keep my person fresh and new; My presence, like a robe pontifical, Ne’er seen but wonder’d at: and so my state, Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast, And won by rareness such solemnity. The skipping King, he ambled up and down With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits, Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state, Mingled his royalty, with capering fools; Had his great name profaned with their scorns; And gave his countenance, against his name, To laugh at gibing boys, and stand the push Of every beardless vain comparative; Grew a companion to the common streets, Enfeoff’d himself to popularity; That, being dally swallow’d by men’s eyes, They surfeited with honey, and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to be seen, He was but as the cuckoo is in June, Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes As, sick and blunted with community, Afford no extraordinary gaze, Such as is bent on sun-like majesty When it shines seldom in admiring eyes; But rather drowsed, and hung their eyelids down, Slept in his face, and render’d such aspect As cloudy men use to their adversaries, Being with his presence glutted, gorged, and full. And in that very line, Harry, stand’st thou; For thou hast lost thy princely privilege With vile participation: not an eye But is a-weary of thy common sight, Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more; Which now doth that I would not have it do, Make blind itself with foolish tenderness. PRINCE. I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord, Be more myself. KING. For all the world, As thou art to this hour, was Richard then When I from France set foot at Ravenspurg; And even as I was then is Percy now. Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot, He hath more worthy interest to the state Than thou, the shadow of succession; For, of no right, nor colour like to right, He doth fill fields with harness in the realm, Turns head against the lion’s armed jaws; And, being no more in debt to years than thou, Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on To bloody battles and to bruising arms. What never-dying honour hath he got Against renowned Douglas! whose high deeds, Whose hot incursions, and great name in arms, Holds from all soldiers chief majority And military title capital Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ: Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathing-clothes, This infant warrior, in his enterprises Discomfited great Douglas; ta’en him once, Enlarged him, and made a friend of him, To fill the mouth of deep defiance up, And shake the peace and safety of our throne. And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland, Th’ Archbishop’s Grace of York, Douglas, and Mortimer Capitulate against us, and are up. But wherefore do I tell these news to thee? Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes, Which art my near’st and dearest enemy? Thou that art like enough,—through vassal fear, Base inclination, and the start of spleen,— To fight against me under Percy’s pay, To dog his heels, and curtsy at his frowns, To show how much thou art degenerate. PRINCE. Do not think so; you shall not find it so: And God forgive them that so much have sway’d Your Majesty’s good thoughts away from me! I will redeem all this on Percy’s head, And, in the closing of some glorious day, Be bold to tell you that I am your son; When I will wear a garment all of blood, And stain my favour in a bloody mask, Which, wash’d away, shall scour my shame with it: And that shall be the day, whene’er it lights, That this same child of honour and renown, This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight, And your unthought-of Harry, chance to meet. For every honour sitting on his helm, Would they were multitudes, and on my head My shames redoubled! for the time will come, That I shall make this northern youth exchange His glorious deeds for my indignities. Percy is but my factor, good my lord, T’ engross up glorious deeds on my behalf; And I will call hall to so strict account, That he shall render every glory up, Yea, even the slightest worship of his time, Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart. This, in the name of God, I promise here: The which if I perform, and do survive, I do beseech your Majesty, may salve The long-grown wounds of my intemperance: If not, the end of life cancels all bands; And I will die a hundred thousand deaths Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow. KING. A hundred thousand rebels die in this. Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.— [Enter Sir Walter Blunt.]
How now, good Blunt! thy looks are full of speed.
BLUNT. So is the business that I come to speak of. Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word That Douglas and the English rebels met Th’ eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury: A mighty and a fearful head they are, If promises be kept on every hand, As ever offer’d foul play in a State. KING. The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day; With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster; For this advertisement is five days old. On Wednesday next you, Harry, shall set forward; On Thursday we ourselves will march: Our meeting is Bridgenorth: and, Harry, you Shall march through Glostershire; by which account, Our business valued, some twelve days hence Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet. Our hands are full of business: let’s away; Advantage feeds him fat, while men delay. [Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar’s-Head Tavern. [Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.]
FALSTAFF. Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? do I not bate? do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady’s loose gown; I am withered like an old apple-John. Well, I’ll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer’s horse: the inside of a church! Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.
BARDOLPH. Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long. FALSTAFF. Why, there is it: come, sing me a song; make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough; swore little; diced not above seven times a week; paid money that I borrowed —three or four times; lived well, and in good compass: and now I live out of all order, out of all compass.
BARDOLPH. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass, —out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.
FALSTAFF. Do thou amend thy face, and I’ll amend my life: thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop,—but ’tis in the nose of thee; thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp.
BARDOLPH. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm. FALSTAFF. No, I’ll be sworn; I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a death’s-head or a memento mori: I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire, and Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be, By this fire, that’s God’s angel: but thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou rann’st up Gad’s-hill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there’s no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest chandler’s in Europe. I have maintain’d that salamander of yours with fire any time this two-and-thirty years; God reward me for it!
BARDOLPH. ’Sblood, I would my face were in your stomach! FALSTAFF. God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn’d.— [Enter the Hostess.]
How now, Dame Partlet the hen! have you enquir’d yet who pick’d my pocket?
HOSTESS. Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have search’d, I have inquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant: the tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.
FALSTAFF. Ye lie, hostess: Bardolph was shaved, and lost many a hair; and I’ll be sworn my pocket was pick’d. Go to, you are a woman, go. HOSTESS. Who, I? no; I defy thee: God’s light, I was never call’d so in mine own house before.
FALSTAFF. Go to, I know you well enough. HOSTESS. No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir John. I know you, Sir John: you owe me money, Sir John; and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it: I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.
FALSTAFF. Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to bakers’ wives, and they have made bolters of them.
HOSTESS. Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by-drinkings, and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound. FALSTAFF. He had his part of it; let him pay. HOSTESS. He? alas, he is poor; he hath nothing. FALSTAFF. How! poor? look upon his face; what call you rich? let them coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks: I’ll not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker of me? shall I not take mine ease in mine inn, but I shall have my pocket pick’d? I have lost a seal-ring of my grandfather’s worth forty mark.
HOSTESS. O Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft, that that ring was copper!
FALSTAFF. How! the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup: ’sblood, an he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if he would say so.—
[Enter Prince Henry and Poins, marching. Falstaff meets them, playing on his truncheon like a fife.]
How now, lad? is the wind in that door, i’faith? must we all march?
BARDOLPH. Yea, two-and-two, Newgate-fashion. HOSTESS. My lord, I pray you, hear me. PRINCE. What say’st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband? I love him well; he is an honest man.
HOSTESS. Good my lord, hear me. FALSTAFF. Pr’ythee, let her alone, and list to me. PRINCE. What say’st thou, Jack? FALSTAFF. The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras, and had my pocket pick’d: this house is turn’d bawdy-house; they pick pockets.
PRINCE. What didst thou lose, Jack? FALSTAFF. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of forty pound a-piece and a seal-ring of my grandfather’s.
PRINCE. A trifle, some eight-penny matter. HOSTESS. So I told him, my lord; and I said I heard your Grace say so; and, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouth’d man as he is; and said he would cudgel you.
PRINCE. What! he did not? HOSTESS. There’s neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else. FALSTAFF. There’s no more faith in thee than in a stew’d prune; nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and, for woman-hood, Maid Marian may be the deputy’s wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go.
HOSTESS. Say, what thing? what thing? I am an honest man’s wife: and, setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call me so.
FALSTAFF. Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise. HOSTESS. Say, what beast, thou knave, thou? FALSTAFF. What beast! why, an otter. PRINCE. An otter, Sir John, why an otter? FALSTAFF. Why, she’s neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have her.
HOSTESS. Thou art an unjust man in saying so; thou or any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou!
PRINCE. Thou say’st true, hostess; and he slanders thee most grossly. HOSTESS. So he doth you, my lord; and said this other day you ought him a thousand pound.
PRINCE. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound? FALSTAFF.
A thousand pound, Hal! a million: thy love is worth a million; thou owest me thy love.
HOSTESS. Nay, my lord, he call’d you Jack, and said he would cudgel you. FALSTAFF. Did I, Bardolph? BARDOLPH. Indeed, Sir John, you said so. FALSTAFF. Yea, if he said my ring was copper. PRINCE. I say ’tis copper: darest thou be as good as thy word now? FALSTAFF. Why, Hal, thou know’st, as thou art but man, I dare; but as thou art prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the lion’s whelp.
PRINCE. And why not as the lion? FALSTAFF. The King himself is to be feared as the lion: dost thou think I’ll fear thee as I fear thy father? nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle break.
PRINCE. Sirrah, there’s no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine; it is all fill’d up with midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket! why, thou whoreson, impudent, emboss’d rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, and one poor pennyworth of sugar-candy to make thee long-winded,—if thy pocket were enrich’d with any other injuries but these, I am a villain: and yet you will stand to it; you will not pocket-up wrong. Art thou not ashamed!
FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear, Hal? thou know’st, in the state of innocency Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy? Thou see’st I have more flesh than another man; and therefore more frailty. You confess, then, you pick’d my pocket?
PRINCE. It appears so by the story.
FALSTAFF. Hostess, I forgive thee: go, make ready breakfast; love thy husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests: thou shalt find me tractable to any honest reason; thou see’st I am pacified.—Still? Nay, pr’ythee, be gone.
[Exit Hostess.]
Now, Hal, to the news at Court: for the robbery, lad, how is that answered?
PRINCE. O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee: the money is paid back again.
FALSTAFF. O, I do not like that paying back; ’tis a double labour. PRINCE. I am good friends with my father, and may do any thing. FALSTAFF. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and do it with unwash’d hands too.
BARDOLPH. Do, my lord. PRINCE. I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of Foot. FALSTAFF. I would it had been of Horse. Where shall I find one that can steal well? O, for a fine thief, of the age of two-and-twenty or thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these rebels; they offend none but the virtuous: I laud them, I praise them.
PRINCE. Bardolph,— BARDOLPH. My lord? PRINCE. Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster, To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.—
[Exit Bardolph.]
Go, Poins, to horse, to horse; for thou and I Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time.— [Exit Poins.]
Meet me to-morrow, Jack, i’ the Temple-hall At two o’clock in th’ afternoon: There shalt thou know thy charge; and there receive Money and order for their furniture. The land is burning; Percy stands on high; And either they or we must lower lie. [Exit.]
FALSTAFF. Rare words! brave world!—Hostess, my breakfast; come:— O, I could wish this tavern were my drum! [Exit.]
ACT IV SCENE I. The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury. [Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.]
HOTSPUR. Well said, my noble Scot: if speaking truth In this fine age were not thought flattery, Such attribution should the Douglas have, As not a soldier of this season’s stamp Should go so general-current through the world. By God, I cannot flatter; I defy The tongues of soothers; but a braver place In my heart’s love hath no man than yourself: Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord. DOUGLAS. Thou art the king of honour: No man so potent breathes upon the ground But I will beard him. HOTSPUR. Do so, and ’tis well.— [Enter a Messenger with letters.]
What letters hast thou there?—I can but thank you.
MESSENGER. These letters come from your father. HOTSPUR. Letters from him! why comes he not himself? MESSENGER. He cannot come, my lord; he’s grievous sick. HOTSPUR. Zwounds! how has he the leisure to be sick In such a justling time? Who leads his power? Under whose government come they along? MESSENGER. His letters bears his mind, not I, my lord. WORCESTER. I pr’ythee, tell me, doth he keep his bed? MESSENGER. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth, And at the time of my departure thence He was much fear’d by his physicians. WORCESTER. I would the state of time had first been whole Ere he by sickness had been visited: His health was never better worth than now. HOTSPUR. Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect The very life-blood of our enterprise; ’Tis catching hither, even to our camp. He writes me here, that inward sickness,— And that his friends by deputation could not So soon be drawn; no did he think it meet To lay so dangerous and dear a trust On any soul removed, but on his own. Yet doth he give us bold advertisement, That with our small conjunction we should on, To see how fortune is disposed to us; For, as he writes, there is no quailing now, Because the King is certainly possess’d Of all our purposes. What say you to it? WORCESTER. Your father’s sickness is a maim to us. HOTSPUR. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp’d off:— And yet, in faith, ’tis not; his present want Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good To set the exact wealth of all our states All at one cast? to set so rich a main On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour? It were not good; for therein should we read The very bottom and the soul of hope, The very list, the very utmost bound Of all our fortunes. DOUGLAS. Faith, and so we should; Where now remains a sweet reversion; And we may boldly spend upon the hope Of what is to come in: A comfort of retirement lives in this. HOTSPUR. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, If that the Devil and mischance look big Upon the maidenhead of our affairs. WORCESTER. But yet I would your father had been here. The quality and hair of our attempt Brooks no division: it will be thought By some, that know not why he is away, That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike Of our proceedings, kept the earl from hence: And think how such an apprehension May turn the tide of fearful faction, And breed a kind of question in our cause; For well you know we of the offering side Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement, And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence The eye of reason may pry in upon us. This absence of your father’s draws a curtain, That shows the ignorant a kind of fear Before not dreamt of. HOTSPUR. Nay, you strain too far. I, rather, of his absence make this use: It lends a lustre and more great opinion, A larger dare to our great enterprise, Than if the earl were here; for men must think, If we, without his help, can make a head To push against the kingdom, with his help We shall o’erturn it topsy-turvy down. Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole. DOUGLAS. As heart can think: there is not such a word Spoke in Scotland as this term of fear. [Enter Sir Richard Vernon.]
HOTSPUR. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul. VERNON. Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord. The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong, Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John. HOTSPUR. No harm: what more? VERNON. And further, I have learn’d The King himself in person is set forth, Or hitherwards intended speedily, With strong and mighty preparation. HOTSPUR. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son, The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales, And his comrades, that daff the world aside, And bid it pass? VERNON. All furnish’d, all in arms; All plumed like estridges that with the wind Bate it; like eagles having lately bathed; Glittering in golden coats, like images; As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the Sun at midsummer; Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. I saw young Harry—with his beaver on, His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm’d— Rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury, And vault it with such ease into his seat, As if an angel dropp’d down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship. HOTSPUR. No more, no more: worse than the Sun in March, This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come; They come like sacrifices in their trim, And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war, All hot and bleeding, will we offer them: The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh, And yet not ours.—Come, let me taste my horse, Who is to bear me, like a thunderbolt, Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales: Harry and Harry shall, hot horse to horse, Meet, and ne’er part till one drop down a corse.— O, that Glendower were come! VERNON. There is more news: I learn’d in Worcester, as I rode along, He cannot draw his power this fourteen days. DOUGLAS. That’s the worst tidings that I hear of yet. WORCESTER. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound. HOTSPUR. What may the King’s whole battle reach unto? VERNON. To thirty thousand. HOTSPUR. Forty let it be: My father and Glendower being both away, The powers of us may serve so great a day. Come, let us take a muster speedily: Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily. DOUGLAS. Talk not of dying: I am out of fear Of death or death’s hand for this one half-year. [Exeunt.]
SCENE II. A public Road near Coventry. [Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.]
FALSTAFF. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of sack: our soldiers shall march through; we’ll to Sutton-Co’fil’ to-night.
BARDOLPH. Will you give me money, captain? FALSTAFF. Lay out, lay out. BARDOLPH. This bottle makes an angel. FALSTAFF. An if it do, take it for thy labour; an if it make twenty, take them all; I’ll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at the town’s end. BARDOLPH. I will, captain: farewell. [Exit.]
FALSTAFF. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the King’s press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press’d me none but good householders, yeomen’s sons; inquired me out contracted bachelors, such as had been ask’d twice on the banns; such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lief hear the Devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild-duck. I press’d me none but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bodies no bigger than pins’-heads, and they have bought out their services; and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton’s dogs licked his sores; and such as, indeed, were never soldiers, but discarded unjust serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fallen; the cankers of a calm world and a long peace; ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old faced ancient: and such have I, to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services, that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered Prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets, and press’d the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I’ll not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat: nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on; for, indeed, I had the most of them out of prison. There’s but a shirt and a half in all my company; and the half-shirt is two napkins tack’d together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald’s coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at Saint Alban’s, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that’s all one; they’ll find linen enough on every hedge.
[Enter Prince Henry and Westmoreland.]
PRINCE. How now, blown Jack! how now, quilt! FALSTAFF. What, Hal! how now, mad wag! what a devil dost thou in Warwickshire?—My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy: I thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury. WESTMORELAND. Faith, Sir John, ’tis more than time that I were there, and you too; but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for us all: we must away all, to-night.
FALSTAFF. Tut, never fear me: I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream. PRINCE. I think, to steal cream, indeed; for thy theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after?
FALSTAFF. Mine, Hal, mine. PRINCE. I did never see such pitiful rascals. FALSTAFF. Tut, tut; good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder; they’ll fill a pit as well as better: tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.
WESTMORELAND. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare,—too beggarly.
FALSTAFF. Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that; and, for their bareness, I am sure they never learn’d that of me.
PRINCE. No, I’ll be sworn; unless you call three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste: Percy is already in the field.
[Exit.]
FALSTAFF. What, is the King encamp’d? WESTMORELAND. He is, Sir John: I fear we shall stay too long. [Exit.]
FALSTAFF. Well, To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest. [Exit.]
SCENE III. The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury. [Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, and Vernon.]
HOTSPUR. We’ll fight with him to-night. WORCESTER. It may not be. DOUGLAS. You give him, then, advantage. VERNON. Not a whit. HOTSPUR. Why say you so? looks he not for supply? VERNON. So do we. HOTSPUR. His is certain, ours is doubtful. WORCESTER. Good cousin, be advised; stir not to-night. VERNON. Do not, my lord. DOUGLAS. You do not counsel well: You speak it out of fear and cold heart. VERNON. Do me no slander, Douglas: by my life,— And I dare well maintain it with my life,— If well-respected honour bid me on, I hold as little counsel with weak fear As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives: Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle Which of us fears. DOUGLAS. Yea, or to-night. VERNON. Content. HOTSPUR. To-night, say I. VERNON. Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much, Being men of such great leading as you are, That you foresee not what impediments Drag back our expedition: certain Horse Of my cousin Vernon’s are not yet come up: Your uncle Worcester’s Horse came but to-day; And now their pride and mettle is asleep, Their courage with hard labour tame and dull, That not a horse is half the half himself. HOTSPUR. So are the horses of the enemy In general, journey-bated and brought low: The better part of ours are full of rest. WORCESTER. The number of the King exceedeth ours. For God’s sake, cousin, stay till all come in. [The Trumpet sounds a parley.]
[Enter Sir Walter Blunt.]
BLUNT. I come with gracious offers from the King, If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect. HOTSPUR. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt; and would to God You were of our determination! Some of us love you well; and even those some Envy your great deservings and good name, Because you are not of our quality, But stand against us like an enemy. BLUNT. And God defend but still I should stand so, So long as out of limit and true rule You stand against anointed majesty! But to my charge: the King hath sent to know The nature of your griefs; and whereupon You conjure from the breast of civil peace Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land Audacious cruelty. If that the King Have any way your good deserts forgot, Which he confesseth to be manifold, He bids you name your griefs; and with all speed You shall have your desires with interest, And pardon absolute for yourself and these Herein misled by your suggestion. HOTSPUR. The King is kind; and well we know the King Knows at what time to promise, when to pay. My father and my uncle and myself Did give him that same royalty he wears; And—when he was not six-and-twenty strong, Sick in the world’s regard, wretched and low, A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home— My father gave him welcome to the shore: And—when he heard him swear and vow to God, He came but to be Duke of Lancaster, To sue his livery and beg his peace, With tears of innocence and terms of zeal— My father, in kind heart and pity moved, Swore him assistance, and performed it too. Now, when the lords and barons of the realm Perceived Northumberland did lean to him, The more and less came in with cap and knee; Met him in boroughs, cities, villages, Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes, Laid gifts before him, proffer’d him their oaths, Give him their heirs as pages, follow’d him Even at the heels in golden multitudes. He presently—as greatness knows itself— Steps me a little higher than his vow Made to my father, while his blood was poor, Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurg; And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform Some certain edicts and some strait decrees That lie too heavy on the commonwealth; Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep Over his country’s wrongs; and, by this face, This seeming brow of justice, did he win The hearts of all that he did angle for: Proceeded further; cut me off the heads Of all the favourites, that the absent King In deputation left behind him here When he was personal in the Irish war. BLUNT. Tut, I came not to hear this. HOTSPUR. Then to the point: In short time after, he deposed the King; Soon after that, deprived him of his life; And, in the neck of that, task’d the whole State: To make that worse, suffer’d his kinsman March (Who is, if every owner were well placed, Indeed his king) to be engaged in Wales, There without ransom to lie forfeited; Disgraced me in my happy victories, Sought to entrap me by intelligence; Rated my uncle from the Council-board; In rage dismiss’d my father from the Court; Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong; And, in conclusion, drove us to seek out This head of safety; and withal to pry Into his title, the which now we find Too indirect for long continuance. BLUNT. Shall I return this answer to the King? HOTSPUR. Not so, Sir Walter: we’ll withdraw awhile. Go to the King; and let there be impawn’d Some surety for a safe return again, And in the morning early shall my uncle Bring him our purposes: and so, farewell. BLUNT. I would you would accept of grace and love. HOTSPUR. And may be so we shall. BLUNT. Pray God you do. [Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. York. A Room in the Archbishop’s Palace. [Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael.]
ARCHBISHOP. Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief With winged haste to the Lord Marshal; This to my cousin Scroop; and all the rest To whom they are directed. If you knew How much they do import, you would make haste. SIR MICHAEL. My good lord, I guess their tenour. ARCHBISHOP. Like enough you do. To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury, As I am truly given to understand, The King, with mighty and quick-raised power, Meets with Lord Harry: and, I fear, Sir Michael, What with the sickness of Northumberland, Whose power was in the first proportion, And what with Owen Glendower’s absence thence, Who with them was a rated sinew too, And comes not in, o’er-rul’d by prophecies,— I fear the power of Percy is too weak To wage an instant trial with the King. SIR MICHAEL. Why, my good lord, you need not fear; There’s Douglas and Lord Mortimer. ARCHBISHOP. No, Mortimer’s not there. SIR MICHAEL. But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy, And there’s my Lord of Worcester; and a head Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen. ARCHBISHOP. And so there is: but yet the King hath drawn The special head of all the land together; The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, The noble Westmoreland, and warlike Blunt; And many more corrivals and dear men Of estimation and command in arms. SIR MICHAEL. Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well opposed. ARCHBISHOP. I hope no less, yet needful ’tis to fear; And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed: For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the King Dismiss his power, he means to visit us, For he hath heard of our confederacy; And ’tis but wisdom to make strong against him: Therefore make haste. I must go write again To other friends; and so, farewell, Sir Michael. [Exeunt.]
ACT V SCENE I. The King’s Camp near Shrewsbury. [Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster, Sir Walter Blunt, and Sir John Falstaff.]
KING. How bloodily the Sun begins to peer Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale At his distemperature. PRINCE. The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes; And by his hollow whistling in the leaves Foretells a tempest and a blustering day. KING. Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win.— [The trumpet sounds. Enter Worcester and Vernon.]
How, now, my Lord of Worcester! ’tis not well That you and I should meet upon such terms As now we meet. You have deceived our trust; And made us doff our easy robes of peace, To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel: This is not well, my lord, this is not well. What say you to’t? will you again unknit This churlish knot of all-abhorred war, And move in that obedient orb again Where you did give a fair and natural light; And be no more an exhaled meteor, A prodigy of fear, and a portent Of broached mischief to the unborn times? WORCESTER. Hear me, my liege: For mine own part, I could be well content To entertain the lag-end of my life With quiet hours; for I do protest, I have not sought the day of this dislike. KING. You have not sought it! why, how comes it, then? FALSTAFF. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it. PRINCE. Peace, chewet, peace! WORCESTER. It pleased your Majesty to turn your looks Of favour from myself and all our House; And yet I must remember you, my lord, We were the first and dearest of your friends. For you my staff of office did I break In Richard’s time; and posted day and night To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand, When yet you were in place and in account Nothing so strong and fortunate as I. It was myself, my brother, and his son, That brought you home, and boldly did outdare The dangers of the time. You swore to us,— And you did swear that oath at Doncaster,— That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state; Nor claim no further than your new-fall’n right, The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster: To this we swore our aid. But in short space It rain’d down fortune showering on your head; And such a flood of greatness fell on you,— What with our help, what with the absent King, What with the injuries of a wanton time, The seeming sufferances that you had borne, And the contrarious winds that held the King So long in his unlucky Irish wars That all in England did repute him dead,— And, from this swarm of fair advantages, You took occasion to be quickly woo’d To gripe the general sway into your hand; Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster; And, being fed by us, you used us so As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo-bird, Useth the sparrow; did oppress our nest; Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk, That even our love thirst not come near your sight For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing We were enforced, for safety-sake, to fly Out of your sight, and raise this present head: Whereby we stand opposed by such means As you yourself have forged against yourself, By unkind usage, dangerous countenance, And violation of all faith and troth Sworn to tis in your younger enterprise. KING. These things, indeed, you have articulate, Proclaim’d at market-crosses, read in churches, To face the garment of rebellion With some fine colour that may please the eye Of fickle changelings and poor discontents, Which gape and rub the elbow at the news Of hurlyburly innovation: And never yet did insurrection want Such water-colours to impaint his cause; Nor moody beggars, starving for a time Of pellmell havoc and confusion. PRINCE. In both our armies there is many a soul Shall pay full dearly for this encounter, If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew, The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world In praise of Henry Percy: by my hopes, This present enterprise set off his head, I do not think a braver gentleman, More active-valiant or more valiant-young, More daring or more bold, is now alive To grace this latter age with noble deeds. For my part,—I may speak it to my shame,— I have a truant been to chivalry; And so I hear he doth account me too: Yet this before my father’s Majesty,— I am content that he shall take the odds Of his great name and estimation, And will, to save the blood on either side, Try fortune with him in a single fight. KING. And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee, Albeit considerations infinite Do make against it.—No, good Worcester, no; We love our people well; even those we love That are misled upon your cousin’s part; And, will they take the offer of our grace, Both he, and they, and you, yea, every man Shall be my friend again, and I’ll be his: So tell your cousin, and then bring me word What he will do: but, if he will not yield, Rebuke and dread correction wait on us, And they shall do their office. So, be gone; We will not now be troubled with reply: We offer fair; take it advisedly. [Exit Worcester with Vernon.]
PRINCE. It will not be accepted, on my life: The Douglas and the Hotspur both together Are confident against the world in arms. KING. Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge; For, on their answer, will we set on them: And God befriend us, as our cause is just! [Exeunt the King, Blunt, and Prince John.]
FALSTAFF. Hal, if thou see me down in the battle, and bestride me, so; ’tis a point of friendship.
PRINCE. Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell. FALSTAFF. I would it were bedtime, Hal, and all well. PRINCE. Why, thou owest God a death. [Exit.]
FALSTAFF. ’Tis not due yet; I would be loth to pay Him before His day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well, ’tis no matter; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honor set-to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? no. What is honour? a word. What is that word, honour? air. A trim reckoning!—Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth be hear it? no. Is it insensible, then? yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it: honour is a mere scutcheon:—and so ends my catechism.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. The Rebel Camp. [Enter Worcester and Vernon.]
WORCESTER. O no, my nephew must not know, Sir Richard, The liberal-kind offer of the King. VERNON. ’Twere best he did. WORCESTER. Then are we all undone. It is not possible, it cannot be, The King should keep his word in loving us; He will suspect us still, and find a time To punish this offence in other faults: Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes; For treason is but trusted like the fox, Who, ne’er so tame, so cherish’d, and lock’d up, Will have a wild trick of his ancestors. Look how we can, or sad or merrily, Interpretation will misquote our looks; And we shall feed like oxen at a stall, The better cherish’d, still the nearer death. My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot: It hath th’ excuse of youth and heat of blood, And an adopted name of privilege,— A hare-brain’d Hotspur, govern’d by a spleen: All his offences live upon my head And on his father’s: we did train him on; And, his corruption being ta’en from us, We, as the spring of all, shall pay for all. Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know, In any case, the offer of the King. VERNON. Deliver what you will, I’ll say ’tis so. Here comes your cousin. [Enter Hotspur and Douglas; Officers and Soldiers behind.]
HOTSPUR. My uncle is return’d: deliver up My Lord of Westmoreland.—Uncle, what news? WORCESTER. The King will bid you battle presently. DOUGLAS. Defy him by the Lord Of Westmoreland. HOTSPUR. Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so. DOUGLAS. Marry, I shall, and very willingly. [Exit.]
WORCESTER. There is no seeming mercy in the King. HOTSPUR. Did you beg any? God forbid! WORCESTER. I told him gently of our grievances, Of his oath-breaking; which he mended thus, By new-forswearing that he is forsworn: He calls us rebels, traitors; and will scourge With haughty arms this hateful name in us. [Re-enter Douglas.]
DOUGLAS. Arm, gentlemen; to arms! for I have thrown A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth, And Westmoreland, that was engaged, did bear it; Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on. WORCESTER. The Prince of Wales stepp’d forth before the King, And, nephew, challenged you to single fight. HOTSPUR. O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads; And that no man might draw short breath to-day But I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me, How show’d his tasking? seem’d it in contempt? VERNON. No, by my soul: I never in my life Did hear a challenge urged more modestly, Unless a brother should a brother dare To gentle exercise and proof of arms. He gave you all the duties of a man; Trimm’d up your praises with a princely tongue; Spoke your deservings like a chronicle; Making you ever better than his praise, By still dispraising praise valued with you; And, which became him like a prince indeed, He made a blushing cital of himself; And chid his truant youth with such a grace, As if he master’d there a double spirit, Of teaching and of learning instantly. There did he pause: but let me tell the world, If he outlive the envy of this day, England did never owe so sweet a hope, So much misconstrued in his wantonness. HOTSPUR. Cousin, I think thou art enamoured Upon his follies: never did I hear Of any prince so wild o’ liberty. But be he as he will, yet once ere night I will embrace him with a soldier’s arm, That he shall shrink under my courtesy.— Arm, arm with speed: and, fellows, soldiers, friends, Better consider what you have to do Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue, Can lift your blood up with persuasion. [Enter a Messenger.]
MESSENGER. My lord, here are letters for you. HOTSPUR. I cannot read them now.— O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long, If life did ride upon a dial’s point, Still ending at th’ arrival of an hour. An if we live, we live to tread on kings; If die, brave death, when princes die with us! Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just. [Enter another Messenger.]
MESSENGER. My lord, prepare: the King comes on apace. HOTSPUR. I thank him, that he cuts me from my tale, For I profess not talking; only this, Let each man do his best: and here draw I A sword, whose temper I intend to stain With the best blood that I can meet withal In the adventure of this perilous day. Now, Esperance! Percy! and set on. Sound all the lofty instruments of war, And by that music let us all embrace; For, Heaven to Earth, some of us never shall A second time do such a courtesy. [The trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt.]
SCENE III. Plain between the Camps. [Excursions, and Parties fighting. Alarum to the battle. Then enter Douglas and Sir Walter Blunt, meeting.] BLUNT. What is thy name, that in the battle thus Thou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek Upon my head? DOUGLAS. Know, then, my name is Douglas, And I do haunt thee in the battle thus Because some tell me that thou art a king. BLUNT. They tell thee true. DOUGLAS. The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought Thy likeness; for, instead of thee, King Harry, This sword hath ended him: so shall it thee, Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner. BLUNT. I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot; And thou shalt find a king that will revenge Lord Stafford’s death. [They fight, and Blunt is slain. Enter Hotspur.]
HOTSPUR. O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus, I never had triumphed o’er a Scot. DOUGLAS. All’s done, all’s won; here breathless lies the King. HOTSPUR. Where? DOUGLAS. Here. HOTSPUR. This, Douglas? no; I know this face full well: A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt; Semblably furnish’d like the King himself. DOUGLAS. A fool go with thy soul, where’re it goes! A borrow’d title hast thou bought too dear: Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king? HOTSPUR. The King hath many marching in his coats. DOUGLAS. Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats; I’ll murder all his wardrobe piece by piece, Until I meet the King. HOTSPUR. Up, and away! Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day. [Exeunt.]
[Alarums. Enter Falstaff.]
FALSTAFF. Though I could ’scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here; here’s no scoring but upon the pate.—Soft! who are you? Sir Walter Blunt: there’s honour for you! here’s no vanity! I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too: God keep lead out of me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered: there’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive; and they are for the town’s end, to beg during life. But who comes here?
[Enter Prince Henry.]
PRINCE. What, stand’st thou idle here? lend me thy sword: Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies, Whose deaths are yet unrevenged: I pr’ythee, Lend me thy sword. FALSTAFF. O Hal, I pr’ythee give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure. PRINCE. He is indeed; and living to kill thee. I pr’ythee, lend me thy sword. FALSTAFF. Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou gett’st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.
PRINCE. Give it me: what, is it in the case? FALSTAFF. Ay, Hal. ’Tis hot, ’tis hot: there’s that will sack a city. [The Prince draws out a bottle of sack.]
What, is’t a time to jest and dally now?
[Throws it at him, and exit.]
FALSTAFF. Well, if Percy be alive, I’ll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so; if he do not, if I come in his willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath: give me life; which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes unlooked for, and there’s an end.
[Exit.]
SCENE IV. Another Part of the Field. [Alarums. Excursions. Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster, and Westmoreland.] KING. I pr’ythee, Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleedest too much.— Lord John of Lancaster, go you unto him. LANCASTER. Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too. PRINCE. I do beseech your Majesty, make up, Lest your retirement do amaze your friends. KING. I will do so.— My Lord of Westmoreland, lead him to his tent. WESTMORELAND. Come, my lord, I’ll lead you to your tent. PRINCE. Lead me, my lord? I do not need your help: And God forbid, a shallow scratch should drive The Prince of Wales from such a field as this, Where stain’d nobility lies trodden on, And rebels’ arms triumph in massacres! LANCASTER. We breathe too long:—come, cousin Westmoreland, Our duty this way lies; for God’s sake, come. [Exeunt Lancaster and Westmoreland.]
PRINCE. By Heaven, thou hast deceived me, Lancaster; I did not think thee lord of such a spirit: Before, I loved thee as a brother, John; But now I do respect thee as my soul. KING. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point With lustier maintenance than I did look for Of such an ungrown warrior. PRINCE. O, this boy Lends mettle to us all! [Exit.]
[Alarums. Enter Douglas.]
DOUGLAS. Another king! they grow like Hydra’s heads: I am the Douglas, fatal to all those That wear those colours on them.—What art thou, That counterfeit’st the person of a king? KING. The King himself; who, Douglas, grieves at heart So many of his shadows thou hast met, And not the very King. I have two boys Seek Percy and thyself about the field: But, seeing thou fall’st on me so luckily, I will assay thee; so, defend thyself. DOUGLAS. I fear thou art another counterfeit; And yet, in faith, thou bear’st thee like a king: But mine I’m sure thou art, whoe’er thou be, And thus I win thee. [They fight; the King being in danger, re-enter Prince Henry.]
PRINCE. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like Never to hold it up again! the spirits Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt are in my arms: It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee; Who never promiseth but he means to pay.— [They fight: Douglas flies.]
Cheerly, my lord: how fares your Grace? Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent, And so hath Clifton: I’ll to Clifton straight. KING. Stay, and breathe awhile: Thou hast redeem’d thy lost opinion; And show’d thou makest some tender of my life, In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me. PRINCE. O God, they did me too much injury That ever said I hearken’d for your death! If it were so, I might have let alone Th’ insulting hand of Douglas over you, Which would have been as speedy in your end As all the poisonous potions in the world, And saved the treacherous labour of your son. KING. Make up to Clifton: I’ll to Sir Nicholas Gawsey. [Exit.]
[Enter Hotspur.]
HOTSPUR. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth. PRINCE. Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name. HOTSPUR. My name is Harry Percy. PRINCE. Why, then I see A very valiant rebel of the name. I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy, To share with me in glory any more: Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere; Nor can one England brook a double reign, Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales. HOTSPUR. Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come To end the one of us; and would to God Thy name in arms were now as great as mine! PRINCE. I’ll make it greater ere I part from thee; And all the budding honours on thy crest I’ll crop, to make a garland for my head. HOTSPUR. I can no longer brook thy vanities. [They fight.]
[Enter Falstaff.]
FALSTAFF. Well said, Hal! to it, Hal! Nay, you shall find no boy’s play here, I can tell you.
[Re-enter Douglas; he fights with Falstaff, who falls down as if he were dead, and exit Douglas. Hotspure is wounded, and falls.]
HOTSPUR. O Harry, thou hast robb’d me of my youth! I better brook the loss of brittle life Than those proud titles thou hast won of me; They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh: But thoughts the slave of life, and life Time’s fool, And Time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy, But that the earthy and cold hand of death Lies on my tongue: no, Percy, thou art dust, And food for— [Dies.]
PRINCE. For worms, brave Percy: fare thee well, great heart! Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk! When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it was too small a bound; But now two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough. This earth that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. If thou wert sensible of courtesy, I should not make so dear a show of zeal: But let my favours hide thy mangled face; And, even in thy behalf, I’ll thank myself For doing these fair rites of tenderness. Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to Heaven! Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not remember’d in thy epitaph!— [Sees Falstaff on the ground.]
What, old acquaintance? could not all this flesh Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! I could have better spared a better man: O, I should have a heavy miss of thee, If I were much in love with vanity! Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. Embowell’d will I see thee by-and-by: Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. [Exit.]
FALSTAFF. [Rising.] Embowell’d! if thou embowel me to-day, I’ll give you leave to powder me and eat me too to-morrow. ’Sblood, ’twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit! I lie; I am no counterfeit: to die, is to be a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man: but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valour is discretion; in the which better part I have saved my life.— Zwounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead: how, if he should counterfeit too, and rise? by my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make him sure; yea, and I’ll swear I kill’d him. Why may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah, with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me.
[Takes Hotspur on his hack.]
[Re-enter Prince Henry and Lancaster.]
PRINCE. Come, brother John; full bravely hast thou flesh’d Thy maiden sword. LANCASTER. But, soft! whom have we here? Did you not tell me this fat man was dead? PRINCE. I did; I saw him dead, breathless and bleeding Upon the ground.— Art thou alive? or is it fantasy That plays upon our eyesight? I pr’ythee, speak; We will not trust our eyes without our ears. Thou art not what thou seem’st. FALSTAFF. No, that’s certain; I am not a double man: but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. There is Percy! [Throwing the body down.] if your father will do me any honour, so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.
PRINCE. Why, Percy I kill’d myself, and saw thee dead. FALSTAFF. Didst thou?— Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying!— I grant you I was down and out of breath; and so was he: but we rose both at an instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed, so; if not, let them that should reward valour bear the sin upon their own heads. I’ll take it upon my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh: if the man were alive, and would deny it, zwounds, I would make him eat a piece of my sword.
LANCASTER. This is the strangest tale that ever I heard. PRINCE. This is the strangest fellow, brother John.— Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back: For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.— [A retreat is sounded.]
The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours. Come, brother, let’s to th’ highest of the field, To see what friends are living, who are dead. [Exeunt Prince Henry and Lancaster.]
FALSTAFF. I’ll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God reward him! If I do grow great, I’ll grow less; for I’ll purge, and leave sack, and live cleanly as a nobleman should do.
[Exit, bearing off the body.]
SCENE V. Another Part of the Field. [The trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster, Westmoreland, and others, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners.] KING. Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.— Ill-spirited Worcester! did not we send grace, Pardon, and terms of love to all of you? And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary? Misuse the tenour of thy kinsman’s trust? Three knights upon our party slain to-day, A noble earl, and many a creature else, Had been alive this hour, If, like a Christian, thou hadst truly borne Betwixt our armies true intelligence. WORCESTER. What I have done my safety urged me to; And I embrace this fortune patiently, Since not to be avoided it fails on me. KING. Bear Worcester to the death, and Vernon too: Other offenders we will pause upon.— [Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, guarded.]
How goes the field?
PRINCE. The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw The fortune of the day quite turn’d from him, The noble Percy slain, and all his men Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest; And, falling from a hill, he was so bruised That the pursuers took him. At my tent The Douglas is: and I beseech your Grace I may dispose of him. KING. With all my heart. PRINCE. Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you This honourable bounty shall belong: Go to the Douglas, and deliver him Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free: His valour, shown upon our crests to-day, Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds Even in the bosom of our adversaries. KING. Then this remains, that we divide our power.— You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland, Towards York shall bend you with your dearest speed, To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop, Who, as we hear, are busily in arms: Myself,—and you, son Harry,—will towards Wales, To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March. Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, Meeting the check of such another day; And since this business so fair is done, Let us not leave till all our own be won. [Exeunt.]
THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH Dramatis Personae
RUMOUR, the Presenter KING HENRY THE FOURTH HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES, afterwards HENRY PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER PRINCE HUMPHREY OF GLOUCESTER THOMAS, DUKE OF CLARENCE Sons of Henry IV EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND SCROOP, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK LORD MOWBRAY LORD HASTINGS LORD BARDOLPH SIR JOHN COLVILLE TRAVERS and MORTON, retainers of Northumberland Opposites against King Henry IV EARL OF WARWICK EARL OF WESTMORELAND EARL OF SURREY EARL OF KENT GOWER HARCOURT BLUNT Of the King's party LORD CHIEF JUSTICE SERVANT, to Lord Chief Justice SIR JOHN FALSTAFF EDWARD POINS BARDOLPH PISTOL PETO Irregular humourists PAGE, to Falstaff
ROBERT SHALLOW and SILENCE, country Justices DAVY, servant to Shallow FANG and SNARE, Sheriff's officers
RALPH MOULDY SIMON SHADOW THOMAS WART FRANCIS FEEBLE PETER BULLCALF Country soldiers FRANCIS, a drawer
LADY NORTHUMBERLAND LADY PERCY, Percy's widow HOSTESS QUICKLY, of the Boar's Head, Eastcheap DOLL TEARSHEET LORDS, Attendants, Porter, Drawers, Beadles, Grooms, Servants, Speaker of the Epilogue SCENE: England INDUCTION INDUCTION. Warkworth. Before NORTHUMBERLAND'S Castle Enter RUMOUR, painted full of tongues
RUMOUR. Open your ears; for which of you will stop The vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks? I, from the orient to the drooping west, Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold The acts commenced on this ball of earth. Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. I speak of peace while covert emnity, Under the smile of safety, wounds the world; And who but Rumour, who but only I, Make fearful musters and prepar'd defence, Whiles the big year, swoln with some other grief, Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war, And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures, And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wav'ring multitude, Can play upon it. But what need I thus My well-known body to anatomize Among my household? Why is Rumour here? I run before King Harry's victory, Who, in a bloody field by Shrewsbury, Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops, Quenching the flame of bold rebellion Even with the rebels' blood. But what mean I To speak so true at first? My office is To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword, And that the King before the Douglas' rage Stoop'd his anointed head as low as death. This have I rumour'd through the peasant towns Between that royal field of Shrewsbury And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone, Where Hotspur's father, old Northumberland, Lies crafty-sick. The posts come tiring on, And not a man of them brings other news Than they have learnt of me. From Rumour's tongues They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs. Exit ACT I. SCENE I. Warkworth. Before NORTHUMBERLAND'S Castle Enter LORD BARDOLPH
LORD BARDOLPH. Who keeps the gate here, ho?
The PORTER opens the gate
Where is the Earl?
PORTER. What shall I say you are? LORD BARDOLPH. Tell thou the Earl That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here. PORTER. His lordship is walk'd forth into the orchard. Please it your honour knock but at the gate, And he himself will answer. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND
LORD BARDOLPH. Here comes the Earl. Exit PORTER NORTHUMBERLAND. What news, Lord Bardolph? Every minute now Should be the father of some stratagem. The times are wild; contention, like a horse Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose And bears down all before him. LORD BARDOLPH. Noble Earl, I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury. NORTHUMBERLAND. Good, an God will! LORD BARDOLPH. As good as heart can wish. The King is almost wounded to the death; And, in the fortune of my lord your son, Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts Kill'd by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John, And Westmoreland, and Stafford, fled the field; And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk Sir John, Is prisoner to your son. O, such a day, So fought, so followed, and so fairly won, Came not till now to dignify the times, Since Cxsar's fortunes! NORTHUMBERLAND. How is this deriv'd? Saw you the field? Came you from Shrewsbury? LORD BARDOLPH. I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence; A gentleman well bred and of good name, That freely rend'red me these news for true. Enter TRAVERS
NORTHUMBERLAND. Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent On Tuesday last to listen after news. LORD BARDOLPH. My lord, I over-rode him on the way; And he is furnish'd with no certainties More than he haply may retail from me. NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you? TRAVERS. My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn'd me back With joyful tidings; and, being better hors'd, Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard A gentleman, almost forspent with speed, That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse. He ask'd the way to Chester; and of him I did demand what news from Shrewsbury. He told me that rebellion had bad luck, And that young Harry Percy's spur was cold. With that he gave his able horse the head And, bending forward, struck his armed heels Against the panting sides of his poor jade Up to the rowel-head; and starting so, He seem'd in running to devour the way, Staying no longer question. NORTHUMBERLAND. Ha! Again: Said he young Harry Percy's spur was cold? Of Hotspur, Coldspur? that rebellion Had met ill luck? LORD BARDOLPH. My lord, I'll tell you what: If my young lord your son have not the day, Upon mine honour, for a silken point I'll give my barony. Never talk of it. NORTHUMBERLAND. Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers Give then such instances of loss? LORD BARDOLPH. Who- he? He was some hilding fellow that had stol'n The horse he rode on and, upon my life, Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news. Enter Morton
NORTHUMBERLAND. Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf, Foretells the nature of a tragic volume. So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood Hath left a witness'd usurpation. Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury? MORTON. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord; Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask To fright our party. NORTHUMBERLAND. How doth my son and brother? Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dread in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night And would have told him half his Troy was burnt; But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue, And I my Percy's death ere thou report'st it. This thou wouldst say: 'Your son did thus and thus; Your brother thus; so fought the noble Douglas'- Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds; But in the end, to stop my ear indeed, Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, Ending with 'Brother, son, and all, are dead.' MORTON. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet; But for my lord your son- NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, he is dead. See what a ready tongue suspicion hath! He that but fears the thing he would not know Hath by instinct knowledge from others' eyes That what he fear'd is chanced. Yet speak, Morton; Tell thou an earl his divination lies, And I will take it as a sweet disgrace And make thee rich for doing me such wrong. MORTON. You are too great to be by me gainsaid; Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain. NORTHUMBERLAND. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy's dead. I see a strange confession in thine eye; Thou shak'st thy head, and hold'st it fear or sin To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so: The tongue offends not that reports his death; And he doth sin that doth belie the dead, Not he which says the dead is not alive. Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news Hath but a losing office, and his tongue Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, Rememb'red tolling a departing friend. LORD BARDOLPH. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead. MORTON. I am sorry I should force you to believe That which I would to God I had not seen; But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state, Rend'ring faint quittance, wearied and out-breath'd, To Harry Monmouth, whose swift wrath beat down The never-daunted Percy to the earth, From whence with life he never more sprung up. In few, his death- whose spirit lent a fire Even to the dullest peasant in his camp- Being bruited once, took fire and heat away From the best-temper'd courage in his troops; For from his metal was his party steeled; Which once in him abated, an the rest Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy lead. And as the thing that's heavy in itself Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed, So did our men, heavy in Hotspur's loss, Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety, Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester Too soon ta'en prisoner; and that furious Scot, The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword Had three times slain th' appearance of the King, Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame Of those that turn'd their backs, and in his flight, Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all Is that the King hath won, and hath sent out A speedy power to encounter you, my lord, Under the conduct of young Lancaster And Westmoreland. This is the news at full. NORTHUMBERLAND. For this I shall have time enough to mourn. In poison there is physic; and these news, Having been well, that would have made me sick, Being sick, have in some measure made me well; And as the wretch whose fever-weak'ned joints, Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire Out of his keeper's arms, even so my limbs, Weak'ned with grief, being now enrag'd with grief, Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch! A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel Must glove this hand; and hence, thou sickly coif! Thou art a guard too wanton for the head Which princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit. Now bind my brows with iron; and approach The ragged'st hour that time and spite dare bring To frown upon th' enrag'd Northumberland! Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature's hand Keep the wild flood confin'd! Let order die! And let this world no longer be a stage To feed contention in a ling'ring act; But let one spirit of the first-born Cain Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set On bloody courses, the rude scene may end And darkness be the burier of the dead! LORD BARDOLPH. This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord. MORTON. Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour. The lives of all your loving complices Lean on your health; the which, if you give o'er To stormy passion, must perforce decay. You cast th' event of war, my noble lord, And summ'd the account of chance before you said 'Let us make head.' It was your pre-surmise That in the dole of blows your son might drop. You knew he walk'd o'er perils on an edge, More likely to fall in than to get o'er; You were advis'd his flesh was capable Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit Would lift him where most trade of danger rang'd; Yet did you say 'Go forth'; and none of this, Though strongly apprehended, could restrain The stiff-borne action. What hath then befall'n, Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth More than that being which was like to be? LORD BARDOLPH. We all that are engaged to this loss Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas That if we wrought out life 'twas ten to one; And yet we ventur'd, for the gain propos'd Chok'd the respect of likely peril fear'd; And since we are o'erset, venture again. Come, we will put forth, body and goods. MORTON. 'Tis more than time. And, my most noble lord, I hear for certain, and dare speak the truth: The gentle Archbishop of York is up With well-appointed pow'rs. He is a man Who with a double surety binds his followers. My lord your son had only but the corpse, But shadows and the shows of men, to fight; For that same word 'rebellion' did divide The action of their bodies from their souls; And they did fight with queasiness, constrain'd, As men drink potions; that their weapons only Seem'd on our side, but for their spirits and souls This word 'rebellion'- it had froze them up, As fish are in a pond. But now the Bishop Turns insurrection to religion. Suppos'd sincere and holy in his thoughts, He's follow'd both with body and with mind; And doth enlarge his rising with the blood Of fair King Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret stones; Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause; Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land, Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke; And more and less do flock to follow him. NORTHUMBERLAND. I knew of this before; but, to speak truth, This present grief had wip'd it from my mind. Go in with me; and counsel every man The aptest way for safety and revenge. Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed- Never so few, and never yet more need. Exeunt SCENE II. London. A street Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, with his PAGE bearing his sword and buckler
FALSTAFF. Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water? PAGE. He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy water; but for the party that owed it, he might have moe diseases than he knew for. FALSTAFF. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent anything that intends to laughter, more than I invent or is invented on me. I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk before thee like a sow that hath overwhelm'd all her litter but one. If the Prince put thee into my service for any other reason than to set me off, why then I have no judgment. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never mann'd with an agate till now; but I will inset you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your master, for a jewel- the juvenal, the Prince your master, whose chin is not yet fledge. I will sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my hand than he shall get one off his cheek; and yet he will not stick to say his face is a face-royal. God may finish it when he will, 'tis not a hair amiss yet. He may keep it still at a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of it; and yet he'll be crowing as if he had writ man ever since his father was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he's almost out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dommelton about the satin for my short cloak and my slops? PAGE. He said, sir, you should procure him better assurance than Bardolph. He would not take his band and yours; he liked not the security. FALSTAFF. Let him be damn'd, like the Glutton; pray God his tongue be hotter! A whoreson Achitophel! A rascal-yea-forsooth knave, to bear a gentleman in hand, and then stand upon security! The whoreson smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes, and bunches of keys at their girdles; and if a man is through with them in honest taking-up, then they must stand upon security. I had as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to stop it with security. I look'd 'a should have sent me two and twenty yards of satin, as I am a true knight, and he sends me security. Well, he may sleep in security; for he hath the horn of abundance, and the lightness of his wife shines through it; and yet cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn to light him. Where's Bardolph? PAGE. He's gone into Smithfield to buy your worship horse. FALSTAFF. I bought him in Paul's, and he'll buy me a horse in Smithfield. An I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were mann'd, hors'd, and wiv'd. Enter the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE and SERVANT
PAGE. Sir, here comes the nobleman that committed the Prince for striking him about Bardolph. FALSTAFF. Wait close; I will not see him. CHIEF JUSTICE. What's he that goes there? SERVANT. Falstaff, an't please your lordship. CHIEF JUSTICE. He that was in question for the robb'ry? SERVANT. He, my lord; but he hath since done good service at Shrewsbury, and, as I hear, is now going with some charge to the Lord John of Lancaster. CHIEF JUSTICE. What, to York? Call him back again. SERVANT. Sir John Falstaff! FALSTAFF. Boy, tell him I am deaf. PAGE. You must speak louder; my master is deaf. CHIEF JUSTICE. I am sure he is, to the hearing of anything good. Go, pluck him by the elbow; I must speak with him. SERVANT. Sir John! FALSTAFF. What! a young knave, and begging! Is there not wars? Is there not employment? Doth not the King lack subjects? Do not the rebels need soldiers? Though it be a shame to be on any side but one, it is worse shame to beg than to be on the worst side, were it worse than the name of rebellion can tell how to make it. SERVANT. You mistake me, sir. FALSTAFF. Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man? Setting my knighthood and my soldiership aside, I had lied in my throat if I had said so. SERVANT. I pray you, sir, then set your knighthood and your soldiership aside; and give me leave to tell you you in your throat, if you say I am any other than an honest man. FALSTAFF. I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay aside that which grows to me! If thou get'st any leave of me, hang me; if thou tak'st leave, thou wert better be hang'd. You hunt counter. Hence! Avaunt! SERVANT. Sir, my lord would speak with you. CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John Falstaff, a word with you. FALSTAFF. My good lord! God give your lordship good time of day. I am glad to see your lordship abroad. I heard say your lordship was sick; I hope your lordship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, hath yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time; and I most humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverend care of your health. CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John, I sent for you before your expedition to Shrewsbury. FALSTAFF. An't please your lordship, I hear his Majesty is return'd with some discomfort from Wales. CHIEF JUSTICE. I talk not of his Majesty. You would not come when I sent for you. FALSTAFF. And I hear, moreover, his Highness is fall'n into this same whoreson apoplexy. CHIEF JUSTICE. Well God mend him! I pray you let me speak with you. FALSTAFF. This apoplexy, as I take it, is a kind of lethargy, an't please your lordship, a kind of sleeping in the blood, a whoreson tingling. CHIEF JUSTICE. What tell you me of it? Be it as it is. FALSTAFF. It hath it original from much grief, from study, and perturbation of the brain. I have read the cause of his effects in Galen; it is a kind of deafness. CHIEF JUSTICE. I think you are fall'n into the disease, for you hear not what I say to you. FALSTAFF. Very well, my lord, very well. Rather an't please you, it is the disease of not listening, the malady of not marking, that I am troubled withal. CHIEF JUSTICE. To punish you by the heels would amend the attention of your ears; and I care not if I do become your physician. FALSTAFF. I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient. Your lordship may minister the potion of imprisonment to me in respect of poverty; but how I should be your patient to follow your prescriptions, the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or indeed a scruple itself. CHIEF JUSTICE. I sent for you, when there were matters against you for your life, to come speak with me. FALSTAFF. As I was then advis'd by my learned counsel in the laws of this land-service, I did not come. CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy. FALSTAFF. He that buckles himself in my belt cannot live in less. CHIEF JUSTICE. Your means are very slender, and your waste is great. FALSTAFF. I would it were otherwise; I would my means were greater and my waist slenderer. CHIEF JUSTICE. You have misled the youthful Prince. FALSTAFF. The young Prince hath misled me. I am the fellow with the great belly, and he my dog. CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, I am loath to gall a new-heal'd wound. Your day's service at Shrewsbury hath a little gilded over your night's exploit on Gadshill. You may thank th' unquiet time for your quiet o'erposting that action. FALSTAFF. My lord- CHIEF JUSTICE. But since all is well, keep it so: wake not a sleeping wolf. FALSTAFF. To wake a wolf is as bad as smell a fox. CHIEF JUSTICE. What! you are as a candle, the better part burnt out. FALSTAFF. A wassail candle, my lord- all tallow; if I did say of wax, my growth would approve the truth. CHIEF JUSTICE. There is not a white hair in your face but should have his effect of gravity. FALSTAFF. His effect of gravy, gravy, CHIEF JUSTICE. You follow the young Prince up and down, like his ill angel. FALSTAFF. Not so, my lord. Your ill angel is light; but hope he that looks upon me will take me without weighing. And yet in some respects, I grant, I cannot go- I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these costermongers' times that true valour is turn'd berod; pregnancy is made a tapster, and his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings; all the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this age shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. You that are old consider not the capacities of us that are young; you do measure the heat of our livers with the bitterness of your galls; and we that are in the vaward of our youth, must confess, are wags too. CHIEF JUSTICE. Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age? Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity? And will you yet call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John! FALSTAFF. My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the afternoon, with a white head and something a round belly. For my voice- I have lost it with hallooing and singing of anthems. To approve my youth further, I will not. The truth is, I am only old in judgment and understanding; and he that will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him. For the box of the ear that the Prince gave you- he gave it like a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord. I have check'd him for it; and the young lion repents- marry, not in ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack. CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, God send the Prince a better companion! FALSTAFF. God send the companion a better prince! I cannot rid my hands of him. CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, the King hath sever'd you. I hear you are going with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop and the Earl of Northumberland. FALSTAFF. Yea; I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But look you pray, all you that kiss my Lady Peace at home, that our armies join not in a hot day; for, by the Lord, I take but two shirts out with me, and I mean not to sweat extraordinarily. If it be a hot day, and I brandish anything but a bottle, I would I might never spit white again. There is not a dangerous action can peep out his head but I am thrust upon it. Well, I cannot last ever; but it was alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common. If ye will needs say I am an old man, you should give me rest. I would to God my name were not so terrible to the enemy as it is. I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion. CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, be honest, be honest; and God bless your expedition! FALSTAFF. Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound to furnish me forth? CHIEF JUSTICE. Not a penny, not a penny; you are too impatient to bear crosses. Fare you well. Commend me to my cousin Westmoreland. Exeunt CHIEF JUSTICE and SERVANT FALSTAFF. If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A man can no more separate age and covetousness than 'a can part young limbs and lechery; but the gout galls the one, and the pox pinches the other; and so both the degrees prevent my curses. Boy! PAGE. Sir? FALSTAFF. What money is in my purse? PAGE. Seven groats and two pence. FALSTAFF. I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse; borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. Go bear this letter to my Lord of Lancaster; this to the Prince; this to the Earl of Westmoreland; and this to old Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I perceiv'd the first white hair of my chin. About it; you know where to find me. [Exit PAGE] A pox of this gout! or, a gout of this pox! for the one or the other plays the rogue with my great toe. 'Tis no matter if I do halt; I have the wars for my colour, and my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit will make use of anything. I will turn diseases to commodity. Exit
SCENE III. York. The ARCHBISHOP'S palace Enter the ARCHBISHOP, THOMAS MOWBRAY the EARL MARSHAL, LORD HASTINGS, and LORD BARDOLPH
ARCHBISHOP. Thus have you heard our cause and known our means; And, my most noble friends, I pray you all Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes- And first, Lord Marshal, what say you to it? MOWBRAY. I well allow the occasion of our amis; But gladly would be better satisfied How, in our means, we should advance ourselves To look with forehead bold and big enough Upon the power and puissance of the King. HASTINGS. Our present musters grow upon the file To five and twenty thousand men of choice; And our supplies live largely in the hope Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns With an incensed fire of injuries. LORD BARDOLPH. The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus: Whether our present five and twenty thousand May hold up head without Northumberland? HASTINGS. With him, we may. LORD BARDOLPH. Yea, marry, there's the point; But if without him we be thought too feeble, My judgment is we should not step too far Till we had his assistance by the hand; For, in a theme so bloody-fac'd as this, Conjecture, expectation, and surmise Of aids incertain, should not be admitted. ARCHBISHOP. 'Tis very true, Lord Bardolph; for indeed It was young Hotspur's case at Shrewsbury. LORD BARDOLPH. It was, my lord; who lin'd himself with hope, Eating the air and promise of supply, Flatt'ring himself in project of a power Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts; And so, with great imagination Proper to madmen, led his powers to death, And, winking, leapt into destruction. HASTINGS. But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope. LORD BARDOLPH. Yes, if this present quality of war- Indeed the instant action, a cause on foot- Lives so in hope, as in an early spring We see th' appearing buds; which to prove fruit Hope gives not so much warrant, as despair That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build, We first survey the plot, then draw the model; And when we see the figure of the house, Then we must rate the cost of the erection; Which if we find outweighs ability, What do we then but draw anew the model In fewer offices, or at least desist To build at all? Much more, in this great work- Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down And set another up- should we survey The plot of situation and the model, Consent upon a sure foundation, Question surveyors, know our own estate How able such a work to undergo- To weigh against his opposite; or else We fortify in paper and in figures, Using the names of men instead of men; Like one that draws the model of a house Beyond his power to build it; who, half through, Gives o'er and leaves his part-created cost A naked subject to the weeping clouds And waste for churlish winter's tyranny. HASTINGS. Grant that our hopes- yet likely of fair birth- Should be still-born, and that we now possess'd The utmost man of expectation, I think we are so a body strong enough, Even as we are, to equal with the King. LORD BARDOLPH. What, is the King but five and twenty thousand? HASTINGS. To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bardolph; For his divisions, as the times do brawl, Are in three heads: one power against the French, And one against Glendower; perforce a third Must take up us. So is the unfirm King In three divided; and his coffers sound With hollow poverty and emptiness. ARCHBISHOP. That he should draw his several strengths together And come against us in full puissance Need not be dreaded. HASTINGS. If he should do so, He leaves his back unarm'd, the French and Welsh Baying at his heels. Never fear that. LORD BARDOLPH. Who is it like should lead his forces hither? HASTINGS. The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland; Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth; But who is substituted against the French I have no certain notice. ARCHBISHOP. Let us on, And publish the occasion of our arms. The commonwealth is sick of their own choice; Their over-greedy love hath surfeited. An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart. O thou fond many, with what loud applause Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke Before he was what thou wouldst have him be! And being now trimm'd in thine own desires, Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up. So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard; And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up, And howl'st to find it. What trust is in these times? They that, when Richard liv'd, would have him die Are now become enamour'd on his grave. Thou that threw'st dust upon his goodly head, When through proud London he came sighing on After th' admired heels of Bolingbroke, Criest now 'O earth, yield us that king again, And take thou this!' O thoughts of men accurs'd! Past and to come seems best; things present, worst. MOWBRAY. Shall we go draw our numbers, and set on? HASTINGS. We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE I. London. A street Enter HOSTESS with two officers, FANG and SNARE
HOSTESS. Master Fang, have you ent'red the action? FANG. It is ent'red. HOSTESS. Where's your yeoman? Is't a lusty yeoman? Will 'a stand to't? FANG. Sirrah, where's Snare? HOSTESS. O Lord, ay! good Master Snare. SNARE. Here, here. FANG. Snare, we must arrest Sir John Falstaff. HOSTESS. Yea, good Master Snare; I have ent'red him and all. SNARE. It may chance cost some of our lives, for he will stab. HOSTESS. Alas the day! take heed of him; he stabb'd me in mine own house, and that most beastly. In good faith, 'a cares not what mischief he does, if his weapon be out; he will foin like any devil; he will spare neither man, woman, nor child. FANG. If I can close with him, I care not for his thrust. HOSTESS. No, nor I neither; I'll be at your elbow. FANG. An I but fist him once; an 'a come but within my vice! HOSTESS. I am undone by his going; I warrant you, he's an infinitive thing upon my score. Good Master Fang, hold him sure. Good Master Snare, let him not scape. 'A comes continuantly to Pie-corner- saving your manhoods- to buy a saddle; and he is indited to dinner to the Lubber's Head in Lumbert Street, to Master Smooth's the silkman. I pray you, since my exion is ent'red, and my case so openly known to the world, let him be brought in to his answer. A hundred mark is a long one for a poor lone woman to bear; and I have borne, and borne, and borne; and have been fubb'd off, and fubb'd off, and fubb'd off, from this day to that day, that it is a shame to be thought on. There is no honesty in such dealing; unless a woman should be made an ass and a beast, to bear every knave's wrong. Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, PAGE, and BARDOLPH
Yonder he comes; and that arrant malmsey-nose knave, Bardolph,
with him. Do your offices, do your offices, Master Fang and
Master Snare; do me, do me, do me your offices.
FALSTAFF. How now! whose mare's dead? What's the matter? FANG. Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mistress Quickly. FALSTAFF. Away, varlets! Draw, Bardolph. Cut me off the villian's head. Throw the quean in the channel. HOSTESS. Throw me in the channel! I'll throw thee in the channel. Wilt thou? wilt thou? thou bastardly rogue! Murder, murder! Ah, thou honeysuckle villain! wilt thou kill God's officers and the King's? Ah, thou honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed; a man-queller and a woman-queller. FALSTAFF. Keep them off, Bardolph. FANG. A rescue! a rescue! HOSTESS. Good people, bring a rescue or two. Thou wot, wot thou! thou wot, wot ta? Do, do, thou rogue! do, thou hemp-seed! PAGE. Away, you scullion! you rampallian! you fustilarian! I'll tickle your catastrophe. Enter the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE and his men
CHIEF JUSTICE. What is the matter? Keep the peace here, ho! HOSTESS. Good my lord, be good to me. I beseech you, stand to me. CHIEF JUSTICE. How now, Sir John! what, are you brawling here? Doth this become your place, your time, and business? You should have been well on your way to York. Stand from him, fellow; wherefore hang'st thou upon him? HOSTESS. O My most worshipful lord, an't please your Grace, I am a poor widow of Eastcheap, and he is arrested at my suit. CHIEF JUSTICE. For what sum? HOSTESS. It is more than for some, my lord; it is for all- all I have. He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his. But I will have some of it out again, or I will ride thee a nights like a mare. FALSTAFF. I think I am as like to ride the mare, if I have any vantage of ground to get up. CHIEF JUSTICE. How comes this, Sir John? Fie! What man of good temper would endure this tempest of exclamation? Are you not ashamed to enforce a poor widow to so rough a course to come by her own? FALSTAFF. What is the gross sum that I owe thee? HOSTESS. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, upon Wednesday in Wheeson week, when the Prince broke thy head for liking his father to singing-man of Windsor- thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me and make me my lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then and call me gossip Quickly? Coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar, telling us she had a good dish of prawns, whereby thou didst desire to eat some, whereby I told thee they were ill for green wound? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor people, saying that ere long they should call me madam? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch the thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book-oath. Deny it, if thou canst. FALSTAFF. My lord, this is a poor mad soul, and she says up and down the town that her eldest son is like you. She hath been in good case, and, the truth is, poverty hath distracted her. But for these foolish officers, I beseech you I may have redress against them. CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John, Sir John, I am well acquainted with your manner of wrenching the true cause the false way. It is not a confident brow, nor the throng of words that come with such more than impudent sauciness from you, can thrust me from a level consideration. You have, as it appears to me, practis'd upon the easy yielding spirit of this woman, and made her serve your uses both in purse and in person. HOSTESS. Yea, in truth, my lord. CHIEF JUSTICE. Pray thee, peace. Pay her the debt you owe her, and unpay the villainy you have done with her; the one you may do with sterling money, and the other with current repentance. FALSTAFF. My lord, I will not undergo this sneap without reply. You call honourable boldness impudent sauciness; if a man will make curtsy and say nothing, he is virtuous. No, my lord, my humble duty rememb'red, I will not be your suitor. I say to you I do desire deliverance from these officers, being upon hasty employment in the King's affairs. CHIEF JUSTICE. You speak as having power to do wrong; but answer in th' effect of your reputation, and satisfy the poor woman. FALSTAFF. Come hither, hostess. Enter GOWER
CHIEF JUSTICE. Now, Master Gower, what news? GOWER. The King, my lord, and Harry Prince of Wales Are near at hand. The rest the paper tells. [Gives a letter] FALSTAFF. As I am a gentleman! HOSTESS. Faith, you said so before. FALSTAFF. As I am a gentleman! Come, no more words of it. HOSTESS. By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers. FALSTAFF. Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking; and for thy walls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the Prodigal, or the German hunting, in water-work, is worth a thousand of these bed-hangers and these fly-bitten tapestries. Let it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, and 'twere not for thy humours, there's not a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw the action. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me; dost not know me? Come, come, I know thou wast set on to this. HOSTESS. Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles; i' faith, I am loath to pawn my plate, so God save me, la! FALSTAFF. Let it alone; I'll make other shift. You'll be a fool still. HOSTESS. Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. I hope you'll come to supper. you'll pay me all together? FALSTAFF. Will I live? [To BARDOLPH] Go, with her, with her; hook on, hook on. HOSTESS. Will you have Doll Tearsheet meet you at supper? FALSTAFF. No more words; let's have her. Exeunt HOSTESS, BARDOLPH, and OFFICERS CHIEF JUSTICE. I have heard better news. FALSTAFF. What's the news, my lord? CHIEF JUSTICE. Where lay the King to-night? GOWER. At Basingstoke, my lord. FALSTAFF. I hope, my lord, all's well. What is the news, my lord? CHIEF JUSTICE. Come all his forces back? GOWER. No; fifteen hundred foot, five hundred horse, Are march'd up to my Lord of Lancaster, Against Northumberland and the Archbishop. FALSTAFF. Comes the King back from Wales, my noble lord? CHIEF JUSTICE. You shall have letters of me presently. Come, go along with me, good Master Gower. FALSTAFF. My lord! CHIEF JUSTICE. What's the matter? FALSTAFF. Master Gower, shall I entreat you with me to dinner? GOWER. I must wait upon my good lord here, I thank you, good Sir John. CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John, you loiter here too long, being you are to take soldiers up in counties as you go. FALSTAFF. Will you sup with me, Master Gower? CHIEF JUSTICE. What foolish master taught you these manners, Sir John? FALSTAFF. Master Gower, if they become me not, he was a fool that taught them me. This is the right fencing grace, my lord; tap for tap, and so part fair. CHIEF JUSTICE. Now, the Lord lighten thee! Thou art a great fool. Exeunt SCENE II. London. Another street Enter PRINCE HENRY and POINS
PRINCE. Before God, I am exceeding weary. POINS. Is't come to that? I had thought weariness durst not have attach'd one of so high blood. PRINCE. Faith, it does me; though it discolours the complexion of my greatness to acknowledge it. Doth it not show vilely in me to desire small beer? POINS. Why, a prince should not be so loosely studied as to remember so weak a composition. PRINCE. Belike then my appetite was not-princely got; for, by my troth, I do now remember the poor creature, small beer. But indeed these humble considerations make me out of love with my greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to remember thy name, or to know thy face to-morrow, or to take note how many pair of silk stockings thou hast- viz., these, and those that were thy peach-colour'd ones- or to bear the inventory of thy shirts- as, one for superfluity, and another for use! But that the tennis-court-keeper knows better than I; for it is a low ebb of linen with thee when thou keepest not racket there; as thou hast not done a great while, because the rest of thy low countries have made a shift to eat up thy holland. And God knows whether those that bawl out of the ruins of thy linen shall inherit his kingdom; but the midwives say the children are not in the fault; whereupon the world increases, and kindreds are mightily strengthened. POINS. How ill it follows, after you have laboured so hard, you should talk so idly! Tell me, how many good young princes would do so, their fathers being so sick as yours at this time is? PRINCE. Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins? POINS. Yes, faith; and let it be an excellent good thing. PRINCE. It shall serve among wits of no higher breeding than thine. POINS. Go to; I stand the push of your one thing that you will tell. PRINCE. Marry, I tell thee it is not meet that I should be sad, now my father is sick; albeit I could tell to thee- as to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, to call my friend- I could be sad and sad indeed too. POINS. Very hardly upon such a subject. PRINCE. By this hand, thou thinkest me as far in the devil's book as thou and Falstaff for obduracy and persistency: let the end try the man. But I tell thee my heart bleeds inwardly that my father is so sick; and keeping such vile company as thou art hath in reason taken from me all ostentation of sorrow. POINS. The reason? PRINCE. What wouldst thou think of me if I should weep? POINS. I would think thee a most princely hypocrite. PRINCE. It would be every man's thought; and thou art a blessed fellow to think as every man thinks. Never a man's thought in the world keeps the road-way better than thine. Every man would think me an hypocrite indeed. And what accites your most worshipful thought to think so? POINS. Why, because you have been so lewd and so much engraffed to Falstaff. PRINCE. And to thee. POINS. By this light, I am well spoke on; I can hear it with mine own ears. The worst that they can say of me is that I am a second brother and that I am a proper fellow of my hands; and those two things, I confess, I cannot help. By the mass, here comes Bardolph. Enter BARDOLPH and PAGE
PRINCE. And the boy that I gave Falstaff. 'A had him from me Christian; and look if the fat villain have not transform'd him ape. BARDOLPH. God save your Grace! PRINCE. And yours, most noble Bardolph! POINS. Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful fool, must you be blushing? Wherefore blush you now? What a maidenly man-at-arms are you become! Is't such a matter to get a pottle-pot's maidenhead? PAGE. 'A calls me e'en now, my lord, through a red lattice, and I could discern no part of his face from the window. At last I spied his eyes; and methought he had made two holes in the alewife's new petticoat, and so peep'd through. PRINCE. Has not the boy profited? BARDOLPH. Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, away! PAGE. Away, you rascally Althaea's dream, away! PRINCE. Instruct us, boy; what dream, boy? PAGE. Marry, my lord, Althaea dreamt she was delivered of a firebrand; and therefore I call him her dream. PRINCE. A crown's worth of good interpretation. There 'tis, boy. [Giving a crown] POINS. O that this blossom could be kept from cankers! Well, there is sixpence to preserve thee. BARDOLPH. An you do not make him be hang'd among you, the gallows shall have wrong. PRINCE. And how doth thy master, Bardolph? BARDOLPH. Well, my lord. He heard of your Grace's coming to town. There's a letter for you. POINS. Deliver'd with good respect. And how doth the martlemas, your master? BARDOLPH. In bodily health, sir. POINS. Marry, the immortal part needs a physician; but that moves not him. Though that be sick, it dies not. PRINCE. I do allow this well to be as familiar with me as my dog; and he holds his place, for look you how he writes. POINS. [Reads] 'John Falstaff, knight'- Every man must know that as oft as he has occasion to name himself, even like those that are kin to the King; for they never prick their finger but they say 'There's some of the King's blood spilt.' 'How comes that?' says he that takes upon him not to conceive. The answer is as ready as a borrower's cap: 'I am the King's poor cousin, sir.' PRINCE. Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will fetch it from Japhet. But the letter: [Reads] 'Sir John Falstaff, knight, to the son of the King nearest his father, Harry Prince of Wales, greeting.' POINS. Why, this is a certificate. PRINCE. Peace! [Reads] 'I will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity.'- POINS. He sure means brevity in breath, short-winded. PRINCE. [Reads] 'I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins; for he misuses thy favours so much that he swears thou art to marry his sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou mayst, and so farewell. Thine, by yea and no- which is as much as to say as thou usest him- JACK FALSTAFF with my familiars, JOHN with my brothers and sisters, and SIR JOHN with all Europe.' POINS. My lord, I'll steep this letter in sack and make him eat it. PRINCE. That's to make him eat twenty of his words. But do you use me thus, Ned? Must I marry your sister? POINS. God send the wench no worse fortune! But I never said so. PRINCE. Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us. Is your master here in London? BARDOLPH. Yea, my lord. PRINCE. Where sups he? Doth the old boar feed in the old frank? BARDOLPH. At the old place, my lord, in Eastcheap. PRINCE. What company? PAGE. Ephesians, my lord, of the old church. PRINCE. Sup any women with him? PAGE. None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly and Mistress Doll Tearsheet. PRINCE. What pagan may that be? PAGE. A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kinswoman of my master's. PRINCE. Even such kin as the parish heifers are to the town bull. Shall we steal upon them, Ned, at supper? POINS. I am your shadow, my lord; I'll follow you. PRINCE. Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your master that I am yet come to town. There's for your silence. BARDOLPH. I have no tongue, sir. PAGE. And for mine, sir, I will govern it. PRINCE. Fare you well; go. Exeunt BARDOLPH and PAGE This Doll Tearsheet should be some road. POINS. I warrant you, as common as the way between Saint Albans and London. PRINCE. How might we see Falstaff bestow himself to-night in his true colours, and not ourselves be seen? POINS. Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at his table as drawers. PRINCE. From a god to a bull? A heavy descension! It was Jove's case. From a prince to a prentice? A low transformation! That shall be mine; for in everything the purpose must weigh with the folly. Follow me, Ned. Exeunt SCENE III. Warkworth. Before the castle Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, LADY NORTHUMBERLAND, and LADY PERCY
NORTHUMBERLAND. I pray thee, loving wife, and gentle daughter, Give even way unto my rough affairs; Put not you on the visage of the times And be, like them, to Percy troublesome. LADY NORTHUMBERLAND. I have given over, I will speak no more. Do what you will; your wisdom be your guide. NORTHUMBERLAND. Alas, sweet wife, my honour is at pawn; And but my going nothing can redeem it. LADY PERCY. O, yet, for God's sake, go not to these wars! The time was, father, that you broke your word, When you were more endear'd to it than now; When your own Percy, when my heart's dear Harry, Threw many a northward look to see his father Bring up his powers; but he did long in vain. Who then persuaded you to stay at home? There were two honours lost, yours and your son's. For yours, the God of heaven brighten it! For his, it stuck upon him as the sun In the grey vault of heaven; and by his light Did all the chivalry of England move To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves. He had no legs that practis'd not his gait; And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish, Became the accents of the valiant; For those who could speak low and tardily Would turn their own perfection to abuse To seem like him: so that in speech, in gait, In diet, in affections of delight, In military rules, humours of blood, He was the mark and glass, copy and book, That fashion'd others. And him- O wondrous him! O miracle of men!- him did you leave- Second to none, unseconded by you- To look upon the hideous god of war In disadvantage, to abide a field Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur's name Did seem defensible. So you left him. Never, O never, do his ghost the wrong To hold your honour more precise and nice With others than with him! Let them alone. The Marshal and the Archbishop are strong. Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers, To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur's neck, Have talk'd of Monmouth's grave. NORTHUMBERLAND. Beshrew your heart, Fair daughter, you do draw my spirits from me With new lamenting ancient oversights. But I must go and meet with danger there, Or it will seek me in another place, And find me worse provided. LADY NORTHUMBERLAND. O, fly to Scotland Till that the nobles and the armed commons Have of their puissance made a little taste. LADY PERCY. If they get ground and vantage of the King, Then join you with them, like a rib of steel, To make strength stronger; but, for all our loves, First let them try themselves. So did your son; He was so suff'red; so came I a widow; And never shall have length of life enough To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes, That it may grow and sprout as high as heaven, For recordation to my noble husband. NORTHUMBERLAND. Come, come, go in with me. 'Tis with my mind As with the tide swell'd up unto his height, That makes a still-stand, running neither way. Fain would I go to meet the Archbishop, But many thousand reasons hold me back. I will resolve for Scotland. There am I, Till time and vantage crave my company. Exeunt SCENE IV. London. The Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap Enter FRANCIS and another DRAWER
FRANCIS. What the devil hast thou brought there-apple-johns? Thou knowest Sir John cannot endure an apple-john. SECOND DRAWER. Mass, thou say'st true. The Prince once set a dish of apple-johns before him, and told him there were five more Sir Johns; and, putting off his hat, said 'I will now take my leave of these six dry, round, old, withered knights.' It ang'red him to the heart; but he hath forgot that. FRANCIS. Why, then, cover and set them down; and see if thou canst find out Sneak's noise; Mistress Tearsheet would fain hear some music. Enter third DRAWER
THIRD DRAWER. Dispatch! The room where they supp'd is too hot; they'll come in straight. FRANCIS. Sirrah, here will be the Prince and Master Poins anon; and they will put on two of our jerkins and aprons; and Sir John must not know of it. Bardolph hath brought word. THIRD DRAWER. By the mass, here will be old uds; it will be an excellent stratagem. SECOND DRAWER. I'll see if I can find out Sneak. Exeunt second and third DRAWERS Enter HOSTESS and DOLL TEARSHEET
HOSTESS. I' faith, sweetheart, methinks now you are in an excellent good temperality. Your pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as heart would desire; and your colour, I warrant you, is as red as any rose, in good truth, la! But, i' faith, you have drunk too much canaries; and that's a marvellous searching wine, and it perfumes the blood ere one can say 'What's this?' How do you now? DOLL. Better than I was- hem. HOSTESS. Why, that's well said; a good heart's worth gold. Lo, here comes Sir John. Enter FALSTAFF
FALSTAFF. [Singing] 'When Arthur first in court'- Empty the jordan. [Exit FRANCIS]- [Singing] 'And was a worthy king'- How now, Mistress Doll! HOSTESS. Sick of a calm; yea, good faith. FALSTAFF. So is all her sect; and they be once in a calm, they are sick. DOLL. A pox damn you, you muddy rascal! Is that all the comfort you give me? FALSTAFF. You make fat rascals, Mistress Doll. DOLL. I make them! Gluttony and diseases make them: I make them not. FALSTAFF. If the cook help to make the gluttony, you help to make the diseases, Doll. We catch of you, Doll, we catch of you; grant that, my poor virtue, grant that. DOLL. Yea, joy, our chains and our jewels. FALSTAFF. 'Your brooches, pearls, and ouches.' For to serve bravely is to come halting off; you know, to come off the breach with his pike bent bravely, and to surgery bravely; to venture upon the charg'd chambers bravely- DOLL. Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang yourself! HOSTESS. By my troth, this is the old fashion; you two never meet but you fall to some discord. You are both, i' good truth, as rheumatic as two dry toasts; you cannot one bear with another's confirmities. What the good-year! one must bear, and that must be you. You are the weaker vessel, as as they say, the emptier vessel. DOLL. Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge full hogs-head? There's a whole merchant's venture of Bourdeaux stuff in him; you have not seen a hulk better stuff'd in the hold. Come, I'll be friends with thee, Jack. Thou art going to the wars; and whether I shall ever see thee again or no, there is nobody cares. Re-enter FRANCIS
FRANCIS. Sir, Ancient Pistol's below and would speak with you. DOLL. Hang him, swaggering rascal! Let him not come hither; it is the foul-mouth'dst rogue in England. HOSTESS. If he swagger, let him not come here. No, by my faith! I must live among my neighbours; I'll no swaggerers. I am in good name and fame with the very best. Shut the door. There comes no swaggerers here; I have not liv'd all this while to have swaggering now. Shut the door, I pray you. FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear, hostess? HOSTESS. Pray ye, pacify yourself, Sir John; there comes no swaggerers here. FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear? It is mine ancient. HOSTESS. Tilly-fally, Sir John, ne'er tell me; and your ancient swagg'rer comes not in my doors. I was before Master Tisick, the debuty, t' other day; and, as he said to me- 'twas no longer ago than Wednesday last, i' good faith!- 'Neighbour Quickly,' says he- Master Dumbe, our minister, was by then- 'Neighbour Quickly,' says he 'receive those that are civil, for' said he 'you are in an ill name.' Now 'a said so, I can tell whereupon. 'For' says he 'you are an honest woman and well thought on, therefore take heed what guests you receive. Receive' says he 'no swaggering companions.' There comes none here. You would bless you to hear what he said. No, I'll no swagg'rers. FALSTAFF. He's no swagg'rer, hostess; a tame cheater, i' faith; you may stroke him as gently as a puppy greyhound. He'll not swagger with a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of resistance. Call him up, drawer. Exit FRANCIS HOSTESS. Cheater, call you him? I will bar no honest man my house, nor no cheater; but I do not love swaggering, by my troth. I am the worse when one says 'swagger.' Feel, masters, how I shake; look you, I warrant you. DOLL. So you do, hostess. HOSTESS. Do I? Yea, in very truth, do I, an 'twere an aspen leaf. I cannot abide swagg'rers. Enter PISTOL, BARDOLPH, and PAGE
PISTOL. God save you, Sir John! FALSTAFF. Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with a cup of sack; do you discharge upon mine hostess. PISTOL. I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two bullets. FALSTAFF. She is pistol-proof, sir; you shall not hardly offend her. HOSTESS. Come, I'll drink no proofs nor no bullets. I'll drink no more than will do me good, for no man's pleasure, I. PISTOL. Then to you, Mistress Dorothy; I will charge you. DOLL. Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy companion. What! you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! I am meat for your master. PISTOL. I know you, Mistress Dorothy. DOLL. Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you! Since when, I pray you, sir? God's light, with two points on your shoulder? Much! PISTOL. God let me not live but I will murder your ruff for this. FALSTAFF. No more, Pistol; I would not have you go off here. Discharge yourself of our company, Pistol. HOSTESS. No, good Captain Pistol; not here, sweet captain. DOLL. Captain! Thou abominable damn'd cheater, art thou not ashamed to be called captain? An captains were of my mind, they would truncheon you out, for taking their names upon you before you have earn'd them. You a captain! you slave, for what? For tearing a poor whore's ruff in a bawdy-house? He a captain! hang him, rogue! He lives upon mouldy stew'd prunes and dried cakes. A captain! God's light, these villains will make the word as odious as the word 'occupy'; which was an excellent good word before it was ill sorted. Therefore captains had need look to't. BARDOLPH. Pray thee go down, good ancient. FALSTAFF. Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll. PISTOL. Not I! I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, I could tear her; I'll be reveng'd of her. PAGE. Pray thee go down. PISTOL. I'll see her damn'd first; to Pluto's damn'd lake, by this hand, to th' infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures vile also. Hold hook and line, say I. Down, down, dogs! down, faitors! Have we not Hiren here? HOSTESS. Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; 'tis very late, i' faith; I beseek you now, aggravate your choler. PISTOL. These be good humours, indeed! Shall packhorses, And hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, Which cannot go but thirty mile a day, Compare with Caesars, and with Cannibals, And Troiant Greeks? Nay, rather damn them with King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar. Shall we fall foul for toys? HOSTESS. By my troth, Captain, these are very bitter words. BARDOLPH. Be gone, good ancient; this will grow to a brawl anon. PISTOL. Die men like dogs! Give crowns like pins! Have we not Hiren here? HOSTESS. O' my word, Captain, there's none such here. What the good-year! do you think I would deny her? For God's sake, be quiet. PISTOL. Then feed and be fat, my fair Calipolis. Come, give's some sack. 'Si fortune me tormente sperato me contento.' Fear we broadsides? No, let the fiend give fire. Give me some sack; and, sweetheart, lie thou there. [Laying down his sword] Come we to full points here, and are etceteras nothings? FALSTAFF. Pistol, I would be quiet. PISTOL. Sweet knight, I kiss thy neaf. What! we have seen the seven stars. DOLL. For God's sake thrust him down stairs; I cannot endure such a fustian rascal. PISTOL. Thrust him down stairs! Know we not Galloway nags? FALSTAFF. Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat shilling. Nay, an 'a do nothing but speak nothing, 'a shall be nothing here. BARDOLPH. Come, get you down stairs. PISTOL. What! shall we have incision? Shall we imbrue? [Snatching up his sword] Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days! Why, then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds Untwine the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos, I say! HOSTESS. Here's goodly stuff toward! FALSTAFF. Give me my rapier, boy. DOLL. I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw. FALSTAFF. Get you down stairs. [Drawing and driving PISTOL out] HOSTESS. Here's a goodly tumult! I'll forswear keeping house afore I'll be in these tirrits and frights. So; murder, I warrant now. Alas, alas! put up your naked weapons, put up your naked weapons. Exeunt PISTOL and BARDOLPH DOLL. I pray thee, Jack, be quiet; the rascal's gone. Ah, you whoreson little valiant villain, you! HOSTESS. Are you not hurt i' th' groin? Methought 'a made a shrewd thrust at your belly. Re-enter BARDOLPH
FALSTAFF. Have you turn'd him out a doors? BARDOLPH. Yea, sir. The rascal's drunk. You have hurt him, sir, i' th' shoulder. FALSTAFF. A rascal! to brave me! DOLL. Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! Alas, poor ape, how thou sweat'st! Come, let me wipe thy face. Come on, you whoreson chops. Ah, rogue! i' faith, I love thee. Thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better than the Nine Worthies. Ah, villain! FALSTAFF. A rascally slave! I will toss the rogue in a blanket. DOLL. Do, an thou dar'st for thy heart. An thou dost, I'll canvass thee between a pair of sheets. Enter musicians
PAGE. The music is come, sir. FALSTAFF. Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Don. A rascal bragging slave! The rogue fled from me like quick-silver. DOLL. I' faith, and thou follow'dst him like a church. Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting a days and foining a nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven? Enter, behind, PRINCE HENRY and POINS disguised as drawers
FALSTAFF. Peace, good Doll! Do not speak like a death's-head; do not bid me remember mine end. DOLL. Sirrah, what humour's the Prince of? FALSTAFF. A good shallow young fellow. 'A would have made a good pantler; 'a would ha' chipp'd bread well. DOLL. They say Poins has a good wit. FALSTAFF. He a good wit! hang him, baboon! His wit's as thick as Tewksbury mustard; there's no more conceit in him than is in a mallet. DOLL. Why does the Prince love him so, then? FALSTAFF. Because their legs are both of a bigness, and 'a plays at quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles' ends for flap-dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon join'd-stools, and swears with a good grace, and wears his boots very smooth, like unto the sign of the Leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories; and such other gambol faculties 'a has, that show a weak mind and an able body, for the which the Prince admits him. For the Prince himself is such another; the weight of a hair will turn the scales between their avoirdupois. PRINCE. Would not this nave of a wheel have his ears cut off? POINS. Let's beat him before his whore. PRINCE. Look whe'er the wither'd elder hath not his poll claw'd like a parrot. POINS. Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance? FALSTAFF. Kiss me, Doll. PRINCE. Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction! What says th' almanac to that? POINS. And look whether the fiery Trigon, his man, be not lisping to his master's old tables, his note-book, his counsel-keeper. FALSTAFF. Thou dost give me flattering busses. DOLL. By my troth, I kiss thee with a most constant heart. FALSTAFF. I am old, I am old. DOLL. I love thee better than I love e'er a scurvy young boy of them all. FALSTAFF. What stuff wilt have a kirtle of? I shall receive money a Thursday. Shalt have a cap to-morrow. A merry song, come. 'A grows late; we'll to bed. Thou't forget me when I am gone. DOLL. By my troth, thou't set me a-weeping, an thou say'st so. Prove that ever I dress myself handsome till thy return. Well, hearken a' th' end. FALSTAFF. Some sack, Francis. PRINCE & POINS. Anon, anon, sir. [Advancing] FALSTAFF. Ha! a bastard son of the King's? And art thou not Poins his brother? PRINCE. Why, thou globe of sinful continents, what a life dost thou lead! FALSTAFF. A better than thou. I am a gentleman: thou art a drawer. PRINCE. Very true, sir, and I come to draw you out by the ears. HOSTESS. O, the Lord preserve thy Grace! By my troth, welcome to London. Now the Lord bless that sweet face of thine. O Jesu, are you come from Wales? FALSTAFF. Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art welcome. [Leaning his band upon DOLL] DOLL. How, you fat fool! I scorn you. POINS. My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge and turn all to a merriment, if you take not the heat. PRINCE. YOU whoreson candle-mine, you, how vilely did you speak of me even now before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman! HOSTESS. God's blessing of your good heart! and so she is, by my troth. FALSTAFF. Didst thou hear me? PRINCE. Yea; and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gadshill. You knew I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience. FALSTAFF. No, no, no; not so; I did not think thou wast within hearing. PRINCE. I shall drive you then to confess the wilful abuse, and then I know how to handle you. FALSTAFF. No abuse, Hal, o' mine honour; no abuse. PRINCE. Not- to dispraise me, and call me pander, and bread-chipper, and I know not what! FALSTAFF. No abuse, Hal. POINS. No abuse! FALSTAFF. No abuse, Ned, i' th' world; honest Ned, none. I disprais'd him before the wicked- that the wicked might not fall in love with thee; in which doing, I have done the part of a careful friend and a true subject; and thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal; none, Ned, none; no, faith, boys, none. PRINCE. See now, whether pure fear and entire cowardice doth not make thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us? Is she of the wicked? Is thine hostess here of the wicked? Or is thy boy of the wicked? Or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the wicked? POINS. Answer, thou dead elm, answer. FALSTAFF. The fiend hath prick'd down Bardolph irrecoverable; and his face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing but roast malt-worms. For the boy- there is a good angel about him; but the devil outbids him too. PRINCE. For the women? FALSTAFF. For one of them- she's in hell already, and burns poor souls. For th' other- I owe her money; and whether she be damn'd for that, I know not. HOSTESS. No, I warrant you. FALSTAFF. No, I think thou art not; I think thou art quit for that. Marry, there is another indictment upon thee for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law; for the which I think thou wilt howl. HOSTESS. All vict'lers do so. What's a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent? PRINCE. You, gentlewoman- DOLL. What says your Grace? FALSTAFF. His Grace says that which his flesh rebels against. [Knocking within] HOSTESS. Who knocks so loud at door? Look to th' door there, Francis. Enter PETO
PRINCE. Peto, how now! What news? PETO. The King your father is at Westminster; And there are twenty weak and wearied posts Come from the north; and as I came along I met and overtook a dozen captains, Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns, And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff. PRINCE. By heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame So idly to profane the precious time, When tempest of commotion, like the south, Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt And drop upon our bare unarmed heads. Give me my sword and cloak. Falstaff, good night. Exeunt PRINCE, POINS, PETO, and BARDOLPH
FALSTAFF. Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence, and leave it unpick'd. [Knocking within] More knocking at the door! Re-enter BARDOLPH
How now! What's the matter?
BARDOLPH. You must away to court, sir, presently; A dozen captains stay at door for you. FALSTAFF. [To the PAGE]. Pay the musicians, sirrah.- Farewell, hostess; farewell, Doll. You see, my good wenches, how men of merit are sought after; the undeserver may sleep, when the man of action is call'd on. Farewell, good wenches. If I be not sent away post, I will see you again ere I go. DOLL. I cannot speak. If my heart be not ready to burst! Well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself. FALSTAFF. Farewell, farewell. Exeunt FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH HOSTESS. Well, fare thee well. I have known thee these twenty-nine years, come peascod-time; but an honester and truer-hearted man -well fare thee well. BARDOLPH. [ Within] Mistress Tearsheet! HOSTESS. What's the matter? BARDOLPH. [ Within] Bid Mistress Tearsheet come to my master. HOSTESS. O, run Doll, run, run, good Come. [To BARDOLPH] She comes blubber'd.- Yea, will you come, Doll? Exeunt ACT III. SCENE I. Westminster. The palace Enter the KING in his nightgown, with a page
KING. Go call the Earls of Surrey and of Warwick; But, ere they come, bid them o'er-read these letters And well consider of them. Make good speed. Exit page How many thousands of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sound of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge, And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deafing clamour in the slippery clouds, That with the hurly death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Enter WARWICK and Surrey
WARWICK. Many good morrows to your Majesty! KING. Is it good morrow, lords? WARWICK. 'Tis one o'clock, and past. KING. Why then, good morrow to you all, my lords. Have you read o'er the letters that I sent you? WARWICK. We have, my liege. KING. Then you perceive the body of our kingdom How foul it is; what rank diseases grow, And with what danger, near the heart of it. WARWICK. It is but as a body yet distempered; Which to his former strength may be restored With good advice and little medicine. My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool'd. KING. O God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea; and other times to see The beachy girdle of the ocean Too wide for Neptune's hips; how chances mock, And changes fill the cup of alteration With divers liquors! O, if this were seen, The happiest youth, viewing his progress through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, Would shut the book and sit him down and die. 'Tis not ten years gone Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends, Did feast together, and in two years after Were they at wars. It is but eight years since This Percy was the man nearest my soul; Who like a brother toil'd in my affairs And laid his love and life under my foot; Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard Gave him defiance. But which of you was by- [To WARWICK] You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember- When Richard, with his eye brim full of tears, Then check'd and rated by Northumberland, Did speak these words, now prov'd a prophecy? 'Northumberland, thou ladder by the which My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne'- Though then, God knows, I had no such intent But that necessity so bow'd the state That I and greatness were compell'd to kiss- 'The time shall come'- thus did he follow it- 'The time will come that foul sin, gathering head, Shall break into corruption' so went on, Foretelling this same time's condition And the division of our amity. WARWICK. There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the natures of the times deceas'd; The which observ'd, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life, who in their seeds And weak beginning lie intreasured. Such things become the hatch and brood of time; And, by the necessary form of this, King Richard might create a perfect guess That great Northumberland, then false to him, Would of that seed grow to a greater falseness; Which should not find a ground to root upon Unless on you. KING. Are these things then necessities? Then let us meet them like necessities; And that same word even now cries out on us. They say the Bishop and Northumberland Are fifty thousand strong. WARWICK. It cannot be, my lord. Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared. Please it your Grace To go to bed. Upon my soul, my lord, The powers that you already have sent forth Shall bring this prize in very easily. To comfort you the more, I have receiv'd A certain instance that Glendower is dead. Your Majesty hath been this fortnight ill; And these unseasoned hours perforce must ad Unto your sickness. KING. I will take your counsel. And, were these inward wars once out of hand, We would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land. Exeunt SCENE II. Gloucestershire. Before Justice, SHALLOW'S house Enter SHALLOW and SILENCE, meeting; MOULDY, SHADOW, WART, FEEBLE, BULLCALF, and servants behind
SHALLOW. Come on, come on, come on; give me your hand, sir; give me your hand, sir. An early stirrer, by the rood! And how doth my good cousin Silence? SILENCE. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow. SHALLOW. And how doth my cousin, your bed-fellow? and your fairest daughter and mine, my god-daughter Ellen? SILENCE. Alas, a black ousel, cousin Shallow! SHALLOW. By yea and no, sir. I dare say my cousin William is become a good scholar; he is at Oxford still, is he not? SILENCE. Indeed, sir, to my cost. SHALLOW. 'A must, then, to the Inns o' Court shortly. I was once of Clement's Inn; where I think they will talk of mad Shallow yet. SILENCE. You were call'd 'lusty Shallow' then, cousin. SHALLOW. By the mass, I was call'd anything; and I would have done anything indeed too, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele a Cotsole man- you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the Inns of Court again. And I may say to you we knew where the bona-robas were, and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. SILENCE. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers? SHALLOW. The same Sir John, the very same. I see him break Scoggin's head at the court gate, when 'a was a crack not thus high; and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's Inn. Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! and to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead! SILENCE. We shall all follow, cousin. SHALLOW. Certain, 'tis certain; very sure, very sure. Death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair? SILENCE. By my troth, I was not there. SHALLOW. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet? SILENCE. Dead, sir. SHALLOW. Jesu, Jesu, dead! drew a good bow; and dead! 'A shot a fine shoot. John a Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money on his head. Dead! 'A would have clapp'd i' th' clout at twelve score, and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and fourteen and a half, that it would have done a man's heart good to see. How a score of ewes now? SILENCE. Thereafter as they be- a score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds. SHALLOW. And is old Double dead? Enter BARDOLPH, and one with him
SILENCE. Here come two of Sir John Falstaffs men, as I think. SHALLOW. Good morrow, honest gentlemen. BARDOLPH. I beseech you, which is Justice Shallow? SHALLOW. I am Robert Shallow, sir, a poor esquire of this county, and one of the King's justices of the peace. What is your good pleasure with me? BARDOLPH. My captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain, Sir John Falstaff- a tall gentleman, by heaven, and a most gallant leader. SHALLOW. He greets me well, sir; I knew him a good back-sword man. How doth the good knight? May I ask how my lady his wife doth? BARDOLPH. Sir, pardon; a soldier is better accommodated than with a wife. SHALLOW. It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is well said indeed too. 'Better accommodated!' It is good; yea, indeed, is it. Good phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable. 'Accommodated!' It comes of accommodo. Very good; a good phrase. BARDOLPH. Pardon, sir; I have heard the word. 'Phrase' call you it? By this day, I know not the phrase; but I will maintain the word with my sword to be a soldier-like word, and a word of exceeding good command, by heaven. Accommodated: that is, when a man is, as they say, accommodated; or, when a man is being-whereby 'a may be thought to be accommodated; which is an excellent thing. Enter FALSTAFF
SHALLOW. It is very just. Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me your good hand, give me your worship's good hand. By my troth, you like well and bear your years very well. Welcome, good Sir John. FALSTAFF. I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert Shallow. Master Surecard, as I think? SHALLOW. No, Sir John; it is my cousin Silence, in commission with me. FALSTAFF. Good Master Silence, it well befits you should be of the peace. SILENCE. Your good worship is welcome. FALSTAFF. Fie! this is hot weather. Gentlemen, have you provided me here half a dozen sufficient men? SHALLOW. Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit? FALSTAFF. Let me see them, I beseech you. SHALLOW. Where's the roll? Where's the roll? Where's the roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see. So, so, so, so,- so, so- yea, marry, sir. Rafe Mouldy! Let them appear as I call; let them do so, let them do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy? MOULDY. Here, an't please you. SHALLOW. What think you, Sir John? A good-limb'd fellow; young, strong, and of good friends. FALSTAFF. Is thy name Mouldy? MOULDY. Yea, an't please you. FALSTAFF. 'Tis the more time thou wert us'd. SHALLOW. Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i' faith! Things that are mouldy lack use. Very singular good! In faith, well said, Sir John; very well said. FALSTAFF. Prick him. MOULDY. I was prick'd well enough before, an you could have let me alone. My old dame will be undone now for one to do her husbandry and her drudgery. You need not to have prick'd me; there are other men fitter to go out than I. FALSTAFF. Go to; peace, Mouldy; you shall go. Mouldy, it is time you were spent. MOULDY. Spent! SHALLOW. Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside; know you where you are? For th' other, Sir John- let me see. Simon Shadow! FALSTAFF. Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under. He's like to be a cold soldier. SHALLOW. Where's Shadow? SHADOW. Here, sir. FALSTAFF. Shadow, whose son art thou? SHADOW. My mother's son, sir. FALSTAFF. Thy mother's son! Like enough; and thy father's shadow. So the son of the female is the shadow of the male. It is often so indeed; but much of the father's substance! SHALLOW. Do you like him, Sir John? FALSTAFF. Shadow will serve for summer. Prick him; for we have a number of shadows fill up the muster-book. SHALLOW. Thomas Wart! FALSTAFF. Where's he? WART. Here, sir. FALSTAFF. Is thy name Wart? WART. Yea, sir. FALSTAFF. Thou art a very ragged wart. SHALLOW. Shall I prick him, Sir John? FALSTAFF. It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his back, and the whole frame stands upon pins. Prick him no more. SHALLOW. Ha, ha, ha! You can do it, sir; you can do it. I commend you well. Francis Feeble! FEEBLE. Here, sir. FALSTAFF. What trade art thou, Feeble? FEEBLE. A woman's tailor, sir. SHALLOW. Shall I prick him, sir? FALSTAFF. You may; but if he had been a man's tailor, he'd ha' prick'd you. Wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy's battle as thou hast done in a woman's petticoat? FEEBLE. I will do my good will, sir; you can have no more. FALSTAFF. Well said, good woman's tailor! well said, courageous Feeble! Thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove or most magnanimous mouse. Prick the woman's tailor- well, Master Shallow, deep, Master Shallow. FEEBLE. I would Wart might have gone, sir. FALSTAFF. I would thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst mend him and make him fit to go. I cannot put him to a private soldier, that is the leader of so many thousands. Let that suffice, most forcible Feeble. FEEBLE. It shall suffice, sir. FALSTAFF. I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is next? SHALLOW. Peter Bullcalf o' th' green! FALSTAFF. Yea, marry, let's see Bullcalf. BULLCALF. Here, sir. FALSTAFF. Fore God, a likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf till he roar again. BULLCALF. O Lord! good my lord captain- FALSTAFF. What, dost thou roar before thou art prick'd? BULLCALF. O Lord, sir! I am a diseased man. FALSTAFF. What disease hast thou? BULLCALF. A whoreson cold, sir, a cough, sir, which I caught with ringing in the King's affairs upon his coronation day, sir. FALSTAFF. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown. We will have away thy cold; and I will take such order that thy friends shall ring for thee. Is here all? SHALLOW. Here is two more call'd than your number. You must have but four here, sir; and so, I pray you, go in with me to dinner. FALSTAFF. Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot tarry dinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all night in the windmill in Saint George's Field? FALSTAFF. No more of that, Master Shallow, no more of that. SHALLOW. Ha, 'twas a merry night. And is Jane Nightwork alive? FALSTAFF. She lives, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. She never could away with me. FALSTAFF. Never, never; she would always say she could not abide Master Shallow. SHALLOW. By the mass, I could anger her to th' heart. She was then a bona-roba. Doth she hold her own well? FALSTAFF. Old, old, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. Nay, she must be old; she cannot choose but be old; certain she's old; and had Robin Nightwork, by old Nightwork, before I came to Clement's Inn. SILENCE. That's fifty-five year ago. SHALLOW. Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that this knight and I have seen! Ha, Sir John, said I well? FALSTAFF. We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. That we have, that we have, that we have; in faith, Sir John, we have. Our watchword was 'Hem, boys!' Come, let's to dinner; come, let's to dinner. Jesus, the days that we have seen! Come, come. Exeunt FALSTAFF and the JUSTICES BULLCALF. Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my friend; and here's four Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I had as lief be hang'd, sir, as go. And yet, for mine own part, sir, I do not care; but rather because I am unwilling and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with my friends; else, sir, I did not care for mine own part so much. BARDOLPH. Go to; stand aside. MOULDY. And, good Master Corporal Captain, for my old dame's sake, stand my friend. She has nobody to do anything about her when I am gone; and she is old, and cannot help herself. You shall have forty, sir. BARDOLPH. Go to; stand aside. FEEBLE. By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death. I'll ne'er bear a base mind. An't be my destiny, so; an't be not, so. No man's too good to serve 's Prince; and, let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next. BARDOLPH. Well said; th'art a good fellow. FEEBLE. Faith, I'll bear no base mind. Re-enter FALSTAFF and the JUSTICES
FALSTAFF. Come, sir, which men shall I have? SHALLOW. Four of which you please. BARDOLPH. Sir, a word with you. I have three pound to free Mouldy and Bullcalf. FALSTAFF. Go to; well. SHALLOW. Come, Sir John, which four will you have? FALSTAFF. Do you choose for me. SHALLOW. Marry, then- Mouldy, Bullcalf, Feeble, and Shadow. FALSTAFF. Mouldy and Bullcalf: for you, Mouldy, stay at home till you are past service; and for your part, Bullcalf, grow you come unto it. I will none of you. SHALLOW. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong. They are your likeliest men, and I would have you serv'd with the best. FALSTAFF. Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to choose a man? Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit, Master Shallow. Here's Wart; you see what a ragged appearance it is. 'A shall charge you and discharge you with the motion of a pewterer's hammer, come off and on swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer's bucket. And this same half-fac'd fellow, Shadow- give me this man. He presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman may with as great aim level at the edge of a penknife. And, for a retreat- how swiftly will this Feeble, the woman's tailor, run off! O, give me the spare men, and spare me the great ones. Put me a caliver into Wart's hand, Bardolph. BARDOLPH. Hold, Wart. Traverse- thus, thus, thus. FALSTAFF. Come, manage me your caliver. So- very well. Go to; very good; exceeding good. O, give me always a little, lean, old, chopt, bald shot. Well said, i' faith, Wart; th'art a good scab. Hold, there's a tester for thee. SHALLOW. He is not his craft's master, he doth not do it right. I remember at Mile-end Green, when I lay at Clement's Inn- I was then Sir Dagonet in Arthur's show- there was a little quiver fellow, and 'a would manage you his piece thus; and 'a would about and about, and come you in and come you in. 'Rah, tah, tah!' would 'a say; 'Bounce!' would 'a say; and away again would 'a go, and again would 'a come. I shall ne'er see such a fellow. FALSTAFF. These fellows will do well. Master Shallow, God keep you! Master Silence, I will not use many words with you: Fare you well! Gentlemen both, I thank you. I must a dozen mile to-night. Bardolph, give the soldiers coats. SHALLOW. Sir John, the Lord bless you; God prosper your affairs; God send us peace! At your return, visit our house; let our old acquaintance be renewed. Peradventure I will with ye to the court. FALSTAFF. Fore God, would you would. SHALLOW. Go to; I have spoke at a word. God keep you. FALSTAFF. Fare you well, gentle gentlemen. [Exeunt JUSTICES] On, Bardolph; lead the men away. [Exeunt all but FALSTAFF] As I return, I will fetch off these justices. I do see the bottom of justice Shallow. Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying! This same starv'd justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildness of his youth and the feats he hath done about Turnbull Street; and every third word a lie, duer paid to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at Clement's Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring. When 'a was naked, he was for all the world like a fork'd radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife. 'A was so forlorn that his dimensions to any thick sight were invisible. 'A was the very genius of famine; yet lecherous as a monkey, and the whores call'd him mandrake. 'A came ever in the rearward of the fashion, and sung those tunes to the overscutch'd huswifes that he heard the carmen whistle, and sware they were his fancies or his good-nights. And now is this Vice's dagger become a squire, and talks as familiarly of John a Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to him; and I'll be sworn 'a ne'er saw him but once in the Tiltyard; and then he burst his head for crowding among the marshal's men. I saw it, and told John a Gaunt he beat his own name; for you might have thrust him and all his apparel into an eel-skin; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a court- and now has he land and beeves. Well, I'll be acquainted with him if I return; and 't shall go hard but I'll make him a philosopher's two stones to me. If the young dace be a bait for the old pike, I see no reason in the law of nature but I may snap at him. Let time shape, and there an end. Exit ACT IV. SCENE I. Yorkshire. Within the Forest of Gaultree Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, MOWBRAY, HASTINGS, and others
ARCHBISHOP. What is this forest call'd HASTINGS. 'Tis Gaultree Forest, an't shall please your Grace. ARCHBISHOP. Here stand, my lords, and send discoverers forth To know the numbers of our enemies. HASTINGS. We have sent forth already. ARCHBISHOP. 'Tis well done. My friends and brethren in these great affairs, I must acquaint you that I have receiv'd New-dated letters from Northumberland; Their cold intent, tenour, and substance, thus: Here doth he wish his person, with such powers As might hold sortance with his quality, The which he could not levy; whereupon He is retir'd, to ripe his growing fortunes, To Scotland; and concludes in hearty prayers That your attempts may overlive the hazard And fearful meeting of their opposite. MOWBRAY. Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground And dash themselves to pieces. Enter A MESSENGER
HASTINGS. Now, what news? MESSENGER. West of this forest, scarcely off a mile, In goodly form comes on the enemy; And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand. MOWBRAY. The just proportion that we gave them out. Let us sway on and face them in the field. Enter WESTMORELAND
ARCHBISHOP. What well-appointed leader fronts us here? MOWBRAY. I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland. WESTMORELAND. Health and fair greeting from our general, The Prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster. ARCHBISHOP. Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace, What doth concern your coming. WESTMORELAND. Then, my lord, Unto your Grace do I in chief address The substance of my speech. If that rebellion Came like itself, in base and abject routs, Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags, And countenanc'd by boys and beggary- I say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd In his true, native, and most proper shape, You, reverend father, and these noble lords, Had not been here to dress the ugly form Of base and bloody insurrection With your fair honours. You, Lord Archbishop, Whose see is by a civil peace maintain'd, Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd, Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd, Whose white investments figure innocence, The dove, and very blessed spirit of peace- Wherefore you do so ill translate yourself Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace, Into the harsh and boist'rous tongue of war; Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood, Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine To a loud trumpet and a point of war? ARCHBISHOP. Wherefore do I this? So the question stands. Briefly to this end: we are all diseas'd And with our surfeiting and wanton hours Have brought ourselves into a burning fever, And we must bleed for it; of which disease Our late King, Richard, being infected, died. But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland, I take not on me here as a physician; Nor do I as an enemy to peace Troop in the throngs of military men; But rather show awhile like fearful war To diet rank minds sick of happiness, And purge th' obstructions which begin to stop Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly. I have in equal balance justly weigh'd What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer, And find our griefs heavier than our offences. We see which way the stream of time doth run And are enforc'd from our most quiet there By the rough torrent of occasion; And have the summary of all our griefs, When time shall serve, to show in articles; Which long ere this we offer'd to the King, And might by no suit gain our audience: When we are wrong'd, and would unfold our griefs, We are denied access unto his person, Even by those men that most have done us wrong. The dangers of the days but newly gone, Whose memory is written on the earth With yet appearing blood, and the examples Of every minute's instance, present now, Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms; Not to break peace, or any branch of it, But to establish here a peace indeed, Concurring both in name and quality. WESTMORELAND. When ever yet was your appeal denied; Wherein have you been galled by the King; What peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you That you should seal this lawless bloody book Of forg'd rebellion with a seal divine, And consecrate commotion's bitter edge? ARCHBISHOP. My brother general, the commonwealth, To brother horn an household cruelty, I make my quarrel in particular. WESTMORELAND. There is no need of any such redress; Or if there were, it not belongs to you. MOWBRAY. Why not to him in part, and to us all That feel the bruises of the days before, And suffer the condition of these times To lay a heavy and unequal hand Upon our honours? WESTMORELAND. O my good Lord Mowbray, Construe the times to their necessities, And you shall say, indeed, it is the time, And not the King, that doth you injuries. Yet, for your part, it not appears to me, Either from the King or in the present time, That you should have an inch of any ground To build a grief on. Were you not restor'd To all the Duke of Norfolk's signiories, Your noble and right well-rememb'red father's? MOWBRAY. What thing, in honour, had my father lost That need to be reviv'd and breath'd in me? The King that lov'd him, as the state stood then, Was force perforce compell'd to banish him, And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he, Being mounted and both roused in their seats, Their neighing coursers daring of the spur, Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down, Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel, And the loud trumpet blowing them together- Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay'd My father from the breast of Bolingbroke, O, when the King did throw his warder down- His own life hung upon the staff he threw- Then threw he down himself, and all their lives That by indictment and by dint of sword Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke. WESTMORELAND. You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what. The Earl of Hereford was reputed then In England the most valiant gentleman. Who knows on whom fortune would then have smil'd? But if your father had been victor there, He ne'er had borne it out of Coventry; For all the country, in a general voice, Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on, And bless'd and grac'd indeed more than the King. But this is mere digression from my purpose. Here come I from our princely general To know your griefs; to tell you from his Grace That he will give you audience; and wherein It shall appear that your demands are just, You shall enjoy them, everything set off That might so much as think you enemies. MOWBRAY. But he hath forc'd us to compel this offer; And it proceeds from policy, not love. WESTMORELAND. Mowbray. you overween to take it so. This offer comes from mercy, not from fear; For, lo! within a ken our army lies- Upon mine honour, all too confident To give admittance to a thought of fear. Our battle is more full of names than yours, Our men more perfect in the use of arms, Our armour all as strong, our cause the best; Then reason will our hearts should be as good. Say you not, then, our offer is compell'd. MOWBRAY. Well, by my will we shall admit no parley. WESTMORELAND. That argues but the shame of your offence: A rotten case abides no handling. HASTINGS. Hath the Prince John a full commission, In very ample virtue of his father, To hear and absolutely to determine Of what conditions we shall stand upon? WESTMORELAND. That is intended in the general's name. I muse you make so slight a question. ARCHBISHOP. Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule, For this contains our general grievances. Each several article herein redress'd, All members of our cause, both here and hence, That are insinewed to this action, Acquitted by a true substantial form, And present execution of our wills To us and to our purposes confin'd- We come within our awful banks again, And knit our powers to the arm of peace. WESTMORELAND. This will I show the general. Please you, lords, In sight of both our battles we may meet; And either end in peace- which God so frame!- Or to the place of diff'rence call the swords Which must decide it. ARCHBISHOP. My lord, we will do so. Exit WESTMORELAND MOWBRAY. There is a thing within my bosom tells me That no conditions of our peace can stand. HASTINGS. Fear you not that: if we can make our peace Upon such large terms and so absolute As our conditions shall consist upon, Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains. MOWBRAY. Yea, but our valuation shall be such That every slight and false-derived cause, Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton reason, Shall to the King taste of this action; That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love, We shall be winnow'd with so rough a wind That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff, And good from bad find no partition. ARCHBISHOP. No, no, my lord. Note this: the King is weary Of dainty and such picking grievances; For he hath found to end one doubt by death Revives two greater in the heirs of life; And therefore will he wipe his tables clean, And keep no tell-tale to his memory That may repeat and history his los To new remembrance. For full well he knows He cannot so precisely weed this land As his misdoubts present occasion: His foes are so enrooted with his friends That, plucking to unfix an enemy, He doth unfasten so and shake a friend. So that this land, like an offensive wife That hath enrag'd him on to offer strokes, As he is striking, holds his infant up, And hangs resolv'd correction in the arm That was uprear'd to execution. HASTINGS. Besides, the King hath wasted all his rods On late offenders, that he now doth lack The very instruments of chastisement; So that his power, like to a fangless lion, May offer, but not hold. ARCHBISHOP. 'Tis very true; And therefore be assur'd, my good Lord Marshal, If we do now make our atonement well, Our peace will, like a broken limb united, Grow stronger for the breaking. MOWBRAY. Be it so. Here is return'd my Lord of Westmoreland. Re-enter WESTMORELAND
WESTMORELAND. The Prince is here at hand. Pleaseth your lordship To meet his Grace just distance 'tween our armies? MOWBRAY. Your Grace of York, in God's name then, set forward. ARCHBISHOP. Before, and greet his Grace. My lord, we come. Exeunt SCENE II. Another part of the forest Enter, from one side, MOWBRAY, attended; afterwards, the ARCHBISHOP, HASTINGS, and others; from the other side, PRINCE JOHN of LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND, OFFICERS, and others PRINCE JOHN. You are well encount'red here, my cousin Mowbray. Good day to you, gentle Lord Archbishop; And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all. My Lord of York, it better show'd with you When that your flock, assembled by the bell, Encircled you to hear with reverence Your exposition on the holy text Than now to see you here an iron man, Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum, Turning the word to sword, and life to death. That man that sits within a monarch's heart And ripens in the sunshine of his favour, Would he abuse the countenance of the king, Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach In shadow of such greatness! With you, Lord Bishop, It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken How deep you were within the books of God? To us the speaker in His parliament, To us th' imagin'd voice of God himself, The very opener and intelligencer Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven, And our dull workings. O, who shall believe But you misuse the reverence of your place, Employ the countenance and grace of heav'n As a false favourite doth his prince's name, In deeds dishonourable? You have ta'en up, Under the counterfeited zeal of God, The subjects of His substitute, my father, And both against the peace of heaven and him Have here up-swarm'd them. ARCHBISHOP. Good my Lord of Lancaster, I am not here against your father's peace; But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland, The time misord'red doth, in common sense, Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form To hold our safety up. I sent your Grace The parcels and particulars of our grief, The which hath been with scorn shov'd from the court, Whereon this hydra son of war is born; Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm'd asleep With grant of our most just and right desires; And true obedience, of this madness cur'd, Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty. MOWBRAY. If not, we ready are to try our fortunes To the last man. HASTINGS. And though we here fall down, We have supplies to second our attempt. If they miscarry, theirs shall second them; And so success of mischief shall be born, And heir from heir shall hold this quarrel up Whiles England shall have generation. PRINCE JOHN. YOU are too shallow, Hastings, much to shallow, To sound the bottom of the after-times. WESTMORELAND. Pleaseth your Grace to answer them directly How far forth you do like their articles. PRINCE JOHN. I like them all and do allow them well; And swear here, by the honour of my blood, My father's purposes have been mistook; And some about him have too lavishly Wrested his meaning and authority. My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress'd; Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please you, Discharge your powers unto their several counties, As we will ours; and here, between the armies, Let's drink together friendly and embrace, That all their eyes may bear those tokens home Of our restored love and amity. ARCHBISHOP. I take your princely word for these redresses. PRINCE JOHN. I give it you, and will maintain my word; And thereupon I drink unto your Grace. HASTINGS. Go, Captain, and deliver to the army This news of peace. Let them have pay, and part. I know it will please them. Hie thee, Captain. Exit Officer ARCHBISHOP. To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland. WESTMORELAND. I pledge your Grace; and if you knew what pains I have bestow'd to breed this present peace, You would drink freely; but my love to ye Shall show itself more openly hereafter. ARCHBISHOP. I do not doubt you. WESTMORELAND. I am glad of it. Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray. MOWBRAY. You wish me health in very happy season, For I am on the sudden something ill. ARCHBISHOP. Against ill chances men are ever merry; But heaviness foreruns the good event. WESTMORELAND. Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow Serves to say thus, 'Some good thing comes to-morrow.' ARCHBISHOP. Believe me, I am passing light in spirit. MOWBRAY. So much the worse, if your own rule be true. [Shouts within] PRINCE JOHN. The word of peace is rend'red. Hark, how they shout! MOWBRAY. This had been cheerful after victory. ARCHBISHOP. A peace is of the nature of a conquest; For then both parties nobly are subdu'd, And neither party loser. PRINCE JOHN. Go, my lord, And let our army be discharged too. Exit WESTMORELAND And, good my lord, so please you let our trains March by us, that we may peruse the men We should have cop'd withal. ARCHBISHOP. Go, good Lord Hastings, And, ere they be dismiss'd, let them march by. Exit HASTINGS PRINCE JOHN. I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together. Re-enter WESTMORELAND
Now, cousin, wherefore stands our army still?
WESTMORELAND. The leaders, having charge from you to stand, Will not go off until they hear you speak. PRINCE JOHN. They know their duties. Re-enter HASTINGS
HASTINGS. My lord, our army is dispers'd already. Like youthful steers unyok'd, they take their courses East, west, north, south; or like a school broke up, Each hurries toward his home and sporting-place. WESTMORELAND. Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the which I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason; And you, Lord Archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray, Of capital treason I attach you both. MOWBRAY. Is this proceeding just and honourable? WESTMORELAND. Is your assembly so? ARCHBISHOP. Will you thus break your faith? PRINCE JOHN. I pawn'd thee none: I promis'd you redress of these same grievances Whereof you did complain; which, by mine honour, I will perform with a most Christian care. But for you, rebels- look to taste the due Meet for rebellion and such acts as yours. Most shallowly did you these arms commence, Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence. Strike up our drums, pursue the scatt'red stray. God, and not we, hath safely fought to-day. Some guard these traitors to the block of death, Treason's true bed and yielder-up of breath. Exeunt SCENE III. Another part of the forest Alarum; excursions. Enter FALSTAFF and COLVILLE, meeting
FALSTAFF. What's your name, sir? Of what condition are you, and of what place, I pray? COLVILLE. I am a knight sir; and my name is Colville of the Dale. FALSTAFF. Well then, Colville is your name, a knight is your degree, and your place the Dale. Colville shall still be your name, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place- a place deep enough; so shall you be still Colville of the Dale. COLVILLE. Are not you Sir John Falstaff? FALSTAFF. As good a man as he, sir, whoe'er I am. Do you yield, sir, or shall I sweat for you? If I do sweat, they are the drops of thy lovers, and they weep for thy death; therefore rouse up fear and trembling, and do observance to my mercy. COLVILLE. I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me. FALSTAFF. I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine; and not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name. An I had but a belly of any indifferency, I were simply the most active fellow in Europe. My womb, my womb, my womb undoes me. Here comes our general. Enter PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND, BLUNT, and others PRINCE JOHN. The heat is past; follow no further now. Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland. Exit WESTMORELAND Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while? When everything is ended, then you come. These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life, One time or other break some gallows' back. FALSTAFF. I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus: I never knew yet but rebuke and check was the reward of valour. Do you think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? Have I, in my poor and old motion, the expedition of thought? I have speeded hither with the very extremest inch of possibility; I have found'red nine score and odd posts; and here, travel tainted as I am, have, in my pure and immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colville of the Dale,a most furious knight and valorous enemy. But what of that? He saw me, and yielded; that I may justly say with the hook-nos'd fellow of Rome-I came, saw, and overcame. PRINCE JOHN. It was more of his courtesy than your deserving. FALSTAFF. I know not. Here he is, and here I yield him; and I beseech your Grace, let it be book'd with the rest of this day's deeds; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture on the top on't, Colville kissing my foot; to the which course if I be enforc'd, if you do not all show like gilt twopences to me, and I, in the clear sky of fame, o'ershine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of the element, which show like pins' heads to her, believe not the word of the noble. Therefore let me have right, and let desert mount. PRINCE JOHN. Thine's too heavy to mount. FALSTAFF. Let it shine, then. PRINCE JOHN. Thine's too thick to shine. FALSTAFF. Let it do something, my good lord, that may do me good, and call it what you will. PRINCE JOHN. Is thy name Colville? COLVILLE. It is, my lord. PRINCE JOHN. A famous rebel art thou, Colville. FALSTAFF. And a famous true subject took him. COLVILLE. I am, my lord, but as my betters are That led me hither. Had they been rul'd by me, You should have won them dearer than you have. FALSTAFF. I know not how they sold themselves; but thou, like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis; and I thank thee for thee. Re-enter WESTMORELAND
PRINCE JOHN. Now, have you left pursuit? WESTMORELAND. Retreat is made, and execution stay'd. PRINCE JOHN. Send Colville, with his confederates, To York, to present execution. Blunt, lead him hence; and see you guard him sure. Exeunt BLUNT and others And now dispatch we toward the court, my lords. I hear the King my father is sore sick. Our news shall go before us to his Majesty, Which, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him And we with sober speed will follow you. FALSTAFF. My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go through Gloucestershire; and, when you come to court, stand my good lord, pray, in your good report. PRINCE JOHN. Fare you well, Falstaff. I, in my condition, Shall better speak of you than you deserve. Exeunt all but FALSTAFF FALSTAFF. I would you had but the wit; 'twere better than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh- but that's no marvel; he drinks no wine. There's never none of these demure boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male green-sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They are generally fools and cowards-which some of us should be too, but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes; which delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is the warming of the blood; which before, cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice; but the sherris warms it, and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extremes. It illumineth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who, great and puff'd up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage- and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and till'd, with excellent endeavour of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle I would teach them should be to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack. Enter BARDOLPH
How now, Bardolph!
BARDOLPH. The army is discharged all and gone. FALSTAFF. Let them go. I'll through Gloucestershire, and there will I visit Master Robert Shallow, Esquire. I have him already temp'ring between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal with him. Come away. Exeunt SCENE IV. Westminster. The Jerusalem Chamber Enter the KING, PRINCE THOMAS OF CLARENCE, PRINCE HUMPHREY OF GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, and others KING. Now, lords, if God doth give successful end To this debate that bleedeth at our doors, We will our youth lead on to higher fields, And draw no swords but what are sanctified. Our navy is address'd, our power connected, Our substitutes in absence well invested, And everything lies level to our wish. Only we want a little personal strength; And pause us till these rebels, now afoot, Come underneath the yoke of government. WARWICK. Both which we doubt not but your Majesty Shall soon enjoy. KING. Humphrey, my son of Gloucester, Where is the Prince your brother? PRINCE HUMPHREY. I think he's gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor. KING. And how accompanied? PRINCE HUMPHREY. I do not know, my lord. KING. Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him? PRINCE HUMPHREY. No, my good lord, he is in presence here. CLARENCE. What would my lord and father? KING. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence. How chance thou art not with the Prince thy brother? He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas. Thou hast a better place in his affection Than all thy brothers; cherish it, my boy, And noble offices thou mayst effect Of mediation, after I am dead, Between his greatness and thy other brethren. Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love, Nor lose the good advantage of his grace By seeming cold or careless of his will; For he is gracious if he be observ'd. He hath a tear for pity and a hand Open as day for melting charity; Yet notwithstanding, being incens'd, he is flint; As humorous as winter, and as sudden As flaws congealed in the spring of day. His temper, therefore, must be well observ'd. Chide him for faults, and do it reverently, When you perceive his blood inclin'd to mirth; But, being moody, give him line and scope Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas, And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends, A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in, That the united vessel of their blood, Mingled with venom of suggestion- As, force perforce, the age will pour it in- Shall never leak, though it do work as strong As aconitum or rash gunpowder. CLARENCE. I shall observe him with all care and love. KING. Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas? CLARENCE. He is not there to-day; he dines in London. KING. And how accompanied? Canst thou tell that? CLARENCE. With Poins, and other his continual followers. KING. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds; And he, the noble image of my youth, Is overspread with them; therefore my grief Stretches itself beyond the hour of death. The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape, In forms imaginary, th'unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors. For when his headstrong riot hath no curb, When rage and hot blood are his counsellors When means and lavish manners meet together, O, with what wings shall his affections fly Towards fronting peril and oppos'd decay! WARWICK. My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite. The Prince but studies his companions Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language, 'Tis needful that the most immodest word Be look'd upon and learnt; which once attain'd, Your Highness knows, comes to no further use But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms, The Prince will, in the perfectness of time, Cast off his followers; and their memory Shall as a pattern or a measure live By which his Grace must mete the lives of other, Turning past evils to advantages. KING. 'Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb In the dead carrion. Enter WESTMORELAND
Who's here? Westmoreland?
WESTMORELAND. Health to my sovereign, and new happiness Added to that that am to deliver! Prince John, your son, doth kiss your Grace's hand. Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings, and all, Are brought to the correction of your law. There is not now a rebel's sword unsheath'd, But Peace puts forth her olive everywhere. The manner how this action hath been borne Here at more leisure may your Highness read, With every course in his particular. KING. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird, Which ever in the haunch of winter sings The lifting up of day. Enter HARCOURT
Look here's more news.
HARCOURT. From enemies heaven keep your Majesty; And, when they stand against you, may they fall As those that I am come to tell you of! The Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bardolph, With a great power of English and of Scots, Are by the shrieve of Yorkshire overthrown. The manner and true order of the fight This packet, please it you, contains at large. KING. And wherefore should these good news make me sick? Will Fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest letters? She either gives a stomach and no food- Such are the poor, in health- or else a feast, And takes away the stomach- such are the rich That have abundance and enjoy it not. I should rejoice now at this happy news; And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy. O me! come near me now I am much ill. PRINCE HUMPHREY. Comfort, your Majesty! CLARENCE. O my royal father! WESTMORELAND. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, look up. WARWICK. Be patient, Princes; you do know these fits Are with his Highness very ordinary. Stand from him, give him air; he'll straight be well. CLARENCE. No, no; he cannot long hold out these pangs. Th' incessant care and labour of his mind Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in So thin that life looks through, and will break out. PRINCE HUMPHREY. The people fear me; for they do observe Unfather'd heirs and loathly births of nature. The seasons change their manners, as the year Had found some months asleep, and leapt them over. CLARENCE. The river hath thrice flow'd, no ebb between; And the old folk, Time's doting chronicles, Say it did so a little time before That our great grandsire, Edward, sick'd and died. WARWICK. Speak lower, Princes, for the King recovers. PRINCE HUMPHREY. This apoplexy will certain be his end. KING. I pray you take me up, and bear me hence Into some other chamber. Softly, pray. Exeunt SCENE V. Westminster. Another chamber The KING lying on a bed; CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, and others in attendance
KING. Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends; Unless some dull and favourable hand Will whisper music to my weary spirit. WARWICK. Call for the music in the other room. KING. Set me the crown upon my pillow here. CLARENCE. His eye is hollow, and he changes much. WARWICK. Less noise! less noise! Enter PRINCE HENRY
PRINCE. Who saw the Duke of Clarence? CLARENCE. I am here, brother, full of heaviness. PRINCE. How now! Rain within doors, and none abroad! How doth the King? PRINCE HUMPHREY. Exceeding ill. PRINCE. Heard he the good news yet? Tell it him. PRINCE HUMPHREY. He alt'red much upon the hearing it. PRINCE. If he be sick with joy, he'll recover without physic. WARWICK. Not so much noise, my lords. Sweet Prince, speak low; The King your father is dispos'd to sleep. CLARENCE. Let us withdraw into the other room. WARWICK. Will't please your Grace to go along with us? PRINCE. No; I will sit and watch here by the King. Exeunt all but the PRINCE Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow, Being so troublesome a bedfellow? O polish'd perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night! Sleep with it now! Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet As he whose brow with homely biggen bound Snores out the watch of night. O majesty! When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit Like a rich armour worn in heat of day That scald'st with safety. By his gates of breath There lies a downy feather which stirs not. Did he suspire, that light and weightless down Perforce must move. My gracious lord! my father! This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd So many English kings. Thy due from me Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood Which nature, love, and filial tenderness, Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously. My due from thee is this imperial crown, Which, as immediate from thy place and blood, Derives itself to me. [Putting on the crown] Lo where it sits- Which God shall guard; and put the world's whole strength Into one giant arm, it shall not force This lineal honour from me. This from thee Will I to mine leave as 'tis left to me. Exit KING. Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence! Re-enter WARWICK, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE
CLARENCE. Doth the King call? WARWICK. What would your Majesty? How fares your Grace? KING. Why did you leave me here alone, my lords? CLARENCE. We left the Prince my brother here, my liege, Who undertook to sit and watch by you. KING. The Prince of Wales! Where is he? Let me see him. He is not here. WARWICK. This door is open; he is gone this way. PRINCE HUMPHREY. He came not through the chamber where we stay'd. KING. Where is the crown? Who took it from my pillow? WARWICK. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here. KING. The Prince hath ta'en it hence. Go, seek him out. Is he so hasty that he doth suppose My sleep my death? Find him, my lord of Warwick; chide him hither. Exit WARWICK This part of his conjoins with my disease And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you are! How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, Their brains with care, their bones with industry; For this they have engrossed and pil'd up The cank'red heaps of strange-achieved gold; For this they have been thoughtful to invest Their sons with arts and martial exercises; When, like the bee, tolling from every flower The virtuous sweets, Our thighs with wax, our mouths with honey pack'd, We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees, Are murd'red for our pains. This bitter taste Yields his engrossments to the ending father. Re-enter WARWICK
Now where is he that will not stay so long
Till his friend sickness hath determin'd me?
WARWICK. My lord, I found the Prince in the next room, Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks, With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow, That tyranny, which never quaff'd but blood, Would, by beholding him, have wash'd his knife With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither. KING. But wherefore did he take away the crown? Re-enter PRINCE HENRY
Lo where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry.
Depart the chamber, leave us here alone.
Exeunt all but the KING and the PRINCE
PRINCE. I never thought to hear you speak again. KING. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought. I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth! Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. Stay but a little, for my cloud of dignity Is held from falling with so weak a wind That it will quickly drop; my day is dim. Thou hast stol'n that which, after some few hours, Were thine without offense; and at my death Thou hast seal'd up my expectation. Thy life did manifest thou lov'dst me not, And thou wilt have me die assur'd of it. Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, To stab at half an hour of my life. What, canst thou not forbear me half an hour? Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself; And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear That thou art crowned, not that I am dead. Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head; Only compound me with forgotten dust; Give that which gave thee life unto the worms. Pluck down my officers, break my decrees; For now a time is come to mock at form- Harry the Fifth is crown'd. Up, vanity: Down, royal state. All you sage counsellors, hence. And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness. Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum. Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit The oldest sins the newest kind of ways? Be happy, he will trouble you no more. England shall double gild his treble guilt; England shall give him office, honour, might; For the fifth Harry from curb'd license plucks The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! When that my care could not withhold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care? O, thou wilt be a wilderness again. Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants! PRINCE. O, pardon me, my liege! But for my tears, The moist impediments unto my speech, I had forestall'd this dear and deep rebuke Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard The course of it so far. There is your crown, And he that wears the crown immortally Long guard it yours! [Kneeling] If I affect it more Than as your honour and as your renown, Let me no more from this obedience rise, Which my most inward true and duteous spirit Teacheth this prostrate and exterior bending! God witness with me, when I here came in And found no course of breath within your Majesty, How cold it struck my heart! If I do feign, O, let me in my present wildness die, And never live to show th' incredulous world The noble change that I have purposed! Coming to look on you, thinking you dead- And dead almost, my liege, to think you were- I spake unto this crown as having sense, And thus upbraided it: 'The care on thee depending Hath fed upon the body of my father; Therefore thou best of gold art worst of gold. Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, Preserving life in med'cine potable; But thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renown'd, Hast eat thy bearer up.' Thus, my most royal liege, Accusing it, I put it on my head, To try with it- as with an enemy That had before my face murd'red my father- The quarrel of a true inheritor. But if it did infect my blood with joy, Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride; If any rebel or vain spirit of mine Did with the least affection of a welcome Give entertainment to the might of it, Let God for ever keep it from my head, And make me as the poorest vassal is, That doth with awe and terror kneel to it! KING. O my son, God put it in thy mind to take it hence, That thou mightst win the more thy father's love, Pleading so wisely in excuse of it! Come hither, Harry; sit thou by my bed, And hear, I think, the very latest counsel That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son, By what by-paths and indirect crook'd ways I met this crown; and I myself know well How troublesome it sat upon my head: To thee it shall descend with better quiet, Better opinion, better confirmation; For all the soil of the achievement goes With me into the earth. It seem'd in me But as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand; And I had many living to upbraid My gain of it by their assistances; Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed, Wounding supposed peace. All these bold fears Thou seest with peril I have answered; For all my reign hath been but as a scene Acting that argument. And now my death Changes the mood; for what in me was purchas'd Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort; So thou the garland wear'st successively. Yet, though thou stand'st more sure than I could do, Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green; And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends, Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out; By whose fell working I was first advanc'd, And by whose power I well might lodge a fear To be again displac'd; which to avoid, I cut them off; and had a purpose now To lead out many to the Holy Land, Lest rest and lying still might make them look Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, Be it thy course to busy giddy minds With foreign quarrels, that action, hence borne out, May waste the memory of the former days. More would I, but my lungs are wasted so That strength of speech is utterly denied me. How I came by the crown, O God, forgive; And grant it may with thee in true peace live! PRINCE. My gracious liege, You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me; Then plain and right must my possession be; Which I with more than with a common pain 'Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain. Enter PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER, WARWICK, LORDS, and others
KING. Look, look, here comes my John of Lancaster. PRINCE JOHN. Health, peace, and happiness, to my royal father! KING. Thou bring'st me happiness and peace, son John; But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown From this bare wither'd trunk. Upon thy sight My worldly business makes a period. Where is my Lord of Warwick? PRINCE. My Lord of Warwick! KING. Doth any name particular belong Unto the lodging where I first did swoon? WARWICK. 'Tis call'd Jerusalem, my noble lord. KING. Laud be to God! Even there my life must end. It hath been prophesied to me many years, I should not die but in Jerusalem; Which vainly I suppos'd the Holy Land. But bear me to that chamber; there I'll lie; In that Jerusalem shall Harry die. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE I. Gloucestershire. SHALLOW'S house Enter SHALLOW, FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, and PAGE
SHALLOW. By cock and pie, sir, you shall not away to-night. What, Davy, I say! FALSTAFF. You must excuse me, Master Robert Shallow. SHALLOW. I will not excuse you; you shall not be excus'd; excuses shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excus'd. Why, Davy! Enter DAVY
DAVY. Here, sir. SHALLOW. Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy; let me see, Davy; let me see, Davy; let me see- yea, marry, William cook, bid him come hither. Sir John, you shall not be excus'd. DAVY. Marry, sir, thus: those precepts cannot be served; and, again, sir- shall we sow the headland with wheat? SHALLOW. With red wheat, Davy. But for William cook- are there no young pigeons? DAVY. Yes, sir. Here is now the smith's note for shoeing and plough-irons. SHALLOW. Let it be cast, and paid. Sir John, you shall not be excused. DAVY. Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must needs be had; and, sir, do you mean to stop any of William's wages about the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley fair? SHALLOW. 'A shall answer it. Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legg'd hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook. DAVY. Doth the man of war stay all night, sir? SHALLOW. Yea, Davy; I will use him well. A friend i' th' court is better than a penny in purse. Use his men well, Davy; for they are arrant knaves and will backbite. DAVY. No worse than they are backbitten, sir; for they have marvellous foul linen. SHALLOW. Well conceited, Davy- about thy business, Davy. DAVY. I beseech you, sir, to countenance William Visor of Woncot against Clement Perkes o' th' hill. SHALLOW. There, is many complaints, Davy, against that Visor. That Visor is an arrant knave, on my knowledge. DAVY. I grant your worship that he is a knave, sir; but yet God forbid, sir, but a knave should have some countenance at his friend's request. An honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not. I have serv'd your worship truly, sir, this eight years; an I cannot once or twice in a quarter bear out a knave against an honest man, I have but a very little credit with your worship. The knave is mine honest friend, sir; therefore, I beseech you, let him be countenanc'd. SHALLOW. Go to; I say he shall have no wrong. Look about, DAVY. [Exit DAVY] Where are you, Sir John? Come, come, come, off with your boots. Give me your hand, Master Bardolph. BARDOLPH. I am glad to see your worship. SHALLOW. I thank thee with all my heart, kind Master Bardolph. [To the PAGE] And welcome, my tall fellow. Come, Sir John. FALSTAFF. I'll follow you, good Master Robert Shallow. [Exit SHALLOW] Bardolph, look to our horses. [Exeunt BARDOLPH and PAGE] If I were sawed into quantities, I should make four dozen of such bearded hermits' staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonderful thing to see the semblable coherence of his men's spirits and his. They, by observing of him, do bear themselves like foolish justices: he, by conversing with them, is turned into a justice-like serving-man. Their spirits are so married in conjunction with the participation of society that they flock together in consent, like so many wild geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow, I would humour his men with the imputation of being near their master; if to his men, I would curry with Master Shallow that no man could better command his servants. It is certain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught, as men take diseases, one of another; therefore let men take heed of their company. I will devise matter enough out of this Shallow to keep Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out of six fashions, which is four terms, or two actions; and 'a shall laugh without intervallums. O, it is much that a lie with a slight oath, and a jest with a sad brow will do with a fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders! O, you shall see him laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up! SHALLOW. [Within] Sir John! FALSTAFF. I come, Master Shallow; I come, Master Shallow. Exit SCENE II. Westminster. The palace Enter, severally, WARWICK, and the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE
WARWICK. How now, my Lord Chief Justice; whither away? CHIEF JUSTICE. How doth the King? WARWICK. Exceeding well; his cares are now all ended. CHIEF JUSTICE. I hope, not dead. WARWICK. He's walk'd the way of nature; And to our purposes he lives no more. CHIEF JUSTICE. I would his Majesty had call'd me with him. The service that I truly did his life Hath left me open to all injuries. WARWICK. Indeed, I think the young king loves you not. CHIEF JUSTICE. I know he doth not, and do arm myself To welcome the condition of the time, Which cannot look more hideously upon me Than I have drawn it in my fantasy. Enter LANCASTER, CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, WESTMORELAND, and others WARWICK. Here comes the heavy issue of dead Harry. O that the living Harry had the temper Of he, the worst of these three gentlemen! How many nobles then should hold their places That must strike sail to spirits of vile sort! CHIEF JUSTICE. O God, I fear all will be overturn'd. PRINCE JOHN. Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good morrow. GLOUCESTER & CLARENCE. Good morrow, cousin. PRINCE JOHN. We meet like men that had forgot to speak. WARWICK. We do remember; but our argument Is all too heavy to admit much talk. PRINCE JOHN. Well, peace be with him that hath made us heavy! CHIEF JUSTICE. Peace be with us, lest we be heavier! PRINCE HUMPHREY. O, good my lord, you have lost a friend indeed; And I dare swear you borrow not that face Of seeming sorrow- it is sure your own. PRINCE JOHN. Though no man be assur'd what grace to find, You stand in coldest expectation. I am the sorrier; would 'twere otherwise. CLARENCE. Well, you must now speak Sir John Falstaff fair; Which swims against your stream of quality. CHIEF JUSTICE. Sweet Princes, what I did, I did in honour, Led by th' impartial conduct of my soul; And never shall you see that I will beg A ragged and forestall'd remission. If truth and upright innocency fail me, I'll to the King my master that is dead, And tell him who hath sent me after him. WARWICK. Here comes the Prince. Enter KING HENRY THE FIFTH, attended
CHIEF JUSTICE. Good morrow, and God save your Majesty! KING. This new and gorgeous garment, majesty, Sits not so easy on me as you think. Brothers, you mix your sadness with some fear. This is the English, not the Turkish court; Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers, For, by my faith, it very well becomes you. Sorrow so royally in you appears That I will deeply put the fashion on, And wear it in my heart. Why, then, be sad; But entertain no more of it, good brothers, Than a joint burden laid upon us all. For me, by heaven, I bid you be assur'd, I'll be your father and your brother too; Let me but bear your love, I'll bear your cares. Yet weep that Harry's dead, and so will I; But Harry lives that shall convert those tears By number into hours of happiness. BROTHERS. We hope no otherwise from your Majesty. KING. You all look strangely on me; and you most. You are, I think, assur'd I love you not. CHIEF JUSTICE. I am assur'd, if I be measur'd rightly, Your Majesty hath no just cause to hate me. KING. No? How might a prince of my great hopes forget So great indignities you laid upon me? What, rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison, Th' immediate heir of England! Was this easy? May this be wash'd in Lethe and forgotten? CHIEF JUSTICE. I then did use the person of your father; The image of his power lay then in me; And in th' administration of his law, Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth, Your Highness pleased to forget my place, The majesty and power of law and justice, The image of the King whom I presented, And struck me in my very seat of judgment; Whereon, as an offender to your father, I gave bold way to my authority And did commit you. If the deed were ill, Be you contented, wearing now the garland, To have a son set your decrees at nought, To pluck down justice from your awful bench, To trip the course of law, and blunt the sword That guards the peace and safety of your person; Nay, more, to spurn at your most royal image, And mock your workings in a second body. Question your royal thoughts, make the case yours; Be now the father, and propose a son; Hear your own dignity so much profan'd, See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted, Behold yourself so by a son disdain'd; And then imagine me taking your part And, in your power, soft silencing your son. After this cold considerance, sentence me; And, as you are a king, speak in your state What I have done that misbecame my place, My person, or my liege's sovereignty. KING. You are right, Justice, and you weigh this well; Therefore still bear the balance and the sword; And I do wish your honours may increase Till you do live to see a son of mine Offend you, and obey you, as I did. So shall I live to speak my father's words: 'Happy am I that have a man so bold That dares do justice on my proper son; And not less happy, having such a son That would deliver up his greatness so Into the hands of justice.' You did commit me; For which I do commit into your hand Th' unstained sword that you have us'd to bear; With this remembrance- that you use the same With the like bold, just, and impartial spirit As you have done 'gainst me. There is my hand. You shall be as a father to my youth; My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear; And I will stoop and humble my intents To your well-practis'd wise directions. And, Princes all, believe me, I beseech you, My father is gone wild into his grave, For in his tomb lie my affections; And with his spirits sadly I survive, To mock the expectation of the world, To frustrate prophecies, and to raze out Rotten opinion, who hath writ me down After my seeming. The tide of blood in me Hath proudly flow'd in vanity till now. Now doth it turn and ebb back to the sea, Where it shall mingle with the state of floods, And flow henceforth in formal majesty. Now call we our high court of parliament; And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel, That the great body of our state may go In equal rank with the best govern'd nation; That war, or peace, or both at once, may be As things acquainted and familiar to us; In which you, father, shall have foremost hand. Our coronation done, we will accite, As I before rememb'red, all our state; And- God consigning to my good intents- No prince nor peer shall have just cause to say, God shorten Harry's happy life one day. Exeunt SCENE III. Gloucestershire. SHALLOW'S orchard Enter FALSTAFF, SHALLOW, SILENCE, BARDOLPH, the PAGE, and DAVY
SHALLOW. Nay, you shall see my orchard, where, in an arbour, we will eat a last year's pippin of mine own graffing, with a dish of caraways, and so forth. Come, cousin Silence. And then to bed. FALSTAFF. Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and rich. SHALLOW. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John -marry, good air. Spread, Davy, spread, Davy; well said, Davy. FALSTAFF. This Davy serves you for good uses; he is your serving-man and your husband. SHALLOW. A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet, Sir John. By the mass, I have drunk too much sack at supper. A good varlet. Now sit down, now sit down; come, cousin. SILENCE. Ah, sirrah! quoth-a- we shall [Singing] Do nothing but eat and make good cheer, And praise God for the merry year; When flesh is cheap and females dear, And lusty lads roam here and there, So merrily, And ever among so merrily. FALSTAFF. There's a merry heart! Good Master Silence, I'll give you a health for that anon. SHALLOW. Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy. DAVY. Sweet sir, sit; I'll be with you anon; most sweet sir, sit. Master Page, good Master Page, sit. Proface! What you want in meat, we'll have in drink. But you must bear; the heart's all. Exit SHALLOW. Be merry, Master Bardolph; and, my little soldier there, be merry. SILENCE. [Singing] Be merry, be merry, my wife has all; For women are shrews, both short and tall; 'Tis merry in hall when beards wag an; And welcome merry Shrove-tide. Be merry, be merry. FALSTAFF. I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle. SILENCE. Who, I? I have been merry twice and once ere now. Re-enter DAVY
DAVY. [To BARDOLPH] There's a dish of leather-coats for you. SHALLOW. Davy! DAVY. Your worship! I'll be with you straight. [To BARDOLPH] A cup of wine, sir? SILENCE. [Singing] A cup of wine that's brisk and fine, And drink unto the leman mine; And a merry heart lives long-a. FALSTAFF. Well said, Master Silence. SILENCE. An we shall be merry, now comes in the sweet o' th' night. FALSTAFF. Health and long life to you, Master Silence! SILENCE. [Singing] Fill the cup, and let it come, I'll pledge you a mile to th' bottom. SHALLOW. Honest Bardolph, welcome; if thou want'st anything and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart. Welcome, my little tiny thief and welcome indeed too. I'll drink to Master Bardolph, and to all the cabileros about London. DAVY. I hope to see London once ere I die. BARDOLPH. An I might see you there, Davy! SHALLOW. By the mass, you'R crack a quart together- ha! will you not, Master Bardolph? BARDOLPH. Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot. SHALLOW. By God's liggens, I thank thee. The knave will stick by thee, I can assure thee that. 'A will not out, 'a; 'tis true bred. BARDOLPH. And I'll stick by him, sir. SHALLOW. Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing; be merry. [One knocks at door] Look who's at door there, ho! Who knocks? Exit DAVY FALSTAFF. [To SILENCE, who has drunk a bumper] Why, now you have done me right. SILENCE. [Singing] Do me right, And dub me knight. Samingo. Is't not so? FALSTAFF. 'Tis so. SILENCE. Is't so? Why then, say an old man can do somewhat. Re-enter DAVY
DAVY. An't please your worship, there's one Pistol come from the court with news. FALSTAFF. From the court? Let him come in. Enter PISTOL
How now, Pistol?
PISTOL. Sir John, God save you! FALSTAFF. What wind blew you hither, Pistol? PISTOL. Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight, thou art now one of the greatest men in this realm. SILENCE. By'r lady, I think 'a be, but goodman Puff of Barson. PISTOL. Puff! Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base! Sir John, I am thy Pistol and thy friend, And helter-skelter have I rode to thee; And tidings do I bring, and lucky joys, And golden times, and happy news of price. FALSTAFF. I pray thee now, deliver them like a man of this world. PISTOL. A foutra for the world and worldlings base! I speak of Africa and golden joys. FALSTAFF. O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news? Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof. SILENCE. [Singing] And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John. PISTOL. Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons? And shall good news be baffled? Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies' lap. SHALLOW. Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding. PISTOL. Why, then, lament therefore. SHALLOW. Give me pardon, sir. If, sir, you come with news from the court, I take it there's but two ways- either to utter them or conceal them. I am, sir, under the King, in some authority. PISTOL. Under which king, Bezonian? Speak, or die. SHALLOW. Under King Harry. PISTOL. Harry the Fourth- or Fifth? SHALLOW. Harry the Fourth. PISTOL. A foutra for thine office! Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is King; Harry the Fifth's the man. I speak the truth. When Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like The bragging Spaniard. FALSTAFF. What, is the old king dead? PISTOL. As nail in door. The things I speak are just. FALSTAFF. Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse. Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the land, 'tis thine. Pistol, I will double-charge thee with dignities. BARDOLPH. O joyful day! I would not take a knighthood for my fortune. PISTOL. What, I do bring good news? FALSTAFF. Carry Master Silence to bed. Master Shallow, my Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt- I am Fortune's steward. Get on thy boots; we'll ride all night. O sweet Pistol! Away, Bardolph! [Exit BARDOLPH] Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and withal devise something to do thyself good. Boot, boot, Master Shallow! I know the young King is sick for me. Let us take any man's horses: the laws of England are at my commandment. Blessed are they that have been my friends; and woe to my Lord Chief Justice! PISTOL. Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also! 'Where is the life that late I led?' say they. Why, here it is; welcome these pleasant days! Exeunt SCENE IV. London. A street Enter BEADLES, dragging in HOSTESS QUICKLY and DOLL TEARSHEET
HOSTESS. No, thou arrant knave; I would to God that I might die, that I might have thee hang'd. Thou hast drawn my shoulder out of joint. FIRST BEADLE. The constables have delivered her over to me; and she shall have whipping-cheer enough, I warrant her. There hath been a man or two lately kill'd about her. DOLL. Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on; I'll tell thee what, thou damn'd tripe-visag'd rascal, an the child I now go with do miscarry, thou wert better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou paper-fac'd villain. HOSTESS. O the Lord, that Sir John were come! He would make this a bloody day to somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her womb miscarry! FIRST BEADLE. If it do, you shall have a dozen of cushions again; you have but eleven now. Come, I charge you both go with me; for the man is dead that you and Pistol beat amongst you. DOLL. I'll tell you what, you thin man in a censer, I will have you as soundly swing'd for this- you blue-bottle rogue, you filthy famish'd correctioner, if you be not swing'd, I'll forswear half-kirtles. FIRST BEADLE. Come, come, you she knight-errant, come. HOSTESS. O God, that right should thus overcome might! Well, of sufferance comes ease. DOLL. Come, you rogue, come; bring me to a justice. HOSTESS. Ay, come, you starv'd bloodhound. DOLL. Goodman death, goodman bones! HOSTESS. Thou atomy, thou! DOLL. Come, you thin thing! come, you rascal! FIRST BEADLE. Very well. Exeunt SCENE V. Westminster. Near the Abbey Enter GROOMS, strewing rushes
FIRST GROOM. More rushes, more rushes! SECOND GROOM. The trumpets have sounded twice. THIRD GROOM. 'Twill be two o'clock ere they come from the coronation. Dispatch, dispatch. Exeunt Trumpets sound, and the KING and his train pass over the stage. After them enter FALSTAFF, SHALLOW, PISTOL, BARDOLPH, and page FALSTAFF. Stand here by me, Master Robert Shallow; I will make the King do you grace. I will leer upon him, as 'a comes by; and do but mark the countenance that he will give me. PISTOL. God bless thy lungs, good knight! FALSTAFF. Come here, Pistol; stand behind me. [To SHALLOW] O, if I had had to have made new liveries, I would have bestowed the thousand pound I borrowed of you. But 'tis no matter; this poor show doth better; this doth infer the zeal I had to see him. SHALLOW. It doth so. FALSTAFF. It shows my earnestness of affection- SHALLOW. It doth so. FALSTAFF. My devotion- SHALLOW. It doth, it doth, it doth. FALSTAFF. As it were, to ride day and night; and not to deliberate, not to remember, not to have patience to shift me- SHALLOW. It is best, certain. FALSTAFF. But to stand stained with travel, and sweating with desire to see him; thinking of nothing else, putting all affairs else in oblivion, as if there were nothing else to be done but to see him. PISTOL. 'Tis 'semper idem' for 'obsque hoc nihil est.' 'Tis all in every part. SHALLOW. 'Tis so, indeed. PISTOL. My knight, I will inflame thy noble liver And make thee rage. Thy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts, Is in base durance and contagious prison; Hal'd thither By most mechanical and dirty hand. Rouse up revenge from ebon den with fell Alecto's snake, For Doll is in. Pistol speaks nought but truth. FALSTAFF. I will deliver her. [Shouts,within, and the trumpets sound] PISTOL. There roar'd the sea, and trumpet-clangor sounds. Enter the KING and his train, the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE among them FALSTAFF. God save thy Grace, King Hal; my royal Hal! PISTOL. The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of fame! FALSTAFF. God save thee, my sweet boy! KING. My Lord Chief Justice, speak to that vain man. CHIEF JUSTICE. Have you your wits? Know you what 'tis you speak? FALSTAFF. My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart! KING. I know thee not, old man. Fall to thy prayers. How ill white hairs become a fool and jester! I have long dreamt of such a kind of man, So surfeit-swell'd, so old, and so profane; But being awak'd, I do despise my dream. Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace; Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape For thee thrice wider than for other men- Reply not to me with a fool-born jest; Presume not that I am the thing I was, For God doth know, so shall the world perceive, That I have turn'd away my former self; So will I those that kept me company. When thou dost hear I am as I have been, Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast, The tutor and the feeder of my riots. Till then I banish thee, on pain of death, As I have done the rest of my misleaders, Not to come near our person by ten mile. For competence of life I will allow you, That lack of means enforce you not to evils; And, as we hear you do reform yourselves, We will, according to your strengths and qualities, Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord, To see perform'd the tenour of our word. Set on. Exeunt the KING and his train FALSTAFF. Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pounds. SHALLOW. Yea, marry, Sir John; which I beseech you to let me have home with me. FALSTAFF. That can hardly be, Master Shallow. Do not you grieve at this; I shall be sent for in private to him. Look you, he must seem thus to the world. Fear not your advancements; I will be the man yet that shall make you great. SHALLOW. I cannot perceive how, unless you give me your doublet, and stuff me out with straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let me have five hundred of my thousand. FALSTAFF. Sir, I will be as good as my word. This that you heard was but a colour. SHALLOW. A colour that I fear you will die in, Sir John. FALSTAFF. Fear no colours; go with me to dinner. Come, Lieutenant Pistol; come, Bardolph. I shall be sent for soon at night. Re-enter PRINCE JOHN, the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE, with officers CHIEF JUSTICE. Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet; Take all his company along with him. FALSTAFF. My lord, my lord- CHIEF JUSTICE. I cannot now speak. I will hear you soon. Take them away. PISTOL. Si fortuna me tormenta, spero me contenta. Exeunt all but PRINCE JOHN and the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE PRINCE JOHN. I like this fair proceeding of the King's. He hath intent his wonted followers Shall all be very well provided for; But all are banish'd till their conversations Appear more wise and modest to the world. CHIEF JUSTICE. And so they are. PRINCE JOHN. The King hath call'd his parliament, my lord. CHIEF JUSTICE. He hath. PRINCE JOHN. I will lay odds that, ere this year expire, We bear our civil swords and native fire As far as France. I heard a bird so sing, Whose music, to my thinking, pleas'd the King. Come, will you hence? Exeunt EPILOGUE EPILOGUE. First my fear, then my curtsy, last my speech. My fear, is your displeasure; my curtsy, my duty; and my speech, to beg your pardons. If you look for a good speech now, you undo me; for what I have to say is of mine own making; and what, indeed, I should say will, I doubt, prove mine own marring. But to the purpose, and so to the venture. Be it known to you, as it is very well, I was lately here in the end of a displeasing play, to pray your patience for it and to promise you a better. I meant, indeed, to pay you with this; which if like an ill venture it come unluckily home, I break, and you, my gentle creditors, lose. Here I promis'd you I would be, and here I commit my body to your mercies. Bate me some, and I will pay you some, and, as most debtors do, promise you infinitely; and so I kneel down before you- but, indeed, to pray for the Queen. If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me, will you command me to use my legs? And yet that were but light payment-to dance out of your debt. But a good conscience will make any possible satisfaction, and so would I. All the gentlewomen here have forgiven me. If the gentlemen will not, then the gentlemen do not agree with the gentlewomen, which was never seen before in such an assembly. One word more, I beseech you. If you be not too much cloy'd with fat meat, our humble author will continue the story, with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katherine of France; where, for anything I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat, unless already 'a be killed with your hard opinions; for Oldcastle died a martyr and this is not the man. My tongue is weary; when my legs are too, I will bid you good night.
THE LIFE OF KING HENRY V Contents ACT I Prologue. Scene I. London. An ante-chamber in the King’s palace. Scene II. The same. The presence chamber.
ACT II Chorus. Scene I. London. A street. Scene II. Southampton. A council-chamber. Scene III. London. Before a tavern. Scene IV. France. The King’s palace.
ACT III Chorus. Scene I. France. Before Harfleur. Scene II. The same. Scene III. Before the gates. Scene IV. The French King’s palace. Scene V. The same. Scene VI. The English camp in Picardy. Scene VII. The French camp, near Agincourt.
ACT IV Chorus. Scene I. The English camp at Agincourt. Scene II. The French camp. Scene III. The English camp. Scene IV. The field of battle. Scene V. Another part of the field. Scene VI. Another part of the field. Scene VII. Another part of the field. Scene VIII. Before King Henry’s pavilion.
ACT V Chorus. Scene I. France. The English camp. Scene II. France. A royal palace. Epilogue. Dramatis Personæ KING HENRY V. DUKE OF CLARENCE, brother to the King. DUKE OF BEDFORD, brother to the King. DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, brother to the King. DUKE OF EXETER, uncle to the King. DUKE OF YORK, cousin to the King. EARL OF SALISBURY. EARL OF HUNTINGDON. EARL OF WESTMORLAND. EARL OF WARWICK. ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY. BISHOP OF ELY. EARL OF CAMBRIDGE. LORD SCROOP. SIR THOMAS GREY. SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM, officer in King Henry’s army. GOWER, officer in King Henry’s army. FLUELLEN, officer in King Henry’s army. MACMORRIS, officer in King Henry’s army. JAMY, officer in King Henry’s army. BATES, soldier in the same. COURT, soldier in the same. WILLIAMS, soldier in the same. PISTOL. NYM. BARDOLPH. BOY. A Herald.
CHARLES VI, king of France. LEWIS, the Dauphin. DUKE OF BERRY. DUKE OF BRITTANY. DUKE OF BURGUNDY. DUKE OF ORLEANS. DUKE OF BOURBON. The Constable of France. RAMBURES, French Lord. GRANDPRÉ, French Lord. Governor of Harfleur MONTJOY, a French herald. Ambassadors to the King of England.
ISABEL, queen of France. KATHARINE, daughter to Charles and Isabel. ALICE, a lady attending on her. HOSTESS of a tavern in Eastcheap, formerly Mistress Nell Quickly, and now married to Pistol.
CHORUS.
Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, and Attendants.
SCENE: England; afterwards France. PROLOGUE. Enter Chorus.
CHORUS. O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, Assume the port of Mars, and at his heels, Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all, The flat unraised spirits that hath dar’d On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth So great an object. Can this cockpit hold The vasty fields of France? Or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt? O pardon! since a crooked figure may Attest in little place a million, And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, On your imaginary forces work. Suppose within the girdle of these walls Are now confin’d two mighty monarchies, Whose high upreared and abutting fronts The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder; Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts. Into a thousand parts divide one man, And make imaginary puissance. Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i’ th’ receiving earth. For ’tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, Carry them here and there, jumping o’er times, Turning the accomplishment of many years Into an hour-glass: for the which supply, Admit me Chorus to this history; Who prologue-like your humble patience pray, Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.
[Exit.]
ACT I SCENE I. London. An ante-chamber in the King’s palace. Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely.
CANTERBURY. My lord, I’ll tell you, that self bill is urg’d Which in the eleventh year of the last king’s reign Was like, and had indeed against us passed But that the scambling and unquiet time Did push it out of farther question.
ELY. But how, my lord, shall we resist it now?
CANTERBURY. It must be thought on. If it pass against us, We lose the better half of our possession: For all the temporal lands, which men devout By testament have given to the Church, Would they strip from us; being valu’d thus: As much as would maintain, to the King’s honour, Full fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights, Six thousand and two hundred good esquires; And, to relief of lazars and weak age, Of indigent faint souls past corporal toil, A hundred almshouses right well supplied; And to the coffers of the King beside, A thousand pounds by th’ year. Thus runs the bill.
ELY. This would drink deep.
CANTERBURY. ’Twould drink the cup and all.
ELY. But what prevention?
CANTERBURY. The King is full of grace and fair regard.
ELY. And a true lover of the holy Church.
CANTERBURY. The courses of his youth promis’d it not. The breath no sooner left his father’s body But that his wildness, mortified in him, Seemed to die too; yea, at that very moment Consideration like an angel came And whipped th’ offending Adam out of him, Leaving his body as a paradise T’ envelope and contain celestial spirits. Never was such a sudden scholar made, Never came reformation in a flood With such a heady currance scouring faults, Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness So soon did lose his seat, and all at once, As in this king.
ELY. We are blessed in the change.
CANTERBURY. Hear him but reason in divinity And, all-admiring, with an inward wish You would desire the King were made a prelate; Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs, You would say it hath been all in all his study; List his discourse of war, and you shall hear A fearful battle rendered you in music; Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter; that, when he speaks, The air, a chartered libertine, is still, And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears To steal his sweet and honeyed sentences; So that the art and practic part of life Must be the mistress to this theoric: Which is a wonder how his Grace should glean it, Since his addiction was to courses vain, His companies unlettered, rude, and shallow, His hours filled up with riots, banquets, sports, And never noted in him any study, Any retirement, any sequestration From open haunts and popularity.
ELY. The strawberry grows underneath the nettle, And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighboured by fruit of baser quality; And so the Prince obscured his contemplation Under the veil of wildness, which, no doubt, Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night, Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty.
CANTERBURY. It must be so, for miracles are ceased, And therefore we must needs admit the means How things are perfected.
ELY. But, my good lord, How now for mitigation of this bill Urged by the Commons? Doth his Majesty Incline to it, or no?
CANTERBURY. He seems indifferent, Or rather swaying more upon our part Than cherishing th’ exhibitors against us; For I have made an offer to his Majesty, Upon our spiritual convocation And in regard of causes now in hand, Which I have opened to his Grace at large, As touching France, to give a greater sum Than ever at one time the clergy yet Did to his predecessors part withal.
ELY. How did this offer seem received, my lord?
CANTERBURY. With good acceptance of his Majesty; Save that there was not time enough to hear, As I perceived his Grace would fain have done, The severals and unhidden passages Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms, And generally to the crown and seat of France, Derived from Edward, his great-grandfather.
ELY. What was th’ impediment that broke this off?
CANTERBURY. The French ambassador upon that instant Craved audience; and the hour, I think, is come To give him hearing. Is it four o’clock?
ELY. It is.
CANTERBURY. Then go we in, to know his embassy, Which I could with a ready guess declare Before the Frenchman speak a word of it.
ELY. I’ll wait upon you, and I long to hear it.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The same. The presence chamber. Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bedford, Clarence, Warwick, Westmorland, Exeter and Attendants.
KING HENRY. Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury?
EXETER. Not here in presence.
KING HENRY. Send for him, good uncle.
WESTMORLAND. Shall we call in th’ ambassador, my liege?
KING HENRY. Not yet, my cousin. We would be resolved, Before we hear him, of some things of weight That task our thoughts concerning us and France.
Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely.
CANTERBURY. God and his angels guard your sacred throne And make you long become it!
KING HENRY. Sure, we thank you. My learned lord, we pray you to proceed And justly and religiously unfold Why the law Salic that they have in France Or should or should not bar us in our claim. And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord, That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading, Or nicely charge your understanding soul With opening titles miscreate, whose right Suits not in native colours with the truth; For God doth know how many now in health Shall drop their blood in approbation Of what your reverence shall incite us to. Therefore take heed how you impawn our person, How you awake our sleeping sword of war. We charge you in the name of God, take heed; For never two such kingdoms did contend Without much fall of blood, whose guiltless drops Are every one a woe, a sore complaint ’Gainst him whose wrongs gives edge unto the swords That makes such waste in brief mortality. Under this conjuration speak, my lord, For we will hear, note, and believe in heart That what you speak is in your conscience washed As pure as sin with baptism.
CANTERBURY. Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you peers, That owe yourselves, your lives, and services To this imperial throne. There is no bar To make against your Highness’ claim to France But this, which they produce from Pharamond: In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant, “No woman shall succeed in Salic land;” Which Salic land the French unjustly gloze To be the realm of France, and Pharamond The founder of this law and female bar. Yet their own authors faithfully affirm That the land Salic is in Germany, Between the floods of Sala and of Elbe; Where Charles the Great, having subdu’d the Saxons, There left behind and settled certain French; Who, holding in disdain the German women For some dishonest manners of their life, Establish’d then this law, to wit, no female Should be inheritrix in Salic land; Which Salic, as I said, ’twixt Elbe and Sala, Is at this day in Germany call’d Meissen. Then doth it well appear the Salic law Was not devised for the realm of France; Nor did the French possess the Salic land Until four hundred one and twenty years After defunction of King Pharamond, Idly suppos’d the founder of this law, Who died within the year of our redemption Four hundred twenty-six; and Charles the Great Subdu’d the Saxons, and did seat the French Beyond the river Sala, in the year Eight hundred five. Besides, their writers say, King Pepin, which deposed Childeric, Did, as heir general, being descended Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair, Make claim and title to the crown of France. Hugh Capet also, who usurp’d the crown Of Charles the Duke of Lorraine, sole heir male Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great, To find his title with some shows of truth, Though, in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught, Convey’d himself as the heir to the Lady Lingare, Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son To Lewis the Emperor, and Lewis the son Of Charles the Great. Also, King Lewis the Tenth, Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet, Could not keep quiet in his conscience, Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother, Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare, Daughter to Charles, the foresaid Duke of Lorraine; By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great Was re-united to the crown of France. So that, as clear as is the summer’s sun, King Pepin’s title and Hugh Capet’s claim, King Lewis his satisfaction, all appear To hold in right and title of the female. So do the kings of France unto this day, Howbeit they would hold up this Salic law To bar your Highness claiming from the female, And rather choose to hide them in a net Than amply to imbar their crooked titles Usurp’d from you and your progenitors.
KING HENRY. May I with right and conscience make this claim?
CANTERBURY. The sin upon my head, dread sovereign! For in the Book of Numbers is it writ, “When the man dies, let the inheritance Descend unto the daughter.” Gracious lord, Stand for your own! Unwind your bloody flag! Look back into your mighty ancestors! Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire’s tomb, From whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit, And your great-uncle’s, Edward the Black Prince, Who on the French ground play’d a tragedy, Making defeat on the full power of France, Whiles his most mighty father on a hill Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp Forage in blood of French nobility. O noble English, that could entertain With half their forces the full pride of France And let another half stand laughing by, All out of work and cold for action!
ELY. Awake remembrance of these valiant dead, And with your puissant arm renew their feats. You are their heir; you sit upon their throne; The blood and courage that renowned them Runs in your veins; and my thrice-puissant liege Is in the very May-morn of his youth, Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises.
EXETER. Your brother kings and monarchs of the earth Do all expect that you should rouse yourself, As did the former lions of your blood.
WESTMORLAND. They know your Grace hath cause and means and might; So hath your Highness. Never King of England Had nobles richer, and more loyal subjects, Whose hearts have left their bodies here in England And lie pavilion’d in the fields of France.
CANTERBURY. O, let their bodies follow, my dear liege, With blood and sword and fire to win your right; In aid whereof we of the spiritualty Will raise your Highness such a mighty sum As never did the clergy at one time Bring in to any of your ancestors.
KING HENRY. We must not only arm to invade the French, But lay down our proportions to defend Against the Scot, who will make road upon us With all advantages.
CANTERBURY. They of those marches, gracious sovereign, Shall be a wall sufficient to defend Our inland from the pilfering borderers.
KING HENRY. We do not mean the coursing snatchers only, But fear the main intendment of the Scot, Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to us; For you shall read that my great-grandfather Never went with his forces into France But that the Scot on his unfurnish’d kingdom Came pouring, like the tide into a breach, With ample and brim fullness of his force, Galling the gleaned land with hot assays, Girdling with grievous siege castles and towns; That England, being empty of defence, Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood.
CANTERBURY. She hath been then more fear’d than harm’d, my liege; For hear her but exampl’d by herself: When all her chivalry hath been in France, And she a mourning widow of her nobles, She hath herself not only well defended But taken and impounded as a stray The King of Scots; whom she did send to France To fill King Edward’s fame with prisoner kings, And make her chronicle as rich with praise As is the ooze and bottom of the sea With sunken wreck and sumless treasuries.
WESTMORLAND. But there’s a saying very old and true, “If that you will France win, Then with Scotland first begin.” For once the eagle England being in prey, To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot Comes sneaking and so sucks her princely eggs, Playing the mouse in absence of the cat, To tear and havoc more than she can eat.
EXETER. It follows then the cat must stay at home; Yet that is but a crush’d necessity, Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries, And pretty traps to catch the petty thieves. While that the armed hand doth fight abroad, The advised head defends itself at home; For government, though high and low and lower, Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, Congreeing in a full and natural close, Like music.
CANTERBURY. Therefore doth heaven divide The state of man in divers functions, Setting endeavour in continual motion, To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, Obedience; for so work the honey-bees, Creatures that by a rule in nature teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king and officers of sorts, Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor; Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold, The civil citizens kneading up the honey, The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate, The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o’er to executors pale The lazy yawning drone. I this infer, That many things, having full reference To one consent, may work contrariously. As many arrows, loosed several ways, Come to one mark; as many ways meet in one town; As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea; As many lines close in the dial’s centre; So many a thousand actions, once afoot, End in one purpose, and be all well borne Without defeat. Therefore to France, my liege! Divide your happy England into four, Whereof take you one quarter into France, And you withal shall make all Gallia shake. If we, with thrice such powers left at home, Cannot defend our own doors from the dog, Let us be worried and our nation lose The name of hardiness and policy.
KING HENRY. Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin.
[Exeunt some Attendants.]
Now are we well resolv’d; and, by God’s help, And yours, the noble sinews of our power, France being ours, we’ll bend it to our awe, Or break it all to pieces. Or there we’ll sit, Ruling in large and ample empery O’er France and all her almost kingly dukedoms, Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn, Tombless, with no remembrance over them. Either our history shall with full mouth Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave, Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth, Not worshipp’d with a waxen epitaph.
Enter Ambassadors of France.
Now are we well prepar’d to know the pleasure Of our fair cousin Dauphin; for we hear Your greeting is from him, not from the King.
FIRST AMBASSADOR. May’t please your Majesty to give us leave Freely to render what we have in charge, Or shall we sparingly show you far off The Dauphin’s meaning and our embassy?
KING HENRY. We are no tyrant, but a Christian king, Unto whose grace our passion is as subject As is our wretches fett’red in our prisons; Therefore with frank and with uncurbed plainness Tell us the Dauphin’s mind.
AMBASSADOR. Thus, then, in few. Your Highness, lately sending into France, Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right Of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third. In answer of which claim, the prince our master Says that you savour too much of your youth, And bids you be advis’d there’s nought in France That can be with a nimble galliard won. You cannot revel into dukedoms there. He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit, This tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this, Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks.
KING HENRY. What treasure, uncle?
EXETER. Tennis-balls, my liege.
KING HENRY. We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us. His present and your pains we thank you for. When we have match’d our rackets to these balls, We will, in France, by God’s grace, play a set Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard. Tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler That all the courts of France will be disturb’d With chaces. And we understand him well, How he comes o’er us with our wilder days, Not measuring what use we made of them. We never valu’d this poor seat of England; And therefore, living hence, did give ourself To barbarous licence; as ’tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home. But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state, Be like a king, and show my sail of greatness When I do rouse me in my throne of France. For that I have laid by my majesty And plodded like a man for working days, But I will rise there with so full a glory That I will dazzle all the eyes of France, Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us. And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his Hath turn’d his balls to gun-stones, and his soul Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance That shall fly with them; for many a thousand widows Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands, Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down; And some are yet ungotten and unborn That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin’s scorn. But this lies all within the will of God, To whom I do appeal; and in whose name Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on To venge me as I may, and to put forth My rightful hand in a well-hallow’d cause. So get you hence in peace; and tell the Dauphin His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep more than did laugh at it.— Convey them with safe conduct.—Fare you well.
[Exeunt Ambassadors.]
EXETER. This was a merry message.
KING HENRY. We hope to make the sender blush at it. Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour That may give furtherance to our expedition; For we have now no thought in us but France, Save those to God, that run before our business. Therefore, let our proportions for these wars Be soon collected, and all things thought upon That may with reasonable swiftness add More feathers to our wings; for, God before, We’ll chide this Dauphin at his father’s door. Therefore let every man now task his thought, That this fair action may on foot be brought.
[Exeunt.]
ACT II Flourish. Enter Chorus.
CHORUS. Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies. Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man. They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, Following the mirror of all Christian kings, With winged heels, as English Mercuries. For now sits Expectation in the air, And hides a sword from hilts unto the point With crowns imperial, crowns, and coronets, Promis’d to Harry and his followers. The French, advis’d by good intelligence Of this most dreadful preparation, Shake in their fear, and with pale policy Seek to divert the English purposes. O England! model to thy inward greatness, Like little body with a mighty heart, What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, Were all thy children kind and natural! But see thy fault! France hath in thee found out A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men, One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second, Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third, Sir Thomas Grey, knight of Northumberland, Have, for the gilt of France,—O guilt indeed!— Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France; And by their hands this grace of kings must die, If hell and treason hold their promises, Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton. Linger your patience on, and we’ll digest The abuse of distance, force a play. The sum is paid; the traitors are agreed; The King is set from London; and the scene Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton. There is the playhouse now, there must you sit; And thence to France shall we convey you safe, And bring you back, charming the narrow seas To give you gentle pass; for, if we may, We’ll not offend one stomach with our play. But, till the King come forth, and not till then, Unto Southampton do we shift our scene.
[Exit.]
SCENE I. London. A street. Enter Corporal Nym and Lieutenant Bardolph.
BARDOLPH. Well met, Corporal Nym.
NYM. Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph.
BARDOLPH. What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends yet?
NYM. For my part, I care not. I say little; but when time shall serve, there shall be smiles; but that shall be as it may. I dare not fight, but I will wink and hold out mine iron. It is a simple one, but what though? It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will; and there’s an end.
BARDOLPH. I will bestow a breakfast to make you friends; and we’ll be all three sworn brothers to France. Let it be so, good Corporal Nym.
NYM. Faith, I will live so long as I may, that’s the certain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, I will do as I may. That is my rest, that is the rendezvous of it.
BARDOLPH. It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly; and certainly she did you wrong, for you were troth-plight to her.
NYM. I cannot tell. Things must be as they may. Men may sleep, and they may have their throats about them at that time; and some say knives have edges. It must be as it may. Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod. There must be conclusions. Well, I cannot tell.
Enter Pistol and Hostess.
BARDOLPH. Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife. Good Corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pistol!
PISTOL. Base tike, call’st thou me host? Now, by this hand, I swear I scorn the term; Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.
HOSTESS. No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but it will be thought we keep a bawdy house straight. [Nym and Pistol draw.] O well a day, Lady, if he be not drawn now! We shall see wilful adultery and murder committed.
BARDOLPH. Good Lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here.
NYM. Pish!
PISTOL. Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear’d cur of Iceland!
HOSTESS. Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword.
NYM. Will you shog off? I would have you solus.
PISTOL. Solus, egregious dog! O viper vile! The solus in thy most mervailous face; The solus in thy teeth, and in thy throat, And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy, And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth! I do retort the solus in thy bowels; For I can take, and Pistol’s cock is up, And flashing fire will follow.
NYM. I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms. If you would walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may; and that’s the humour of it.
PISTOL. O braggart vile and damned furious wight! The grave doth gape, and doting death is near, Therefore exhale.
BARDOLPH. Hear me, hear me what I say. He that strikes the first stroke I’ll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier.
[Draws.]
PISTOL. An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate. Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give. Thy spirits are most tall.
NYM. I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms: that is the humour of it.
PISTOL. “Couple a gorge!” That is the word. I thee defy again. O hound of Crete, think’st thou my spouse to get? No! to the spital go, And from the powdering tub of infamy Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid’s kind, Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse. I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly For the only she; and pauca, there’s enough. Go to.
Enter the Boy.
BOY. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master, and you, hostess. He is very sick, and would to bed. Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he’s very ill.
BARDOLPH. Away, you rogue!
HOSTESS. By my troth, he’ll yield the crow a pudding one of these days. The King has kill’d his heart. Good husband, come home presently.
[Exeunt Hostess and Boy.]
BARDOLPH. Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to France together; why the devil should we keep knives to cut one another’s throats?
PISTOL. Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl on!
NYM. You’ll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?
PISTOL. Base is the slave that pays.
NYM. That now I will have: that’s the humour of it.
PISTOL. As manhood shall compound. Push home.
[They draw.]
BARDOLPH. By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I’ll kill him; by this sword, I will.
PISTOL. Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.
BARDOLPH. Corporal Nym, and thou wilt be friends, be friends; an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up.
NYM. I shall have my eight shillings I won from you at betting?
PISTOL. A noble shalt thou have, and present pay; And liquor likewise will I give to thee, And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood. I’ll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me. Is not this just? For I shall sutler be Unto the camp, and profits will accrue. Give me thy hand.
NYM. I shall have my noble?
PISTOL. In cash most justly paid.
NYM. Well, then, that’s the humour of’t.
Enter Hostess.
HOSTESS. As ever you come of women, come in quickly to Sir John. Ah, poor heart! he is so shak’d of a burning quotidian tertian, that it is most lamentable to behold. Sweet men, come to him.
NYM. The King hath run bad humours on the knight; that’s the even of it.
PISTOL. Nym, thou hast spoke the right. His heart is fracted and corroborate.
NYM. The King is a good king; but it must be as it may; he passes some humours and careers.
PISTOL. Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins, we will live.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Southampton. A council-chamber. Enter Exeter, Bedford and Westmorland.
BEDFORD. ’Fore God, his Grace is bold, to trust these traitors.
EXETER. They shall be apprehended by and by.
WESTMORLAND. How smooth and even they do bear themselves! As if allegiance in their bosoms sat Crowned with faith and constant loyalty.
BEDFORD. The King hath note of all that they intend, By interception which they dream not of.
EXETER. Nay, but the man that was his bed-fellow, Whom he hath dull’d and cloy’d with gracious favours, That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell His sovereign’s life to death and treachery.
Trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Scroop, Cambridge and Grey.
KING HENRY. Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard. My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of Masham, And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts. Think you not that the powers we bear with us Will cut their passage through the force of France, Doing the execution and the act For which we have in head assembled them?
SCROOP. No doubt, my liege, if each man do his best.
KING HENRY. I doubt not that, since we are well persuaded We carry not a heart with us from hence That grows not in a fair consent with ours, Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish Success and conquest to attend on us.
CAMBRIDGE. Never was monarch better fear’d and lov’d Than is your Majesty. There’s not, I think, a subject That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness Under the sweet shade of your government.
GREY. True; those that were your father’s enemies Have steep’d their galls in honey, and do serve you With hearts create of duty and of zeal.
KING HENRY. We therefore have great cause of thankfulness, And shall forget the office of our hand Sooner than quittance of desert and merit According to the weight and worthiness.
SCROOP. So service shall with steeled sinews toil, And labour shall refresh itself with hope, To do your Grace incessant services.
KING HENRY. We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter, Enlarge the man committed yesterday, That rail’d against our person. We consider It was excess of wine that set him on, And on his more advice we pardon him.
SCROOP. That’s mercy, but too much security. Let him be punish’d, sovereign, lest example Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind.
KING HENRY. O, let us yet be merciful.
CAMBRIDGE. So may your Highness, and yet punish too.
GREY. Sir, You show great mercy if you give him life After the taste of much correction.
KING HENRY. Alas, your too much love and care of me Are heavy orisons ’gainst this poor wretch! If little faults, proceeding on distemper, Shall not be wink’d at, how shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chew’d, swallow’d, and digested, Appear before us? We’ll yet enlarge that man, Though Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, in their dear care And tender preservation of our person, Would have him punish’d. And now to our French causes. Who are the late commissioners?
CAMBRIDGE. I one, my lord. Your Highness bade me ask for it today.
SCROOP. So did you me, my liege.
GREY. And I, my royal sovereign.
KING HENRY. Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there is yours; There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight, Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours. Read them, and know I know your worthiness. My Lord of Westmorland, and uncle Exeter, We will aboard tonight.—Why, how now, gentlemen! What see you in those papers that you lose So much complexion?—Look ye, how they change! Their cheeks are paper.—Why, what read you there, That have so cowarded and chas’d your blood Out of appearance?
CAMBRIDGE. I do confess my fault, And do submit me to your Highness’ mercy.
GREY, SCROOP. To which we all appeal.
KING HENRY. The mercy that was quick in us but late, By your own counsel is suppress’d and kill’d. You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy, For your own reasons turn into your bosoms, As dogs upon their masters, worrying you. See you, my princes and my noble peers, These English monsters! My Lord of Cambridge here, You know how apt our love was to accord To furnish him with an appertinents Belonging to his honour; and this man Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspir’d And sworn unto the practices of France To kill us here in Hampton; to the which This knight, no less for bounty bound to us Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. But, O What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop? thou cruel, Ingrateful, savage, and inhuman creature! Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels, That knew’st the very bottom of my soul, That almost mightst have coin’d me into gold, Wouldst thou have practis’d on me for thy use,— May it be possible that foreign hire Could out of thee extract one spark of evil That might annoy my finger? ’Tis so strange, That, though the truth of it stands off as gross As black and white, my eye will scarcely see it. Treason and murder ever kept together, As two yoke-devils sworn to either’s purpose, Working so grossly in a natural cause That admiration did not whoop at them; But thou, ’gainst all proportion, didst bring in Wonder to wait on treason and on murder; And whatsoever cunning fiend it was That wrought upon thee so preposterously Hath got the voice in hell for excellence; And other devils that suggest by treasons Do botch and bungle up damnation With patches, colours, and with forms being fetch’d From glist’ring semblances of piety. But he that temper’d thee bade thee stand up, Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason, Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor. If that same demon that hath gull’d thee thus Should with his lion gait walk the whole world, He might return to vasty Tartar back, And tell the legions, “I can never win A soul so easy as that Englishman’s.” O, how hast thou with jealousy infected The sweetness of affiance! Show men dutiful? Why, so didst thou. Seem they grave and learned? Why, so didst thou. Come they of noble family? Why, so didst thou. Seem they religious? Why, so didst thou. Or are they spare in diet, Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger, Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood, Garnish’d and deck’d in modest complement, Not working with the eye without the ear, And but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem. And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot To mark the full-fraught man and best indued With some suspicion. I will weep for thee; For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like Another fall of man. Their faults are open. Arrest them to the answer of the law; And God acquit them of their practices!
EXETER. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Richard Earl of Cambridge. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Henry Lord Scroop of Masham. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland.
SCROOP. Our purposes God justly hath discover’d, And I repent my fault more than my death, Which I beseech your Highness to forgive, Although my body pay the price of it.
CAMBRIDGE. For me, the gold of France did not seduce, Although I did admit it as a motive The sooner to effect what I intended. But God be thanked for prevention, Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice, Beseeching God and you to pardon me.
GREY. Never did faithful subject more rejoice At the discovery of most dangerous treason Than I do at this hour joy o’er myself, Prevented from a damned enterprise. My fault, but not my body, pardon, sovereign.
KING HENRY. God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sentence. You have conspir’d against our royal person, Join’d with an enemy proclaim’d, and from his coffers Received the golden earnest of our death; Wherein you would have sold your king to slaughter, His princes and his peers to servitude, His subjects to oppression and contempt, And his whole kingdom into desolation. Touching our person seek we no revenge; But we our kingdom’s safety must so tender, Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence, Poor miserable wretches, to your death, The taste whereof God of his mercy give You patience to endure, and true repentance Of all your dear offences! Bear them hence.
[Exeunt Cambridge, Scroop and Grey, guarded.]
Now, lords, for France; the enterprise whereof Shall be to you, as us, like glorious. We doubt not of a fair and lucky war, Since God so graciously hath brought to light This dangerous treason lurking in our way To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now But every rub is smoothed on our way. Then forth, dear countrymen! Let us deliver Our puissance into the hand of God, Putting it straight in expedition. Cheerly to sea! The signs of war advance! No king of England, if not king of France!
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
SCENE III. London. Before a tavern. Enter Pistol, Nym, Bardolph, Boy and Hostess.
HOSTESS. Prithee, honey, sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.
PISTOL. No; for my manly heart doth yearn. Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins; Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead, And we must yearn therefore.
BARDOLPH. Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven or in hell!
HOSTESS. Nay, sure, he’s not in hell. He’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. ’A made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child. ’A parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o’ the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers’ ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and ’a babbled of green fields. “How now, Sir John!” quoth I; “what, man! be o’ good cheer.” So ’a cried out, “God, God, God!” three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him ’a should not think of God; I hop’d there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So ’a bade me lay more clothes on his feet. I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone. Then I felt to his knees, and so upward and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.
NYM. They say he cried out of sack.
HOSTESS. Ay, that ’a did.
BARDOLPH. And of women.
HOSTESS. Nay, that ’a did not.
BOY. Yes, that ’a did; and said they were devils incarnate.
HOSTESS. ’A could never abide carnation; ’twas a colour he never liked.
BOY. ’A said once, the devil would have him about women.
HOSTESS. ’A did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic, and talk’d of the whore of Babylon.
BOY. Do you not remember, ’a saw a flea stick upon Bardolph’s nose, and ’a said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire?
BARDOLPH. Well, the fuel is gone that maintain’d that fire. That’s all the riches I got in his service.
NYM. Shall we shog? The King will be gone from Southampton.
PISTOL. Come, let’s away. My love, give me thy lips. Look to my chattels and my movables. Let senses rule; the word is “Pitch and Pay.” Trust none; For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck; Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor. Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys, To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck!
BOY. And that’s but unwholesome food, they say.
PISTOL. Touch her soft mouth, and march.
BARDOLPH. Farewell, hostess.
[Kissing her.]
NYM. I cannot kiss; that is the humour of it; but, adieu.
PISTOL. Let housewifery appear. Keep close, I thee command.
HOSTESS. Farewell; adieu.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. France. The King’s palace. Flourish. Enter the French King, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berry and Brittany, the Constable and others.
FRENCH KING. Thus comes the English with full power upon us, And more than carefully it us concerns To answer royally in our defences. Therefore the Dukes of Berry and of Brittany, Of Brabant and of Orleans, shall make forth, And you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift dispatch, To line and new repair our towns of war With men of courage and with means defendant; For England his approaches makes as fierce As waters to the sucking of a gulf. It fits us then to be as provident As fears may teach us out of late examples Left by the fatal and neglected English Upon our fields.
DAUPHIN. My most redoubted father, It is most meet we arm us ’gainst the foe; For peace itself should not so dull a kingdom, Though war nor no known quarrel were in question, But that defences, musters, preparations, Should be maintain’d, assembled, and collected, As were a war in expectation. Therefore, I say, ’tis meet we all go forth To view the sick and feeble parts of France. And let us do it with no show of fear; No, with no more than if we heard that England Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance; For, my good liege, she is so idly king’d, Her sceptre so fantastically borne By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth, That fear attends her not.
CONSTABLE. O peace, Prince Dauphin! You are too much mistaken in this king. Question your Grace the late ambassadors With what great state he heard their embassy, How well supplied with noble counsellors, How modest in exception, and withal How terrible in constant resolution, And you shall find his vanities forespent Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus, Covering discretion with a coat of folly; As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots That shall first spring and be most delicate.
DAUPHIN. Well, ’tis not so, my Lord High Constable; But though we think it so, it is no matter. In cases of defence ’tis best to weigh The enemy more mighty than he seems, So the proportions of defence are fill’d; Which, of a weak and niggardly projection, Doth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scanting A little cloth.
FRENCH KING. Think we King Harry strong; And, Princes, look you strongly arm to meet him. The kindred of him hath been flesh’d upon us; And he is bred out of that bloody strain That haunted us in our familiar paths. Witness our too much memorable shame When Cressy battle fatally was struck, And all our princes captiv’d by the hand Of that black name, Edward, Black Prince of Wales; Whiles that his mountain sire, on mountain standing, Up in the air, crown’d with the golden sun, Saw his heroical seed, and smil’d to see him, Mangle the work of nature and deface The patterns that by God and by French fathers Had twenty years been made. This is a stem Of that victorious stock; and let us fear The native mightiness and fate of him.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. Ambassadors from Harry King of England Do crave admittance to your Majesty.
FRENCH KING. We’ll give them present audience. Go, and bring them.
[Exeunt Messenger and certain Lords.]
You see this chase is hotly follow’d, friends.
DAUPHIN. Turn head and stop pursuit; for coward dogs Most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten Runs far before them. Good my sovereign, Take up the English short, and let them know Of what a monarchy you are the head. Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin As self-neglecting.
Enter Exeter.
FRENCH KING. From our brother of England?
EXETER. From him; and thus he greets your Majesty: He wills you, in the name of God Almighty, That you divest yourself, and lay apart The borrowed glories that by gift of heaven, By law of nature and of nations, ’longs To him and to his heirs; namely, the crown And all wide-stretched honours that pertain By custom and the ordinance of times Unto the crown of France. That you may know ’Tis no sinister nor no awkward claim Pick’d from the worm-holes of long-vanish’d days, Nor from the dust of old oblivion rak’d, He sends you this most memorable line, In every branch truly demonstrative; Willing you overlook this pedigree; And when you find him evenly deriv’d From his most fam’d of famous ancestors, Edward the Third, he bids you then resign Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held From him, the native and true challenger.
FRENCH KING. Or else what follows?
EXETER. Bloody constraint; for if you hide the crown Even in your hearts, there will he rake for it. Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming, In thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove, That, if requiring fail, he will compel; And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord, Deliver up the crown, and to take mercy On the poor souls for whom this hungry war Opens his vasty jaws; and on your head Turning the widows’ tears, the orphans’ cries, The dead men’s blood, the pining maidens’ groans, For husbands, fathers, and betrothed lovers, That shall be swallowed in this controversy. This is his claim, his threat’ning, and my message; Unless the Dauphin be in presence here, To whom expressly I bring greeting too.
FRENCH KING. For us, we will consider of this further. Tomorrow shall you bear our full intent Back to our brother of England.
DAUPHIN. For the Dauphin, I stand here for him. What to him from England?
EXETER. Scorn and defiance. Slight regard, contempt, And anything that may not misbecome The mighty sender, doth he prize you at. Thus says my king: an if your father’s Highness Do not, in grant of all demands at large, Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his Majesty, He’ll call you to so hot an answer of it That caves and womby vaultages of France Shall chide your trespass and return your mock In second accent of his ordinance.
DAUPHIN. Say, if my father render fair return, It is against my will; for I desire Nothing but odds with England. To that end, As matching to his youth and vanity, I did present him with the Paris balls.
EXETER. He’ll make your Paris Louvre shake for it, Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe; And, be assur’d, you’ll find a difference, As we his subjects have in wonder found, Between the promise of his greener days And these he masters now. Now he weighs time Even to the utmost grain. That you shall read In your own losses, if he stay in France.
FRENCH KING. Tomorrow shall you know our mind at full.
[Flourish.]
EXETER. Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our king Come here himself to question our delay; For he is footed in this land already.
FRENCH KING. You shall be soon dispatch’d with fair conditions. A night is but small breath and little pause To answer matters of this consequence.
[Exeunt.]
ACT III Flourish. Enter Chorus.
CHORUS. Thus with imagin’d wing our swift scene flies, In motion of no less celerity Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen The well-appointed king at Hampton pier Embark his royalty, and his brave fleet With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning. Play with your fancies; and in them behold Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give To sounds confus’d; behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea, Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think You stand upon the rivage and behold A city on the inconstant billows dancing; For so appears this fleet majestical, Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow! Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, And leave your England, as dead midnight still, Guarded with grandsires, babies, and old women, Either past or not arriv’d to pith and puissance. For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d With one appearing hair, that will not follow These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France? Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege; Behold the ordnance on their carriages, With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur. Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back, Tells Harry that the King doth offer him Katharine his daughter, and with her, to dowry, Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms. The offer likes not; and the nimble gunner With linstock now the devilish cannon touches,
[Alarum, and chambers go off.]
And down goes all before them. Still be kind, And eke out our performance with your mind.
[Exit.]
SCENE I. France. Before Harfleur. Alarum. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester and Soldiers, with scaling-ladders.
KING HENRY. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it As fearfully as does a galled rock O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought, And sheath’d their swords for lack of argument. Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot! Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry, “God for Harry! England and Saint George!”
[Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off.]
SCENE II. The same. Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol and Boy.
BARDOLPH. On, on, on, on, on! To the breach, to the breach!
NYM. Pray thee, corporal, stay. The knocks are too hot; and, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives. The humour of it is too hot; that is the very plain-song of it.
PISTOL. The plain-song is most just, for humours do abound. Knocks go and come; God’s vassals drop and die; And sword and shield, In bloody field, Doth win immortal fame.
BOY. Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
PISTOL. And I. If wishes would prevail with me, My purpose should not fail with me, But thither would I hie.
BOY. As duly, But not as truly, As bird doth sing on bough.
Enter Fluellen.
FLUELLEN. Up to the breach, you dogs! Avaunt, you cullions!
[Driving them forward.]
PISTOL. Be merciful, great Duke, to men of mould. Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage, Abate thy rage, great Duke! Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck!
NYM. These be good humours! Your honour wins bad humours.
[Exeunt all but Boy.]
BOY. As young as I am, I have observ’d these three swashers. I am boy to them all three; but all they three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me; for indeed three such antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is white-liver’d and red-fac’d; by the means whereof ’a faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword; by the means whereof ’a breaks words, and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that men of few words are the best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest ’a should be thought a coward. But his few bad words are match’d with as few good deeds; for ’a never broke any man’s head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. They will steal anything, and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three half-pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching, and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel. I knew by that piece of service the men would carry coals. They would have me as familiar with men’s pockets as their gloves or their handkerchers; which makes much against my manhood, if I should take from another’s pocket to put into mine; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them, and seek some better service. Their villainy goes against my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up.
[Exit.]
Enter Gower and Fluellen.
GOWER. Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to the mines. The Duke of Gloucester would speak with you.
FLUELLEN. To the mines! Tell you the Duke, it is not so good to come to the mines; for, look you, the mines is not according to the disciplines of the war. The concavities of it is not sufficient; for, look you, the athversary, you may discuss unto the Duke, look you, is digt himself four yard under the countermines. By Cheshu, I think ’a will plow up all, if there is not better directions.
GOWER. The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order of the siege is given, is altogether directed by an Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, i’ faith.
FLUELLEN. It is Captain Macmorris, is it not?
GOWER. I think it be.
FLUELLEN. By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world. I will verify as much in his beard. He has no more directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog.
Enter Macmorris and Captain Jamy.
GOWER. Here ’a comes; and the Scots captain, Captain Jamy, with him.
FLUELLEN. Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous gentleman, that is certain; and of great expedition and knowledge in the anchient wars, upon my particular knowledge of his directions. By Cheshu, he will maintain his argument as well as any military man in the world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars of the Romans.
JAMY. I say gud-day, Captain Fluellen.
FLUELLEN. God-den to your worship, good Captain James.
GOWER. How now, Captain Macmorris! have you quit the mines? Have the pioneers given o’er?
MACMORRIS. By Chrish, la! ’tish ill done! The work ish give over, the trompet sound the retreat. By my hand I swear, and my father’s soul, the work ish ill done; it ish give over. I would have blowed up the town, so Chrish save me, la! in an hour. O, ’tish ill done, ’tish ill done; by my hand, ’tish ill done!
FLUELLEN. Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you voutsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you, as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argument, look you, and friendly communication; partly to satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, look you, of my mind, as touching the direction of the military discipline; that is the point.
JAMY. It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath: and I sall quit you with gud leve, as I may pick occasion; that sall I, marry.
MACMORRIS. It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save me. The day is hot, and the weather, and the wars, and the King, and the Dukes. It is no time to discourse. The town is beseech’d, and the trumpet call us to the breach, and we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing. ’Tis shame for us all. So God sa’ me, ’tis shame to stand still; it is shame, by my hand; and there is throats to be cut, and works to be done; and there ish nothing done, so Chrish sa’ me, la!
JAMY. By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take themselves to slomber, I’ll de gud service, or I’ll lig i’ the grund for it; ay, or go to death; and I’ll pay’t as valorously as I may, that sall I suerly do, that is the breff and the long. Marry, I wad full fain heard some question ’tween you tway.
FLUELLEN. Captain Macmorris, I think, look you, under your correction, there is not many of your nation—
MACMORRIS. Of my nation! What ish my nation? Ish a villain, and a bastard, and a knave, and a rascal? What ish my nation? Who talks of my nation?
FLUELLEN. Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is meant, Captain Macmorris, peradventure I shall think you do not use me with that affability as in discretion you ought to use me, look you, being as good a man as yourself, both in the disciplines of war, and in the derivation of my birth, and in other particularities.
MACMORRIS. I do not know you so good a man as myself. So Chrish save me, I will cut off your head.
GOWER. Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other.
JAMY. Ah! that’s a foul fault.
[A parley sounded.]
GOWER. The town sounds a parley.
FLUELLEN. Captain Macmorris, when there is more better opportunity to be required, look you, I will be so bold as to tell you I know the disciplines of war; and there is an end.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Before the gates. The Governor and some citizens on the walls; the English forces below. Enter King Henry and his train.
KING HENRY. How yet resolves the governor of the town? This is the latest parle we will admit; Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves, Or like to men proud of destruction Defy us to our worst; for, as I am a soldier, A name that in my thoughts becomes me best, If I begin the battery once again, I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur Till in her ashes she lie buried. The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of bloody hand shall range With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass Your fresh fair virgins and your flow’ring infants. What is it then to me, if impious War, Array’d in flames like to the prince of fiends, Do with his smirch’d complexion all fell feats Enlink’d to waste and desolation? What is’t to me, when you yourselves are cause, If your pure maidens fall into the hand Of hot and forcing violation? What rein can hold licentious wickedness When down the hill he holds his fierce career? We may as bootless spend our vain command Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil As send precepts to the leviathan To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town and of your people, Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command, Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of heady murder, spoil, and villainy. If not, why, in a moment look to see The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash’d to the walls; Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus’d Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen. What say you? Will you yield, and this avoid, Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d?
GOVERNOR. Our expectation hath this day an end. The Dauphin, whom of succours we entreated, Returns us that his powers are yet not ready To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great King, We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy. Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours; For we no longer are defensible.
KING HENRY. Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter, Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain, And fortify it strongly ’gainst the French. Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle, The winter coming on, and sickness growing Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais. Tonight in Harfleur will we be your guest; Tomorrow for the march are we addrest.
Flourish. The King and his train enter the town.
SCENE IV. The French King’s palace. Enter Katharine and Alice, an old Gentlewoman.
KATHARINE. Alice, tu as été en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le langage.
ALICE. Un peu, madame.
KATHARINE. Je te prie, m’enseignez; il faut que j’apprenne à parler. Comment appelez-vous la main en anglais?
ALICE. La main? Elle est appelée de hand.
KATHARINE. De hand. Et les doigts?
ALICE. Les doigts? Ma foi, j’oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts? Je pense qu’ils sont appelés de fingres; oui, de fingres.
KATHARINE. La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense que je suis le bon écolier; j’ai gagné deux mots d’anglais vitement. Comment appelez-vous les ongles?
ALICE. Les ongles? Nous les appelons de nails.
KATHARINE. De nails. Écoutez; dites-moi, si je parle bien: de hand, de fingres, et de nails.
ALICE. C’est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon anglais.
KATHARINE. Dites-moi l’anglais pour le bras.
ALICE. De arm, madame.
KATHARINE. Et le coude?
ALICE. D’elbow.
KATHARINE. D’elbow. Je m’en fais la répétition de tous les mots que vous m’avez appris dès à présent.
ALICE. Il est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense.
KATHARINE. Excusez-moi, Alice. Écoutez: d’hand, de fingres, de nails, d’arm, de bilbow.
ALICE. D’elbow, madame.
KATHARINE. O Seigneur Dieu, je m’en oublie! D’elbow. Comment appelez-vous le col?
ALICE. De nick, madame.
KATHARINE. De nick. Et le menton?
ALICE. De chin.
KATHARINE. De sin. Le col, de nick; le menton, de sin.
ALICE. Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en vérité, vous prononcez les mots aussi droit que les natifs d’Angleterre.
KATHARINE. Je ne doute point d’apprendre, par la grâce de Dieu, et en peu de temps.
ALICE. N’avez-vous pas déjà oublié ce que je vous ai enseigné?
KATHARINE. Non, je réciterai à vous promptement: d’hand, de fingres, de mails,—
ALICE. De nails, madame.
KATHARINE. De nails, de arm, de ilbow.
ALICE. Sauf votre honneur, de elbow.
KATHARINE. Ainsi dis-je, d’elbow, de nick, et de sin. Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe?
ALICE. De foot, madame; et de coun.
KATHARINE. De foot et de coun! O Seigneur Dieu! ils sont les mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique, et non pour les dames d’honneur d’user. Je ne voudrais prononcer ces mots devant les seigneurs de France pour tout le monde. Foh! le foot et le coun! Néanmoins, je réciterai une autre fois ma leçon ensemble: d’hand, de fingres, de nails, d’arm, d’elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun.
ALICE. Excellent, madame!
KATHARINE. C’est assez pour une fois. Allons-nous à dîner.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. The same. Enter the King of France, the Dauphin, the Duke of Bourbon, the Constable of France and others.
FRENCH KING. ’Tis certain he hath pass’d the river Somme.
CONSTABLE. And if he be not fought withal, my lord, Let us not live in France; let us quit all And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.
DAUPHIN. O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us, The emptying of our fathers’ luxury, Our scions put in wild and savage stock, Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds, And overlook their grafters?
BOURBON. Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards! Mort de ma vie, if they march along Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.
CONSTABLE. Dieu de batailles, where have they this mettle? Is not their climate foggy, raw, and dull, On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale, Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water, A drench for sur-rein’d jades, their barley-broth, Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat? And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine, Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land, Let us not hang like roping icicles Upon our houses’ thatch, whiles a more frosty people Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields! Poor we may call them in their native lords.
DAUPHIN. By faith and honour, Our madams mock at us, and plainly say Our mettle is bred out, and they will give Their bodies to the lust of English youth To new-store France with bastard warriors.
BOURBON. They bid us to the English dancing-schools, And teach lavoltas high, and swift corantos; Saying our grace is only in our heels, And that we are most lofty runaways.
FRENCH KING. Where is Montjoy the herald? Speed him hence. Let him greet England with our sharp defiance. Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged More sharper than your swords, hie to the field! Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berry, Alençon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; Jacques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconbridge, Foix, Lestrale, Boucicault, and Charolois; High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights, For your great seats now quit you of great shames. Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur. Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon. Go down upon him, you have power enough, And in a captive chariot into Rouen Bring him our prisoner.
CONSTABLE. This becomes the great. Sorry am I his numbers are so few, His soldiers sick and famish’d in their march; For I am sure, when he shall see our army, He’ll drop his heart into the sink of fear And for achievement offer us his ransom.
FRENCH KING. Therefore, Lord Constable, haste on Montjoy, And let him say to England that we send To know what willing ransom he will give. Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen.
DAUPHIN. Not so, I do beseech your Majesty.
FRENCH KING. Be patient, for you shall remain with us. Now forth, Lord Constable and princes all, And quickly bring us word of England’s fall.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. The English camp in Picardy. Enter Gower and Fluellen, meeting.
GOWER. How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge?
FLUELLEN. I assure you, there is very excellent services committed at the bridge.
GOWER. Is the Duke of Exeter safe?
FLUELLEN. The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon; and a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life, and my living, and my uttermost power. He is not—God be praised and blessed!—any hurt in the world; but keeps the bridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is an anchient lieutenant there at the pridge, I think in my very conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony; and he is a man of no estimation in the world, but I did see him do as gallant service.
GOWER. What do you call him?
FLUELLEN. He is call’d Anchient Pistol.
GOWER. I know him not.
Enter Pistol.
FLUELLEN. Here is the man.
PISTOL. Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours. The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.
FLUELLEN. Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands.
PISTOL. Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart, And of buxom valour, hath by cruel fate And giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel, That goddess blind, That stands upon the rolling restless stone—
FLUELLEN. By your patience, Anchient Pistol. Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore his eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind; and she is painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning, and inconstant, and mutability, and variation; and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls. In good truth, the poet makes a most excellent description of it. Fortune is an excellent moral.
PISTOL. Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on him; For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must ’a be,— A damned death! Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free, And let not hemp his windpipe suffocate. But Exeter hath given the doom of death For pax of little price. Therefore, go speak; the Duke will hear thy voice; And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut With edge of penny cord and vile reproach. Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.
FLUELLEN. Anchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning.
PISTOL. Why then, rejoice therefore.
FLUELLEN. Certainly, anchient, it is not a thing to rejoice at; for if, look you, he were my brother, I would desire the Duke to use his good pleasure, and put him to execution; for discipline ought to be used.
PISTOL. Die and be damn’d! and fico for thy friendship!
FLUELLEN. It is well.
PISTOL. The fig of Spain.
[Exit.]
FLUELLEN. Very good.
GOWER. Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal. I remember him now; a bawd, a cutpurse.
FLUELLEN. I’ll assure you, ’a uttered as prave words at the pridge as you shall see in a summer’s day. But it is very well; what he has spoke to me, that is well, I warrant you, when time is serve.
GOWER. Why, ’t is a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then goes to the wars, to grace himself at his return into London under the form of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in the great commanders’ names; and they will learn you by rote where services were done; at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was shot, who disgrac’d, what terms the enemy stood on; and this they con perfectly in the phrase of war, which they trick up with new-tuned oaths: and what a beard of the general’s cut and a horrid suit of the camp will do among foaming bottles and ale-wash’d wits, is wonderful to be thought on. But you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or else you may be marvellously mistook.
FLUELLEN. I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do perceive he is not the man that he would gladly make show to the world he is. If I find a hole in his coat, I will tell him my mind. [Drum heard.] Hark you, the King is coming, and I must speak with him from the pridge.
Drum and colours. Enter King Henry, Gloucester and his poor soldiers.
God bless your Majesty!
KING HENRY. How now, Fluellen! cam’st thou from the bridge?
FLUELLEN. Ay, so please your Majesty. The Duke of Exeter has very gallantly maintain’d the pridge. The French is gone off, look you; and there is gallant and most prave passages. Marry, th’ athversary was have possession of the pridge; but he is enforced to retire, and the Duke of Exeter is master of the pridge. I can tell your Majesty, the Duke is a prave man.
KING HENRY. What men have you lost, Fluellen?
FLUELLEN. The perdition of the athversary hath been very great, reasonable great. Marry, for my part, I think the Duke hath lost never a man, but one that is like to be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your Majesty know the man. His face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames o’ fire; and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red; but his nose is executed, and his fire’s out.
KING HENRY. We would have all such offenders so cut off; and we give express charge, that in our marches through the country, there be nothing compell’d from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the French upbraided or abused in disdainful language; for when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner.
Tucket. Enter Montjoy.
MONTJOY. You know me by my habit.
KING HENRY. Well then I know thee. What shall I know of thee?
MONTJOY. My master’s mind.
KING HENRY. Unfold it.
MONTJOY. Thus says my King: Say thou to Harry of England: Though we seem’d dead, we did but sleep; advantage is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him we could have rebuk’d him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good to bruise an injury till it were full ripe. Now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is imperial. England shall repent his folly, see his weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him therefore consider of his ransom; which must proportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we have lost, the disgrace we have digested; which in weight to re-answer, his pettishness would bow under. For our losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the effusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too faint a number; and for our disgrace, his own person, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction. To this add defiance; and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is pronounc’d. So far my King and master; so much my office.
KING HENRY. What is thy name? I know thy quality.
MONTJOY. Montjoy.
KING HENRY. Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back, And tell thy King I do not seek him now, But could be willing to march on to Calais Without impeachment; for, to say the sooth, Though ’tis no wisdom to confess so much Unto an enemy of craft and vantage, My people are with sickness much enfeebled, My numbers lessen’d, and those few I have Almost no better than so many French; Who when they were in health, I tell thee, herald, I thought upon one pair of English legs Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God, That I do brag thus! This your air of France Hath blown that vice in me. I must repent. Go therefore, tell thy master here I am; My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk, My army but a weak and sickly guard; Yet, God before, tell him we will come on, Though France himself and such another neighbour Stand in our way. There’s for thy labour, Montjoy. Go, bid thy master well advise himself. If we may pass, we will; if we be hind’red, We shall your tawny ground with your red blood Discolour; and so, Montjoy, fare you well. The sum of all our answer is but this: We would not seek a battle, as we are; Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it. So tell your master.
MONTJOY. I shall deliver so. Thanks to your Highness.
[Exit.]
GLOUCESTER. I hope they will not come upon us now.
KING HENRY. We are in God’s hands, brother, not in theirs. March to the bridge; it now draws toward night. Beyond the river we’ll encamp ourselves, And on tomorrow bid them march away.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VII. The French camp, near Agincourt. Enter the Constable of France, the Lord Rambures, Orleans, Dauphin with others.
CONSTABLE. Tut! I have the best armour of the world. Would it were day!
ORLEANS. You have an excellent armour; but let my horse have his due.
CONSTABLE. It is the best horse of Europe.
ORLEANS. Will it never be morning?
DAUPHIN. My Lord of Orleans, and my Lord High Constable, you talk of horse and armour?
ORLEANS. You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world.
DAUPHIN. What a long night is this! I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ch’ha! He bounds from the earth, as if his entrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus, qui a les narines de feu! When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk. He trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
ORLEANS. He’s of the colour of the nutmeg.
DAUPHIN. And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast for Perseus. He is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him. He is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.
CONSTABLE. Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent horse.
DAUPHIN. It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage.
ORLEANS. No more, cousin.
DAUPHIN. Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey. It is a theme as fluent as the sea; turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is argument for them all. ’Tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for a sovereign’s sovereign to ride on; and for the world, familiar to us and unknown, to lay apart their particular functions and wonder at him. I once writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus: “Wonder of nature,”—
ORLEANS. I have heard a sonnet begin so to one’s mistress.
DAUPHIN. Then did they imitate that which I compos’d to my courser, for my horse is my mistress.
ORLEANS. Your mistress bears well.
DAUPHIN. Me well; which is the prescript praise and perfection of a good and particular mistress.
CONSTABLE. Nay, for methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back.
DAUPHIN. So perhaps did yours.
CONSTABLE. Mine was not bridled.
DAUPHIN. O then belike she was old and gentle; and you rode, like a kern of Ireland, your French hose off, and in your strait strossers.
CONSTABLE. You have good judgment in horsemanship.
DAUPHIN. Be warn’d by me, then; they that ride so and ride not warily, fall into foul bogs. I had rather have my horse to my mistress.
CONSTABLE. I had as lief have my mistress a jade.
DAUPHIN. I tell thee, Constable, my mistress wears his own hair.
CONSTABLE. I could make as true a boast as that, if I had a sow to my mistress.
DAUPHIN. “Le chien est retourné à son propre vomissement, et la truie lavée au bourbier.” Thou mak’st use of anything.
CONSTABLE. Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, or any such proverb so little kin to the purpose.
RAMBURES. My Lord Constable, the armour that I saw in your tent tonight, are those stars or suns upon it?
CONSTABLE. Stars, my lord.
DAUPHIN. Some of them will fall tomorrow, I hope.
CONSTABLE. And yet my sky shall not want.
DAUPHIN. That may be, for you bear a many superfluously, and ’twere more honour some were away.
CONSTABLE. Even as your horse bears your praises; who would trot as well, were some of your brags dismounted.
DAUPHIN. Would I were able to load him with his desert! Will it never be day? I will trot tomorrow a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces.
CONSTABLE. I will not say so, for fear I should be fac’d out of my way. But I would it were morning; for I would fain be about the ears of the English.
RAMBURES. Who will go to hazard with me for twenty prisoners?
CONSTABLE. You must first go yourself to hazard, ere you have them.
DAUPHIN. ’Tis midnight; I’ll go arm myself.
[Exit.]
ORLEANS. The Dauphin longs for morning.
RAMBURES. He longs to eat the English.
CONSTABLE. I think he will eat all he kills.
ORLEANS. By the white hand of my lady, he’s a gallant prince.
CONSTABLE. Swear by her foot that she may tread out the oath.
ORLEANS. He is simply the most active gentleman of France.
CONSTABLE. Doing is activity; and he will still be doing.
ORLEANS. He never did harm, that I heard of.
CONSTABLE. Nor will do none tomorrow. He will keep that good name still.
ORLEANS. I know him to be valiant.
CONSTABLE. I was told that by one that knows him better than you.
ORLEANS. What’s he?
CONSTABLE. Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he car’d not who knew it.
ORLEANS. He needs not; it is no hidden virtue in him.
CONSTABLE. By my faith, sir, but it is; never anybody saw it but his lackey. ’Tis a hooded valour; and when it appears, it will bate.
ORLEANS. “Ill will never said well.”
CONSTABLE. I will cap that proverb with “There is flattery in friendship.”
ORLEANS. And I will take up that with “Give the devil his due.”
CONSTABLE. Well plac’d. There stands your friend for the devil; have at the very eye of that proverb with “A pox of the devil.”
ORLEANS. You are the better at proverbs, by how much “A fool’s bolt is soon shot.”
CONSTABLE. You have shot over.
ORLEANS. ’Tis not the first time you were overshot.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. My Lord High Constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tents.
CONSTABLE. Who hath measur’d the ground?
MESSENGER. The Lord Grandpré.
CONSTABLE. A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were day! Alas, poor Harry of England, he longs not for the dawning as we do.
ORLEANS. What a wretched and peevish fellow is this King of England, to mope with his fat-brain’d followers so far out of his knowledge!
CONSTABLE. If the English had any apprehension, they would run away.
ORLEANS. That they lack; for if their heads had any intellectual armour, they could never wear such heavy head-pieces.
RAMBURES. That island of England breeds very valiant creatures. Their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.
ORLEANS. Foolish curs, that run winking into the mouth of a Russian bear and have their heads crush’d like rotten apples! You may as well say, that’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.
CONSTABLE. Just, just; and the men do sympathize with the mastiffs in robustious and rough coming on, leaving their wits with their wives; and then, give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.
ORLEANS. Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of beef.
CONSTABLE. Then shall we find tomorrow they have only stomachs to eat and none to fight. Now is it time to arm. Come, shall we about it?
ORLEANS. It is now two o’clock; but, let me see, by ten We shall have each a hundred Englishmen.
[Exeunt.]
ACT IV Enter Chorus.
CHORUS. Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp through the foul womb of night The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix’d sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other’s watch; Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face; Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents The armourers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation. The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, And the third hour of drowsy morning name. Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The confident and over-lusty French Do the low-rated English play at dice; And chide the cripple tardy-gaited Night Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp So tediously away. The poor condemned English, Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires Sit patiently and inly ruminate The morning’s danger; and their gesture sad, Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats, Presented them unto the gazing moon So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold The royal captain of this ruin’d band Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, Let him cry, “Praise and glory on his head!” For forth he goes and visits all his host, Bids them good morrow with a modest smile, And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen. Upon his royal face there is no note How dread an army hath enrounded him; Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watched night, But freshly looks, and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks. A largess universal like the sun His liberal eye doth give to everyone, Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all Behold, as may unworthiness define, A little touch of Harry in the night. And so our scene must to the battle fly, Where—O for pity!—we shall much disgrace With four or five most vile and ragged foils, Right ill-dispos’d in brawl ridiculous, The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see, Minding true things by what their mock’ries be.
[Exit.]
SCENE I. The English camp at Agincourt. Enter King Henry, Bedford and Gloucester.
KING HENRY. Gloucester, ’tis true that we are in great danger; The greater therefore should our courage be. Good morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty! There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out; For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers, Which is both healthful and good husbandry. Besides, they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us all, admonishing That we should dress us fairly for our end. Thus may we gather honey from the weed, And make a moral of the devil himself.
Enter Erpingham.
Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham: A good soft pillow for that good white head Were better than a churlish turf of France.
ERPINGHAM. Not so, my liege; this lodging likes me better, Since I may say, “Now lie I like a king.”
KING HENRY. ’Tis good for men to love their present pains Upon example; so the spirit is eased; And when the mind is quick’ned, out of doubt, The organs, though defunct and dead before, Break up their drowsy grave and newly move, With casted slough and fresh legerity. Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both, Commend me to the princes in our camp; Do my good morrow to them, and anon Desire them all to my pavilion.
GLOUCESTER. We shall, my liege.
ERPINGHAM. Shall I attend your Grace?
KING HENRY. No, my good knight; Go with my brothers to my lords of England. I and my bosom must debate a while, And then I would no other company.
ERPINGHAM. The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!
[Exeunt all but King.]
KING HENRY. God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak’st cheerfully.
Enter Pistol.
PISTOL. Qui vous là?
KING HENRY. A friend.
PISTOL. Discuss unto me; art thou officer? Or art thou base, common, and popular?
KING HENRY. I am a gentleman of a company.
PISTOL. Trail’st thou the puissant pike?
KING HENRY. Even so. What are you?
PISTOL. As good a gentleman as the Emperor.
KING HENRY. Then you are a better than the King.
PISTOL. The King’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold, A lad of life, an imp of fame; Of parents good, of fist most valiant. I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string I love the lovely bully. What is thy name?
KING HENRY. Harry le Roy.
PISTOL. Le Roy! a Cornish name. Art thou of Cornish crew?
KING HENRY. No, I am a Welshman.
PISTOL. Know’st thou Fluellen?
KING HENRY. Yes.
PISTOL. Tell him I’ll knock his leek about his pate Upon Saint Davy’s day.
KING HENRY. Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he knock that about yours.
PISTOL. Art thou his friend?
KING HENRY. And his kinsman too.
PISTOL. The fico for thee, then!
KING HENRY. I thank you. God be with you!
PISTOL. My name is Pistol call’d.
[Exit.]
KING HENRY. It sorts well with your fierceness.
Enter Fluellen and Gower.
GOWER. Captain Fluellen!
FLUELLEN. So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest admiration in the universal world, when the true and anchient prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept. If you would take the pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle nor pibble pabble in Pompey’s camp. I warrant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.
GOWER. Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all night.
FLUELLEN. If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb? In your own conscience, now?
GOWER. I will speak lower.
FLUELLEN. I pray you and beseech you that you will.
[Exeunt Gower and Fluellen.]
KING HENRY. Though it appear a little out of fashion, There is much care and valour in this Welshman.
Enter three soldiers, John Bates, Alexander Court and Michael Williams.
COURT. Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder?
BATES. I think it be; but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day.
WILLIAMS. We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see the end of it. Who goes there?
KING HENRY. A friend.
WILLIAMS. Under what captain serve you?
KING HENRY. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.
WILLIAMS. A good old commander and a most kind gentleman. I pray you, what thinks he of our estate?
KING HENRY. Even as men wreck’d upon a sand, that look to be wash’d off the next tide.
BATES. He hath not told his thought to the King?
KING HENRY. No; nor it is not meet he should. For though I speak it to you, I think the King is but a man as I am. The violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions. His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing. Therefore, when he sees reason of fears as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are; yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.
BATES. He may show what outward courage he will; but I believe, as cold a night as ’tis, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.
KING HENRY. By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the King: I think he would not wish himself anywhere but where he is.
BATES. Then I would he were here alone; so should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men’s lives saved.
KING HENRY. I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here alone, howsoever you speak this to feel other men’s minds. Methinks I could not die anywhere so contented as in the King’s company, his cause being just and his quarrel honourable.
WILLIAMS. That’s more than we know.
BATES. Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the King’s subjects. If his cause be wrong, our obedience to the King wipes the crime of it out of us.
WILLIAMS. But if the cause be not good, the King himself hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and arms and heads, chopp’d off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day and cry all, “We died at such a place”; some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of anything, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the King that led them to it; who to disobey were against all proportion of subjection.
KING HENRY. So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him; or if a servant, under his master’s command transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in many irreconcil’d iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant’s damnation. But this is not so. The King is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers. Some peradventure have on them the guilt of premeditated and contrived murder; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury; some, making the wars their bulwark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of Peace with pillage and robbery. Now, if these men have defeated the law and outrun native punishment, though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God. War is his beadle, war is his vengeance; so that here men are punish’d for before-breach of the King’s laws in now the King’s quarrel. Where they feared the death, they have borne life away; and where they would be safe, they perish. Then if they die unprovided, no more is the King guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. Every subject’s duty is the King’s; but every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience; and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him that escapes, it were not sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare.
WILLIAMS. ’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head, the King is not to answer for it.
BATES. I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.
KING HENRY. I myself heard the King say he would not be ransom’d.
WILLIAMS. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully; but when our throats are cut, he may be ransom’d, and we ne’er the wiser.
KING HENRY. If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.
WILLIAMS. You pay him then. That’s a perilous shot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and a private displeasure can do against a monarch! You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock’s feather. You’ll never trust his word after! Come, ’tis a foolish saying.
KING HENRY. Your reproof is something too round. I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient.
WILLIAMS. Let it be a quarrel between us if you live.
KING HENRY. I embrace it.
WILLIAMS. How shall I know thee again?
KING HENRY. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet; then, if ever thou dar’st acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.
WILLIAMS. Here’s my glove; give me another of thine.
KING HENRY. There.
WILLIAMS. This will I also wear in my cap. If ever thou come to me and say, after tomorrow, “This is my glove,” by this hand I will take thee a box on the ear.
KING HENRY. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.
WILLIAMS. Thou dar’st as well be hang’d.
KING HENRY. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the King’s company.
WILLIAMS. Keep thy word; fare thee well.
BATES. Be friends, you English fools, be friends. We have French quarrels enough, if you could tell how to reckon.
KING HENRY. Indeed, the French may lay twenty French crowns to one they will beat us, for they bear them on their shoulders; but it is no English treason to cut French crowns, and tomorrow the King himself will be a clipper.
[Exeunt soldiers.]
Upon the King! Let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children, and our sins lay on the King! We must bear all. O hard condition, Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel But his own wringing! What infinite heart’s ease Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy! And what have kings, that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer’st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers? What are thy rents? What are thy comings in? O Ceremony, show me but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men? Wherein thou art less happy being fear’d Than they in fearing. What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison’d flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy Ceremony give thee cure! Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command’st the beggar’s knee, Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream, That play’st so subtly with a king’s repose; I am a king that find thee, and I know ’Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running ’fore the King, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremony,— Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread, Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn, Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, And follows so the ever-running year, With profitable labour, to his grave: And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country’s peace, Enjoys it, but in gross brain little wots What watch the King keeps to maintain the peace, Whose hours the peasant best advantages.
Enter Erpingham.
ERPINGHAM. My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence, Seek through your camp to find you.
KING HENRY. Good old knight, Collect them all together at my tent. I’ll be before thee.
ERPINGHAM. I shall do’t, my lord.
[Exit.]
KING HENRY. O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts. Possess them not with fear. Take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them. Not today, O Lord, O, not today, think not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown! I Richard’s body have interred new, And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears Than from it issued forced drops of blood. Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, Who twice a day their wither’d hands hold up Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon.
Enter Gloucester.
GLOUCESTER. My liege!
KING HENRY. My brother Gloucester’s voice? Ay; I know thy errand, I will go with thee. The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The French camp. Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures and others.
ORLEANS. The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords!
DAUPHIN. Monte à cheval! My horse, varlet! laquais, ha!
ORLEANS. O brave spirit!
DAUPHIN. Via, les eaux et terre!
ORLEANS. Rien puis? L’air et feu?
DAUPHIN. Cieux, cousin Orleans.
Enter Constable.
Now, my Lord Constable!
CONSTABLE. Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh!
DAUPHIN. Mount them, and make incision in their hides, That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, And dout them with superfluous courage, ha!
RAMBURES. What, will you have them weep our horses’ blood? How shall we, then, behold their natural tears?
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. The English are embattl’d, you French peers.
CONSTABLE. To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse! Do but behold yon poor and starved band, And your fair show shall suck away their souls, Leaving them but the shales and husks of men. There is not work enough for all our hands; Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins To give each naked curtle-axe a stain, That our French gallants shall today draw out, And sheathe for lack of sport. Let us but blow on them, The vapour of our valour will o’erturn them. ’Tis positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords, That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants, Who in unnecessary action swarm About our squares of battle, were enough To purge this field of such a hilding foe, Though we upon this mountain’s basis by Took stand for idle speculation, But that our honours must not. What’s to say? A very little little let us do, And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound The tucket sonance and the note to mount; For our approach shall so much dare the field That England shall crouch down in fear and yield.
Enter Grandpré.
GRANDPRÉ. Why do you stay so long, my lords of France? Yond island carrions, desperate of their bones, Ill-favouredly become the morning field. Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, And our air shakes them passing scornfully. Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar’d host, And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps; The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades Lob down their heads, drooping the hides and hips, The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes, And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit Lies foul with chew’d grass, still, and motionless; And their executors, the knavish crows, Fly o’er them, all impatient for their hour. Description cannot suit itself in words To demonstrate the life of such a battle, In life so lifeless as it shows itself.
CONSTABLE. They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.
DAUPHIN. Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits And give their fasting horses provender, And after fight with them?
CONSTABLE. I stay but for my guard; on to the field! I will the banner from a trumpet take, And use it for my haste. Come, come, away! The sun is high, and we outwear the day.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. The English camp. Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with all his host: Salisbury and Westmorland.
GLOUCESTER. Where is the King?
BEDFORD. The King himself is rode to view their battle.
WESTMORLAND. Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand.
EXETER. There’s five to one; besides, they all are fresh.
SALISBURY. God’s arm strike with us! ’tis a fearful odds. God be wi’ you, princes all; I’ll to my charge. If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!
BEDFORD. Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!
EXETER. Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly today! And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For thou art fram’d of the firm truth of valour.
[Exit Salisbury.]
BEDFORD. He is as full of valour as of kindness, Princely in both.
Enter the King.
WESTMORLAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work today!
KING. What’s he that wishes so? My cousin Westmorland? No, my fair cousin. If we are mark’d to die, we are enough To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires; But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more, methinks, would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart. His passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call’d the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.” Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say, “These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.” Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered, We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now abed Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
Enter Salisbury.
SALISBURY. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed. The French are bravely in their battles set, And will with all expedience charge on us.
KING HENRY. All things are ready, if our minds be so.
WESTMORLAND. Perish the man whose mind is backward now!
KING HENRY. Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?
WESTMORLAND. God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle!
KING HENRY. Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thousand men, Which likes me better than to wish us one. You know your places. God be with you all!
Tucket. Enter Montjoy.
MONTJOY. Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry, If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, Before thy most assured overthrow; For certainly thou art so near the gulf, Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy, The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind Thy followers of repentance; that their souls May make a peaceful and a sweet retire From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies Must lie and fester.
KING HENRY. Who hath sent thee now?
MONTJOY. The Constable of France.
KING HENRY. I pray thee, bear my former answer back: Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones. Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus? The man that once did sell the lion’s skin While the beast liv’d, was kill’d with hunting him. A many of our bodies shall no doubt Find native graves, upon the which, I trust, Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work; And those that leave their valiant bones in France, Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, They shall be fam’d; for there the sun shall greet them, And draw their honours reeking up to heaven; Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime, The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France. Mark then abounding valour in our English, That being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing, Break out into a second course of mischief, Killing in relapse of mortality. Let me speak proudly: tell the Constable We are but warriors for the working-day. Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d With rainy marching in the painful field; There’s not a piece of feather in our host— Good argument, I hope, we will not fly— And time hath worn us into slovenry; But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim; And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night They’ll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads And turn them out of service. If they do this— As, if God please, they shall,—my ransom then Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour. Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald. They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints; Which if they have as I will leave ’em them, Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.
MONTJOY. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well; Thou never shalt hear herald any more.
[Exit.]
KING HENRY. I fear thou’lt once more come again for ransom.
Enter York.
YORK. My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg The leading of the vaward.
KING HENRY. Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away; And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. The field of battle. Alarum. Excursions. Enter Pistol, French Soldier and Boy.
PISTOL. Yield, cur!
FRENCH SOLDIER. Je pense que vous êtes le gentilhomme de bonne qualité.
PISTOL. Qualité? Caleno custore me! Art thou a gentleman? What is thy name? Discuss.
FRENCH SOLDIER. O Seigneur Dieu!
PISTOL. O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman. Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark: O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox, Except, O signieur, thou do give to me Egregious ransom.
FRENCH SOLDIER. O, prenez miséricorde! Ayez pitié de moi!
PISTOL. Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys, Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat In drops of crimson blood.
FRENCH SOLDIER. Est-il impossible d’échapper la force de ton bras?
PISTOL. Brass, cur! Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat, Offer’st me brass?
FRENCH SOLDIER. O pardonnez-moi!
PISTOL. Say’st thou me so? Is that a ton of moys? Come hither, boy; ask me this slave in French What is his name.
BOY. Écoutez. Comment êtes-vous appelé?
FRENCH SOLDIER. Monsieur le Fer.
BOY. He says his name is Master Fer.
PISTOL. Master Fer! I’ll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him. Discuss the same in French unto him.
BOY. I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.
PISTOL. Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat.
FRENCH SOLDIER. Que dit-il, monsieur?
BOY. Il me commande à vous dire que vous faites vous prêt, car ce soldat ici est disposé tout à cette heure de couper votre gorge.
PISTOL. Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy, Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns; Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.
FRENCH SOLDIER. O, je vous supplie, pour l’amour de Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis le gentilhomme de bonne maison; gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux cents écus.
PISTOL. What are his words?
BOY. He prays you to save his life. He is a gentleman of a good house; and for his ransom he will give you two hundred crowns.
PISTOL. Tell him my fury shall abate, and I The crowns will take.
FRENCH SOLDIER. Petit monsieur, que dit-il?
BOY. Encore qu’il est contre son jurement de pardonner aucun prisonnier; néanmoins, pour les écus que vous lui avez promis, il est content à vous donner la liberté, le franchisement.
FRENCH SOLDIER. Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remerciements; et je m’estime heureux que je suis tombé entre les mains d’un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, vaillant, et très distingué seigneur d’Angleterre.
PISTOL. Expound unto me, boy.
BOY. He gives you upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and he esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into the hands of one, as he thinks, the most brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy seigneur of England.
PISTOL. As I suck blood, I will some mercy show. Follow me!
BOY. Suivez-vous le grand capitaine.
[Exeunt Pistol and French Soldier.]
I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart; but the saying is true, “The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.” Bardolph and Nym had ten times more valour than this roaring devil i’ the old play, that everyone may pare his nails with a wooden dagger; and they are both hang’d; and so would this be, if he durst steal anything adventurously. I must stay with the lackeys with the luggage of our camp. The French might have a good prey of us, if he knew of it; for there is none to guard it but boys.
[Exit.]
SCENE V. Another part of the field. Enter Constable, Orleans, Bourbon, Dauphin and Rambures.
CONSTABLE. O diable!
ORLEANS. O Seigneur! le jour est perdu, tout est perdu!
DAUPHIN. Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all! Reproach and everlasting shame Sits mocking in our plumes.
[A short alarum.]
O méchante Fortune! Do not run away.
CONSTABLE. Why, all our ranks are broke.
DAUPHIN. O perdurable shame! Let’s stab ourselves, Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice for?
ORLEANS. Is this the king we sent to for his ransom?
BOURBON. Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame! Let’s die in honour! Once more back again! And he that will not follow Bourbon now, Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand, Like a base pandar, hold the chamber door Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog, His fairest daughter is contaminated.
CONSTABLE. Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us now! Let us on heaps go offer up our lives.
ORLEANS. We are enough yet living in the field To smother up the English in our throngs, If any order might be thought upon.
BOURBON. The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng. Let life be short, else shame will be too long.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter King Henry and his train, with prisoners.
KING HENRY. Well have we done, thrice valiant countrymen. But all’s not done; yet keep the French the field.
EXETER. The Duke of York commends him to your Majesty.
KING HENRY. Lives he, good uncle? Thrice within this hour I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting. From helmet to the spur all blood he was.
EXETER. In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie, Larding the plain; and by his bloody side, Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds, The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies. Suffolk first died; and York, all haggled over, Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteeped, And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes That bloodily did yawn upon his face. He cries aloud, “Tarry, my cousin Suffolk! My soul shall thine keep company to heaven; Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast, As in this glorious and well-foughten field We kept together in our chivalry.” Upon these words I came and cheer’d him up. He smil’d me in the face, raught me his hand, And, with a feeble gripe, says, “Dear my lord, Commend my service to my sovereign.” So did he turn and over Suffolk’s neck He threw his wounded arm and kiss’d his lips; And so espous’d to death, with blood he seal’d A testament of noble-ending love. The pretty and sweet manner of it forc’d Those waters from me which I would have stopp’d; But I had not so much of man in me, And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.
KING HENRY. I blame you not; For, hearing this, I must perforce compound With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.
[Alarum.]
But hark! what new alarum is this same? The French have reinforc’d their scatter’d men. Then every soldier kill his prisoners; Give the word through.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VII. Another part of the field. Enter Fluellen and Gower.
FLUELLEN. Kill the poys and the luggage! ’Tis expressly against the law of arms. ’Tis as arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can be offer’t; in your conscience, now, is it not?
GOWER. ’Tis certain there’s not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha’ done this slaughter. Besides, they have burned and carried away all that was in the King’s tent; wherefore the King, most worthily, hath caus’d every soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat. O, ’tis a gallant king!
FLUELLEN. Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What call you the town’s name where Alexander the Pig was born?
GOWER. Alexander the Great.
FLUELLEN. Why, I pray you, is not pig great? The pig, or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase is a little variations.
GOWER. I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon. His father was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it.
FLUELLEN. I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn. I tell you, Captain, if you look in the maps of the ’orld, I warrant you sall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth; it is call’d Wye at Monmouth; but it is out of my prains what is the name of the other river; but ’tis all one, ’tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you mark Alexander’s life well, Harry of Monmouth’s life is come after it indifferent well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander, God knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best friend, Cleitus.
GOWER. Our King is not like him in that. He never kill’d any of his friends.
FLUELLEN. It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I speak but in the figures and comparisons of it. As Alexander kill’d his friend Cleitus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his good judgements, turn’d away the fat knight with the great belly doublet. He was full of jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and mocks; I have forgot his name.
GOWER. Sir John Falstaff.
FLUELLEN. That is he. I’ll tell you there is good men porn at Monmouth.
GOWER. Here comes his Majesty.
Alarum. Enter King Henry and forces; Warwick, Gloucester, Exeter with prisoners. Flourish.
KING HENRY. I was not angry since I came to France Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald; Ride thou unto the horsemen on yond hill. If they will fight with us, bid them come down, Or void the field; they do offend our sight. If they’ll do neither, we will come to them, And make them skirr away, as swift as stones Enforced from the old Assyrian slings. Besides, we’ll cut the throats of those we have, And not a man of them that we shall take Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so.
Enter Montjoy.
EXETER. Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.
GLOUCESTER. His eyes are humbler than they us’d to be.
KING HENRY. How now! what means this, herald? Know’st thou not That I have fin’d these bones of mine for ransom? Com’st thou again for ransom?
MONTJOY. No, great King; I come to thee for charitable license, That we may wander o’er this bloody field To book our dead, and then to bury them; To sort our nobles from our common men. For many of our princes—woe the while!— Lie drown’d and soak’d in mercenary blood; So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs In blood of princes; and their wounded steeds Fret fetlock deep in gore, and with wild rage Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters, Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great King, To view the field in safety, and dispose Of their dead bodies!
KING HENRY. I tell thee truly, herald, I know not if the day be ours or no; For yet a many of your horsemen peer And gallop o’er the field.
MONTJOY. The day is yours.
KING HENRY. Praised be God, and not our strength, for it! What is this castle call’d that stands hard by?
MONTJOY. They call it Agincourt.
KING HENRY. Then call we this the field of Agincourt, Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.
FLUELLEN. Your grandfather of famous memory, an’t please your Majesty, and your great-uncle Edward the Plack Prince of Wales, as I have read in the chronicles, fought a most prave pattle here in France.
KING HENRY. They did, Fluellen.
FLUELLEN. Your Majesty says very true. If your Majesties is rememb’red of it, the Welshmen did good service in garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps; which, your Majesty know, to this hour is an honourable badge of the service; and I do believe your Majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy’s day.
KING HENRY. I wear it for a memorable honour; For I am Welsh, you know, good countryman.
FLUELLEN. All the water in Wye cannot wash your Majesty’s Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you that. Got pless it and preserve it, as long as it pleases His grace, and His majesty too!
KING HENRY. Thanks, good my countryman.
FLUELLEN. By Jeshu, I am your Majesty’s countryman, I care not who know it. I will confess it to all the ’orld. I need not be asham’d of your Majesty, praised be God, so long as your Majesty is an honest man.
KING HENRY. God keep me so!
Enter Williams.
Our heralds go with him; Bring me just notice of the numbers dead On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither.
[Exeunt Heralds with Montjoy.]
EXETER. Soldier, you must come to the King.
KING HENRY. Soldier, why wear’st thou that glove in thy cap?
WILLIAMS. An’t please your Majesty, ’tis the gage of one that I should fight withal, if he be alive.
KING HENRY. An Englishman?
WILLIAMS. An’t please your Majesty, a rascal that swagger’d with me last night; who, if alive and ever dare to challenge this glove, I have sworn to take him a box o’ the ear; or if I can see my glove in his cap, which he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear if alive, I will strike it out soundly.
KING HENRY. What think you, Captain Fluellen, is it fit this soldier keep his oath?
FLUELLEN. He is a craven and a villain else, an’t please your Majesty, in my conscience.
KING HENRY. It may be his enemy is a gentlemen of great sort, quite from the answer of his degree.
FLUELLEN. Though he be as good a gentleman as the devil is, as Lucifier and Belzebub himself, it is necessary, look your Grace, that he keep his vow and his oath. If he be perjur’d, see you now, his reputation is as arrant a villain and a Jacksauce, as ever his black shoe trod upon God’s ground and His earth, in my conscience, la!
KING HENRY. Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou meet’st the fellow.
WILLIAMS. So I will, my liege, as I live.
KING HENRY. Who serv’st thou under?
WILLIAMS. Under Captain Gower, my liege.
FLUELLEN. Gower is a good captain, and is good knowledge and literatured in the wars.
KING HENRY. Call him hither to me, soldier.
WILLIAMS. I will, my liege.
[Exit.]
KING HENRY. Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for me and stick it in thy cap. When Alençon and myself were down together, I pluck’d this glove from his helm. If any man challenge this, he is a friend to Alençon, and an enemy to our person. If thou encounter any such, apprehend him, an thou dost me love.
FLUELLEN. Your Grace does me as great honours as can be desir’d in the hearts of his subjects. I would fain see the man, that has but two legs, that shall find himself aggrief’d at this glove; that is all. But I would fain see it once, an please God of His grace that I might see.
KING HENRY. Know’st thou Gower?
FLUELLEN. He is my dear friend, an please you.
KING HENRY. Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to my tent.
FLUELLEN. I will fetch him.
[Exit.]
KING HENRY. My Lord of Warwick, and my brother Gloucester, Follow Fluellen closely at the heels. The glove which I have given him for a favour May haply purchase him a box o’ the ear. It is the soldier’s; I by bargain should Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick. If that the soldier strike him, as I judge By his blunt bearing he will keep his word, Some sudden mischief may arise of it; For I do know Fluellen valiant And, touch’d with choler, hot as gunpowder, And quickly will return an injury. Follow, and see there be no harm between them. Go you with me, uncle of Exeter.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VIII. Before King Henry’s pavilion. Enter Gower and Williams.
WILLIAMS. I warrant it is to knight you, Captain.
Enter Fluellen.
FLUELLEN. God’s will and his pleasure, captain, I beseech you now, come apace to the King. There is more good toward you peradventure than is in your knowledge to dream of.
WILLIAMS. Sir, know you this glove?
FLUELLEN. Know the glove! I know the glove is a glove.
WILLIAMS. I know this; and thus I challenge it.
[Strikes him.]
FLUELLEN. ’Sblood! an arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England!
GOWER. How now, sir! you villain!
WILLIAMS. Do you think I’ll be forsworn?
FLUELLEN. Stand away, Captain Gower. I will give treason his payment into plows, I warrant you.
WILLIAMS. I am no traitor.
FLUELLEN. That’s a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his Majesty’s name, apprehend him; he’s a friend of the Duke Alençon’s.
Enter Warwick and Gloucester.
WARWICK. How now, how now! what’s the matter?
FLUELLEN. My lord of Warwick, here is—praised be God for it!—a most contagious treason come to light, look you, as you shall desire in a summer’s day. Here is his Majesty.
Enter King Henry and Exeter.
KING HENRY. How now! what’s the matter?
FLUELLEN. My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that, look your Grace, has struck the glove which your Majesty is take out of the helmet of Alençon.
WILLIAMS. My liege, this was my glove; here is the fellow of it; and he that I gave it to in change promis’d to wear it in his cap. I promis’d to strike him, if he did. I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I have been as good as my word.
FLUELLEN. Your Majesty hear now, saving your Majesty’s manhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lousy knave it is. I hope your Majesty is pear me testimony and witness, and will avouchment, that this is the glove of Alençon that your Majesty is give me; in your conscience, now?
KING HENRY. Give me thy glove, soldier. Look, here is the fellow of it. ’Twas I, indeed, thou promisedst to strike; And thou hast given me most bitter terms.
FLUELLEN. An it please your Majesty, let his neck answer for it, if there is any martial law in the world.
KING HENRY. How canst thou make me satisfaction?
WILLIAMS. All offences, my lord, come from the heart. Never came any from mine that might offend your Majesty.
KING HENRY. It was ourself thou didst abuse.
WILLIAMS. Your Majesty came not like yourself. You appear’d to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your Highness suffer’d under that shape, I beseech you take it for your own fault and not mine; for had you been as I took you for, I made no offence; therefore, I beseech your Highness, pardon me.
KING HENRY. Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with crowns, And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow; And wear it for an honour in thy cap Till I do challenge it. Give him his crowns; And, captain, you must needs be friends with him.
FLUELLEN. By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his belly. Hold, there is twelve pence for you; and I pray you to serve God, and keep you out of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, and dissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the better for you.
WILLIAMS. I will none of your money.
FLUELLEN. It is with a good will; I can tell you, it will serve you to mend your shoes. Come, wherefore should you be so pashful? Your shoes is not so good. ’Tis a good silling, I warrant you, or I will change it.
Enter an English Herald.
KING HENRY. Now, herald, are the dead numb’red?
HERALD. Here is the number of the slaught’red French.
KING HENRY. What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle?
EXETER. Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the King; John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Boucicault: Of other lords and barons, knights and squires, Full fifteen hundred, besides common men.
KING HENRY. This note doth tell me of ten thousand French That in the field lie slain; of princes, in this number, And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead One hundred twenty-six; added to these, Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen, Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which, Five hundred were but yesterday dubb’d knights; So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries; The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires, And gentlemen of blood and quality. The names of those their nobles that lie dead: Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; Jacques of Chatillon, Admiral of France; The master of the Crossbows, Lord Rambures; Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard Dauphin, John, Duke of Alençon, Anthony, Duke of Brabant, The brother to the Duke of Burgundy, And Edward, Duke of Bar; of lusty earls, Grandpré and Roussi, Fauconbridge and Foix, Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale. Here was a royal fellowship of death! Where is the number of our English dead?
[Herald gives him another paper.]
Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk, Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire; None else of name; and of all other men But five and twenty.—O God, thy arm was here; And not to us, but to thy arm alone, Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem, But in plain shock and even play of battle, Was ever known so great and little loss On one part and on the other? Take it, God, For it is none but thine!
EXETER. ’Tis wonderful!
KING HENRY. Come, go we in procession to the village; And be it death proclaimed through our host To boast of this or take that praise from God Which is His only.
FLUELLEN. Is it not lawful, an please your Majesty, to tell how many is kill’d?
KING HENRY. Yes, Captain; but with this acknowledgment, That God fought for us.
FLUELLEN. Yes, my conscience, He did us great good.
KING HENRY. Do we all holy rites. Let there be sung Non nobis and Te Deum, The dead with charity enclos’d in clay, And then to Calais; and to England then, Where ne’er from France arriv’d more happy men.
[Exeunt.]
ACT V Enter Chorus.
CHORUS. Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story, That I may prompt them; and of such as have, I humbly pray them to admit the excuse Of time, of numbers, and due course of things, Which cannot in their huge and proper life Be here presented. Now we bear the King Toward Calais; grant him there; there seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea, Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the King Seems to prepare his way. So let him land, And solemnly see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought that even now You may imagine him upon Blackheath, Where that his lords desire him to have borne His bruised helmet and his bended sword Before him through the city. He forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride; Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent Quite from himself to God. But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens! The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, Like to the senators of th’ antique Rome, With the plebeians swarming at their heels, Go forth and fetch their conquering Caesar in; As, by a lower but loving likelihood, Were now the general of our gracious empress, As in good time he may, from Ireland coming, Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, How many would the peaceful city quit, To welcome him! Much more, and much more cause, Did they this Harry. Now in London place him; As yet the lamentation of the French Invites the King of England’s stay at home, The Emperor’s coming in behalf of France, To order peace between them;—and omit All the occurrences, whatever chanc’d, Till Harry’s back-return again to France. There must we bring him; and myself have play’d The interim, by rememb’ring you ’tis past. Then brook abridgement, and your eyes advance After your thoughts, straight back again to France.
[Exit.]
SCENE I. France. The English camp. Enter Fluellen and Gower.
GOWER. Nay, that’s right; but why wear you your leek today? Saint Davy’s day is past.
FLUELLEN. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things. I will tell you ass my friend, Captain Gower. The rascally, scald, beggarly, lousy, pragging knave, Pistol, which you and yourself and all the world know to be no petter than a fellow, look you now, of no merits, he is come to me and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my leek. It was in a place where I could not breed no contention with him; but I will be so bold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my desires.
Enter Pistol.
GOWER. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock.
FLUELLEN. ’Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-cocks. God pless you, Anchient Pistol! you scurvy, lousy knave, God pless you!
PISTOL. Ha! art thou bedlam? Dost thou thirst, base Trojan, To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web? Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.
FLUELLEN. I peseech you heartily, scurfy, lousy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek. Because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections and your appetites and your digestions does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it.
PISTOL. Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.
FLUELLEN. There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] Will you be so good, scald knave, as eat it?
PISTOL. Base Trojan, thou shalt die.
FLUELLEN. You say very true, scald knave, when God’s will is. I will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat your victuals. Come, there is sauce for it. [Strikes him.] You call’d me yesterday mountain-squire; but I will make you today a squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.
GOWER. Enough, captain; you have astonish’d him.
FLUELLEN. I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray you; it is good for your green wound and your ploody coxcomb.
PISTOL. Must I bite?
FLUELLEN. Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question too, and ambiguities.
PISTOL. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge. I eat and eat, I swear—
FLUELLEN. Eat, I pray you. Will you have some more sauce to your leek? There is not enough leek to swear by.
PISTOL. Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat.
FLUELLEN. Much good do you, scald knave, heartily. Nay, pray you, throw none away; the skin is good for your broken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at ’em; that is all.
PISTOL. Good.
FLUELLEN. Ay, leeks is good. Hold you, there is a groat to heal your pate.
PISTOL. Me a groat!
FLUELLEN. Yes, verily and in truth you shall take it; or I have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat.
PISTOL. I take thy groat in earnest of revenge.
FLUELLEN. If I owe you anything I will pay you in cudgels. You shall be a woodmonger, and buy nothing of me but cudgels. God be wi’ you, and keep you, and heal your pate.
[Exit.]
PISTOL. All hell shall stir for this.
GOWER. Go, go; you are a couterfeit cowardly knave. Will you mock at an ancient tradition, begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of predeceased valour, and dare not avouch in your deeds any of your words? I have seen you gleeking and galling at this gentleman twice or thrice. You thought, because he could not speak English in the native garb, he could not therefore handle an English cudgel. You find it otherwise; and henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good English condition. Fare ye well.
[Exit.]
PISTOL. Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now? News have I, that my Doll is dead i’ the spital Of malady of France; And there my rendezvous is quite cut off. Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs Honour is cudgell’d. Well, bawd I’ll turn, And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand. To England will I steal, and there I’ll steal; And patches will I get unto these cudgell’d scars, And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. France. A royal palace. Enter at one door, King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Warwick, Gloucester, Westmorland, Clarence, Huntingdon and other Lords. At another, Queen Isabel, the French King, the Princess Katharine, Alice, and other Ladies; the Duke of Burgundy and other French.
KING HENRY. Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are met! Unto our brother France, and to our sister, Health and fair time of day; joy and good wishes To our most fair and princely cousin Katharine; And, as a branch and member of this royalty, By whom this great assembly is contriv’d, We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy; And, princes French, and peers, health to you all!
FRENCH KING. Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England; fairly met! So are you, princes English, every one.
QUEEN ISABEL. So happy be the issue, brother England, Of this good day and of this gracious meeting As we are now glad to behold your eyes; Your eyes, which hitherto have borne in them Against the French that met them in their bent The fatal balls of murdering basilisks. The venom of such looks, we fairly hope, Have lost their quality; and that this day Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love.
KING HENRY. To cry amen to that, thus we appear.
QUEEN ISABEL. You English princes all, I do salute you.
BURGUNDY. My duty to you both, on equal love, Great Kings of France and England! That I have labour’d, With all my wits, my pains, and strong endeavours, To bring your most imperial Majesties Unto this bar and royal interview, Your mightiness on both parts best can witness. Since then my office hath so far prevail’d That, face to face and royal eye to eye, You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me If I demand, before this royal view, What rub or what impediment there is, Why that the naked, poor, and mangled Peace, Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births, Should not in this best garden of the world, Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage? Alas, she hath from France too long been chas’d, And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps, Corrupting in it own fertility. Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart, Unpruned dies; her hedges even-pleach’d, Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair, Put forth disorder’d twigs; her fallow leas The darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory, Doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts That should deracinate such savagery; The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and utility; And as our vineyards, fallows, meads, and hedges, Defective in their natures, grow to wildness. Even so our houses and ourselves and children Have lost, or do not learn for want of time, The sciences that should become our country; But grow like savages,—as soldiers will That nothing do but meditate on blood,— To swearing and stern looks, diffus’d attire, And everything that seems unnatural. Which to reduce into our former favour You are assembled; and my speech entreats That I may know the let, why gentle Peace Should not expel these inconveniences And bless us with her former qualities.
KING HENRY. If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace, Whose want gives growth to the imperfections Which you have cited, you must buy that peace With full accord to all our just demands; Whose tenours and particular effects You have enschedul’d briefly in your hands.
BURGUNDY. The King hath heard them; to the which as yet There is no answer made.
KING HENRY. Well, then, the peace, Which you before so urg’d, lies in his answer.
FRENCH KING. I have but with a cursorary eye O’erglanc’d the articles. Pleaseth your Grace To appoint some of your council presently To sit with us once more, with better heed To re-survey them, we will suddenly Pass our accept and peremptory answer.
KING HENRY. Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter, And brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester, Warwick, and Huntington, go with the King; And take with you free power to ratify, Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best Shall see advantageable for our dignity, Anything in or out of our demands, And we’ll consign thereto. Will you, fair sister, Go with the princes, or stay here with us?
QUEEN ISABEL. Our gracious brother, I will go with them. Haply a woman’s voice may do some good, When articles too nicely urg’d be stood on.
KING HENRY. Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with us: She is our capital demand, compris’d Within the fore-rank of our articles.
QUEEN ISABEL. She hath good leave.
[Exeunt all except Henry, Katharine and Alice.]
KING HENRY. Fair Katharine, and most fair, Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms Such as will enter at a lady’s ear And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?
KATHARINE. Your Majesty shall mock me; I cannot speak your England.
KING HENRY. O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart, I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do you like me, Kate?
KATHARINE. Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell wat is “like me.”
KING HENRY. An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.
KATHARINE. Que dit-il? Que je suis semblable à les anges?
ALICE. Oui, vraiment, sauf votre Grâce, ainsi dit-il.
KING HENRY. I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to affirm it.
KATHARINE. O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes sont pleines de tromperies.
KING HENRY. What says she, fair one? That the tongues of men are full of deceits?
ALICE. Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dat is de Princess.
KING HENRY. The Princess is the better Englishwoman. I’ faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding. I am glad thou canst speak no better English; for if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, “I love you”; then if you urge me farther than to say, “Do you in faith?” I wear out my suit. Give me your answer; i’ faith, do; and so clap hands and a bargain. How say you, lady?
KATHARINE. Sauf votre honneur, me understand well.
KING HENRY. Marry, if you would put me to verses, or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me; for the one, I have neither words nor measure, and for the other I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour on my back, under the correction of bragging be it spoken, I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favours, I could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly, nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation; only downright oaths, which I never use till urg’d, nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sunburning, that never looks in his glass for love of anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier. If thou canst love me for this, take me; if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou liv’st, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places; for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies’ favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater: a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curl’d pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow; but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or rather the sun and not the moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what say’st thou then to my love? Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
KATHARINE. Is it possible dat I should love de enemy of France?
KING HENRY. No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate; but, in loving me, you should love the friend of France; for I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it, I will have it all mine; and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France and you are mine.
KATHARINE. I cannot tell wat is dat.
KING HENRY. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French; which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her husband’s neck, hardly to be shook off. Je quand sur le possession de France, et quand vous avez le possession de moi,—let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed!—donc votre est France, et vous êtes mienne. It is as easy for me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more French. I shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me.
KATHARINE. Sauf votre honneur, le français que vous parlez, il est meilleur que l’anglais lequel je parle.
KING HENRY. No, faith, is’t not, Kate; but thy speaking of my tongue, and I thine, most truly-falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou understand thus much English: canst thou love me?
KATHARINE. I cannot tell.
KING HENRY. Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I’ll ask them. Come, I know thou lovest me; and at night, when you come into your closet, you’ll question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to her dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart. But, good Kate, mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because I love thee cruelly. If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a saving faith within me tells me thou shalt, I get thee with scambling, and thou must therefore needs prove a good soldier-breeder. Shall not thou and I, between Saint Denis and Saint George, compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard? Shall we not? What say’st thou, my fair flower-de-luce?
KATHARINE. I do not know dat.
KING HENRY. No; ’tis hereafter to know, but now to promise. Do but now promise, Kate, you will endeavour for your French part of such a boy; and for my English moiety, take the word of a king and a bachelor. How answer you, la plus belle Katherine du monde, mon très cher et divin déesse?
KATHARINE. Your Majestee ’ave fausse French enough to deceive de most sage demoiselle dat is en France.
KING HENRY. Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honour, in true English, I love thee, Kate; by which honour I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew my father’s ambition! He was thinking of civil wars when he got me; therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear. My comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face. Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better; and therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand, and say, Harry of England, I am thine; which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud, England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine; who, though I speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and thy English broken; therefore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken English. Wilt thou have me?
KATHARINE. Dat is as it shall please le roi mon père.
KING HENRY. Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate.
KATHARINE. Den it sall also content me.
KING HENRY. Upon that I kiss your hand, and call you my queen.
KATHARINE. Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez! Ma foi, je ne veux point que vous abaissiez votre grandeur en baisant la main d’une—Notre Seigneur!—indigne serviteur. Excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon très-puissant seigneur.
KING HENRY. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.
KATHARINE. Les dames et demoiselles pour être baisées devant leurs noces, il n’est pas la coutume de France.
KING HENRY. Madame my interpreter, what says she?
ALICE. Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of France,—I cannot tell wat is baiser en Anglish.
KING HENRY. To kiss.
ALICE. Your Majestee entend bettre que moi.
KING HENRY. It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, would she say?
ALICE. Oui, vraiment.
KING HENRY. O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak list of a country’s fashion. We are the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults, as I will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your country in denying me a kiss; therefore, patiently and yielding. [Kissing her.] You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate; there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs. Here comes your father.
Enter the French Power and the English Lords.
BURGUNDY. God save your Majesty! My royal cousin, teach you our princess English?
KING HENRY. I would have her learn, my fair cousin, how perfectly I love her; and that is good English.
BURGUNDY. Is she not apt?
KING HENRY. Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condition is not smooth; so that, having neither the voice nor the heart of flattery about me, I cannot so conjure up the spirit of love in her, that he will appear in his true likeness.
BURGUNDY. Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I answer you for that. If you would conjure in her, you must make a circle; if conjure up Love in her in his true likeness, he must appear naked and blind. Can you blame her then, being a maid yet ros’d over with the virgin crimson of modesty, if she deny the appearance of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing self? It were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid to consign to.
KING HENRY. Yet they do wink and yield, as love is blind and enforces.
BURGUNDY. They are then excus’d, my lord, when they see not what they do.
KING HENRY. Then, good my lord, teach your cousin to consent winking.
BURGUNDY. I will wink on her to consent, my lord, if you will teach her to know my meaning; for maids, well summer’d and warm kept, are like flies at Bartholomew-tide, blind, though they have their eyes; and then they will endure handling, which before would not abide looking on.
KING HENRY. This moral ties me over to time and a hot summer; and so I shall catch the fly, your cousin, in the latter end, and she must be blind too.
BURGUNDY. As love is, my lord, before it loves.
KING HENRY. It is so; and you may, some of you, thank love for my blindness, who cannot see many a fair French city for one fair French maid that stands in my way.
FRENCH KING. Yes, my lord, you see them perspectively, the cities turn’d into a maid; for they are all girdled with maiden walls that no war hath entered.
KING HENRY. Shall Kate be my wife?
FRENCH KING. So please you.
KING HENRY. I am content, so the maiden cities you talk of may wait on her; so the maid that stood in the way for my wish shall show me the way to my will.
FRENCH KING. We have consented to all terms of reason.
KING HENRY. Is’t so, my lords of England?
WESTMORLAND. The king hath granted every article; His daughter first, and then in sequel all, According to their firm proposed natures.
EXETER. Only he hath not yet subscribed this: where your Majesty demands, that the King of France, having any occasion to write for matter of grant, shall name your Highness in this form and with this addition, in French, Notre très-cher fils Henri, Roi d’Angleterre, Héritier de France; and thus in Latin, Praeclarissimus filius noster Henricus, rex Angliae et haeres Franciae.
FRENCH KING. Nor this I have not, brother, so denied But our request shall make me let it pass.
KING HENRY. I pray you then, in love and dear alliance, Let that one article rank with the rest; And thereupon give me your daughter.
FRENCH KING. Take her, fair son, and from her blood raise up Issue to me; that the contending kingdoms Of France and England, whose very shores look pale With envy of each other’s happiness, May cease their hatred; and this dear conjunction Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord In their sweet bosoms, that never war advance His bleeding sword ’twixt England and fair France.
LORDS. Amen!
KING HENRY. Now, welcome, Kate; and bear me witness all, That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen.
[Flourish.]
QUEEN ISABEL. God, the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one! As man and wife, being two, are one in love, So be there ’twixt your kingdoms such a spousal, That never may ill office, or fell jealousy, Which troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage, Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms, To make divorce of their incorporate league; That English may as French, French Englishmen, Receive each other. God speak this Amen!
ALL. Amen!
KING HENRY. Prepare we for our marriage; on which day, My Lord of Burgundy, we’ll take your oath, And all the peers’, for surety of our leagues, Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me; And may our oaths well kept and prosperous be!
[Sennet. Exeunt.]
EPILOGUE. Enter Chorus.
CHORUS. Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen, Our bending author hath pursu’d the story, In little room confining mighty men, Mangling by starts the full course of their glory. Small time, but in that small most greatly lived This star of England. Fortune made his sword, By which the world’s best garden he achieved, And of it left his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown’d King Of France and England, did this king succeed; Whose state so many had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed: Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake, In your fair minds let this acceptance take.
[Exit.]
THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH Dramatis Personae
KING HENRY THE SIXTH DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, uncle to the King, and Protector DUKE OF BEDFORD, uncle to the King, and Regent of France THOMAS BEAUFORT, DUKE OF EXETER, great-uncle to the king HENRY BEAUFORT, great-uncle to the King, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, and afterwards CARDINAL JOHN BEAUFORT, EARL OF SOMERSET, afterwards Duke RICHARD PLANTAGENET, son of Richard late Earl of Cambridge, afterwards DUKE OF YORK EARL OF WARWICK EARL OF SALISBURY EARL OF SUFFOLK LORD TALBOT, afterwards EARL OF SHREWSBURY JOHN TALBOT, his son EDMUND MORTIMER, EARL OF MARCH SIR JOHN FASTOLFE SIR WILLIAM LUCY SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE MAYOR of LONDON WOODVILLE, Lieutenant of the Tower VERNON, of the White Rose or York faction BASSET, of the Red Rose or Lancaster faction A LAWYER GAOLERS, to Mortimer CHARLES, Dauphin, and afterwards King of France REIGNIER, DUKE OF ANJOU, and titular King of Naples DUKE OF BURGUNDY DUKE OF ALENCON BASTARD OF ORLEANS GOVERNOR OF PARIS MASTER-GUNNER OF ORLEANS, and his SON GENERAL OF THE FRENCH FORCES in Bordeaux A FRENCH SERGEANT A PORTER AN OLD SHEPHERD, father to Joan la Pucelle MARGARET, daughter to Reignier, afterwards married to King Henry COUNTESS OF AUVERGNE JOAN LA PUCELLE, Commonly called JOAN OF ARC Lords, Warders of the Tower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, English and French Attendants. Fiends appearing to La Pucelle SCENE: England and France The First Part of King Henry the Sixth
ACT I. SCENE 1. Westminster Abbey
Dead March. Enter the funeral of KING HENRY THE FIFTH, attended on by the DUKE OF BEDFORD, Regent of France, the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, Protector, the DUKE OF EXETER, the EARL OF WARWICK, the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER
BEDFORD. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! Comets, importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars That have consented unto Henry's death! King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! England ne'er lost a king of so much worth. GLOUCESTER. England ne'er had a king until his time. Virtue he had, deserving to command; His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams; His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings; His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, More dazzled and drove back his enemies Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. What should I say? His deeds exceed all speech: He ne'er lift up his hand but conquered. EXETER. We mourn in black; why mourn we not in blood? Henry is dead and never shall revive. Upon a wooden coffin we attend; And death's dishonourable victory We with our stately presence glorify, Like captives bound to a triumphant car. What! shall we curse the planets of mishap That plotted thus our glory's overthrow? Or shall we think the subtle-witted French Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him, By magic verses have contriv'd his end? WINCHESTER. He was a king bless'd of the King of kings; Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day So dreadful will not be as was his sight. The battles of the Lord of Hosts he fought; The Church's prayers made him so prosperous. GLOUCESTER. The Church! Where is it? Had not churchmen pray'd, His thread of life had not so soon decay'd. None do you like but an effeminate prince, Whom like a school-boy you may overawe. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, whate'er we like, thou art Protector And lookest to command the Prince and realm. Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe More than God or religious churchmen may. GLOUCESTER. Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh; And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st, Except it be to pray against thy foes. BEDFORD. Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace; Let's to the altar. Heralds, wait on us. Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms, Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead. Posterity, await for wretched years, When at their mothers' moist'ned eyes babes shall suck, Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears, And none but women left to wail the dead. HENRY the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate: Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils, Combat with adverse planets in the heavens. A far more glorious star thy soul will make Than Julius Caesar or bright Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. My honourable lords, health to you all! Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture: Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans, Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. BEDFORD. What say'st thou, man, before dead Henry's corse? Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns Will make him burst his lead and rise from death. GLOUCESTER. Is Paris lost? Is Rouen yielded up? If Henry were recall'd to life again, These news would cause him once more yield the ghost. EXETER. How were they lost? What treachery was us'd? MESSENGER. No treachery, but want of men and money. Amongst the soldiers this is muttered That here you maintain several factions; And whilst a field should be dispatch'd and fought, You are disputing of your generals: One would have ling'ring wars, with little cost; Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings; A third thinks, without expense at all, By guileful fair words peace may be obtain'd. Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your honours, new-begot. Cropp'd are the flower-de-luces in your arms; Of England's coat one half is cut away. EXETER. Were our tears wanting to this funeral, These tidings would call forth their flowing tides. BEDFORD. Me they concern; Regent I am of France. Give me my steeled coat; I'll fight for France. Away with these disgraceful wailing robes! Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes, To weep their intermissive miseries. Enter a second MESSENGER
SECOND MESSENGER. Lords, view these letters full of bad mischance. France is revolted from the English quite, Except some petty towns of no import. The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims; The Bastard of Orleans with him is join'd; Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part; The Duke of Alencon flieth to his side. EXETER. The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him! O, whither shall we fly from this reproach? GLOUCESTER. We will not fly but to our enemies' throats. Bedford, if thou be slack I'll fight it out. BEDFORD. Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness? An army have I muster'd in my thoughts, Wherewith already France is overrun. Enter a third MESSENGER
THIRD MESSENGER. My gracious lords, to add to your laments, Wherewith you now bedew King Henry's hearse, I must inform you of a dismal fight Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French. WINCHESTER. What! Wherein Talbot overcame? Is't so? THIRD MESSENGER. O, no; wherein Lord Talbot was o'erthrown. The circumstance I'll tell you more at large. The tenth of August last this dreadful lord, Retiring from the siege of Orleans, Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, By three and twenty thousand of the French Was round encompassed and set upon. No leisure had he to enrank his men; He wanted pikes to set before his archers; Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck'd out of hedges They pitched in the ground confusedly To keep the horsemen off from breaking in. More than three hours the fight continued; Where valiant Talbot, above human thought, Enacted wonders with his sword and lance: Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him; Here, there, and everywhere, enrag'd he slew The French exclaim'd the devil was in arms; All the whole army stood agaz'd on him. His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit, 'A Talbot! a Talbot!' cried out amain, And rush'd into the bowels of the battle. Here had the conquest fully been seal'd up If Sir John Fastolfe had not play'd the coward. He, being in the vaward plac'd behind With purpose to relieve and follow them- Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke; Hence grew the general wreck and massacre. Enclosed were they with their enemies. A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's grace, Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back; Whom all France, with their chief assembled strength, Durst not presume to look once in the face. BEDFORD. Is Talbot slain? Then I will slay myself, For living idly here in pomp and ease, Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid, Unto his dastard foemen is betray'd. THIRD MESSENGER. O no, he lives, but is took prisoner, And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford; Most of the rest slaughter'd or took likewise. BEDFORD. His ransom there is none but I shall pay. I'll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne; His crown shall be the ransom of my friend; Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours. Farewell, my masters; to my task will I; Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make To keep our great Saint George's feast withal. Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, Whose bloody deeds shall make an Europe quake. THIRD MESSENGER. So you had need; for Orleans is besieg'd; The English army is grown weak and faint; The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, Since they, so few, watch such a multitude. EXETER. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn, Either to quell the Dauphin utterly, Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. BEDFORD. I do remember it, and here take my leave To go about my preparation. Exit GLOUCESTER. I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can To view th' artillery and munition; And then I will proclaim young Henry king. Exit EXETER. To Eltham will I, where the young King is, Being ordain'd his special governor; And for his safety there I'll best devise. Exit WINCHESTER. [Aside] Each hath his place and function to attend: I am left out; for me nothing remains. But long I will not be Jack out of office. The King from Eltham I intend to steal, And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. Exeunt SCENE 2. France. Before Orleans
Sound a flourish. Enter CHARLES THE DAUPHIN, ALENCON,
and REIGNIER, marching with drum and soldiers
CHARLES. Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens So in the earth, to this day is not known. Late did he shine upon the English side; Now we are victors, upon us he smiles. What towns of any moment but we have? At pleasure here we lie near Orleans; Otherwhiles the famish'd English, like pale ghosts, Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. ALENCON. They want their porridge and their fat bull beeves. Either they must be dieted like mules And have their provender tied to their mouths, Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice. REIGNIER. Let's raise the siege. Why live we idly here? Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear; Remaineth none but mad-brain'd Salisbury, And he may well in fretting spend his gall Nor men nor money hath he to make war. CHARLES. Sound, sound alarum; we will rush on them. Now for the honour of the forlorn French! Him I forgive my death that killeth me, When he sees me go back one foot or flee. Exeunt Here alarum. They are beaten hack by the English, with great loss. Re-enter CHARLES, ALENCON, and REIGNIER CHARLES. Who ever saw the like? What men have I! Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne'er have fled But that they left me midst my enemies. REIGNIER. Salisbury is a desperate homicide; He fighteth as one weary of his life. The other lords, like lions wanting food, Do rush upon us as their hungry prey. ALENCON. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records England all Olivers and Rowlands bred During the time Edward the Third did reign. More truly now may this be verified; For none but Samsons and Goliases It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten! Lean raw-bon'd rascals! Who would e'er suppose They had such courage and audacity? CHARLES. Let's leave this town; for they are hare-brain'd slaves, And hunger will enforce them to be more eager. Of old I know them; rather with their teeth The walls they'll tear down than forsake the siege. REIGNIER. I think by some odd gimmers or device Their arms are set, like clocks, still to strike on; Else ne'er could they hold out so as they do. By my consent, we'll even let them alone. ALENCON. Be it so. Enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS
BASTARD. Where's the Prince Dauphin? I have news for him. CHARLES. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us. BASTARD. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd. Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence? Be not dismay'd, for succour is at hand. A holy maid hither with me I bring, Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven, Ordained is to raise this tedious siege And drive the English forth the bounds of France. The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome: What's past and what's to come she can descry. Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words, For they are certain and unfallible. CHARLES. Go, call her in. [Exit BASTARD] But first, to try her skill, Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place; Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern; By this means shall we sound what skill she hath. Re-enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS with JOAN LA PUCELLE REIGNIER. Fair maid, is 't thou wilt do these wondrous feats? PUCELLE. Reignier, is 't thou that thinkest to beguile me? Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind; I know thee well, though never seen before. Be not amaz'd, there's nothing hid from me. In private will I talk with thee apart. Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. REIGNIER. She takes upon her bravely at first dash. PUCELLE. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter, My wit untrain'd in any kind of art. Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleas'd To shine on my contemptible estate. Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs And to sun's parching heat display'd my cheeks, God's Mother deigned to appear to me, And in a vision full of majesty Will'd me to leave my base vocation And free my country from calamity Her aid she promis'd and assur'd success. In complete glory she reveal'd herself; And whereas I was black and swart before, With those clear rays which she infus'd on me That beauty am I bless'd with which you may see. Ask me what question thou canst possible, And I will answer unpremeditated. My courage try by combat if thou dar'st, And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. Resolve on this: thou shalt be fortunate If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. CHARLES. Thou hast astonish'd me with thy high terms. Only this proof I'll of thy valour make In single combat thou shalt buckle with me; And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true; Otherwise I renounce all confidence. PUCELLE. I am prepar'd; here is my keen-edg'd sword, Deck'd with five flower-de-luces on each side, The which at Touraine, in Saint Katherine's churchyard, Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth. CHARLES. Then come, o' God's name; I fear no woman. PUCELLE. And while I live I'll ne'er fly from a man. [Here they fight and JOAN LA PUCELLE overcomes] CHARLES. Stay, stay thy hands; thou art an Amazon, And fightest with the sword of Deborah. PUCELLE. Christ's Mother helps me, else I were too weak. CHARLES. Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me. Impatiently I burn with thy desire; My heart and hands thou hast at once subdu'd. Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so, Let me thy servant and not sovereign be. 'Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. PUCELLE. I must not yield to any rites of love, For my profession's sacred from above. When I have chased all thy foes from hence, Then will I think upon a recompense. CHARLES. Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall. REIGNIER. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk. ALENCON. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock; Else ne'er could he so long protract his speech. REIGNIER. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean? ALENCON. He may mean more than we poor men do know; These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues. REIGNIER. My lord, where are you? What devise you on? Shall we give o'er Orleans, or no? PUCELLE. Why, no, I say; distrustful recreants! Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard. CHARLES. What she says I'll confirm; we'll fight it out. PUCELLE. Assign'd am I to be the English scourge. This night the siege assuredly I'll raise. Expect Saint Martin's summer, halcyon days, Since I have entered into these wars. Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. With Henry's death the English circle ends; Dispersed are the glories it included. Now am I like that proud insulting ship Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once. CHARLES. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove? Thou with an eagle art inspired then. Helen, the mother of great Constantine, Nor yet Saint Philip's daughters were like thee. Bright star of Venus, fall'n down on the earth, How may I reverently worship thee enough? ALENCON. Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege. REIGNIER. Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours; Drive them from Orleans, and be immortaliz'd. CHARLES. Presently we'll try. Come, let's away about it. No prophet will I trust if she prove false. Exeunt SCENE 3. London. Before the Tower gates
Enter the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, with his serving-men
in blue coats
GLOUCESTER. I am come to survey the Tower this day; Since Henry's death, I fear, there is conveyance. Where be these warders that they wait not here? Open the gates; 'tis Gloucester that calls. FIRST WARDER. [Within] Who's there that knocks so imperiously? FIRST SERVING-MAN. It is the noble Duke of Gloucester. SECOND WARDER. [Within] Whoe'er he be, you may not be let in. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Villains, answer you so the Lord Protector? FIRST WARDER. [Within] The Lord protect him! so we answer him. We do no otherwise than we are will'd. GLOUCESTER. Who willed you, or whose will stands but mine? There's none Protector of the realm but I. Break up the gates, I'll be your warrantize. Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms? [GLOUCESTER'S men rush at the Tower gates, and WOODVILLE the Lieutenant speaks within] WOODVILLE. [Within] What noise is this? What traitors have we here? GLOUCESTER. Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear? Open the gates; here's Gloucester that would enter. WOODVILLE. [Within] Have patience, noble Duke, I may not open; The Cardinal of Winchester forbids. From him I have express commandment That thou nor none of thine shall be let in. GLOUCESTER. Faint-hearted Woodville, prizest him fore me? Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne'er could brook! Thou art no friend to God or to the King. Open the gates, or I'll shut thee out shortly. SERVING-MEN. Open the gates unto the Lord Protector, Or we'll burst them open, if that you come not quickly. Enter to the PROTECTOR at the Tower gates WINCHESTER and his men in tawny coats WINCHESTER. How now, ambitious Humphry! What means this? GLOUCESTER. Peel'd priest, dost thou command me to be shut out? WINCHESTER. I do, thou most usurping proditor, And not Protector of the King or realm. GLOUCESTER. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator, Thou that contrived'st to murder our dead lord; Thou that giv'st whores indulgences to sin. I'll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal's hat, If thou proceed in this thy insolence. WINCHESTER. Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot. This be Damascus; be thou cursed Cain, To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. GLOUCESTER. I will not slay thee, but I'll drive thee back. Thy scarlet robes as a child's bearing-cloth I'll use to carry thee out of this place. WINCHESTER. Do what thou dar'st; I beard thee to thy face. GLOUCESTER. What! am I dar'd and bearded to my face? Draw, men, for all this privileged place Blue-coats to tawny-coats. Priest, beware your beard; I mean to tug it, and to cuff you soundly; Under my feet I stamp thy cardinal's hat; In spite of Pope or dignities of church, Here by the cheeks I'll drag thee up and down. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the Pope. GLOUCESTER. Winchester goose! I cry 'A rope, a rope!' Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay? Thee I'll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep's array. Out, tawny-coats! Out, scarlet hypocrite! Here GLOUCESTER'S men beat out the CARDINAL'S men; and enter in the hurly burly the MAYOR OF LONDON and his OFFICERS MAYOR. Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magistrates, Thus contumeliously should break the peace! GLOUCESTER. Peace, Mayor! thou know'st little of my wrongs: Here's Beaufort, that regards nor God nor King, Hath here distrain'd the Tower to his use. WINCHESTER. Here's Gloucester, a foe to citizens; One that still motions war and never peace, O'ercharging your free purses with large fines; That seeks to overthrow religion, Because he is Protector of the realm, And would have armour here out of the Tower, To crown himself King and suppress the Prince. GLOUCESTER. I Will not answer thee with words, but blows. [Here they skirmish again] MAYOR. Nought rests for me in this tumultuous strife But to make open proclamation. Come, officer, as loud as e'er thou canst, Cry. OFFICER. [Cries] All manner of men assembled here in arms this day against God's peace and the King's, we charge and command you, in his Highness' name, to repair to your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or use, any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death. GLOUCESTER. Cardinal, I'll be no breaker of the law; But we shall meet and break our minds at large. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, we'll meet to thy cost, be sure; Thy heart-blood I will have for this day's work. MAYOR. I'll call for clubs if you will not away. This Cardinal's more haughty than the devil. GLOUCESTER. Mayor, farewell; thou dost but what thou mayst. WINCHESTER. Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head, For I intend to have it ere long. Exeunt, severally, GLOUCESTER and WINCHESTER with their servants MAYOR. See the coast clear'd, and then we will depart. Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear! I myself fight not once in forty year. Exeunt SCENE 4. France. Before Orleans
Enter, on the walls, the MASTER-GUNNER
OF ORLEANS and his BOY
MASTER-GUNNER. Sirrah, thou know'st how Orleans is besieg'd, And how the English have the suburbs won. BOY. Father, I know; and oft have shot at them, Howe'er unfortunate I miss'd my aim. MASTER-GUNNER. But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul'd by me. Chief master-gunner am I of this town; Something I must do to procure me grace. The Prince's espials have informed me How the English, in the suburbs close intrench'd, Wont, through a secret grate of iron bars In yonder tower, to overpeer the city, And thence discover how with most advantage They may vex us with shot or with assault. To intercept this inconvenience, A piece of ordnance 'gainst it I have plac'd; And even these three days have I watch'd If I could see them. Now do thou watch, For I can stay no longer. If thou spy'st any, run and bring me word; And thou shalt find me at the Governor's. Exit BOY. Father, I warrant you; take you no care; I'll never trouble you, if I may spy them. Exit Enter SALISBURY and TALBOT on the turrets, with SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE, SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE, and others SALISBURY. Talbot, my life, my joy, again return'd! How wert thou handled being prisoner? Or by what means got'st thou to be releas'd? Discourse, I prithee, on this turret's top. TALBOT. The Earl of Bedford had a prisoner Call'd the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles; For him was I exchang'd and ransomed. But with a baser man of arms by far Once, in contempt, they would have barter'd me; Which I disdaining scorn'd, and craved death Rather than I would be so vile esteem'd. In fine, redeem'd I was as I desir'd. But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart Whom with my bare fists I would execute, If I now had him brought into my power. SALISBURY. Yet tell'st thou not how thou wert entertain'd. TALBOT. With scoffs, and scorns, and contumelious taunts, In open market-place produc'd they me To be a public spectacle to all; Here, said they, is the terror of the French, The scarecrow that affrights our children so. Then broke I from the officers that led me, And with my nails digg'd stones out of the ground To hurl at the beholders of my shame; My grisly countenance made others fly; None durst come near for fear of sudden death. In iron walls they deem'd me not secure; So great fear of my name 'mongst them was spread That they suppos'd I could rend bars of steel And spurn in pieces posts of adamant; Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had That walk'd about me every minute-while; And if I did but stir out of my bed, Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. Enter the BOY with a linstock
SALISBURY. I grieve to hear what torments you endur'd; But we will be reveng'd sufficiently. Now it is supper-time in Orleans: Here, through this grate, I count each one And view the Frenchmen how they fortify. Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee. Sir Thomas Gargrave and Sir William Glansdale, Let me have your express opinions Where is best place to make our batt'ry next. GARGRAVE. I think at the North Gate; for there stand lords. GLANSDALE. And I here, at the bulwark of the bridge. TALBOT. For aught I see, this city must be famish'd, Or with light skirmishes enfeebled. [Here they shoot and SALISBURY and GARGRAVE fall down] SALISBURY. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners! GARGRAVE. O Lord, have mercy on me, woeful man! TALBOT. What chance is this that suddenly hath cross'd us? Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak. How far'st thou, mirror of all martial men? One of thy eyes and thy cheek's side struck off! Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand That hath contriv'd this woeful tragedy! In thirteen battles Salisbury o'ercame; Henry the Fifth he first train'd to the wars; Whilst any trump did sound or drum struck up, His sword did ne'er leave striking in the field. Yet liv'st thou, Salisbury? Though thy speech doth fail, One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace; The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands! Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it. Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life? Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him. Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort, Thou shalt not die whiles He beckons with his hand and smiles on me, As who should say 'When I am dead and gone, Remember to avenge me on the French.' Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero, Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn. Wretched shall France be only in my name. [Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens] What stir is this? What tumult's in the heavens? Whence cometh this alarum and the noise? Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. My lord, my lord, the French have gather'd head The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join'd, A holy prophetess new risen up, Is come with a great power to raise the siege. [Here SALISBURY lifteth himself up and groans] TALBOT. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan. It irks his heart he cannot be reveng'd. Frenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you. Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish, Your hearts I'll stamp out with my horse's heels And make a quagmire of your mingled brains. Convey me Salisbury into his tent, And then we'll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare. Alarum. Exeunt SCENE 5. Before Orleans
Here an alarum again, and TALBOT pursueth the
DAUPHIN and driveth him. Then enter JOAN LA PUCELLE
driving Englishmen before her. Then enter TALBOT
TALBOT. Where is my strength, my valour, and my force? Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them; A woman clad in armour chaseth them. Enter LA PUCELLE
Here, here she comes. I'll have a bout with thee.
Devil or devil's dam, I'll conjure thee;
Blood will I draw on thee-thou art a witch
And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv'st.
PUCELLE. Come, come, 'tis only I that must disgrace thee. [Here they fight] TALBOT. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail? My breast I'll burst with straining of my courage. And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder, But I will chastise this high minded strumpet. [They fight again] PUCELLE. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come. I must go victual Orleans forthwith. [A short alarum; then enter the town with soldiers] O'ertake me if thou canst; I scorn thy strength. Go, go, cheer up thy hungry starved men; Help Salisbury to make his testament. This day is ours, as many more shall be. Exit TALBOT. My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do. A witch by fear, not force, like Hannibal, Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists. So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench Are from their hives and houses driven away. They call'd us, for our fierceness, English dogs; Now like to whelps we crying run away. [A short alarum] Hark, countrymen! Either renew the fight Or tear the lions out of England's coat; Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions' stead: Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf, Or horse or oxen from the leopard, As you fly from your oft subdued slaves. [Alarum. Here another skirmish] It will not be-retire into your trenches. You all consented unto Salisbury's death, For none would strike a stroke in his revenge. Pucelle is ent'red into Orleans In spite of us or aught that we could do. O, would I were to die with Salisbury! The shame hereof will make me hide my head. Exit TALBOT. Alarum; retreat SCENE 6. ORLEANS Flourish. Enter on the walls, LA PUCELLE, CHARLES, REIGNIER, ALENCON, and soldiers PUCELLE. Advance our waving colours on the walls; Rescu'd is Orleans from the English. Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform'd her word. CHARLES. Divinest creature, Astraea's daughter, How shall I honour thee for this success? Thy promises are like Adonis' gardens, That one day bloom'd and fruitful were the next. France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess. Recover'd is the town of Orleans. More blessed hap did ne'er befall our state. REIGNIER. Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the town? Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires And feast and banquet in the open streets To celebrate the joy that God hath given us. ALENCON. All France will be replete with mirth and joy When they shall hear how we have play'd the men. CHARLES. 'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won; For which I will divide my crown with her; And all the priests and friars in my realm Shall in procession sing her endless praise. A statelier pyramis to her I'll rear Than Rhodope's of Memphis ever was. In memory of her, when she is dead, Her ashes, in an urn more precious Than the rich jewel'd coffer of Darius, Transported shall be at high festivals Before the kings and queens of France. No longer on Saint Denis will we cry, But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's saint. Come in, and let us banquet royally After this golden day of victory. Flourish. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 1. Before Orleans
Enter a FRENCH SERGEANT and two SENTINELS
SERGEANT. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant. If any noise or soldier you perceive Near to the walls, by some apparent sign Let us have knowledge at the court of guard. FIRST SENTINEL. Sergeant, you shall. [Exit SERGEANT] Thus are poor servitors, When others sleep upon their quiet beds, Constrain'd to watch in darkness, rain, and cold. Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, and forces, with scaling-ladders; their drums beating a dead march TALBOT. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy, By whose approach the regions of Artois, Wallon, and Picardy, are friends to us, This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, Having all day carous'd and banqueted; Embrace we then this opportunity, As fitting best to quittance their deceit, Contriv'd by art and baleful sorcery. BEDFORD. Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame, Despairing of his own arm's fortitude, To join with witches and the help of hell! BURGUNDY. Traitors have never other company. But what's that Pucelle whom they term so pure? TALBOT. A maid, they say. BEDFORD. A maid! and be so martial! BURGUNDY. Pray God she prove not masculine ere long, If underneath the standard of the French She carry armour as she hath begun. TALBOT. Well, let them practise and converse with spirits: God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks. BEDFORD. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee. TALBOT. Not all together; better far, I guess, That we do make our entrance several ways; That if it chance the one of us do fail The other yet may rise against their force. BEDFORD. Agreed; I'll to yond corner. BURGUNDY. And I to this. TALBOT. And here will Talbot mount or make his grave. Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right Of English Henry, shall this night appear How much in duty I am bound to both. [The English scale the walls and cry 'Saint George! a Talbot!'] SENTINEL. Arm! arm! The enemy doth make assault. The French leap o'er the walls in their shirts. Enter, several ways, BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER, half ready and half unready ALENCON. How now, my lords? What, all unready so? BASTARD. Unready! Ay, and glad we 'scap'd so well. REIGNIER. 'Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds, Hearing alarums at our chamber doors. ALENCON. Of all exploits since first I follow'd arms Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise More venturous or desperate than this. BASTARD. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell. REIGNIER. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him ALENCON. Here cometh Charles; I marvel how he sped. Enter CHARLES and LA PUCELLE
BASTARD. Tut! holy Joan was his defensive guard. CHARLES. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame? Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal, Make us partakers of a little gain That now our loss might be ten times so much? PUCELLE. Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend? At all times will you have my power alike? Sleeping or waking, must I still prevail Or will you blame and lay the fault on me? Improvident soldiers! Had your watch been good This sudden mischief never could have fall'n. CHARLES. Duke of Alencon, this was your default That, being captain of the watch to-night, Did look no better to that weighty charge. ALENCON. Had all your quarters been as safely kept As that whereof I had the government, We had not been thus shamefully surpris'd. BASTARD. Mine was secure. REIGNIER. And so was mine, my lord. CHARLES. And, for myself, most part of all this night, Within her quarter and mine own precinct I was employ'd in passing to and fro About relieving of the sentinels. Then how or which way should they first break in? PUCELLE. Question, my lords, no further of the case, How or which way; 'tis sure they found some place But weakly guarded, where the breach was made. And now there rests no other shift but this To gather our soldiers, scatter'd and dispers'd, And lay new platforms to endamage them. Alarum. Enter an ENGLISH SOLDIER, crying 'A Talbot! A Talbot!' They fly, leaving their clothes behind SOLDIER. I'll be so bold to take what they have left. The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword; For I have loaden me with many spoils, Using no other weapon but his name. Exit SCENE 2. ORLEANS. Within the town
Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, a CAPTAIN,
and others
BEDFORD. The day begins to break, and night is fled Whose pitchy mantle over-veil'd the earth. Here sound retreat and cease our hot pursuit. [Retreat sounded] TALBOT. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury And here advance it in the market-place, The middle centre of this cursed town. Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; For every drop of blood was drawn from him There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night. And that hereafter ages may behold What ruin happened in revenge of him, Within their chiefest temple I'll erect A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr'd; Upon the which, that every one may read, Shall be engrav'd the sack of Orleans, The treacherous manner of his mournful death, And what a terror he had been to France. But, lords, in all our bloody massacre, I muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace, His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc, Nor any of his false confederates. BEDFORD. 'Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began, Rous'd on the sudden from their drowsy beds, They did amongst the troops of armed men Leap o'er the walls for refuge in the field. BURGUNDY. Myself, as far as I could well discern For smoke and dusky vapours of the night, Am sure I scar'd the Dauphin and his trull, When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves That could not live asunder day or night. After that things are set in order here, We'll follow them with all the power we have. Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts So much applauded through the realm of France? TALBOT. Here is the Talbot; who would speak with him? MESSENGER. The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, With modesty admiring thy renown, By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe To visit her poor castle where she lies, That she may boast she hath beheld the man Whose glory fills the world with loud report. BURGUNDY. Is it even so? Nay, then I see our wars Will turn into a peaceful comic sport, When ladies crave to be encount'red with. You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. TALBOT. Ne'er trust me then; for when a world of men Could not prevail with all their oratory, Yet hath a woman's kindness overrul'd; And therefore tell her I return great thanks And in submission will attend on her. Will not your honours bear me company? BEDFORD. No, truly; 'tis more than manners will; And I have heard it said unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone. TALBOT. Well then, alone, since there's no remedy, I mean to prove this lady's courtesy. Come hither, Captain. [Whispers] You perceive my mind? CAPTAIN. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. Exeunt SCENE 3. AUVERGNE. The Castle
Enter the COUNTESS and her PORTER
COUNTESS. Porter, remember what I gave in charge; And when you have done so, bring the keys to me. PORTER. Madam, I will. COUNTESS. The plot is laid; if all things fall out right, I shall as famous be by this exploit. As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death. Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight, And his achievements of no less account. Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears To give their censure of these rare reports. Enter MESSENGER and TALBOT.
MESSENGER. Madam, according as your ladyship desir'd, By message crav'd, so is Lord Talbot come. COUNTESS. And he is welcome. What! is this the man? MESSENGER. Madam, it is. COUNTESS. Is this the scourge of France? Is this Talbot, so much fear'd abroad That with his name the mothers still their babes? I see report is fabulous and false. I thought I should have seen some Hercules, A second Hector, for his grim aspect And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs. Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf! It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp Should strike such terror to his enemies. TALBOT. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; But since your ladyship is not at leisure, I'll sort some other time to visit you. [Going] COUNTESS. What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes. MESSENGER. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves To know the cause of your abrupt departure. TALBOT. Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief, I go to certify her Talbot's here. Re-enter PORTER With keys
COUNTESS. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner. TALBOT. Prisoner! To whom? COUNTESS. To me, blood-thirsty lord And for that cause I train'd thee to my house. Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, For in my gallery thy picture hangs; But now the substance shall endure the like And I will chain these legs and arms of thine That hast by tyranny these many years Wasted our country, slain our citizens, And sent our sons and husbands captivate. TALBOT. Ha, ha, ha! COUNTESS. Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth shall turn to moan. TALBOT. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow Whereon to practise your severity. COUNTESS. Why, art not thou the man? TALBOT. I am indeed. COUNTESS. Then have I substance too. TALBOT. No, no, I am but shadow of myself. You are deceiv'd, my substance is not here; For what you see is but the smallest part And least proportion of humanity. I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here, It is of such a spacious lofty pitch Your roof were not sufficient to contain 't. COUNTESS. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce; He will be here, and yet he is not here. How can these contrarieties agree? TALBOT. That will I show you presently. Winds his horn; drums strike up; a peal of ordnance. Enter soldiers How say you, madam? Are you now persuaded That Talbot is but shadow of himself? These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength, With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns, And in a moment makes them desolate. COUNTESS. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse. I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited, And more than may be gathered by thy shape. Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath, For I am sorry that with reverence I did not entertain thee as thou art. TALBOT. Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor misconster The mind of Talbot as you did mistake The outward composition of his body. What you have done hath not offended me. Nor other satisfaction do I crave But only, with your patience, that we may Taste of your wine and see what cates you have, For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well. COUNTESS. With all my heart, and think me honoured To feast so great a warrior in my house. Exeunt SCENE 4. London. The Temple garden
Enter the EARLS OF SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WARWICK;
RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and another LAWYER
PLANTAGENET. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence? Dare no man answer in a case of truth? SUFFOLK. Within the Temple Hall we were too loud; The garden here is more convenient. PLANTAGENET. Then say at once if I maintain'd the truth; Or else was wrangling Somerset in th' error? SUFFOLK. Faith, I have been a truant in the law And never yet could frame my will to it; And therefore frame the law unto my will. SOMERSET. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us. WARWICK. Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch; Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth; Between two blades, which bears the better temper; Between two horses, which doth bear him best; Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment; But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw. PLANTAGENET. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance: The truth appears so naked on my side That any purblind eye may find it out. SOMERSET. And on my side it is so well apparell'd, So clear, so shining, and so evident, That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye. PLANTAGENET. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak, In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts. Let him that is a true-born gentleman And stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. SOMERSET. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. WARWICK. I love no colours; and, without all colour Of base insinuating flattery, I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. SUFFOLK. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset, And say withal I think he held the right. VERNON. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more Till you conclude that he upon whose side The fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree Shall yield the other in the right opinion. SOMERSET. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected; If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. PLANTAGENET. And I. VERNON. Then, for the truth and plainness of the case, I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, Giving my verdict on the white rose side. SOMERSET. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red, And fall on my side so, against your will. VERNON. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt And keep me on the side where still I am. SOMERSET. Well, well, come on; who else? LAWYER. [To Somerset] Unless my study and my books be false, The argument you held was wrong in you; In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too. PLANTAGENET. Now, Somerset, where is your argument? SOMERSET. Here in my scabbard, meditating that Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. PLANTAGENET. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses; For pale they look with fear, as witnessing The truth on our side. SOMERSET. No, Plantagenet, 'Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses, And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. PLANTAGENET. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset? SOMERSET. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet? PLANTAGENET. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth; Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. SOMERSET. Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses, That shall maintain what I have said is true, Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. PLANTAGENET. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. SUFFOLK. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. PLANTAGENET. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee. SUFFOLK. I'll turn my part thereof into thy throat. SOMERSET. Away, away, good William de la Pole! We grace the yeoman by conversing with him. WARWICK. Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him, Somerset; His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence, Third son to the third Edward, King of England. Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root? PLANTAGENET. He bears him on the place's privilege, Or durst not for his craven heart say thus. SOMERSET. By Him that made me, I'll maintain my words On any plot of ground in Christendom. Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge, For treason executed in our late king's days? And by his treason stand'st not thou attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry? His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood; And till thou be restor'd thou art a yeoman. PLANTAGENET. My father was attached, not attainted; Condemn'd to die for treason, but no traitor; And that I'll prove on better men than Somerset, Were growing time once ripened to my will. For your partaker Pole, and you yourself, I'll note you in my book of memory To scourge you for this apprehension. Look to it well, and say you are well warn'd. SOMERSET. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still; And know us by these colours for thy foes For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear. PLANTAGENET. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, Will I for ever, and my faction, wear, Until it wither with me to my grave, Or flourish to the height of my degree. SUFFOLK. Go forward, and be chok'd with thy ambition! And so farewell until I meet thee next. Exit SOMERSET. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard. Exit PLANTAGENET. How I am brav'd, and must perforce endure it! WARWICK. This blot that they object against your house Shall be wip'd out in the next Parliament, Call'd for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester; And if thou be not then created York, I will not live to be accounted Warwick. Meantime, in signal of my love to thee, Against proud Somerset and William Pole, Will I upon thy party wear this rose; And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day, Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden, Shall send between the Red Rose and the White A thousand souls to death and deadly night. PLANTAGENET. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. VERNON. In your behalf still will I wear the same. LAWYER. And so will I. PLANTAGENET. Thanks, gentle sir. Come, let us four to dinner. I dare say This quarrel will drink blood another day. Exeunt SCENE 5. The Tower of London
Enter MORTIMER, brought in a chair, and GAOLERS
MORTIMER. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age, Let dying Mortimer here rest himself. Even like a man new haled from the rack, So fare my limbs with long imprisonment; And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death, Nestor-like aged in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent; Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief, And pithless arms, like to a withered vine That droops his sapless branches to the ground. Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, Unable to support this lump of clay, Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, As witting I no other comfort have. But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come? FIRST KEEPER. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come. We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber; And answer was return'd that he will come. MORTIMER. Enough; my soul shall then be satisfied. Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine. Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign, Before whose glory I was great in arms, This loathsome sequestration have I had; And even since then hath Richard been obscur'd, Depriv'd of honour and inheritance. But now the arbitrator of despairs, Just Death, kind umpire of men's miseries, With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence. I would his troubles likewise were expir'd, That so he might recover what was lost. Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET
FIRST KEEPER. My lord, your loving nephew now is come. MORTIMER. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come? PLANTAGENET. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us'd, Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. MORTIMER. Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck And in his bosom spend my latter gasp. O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks, That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. And now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock, Why didst thou say of late thou wert despis'd? PLANTAGENET. First, lean thine aged back against mine arm; And, in that ease, I'll tell thee my disease. This day, in argument upon a case, Some words there grew 'twixt Somerset and me; Among which terms he us'd his lavish tongue And did upbraid me with my father's death; Which obloquy set bars before my tongue, Else with the like I had requited him. Therefore, good uncle, for my father's sake, In honour of a true Plantagenet, And for alliance sake, declare the cause My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. MORTIMER. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison'd me And hath detain'd me all my flow'ring youth Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, Was cursed instrument of his decease. PLANTAGENET. Discover more at large what cause that was, For I am ignorant and cannot guess. MORTIMER. I will, if that my fading breath permit And death approach not ere my tale be done. Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king, Depos'd his nephew Richard, Edward's son, The first-begotten and the lawful heir Of Edward king, the third of that descent; During whose reign the Percies of the north, Finding his usurpation most unjust, Endeavour'd my advancement to the throne. The reason mov'd these warlike lords to this Was, for that-young Richard thus remov'd, Leaving no heir begotten of his body- I was the next by birth and parentage; For by my mother I derived am From Lionel Duke of Clarence, third son To King Edward the Third; whereas he From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree, Being but fourth of that heroic line. But mark: as in this haughty great attempt They laboured to plant the rightful heir, I lost my liberty, and they their lives. Long after this, when Henry the Fifth, Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign, Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then deriv'd From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York, Marrying my sister, that thy mother was, Again, in pity of my hard distress, Levied an army, weening to redeem And have install'd me in the diadem; But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl, And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers, In whom the title rested, were suppress'd. PLANTAGENET. Of Which, my lord, your honour is the last. MORTIMER. True; and thou seest that I no issue have, And that my fainting words do warrant death. Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather; But yet be wary in thy studious care. PLANTAGENET. Thy grave admonishments prevail with me. But yet methinks my father's execution Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. MORTIMER. With silence, nephew, be thou politic; Strong fixed is the house of Lancaster And like a mountain not to be remov'd. But now thy uncle is removing hence, As princes do their courts when they are cloy'd With long continuance in a settled place. PLANTAGENET. O uncle, would some part of my young years Might but redeem the passage of your age! MORTIMER. Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth Which giveth many wounds when one will kill. Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good; Only give order for my funeral. And so, farewell; and fair be all thy hopes, And prosperous be thy life in peace and war! [Dies] PLANTAGENET. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul! In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage, And like a hermit overpass'd thy days. Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast; And what I do imagine, let that rest. Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself Will see his burial better than his life. Exeunt GAOLERS, hearing out the body of MORTIMER Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer, Chok'd with ambition of the meaner sort; And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, Which Somerset hath offer'd to my house, I doubt not but with honour to redress; And therefore haste I to the Parliament, Either to be restored to my blood, Or make my ill th' advantage of my good. Exit ACT III. SCENE 1. London. The Parliament House
Flourish. Enter the KING, EXETER, GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, SOMERSET, and SUFFOLK; the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, RICHARD PLANTAGENET, and others. GLOUCESTER offers to put up a bill; WINCHESTER snatches it, and tears it
WINCHESTER. Com'st thou with deep premeditated lines, With written pamphlets studiously devis'd? Humphrey of Gloucester, if thou canst accuse Or aught intend'st to lay unto my charge, Do it without invention, suddenly; I with sudden and extemporal speech Purpose to answer what thou canst object. GLOUCESTER. Presumptuous priest, this place commands my patience, Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour'd me. Think not, although in writing I preferr'd The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes, That therefore I have forg'd, or am not able Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen. No, prelate; such is thy audacious wickedness, Thy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious pranks, As very infants prattle of thy pride. Thou art a most pernicious usurer; Froward by nature, enemy to peace; Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems A man of thy profession and degree; And for thy treachery, what's more manifest In that thou laid'st a trap to take my life, As well at London Bridge as at the Tower? Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted, The King, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt From envious malice of thy swelling heart. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe To give me hearing what I shall reply. If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse, As he will have me, how am I so poor? Or how haps it I seek not to advance Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling? And for dissension, who preferreth peace More than I do, except I be provok'd? No, my good lords, it is not that offends; It is not that that incens'd hath incens'd the Duke: It is because no one should sway but he; No one but he should be about the King; And that engenders thunder in his breast And makes him roar these accusations forth. But he shall know I am as good GLOUCESTER. As good! Thou bastard of my grandfather! WINCHESTER. Ay, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray, But one imperious in another's throne? GLOUCESTER. Am I not Protector, saucy priest? WINCHESTER. And am not I a prelate of the church? GLOUCESTER. Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps, And useth it to patronage his theft. WINCHESTER. Unreverent Gloucester! GLOUCESTER. Thou art reverend Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life. WINCHESTER. Rome shall remedy this. WARWICK. Roam thither then. SOMERSET. My lord, it were your duty to forbear. WARWICK. Ay, see the bishop be not overborne. SOMERSET. Methinks my lord should be religious, And know the office that belongs to such. WARWICK. Methinks his lordship should be humbler; It fitteth not a prelate so to plead. SOMERSET. Yes, when his holy state is touch'd so near. WARWICK. State holy or unhallow'd, what of that? Is not his Grace Protector to the King? PLANTAGENET. [Aside] Plantagenet, I see, must hold his tongue, Lest it be said 'Speak, sirrah, when you should; Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords?' Else would I have a fling at Winchester. KING HENRY. Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester, The special watchmen of our English weal, I would prevail, if prayers might prevail To join your hearts in love and amity. O, what a scandal is it to our crown That two such noble peers as ye should jar! Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth. [A noise within: 'Down with the tawny coats!'] What tumult's this? WARWICK. An uproar, I dare warrant, Begun through malice of the Bishop's men. [A noise again: 'Stones! Stones!'] Enter the MAYOR OF LONDON, attended
MAYOR. O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry, Pity the city of London, pity us! The Bishop and the Duke of Gloucester's men, Forbidden late to carry any weapon, Have fill'd their pockets full of pebble stones And, banding themselves in contrary parts, Do pelt so fast at one another's pate That many have their giddy brains knock'd out. Our windows are broke down in every street, And we for fear compell'd to shut our shops. Enter in skirmish, the retainers of GLOUCESTER and WINCHESTER, with bloody pates KING HENRY. We charge you, on allegiance to ourself, To hold your slaught'ring hands and keep the peace. Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we'll fall to it with our teeth. SECOND SERVING-MAN. Do what ye dare, we are as resolute. [Skirmish again] GLOUCESTER. You of my household, leave this peevish broil, And set this unaccustom'd fight aside. THIRD SERVING-MAN. My lord, we know your Grace to be a man Just and upright, and for your royal birth Inferior to none but to his Majesty; And ere that we will suffer such a prince, So kind a father of the commonweal, To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate, We and our wives and children all will fight And have our bodies slaught'red by thy foes. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Ay, and the very parings of our nails Shall pitch a field when we are dead. [Begin again] GLOUCESTER. Stay, stay, I say! And if you love me, as you say you do, Let me persuade you to forbear awhile. KING HENRY. O, how this discord doth afflict my soul! Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold My sighs and tears and will not once relent? Who should be pitiful, if you be not? Or who should study to prefer a peace, If holy churchmen take delight in broils? WARWICK. Yield, my Lord Protector; yield, Winchester; Except you mean with obstinate repulse To slay your sovereign and destroy the realm. You see what mischief, and what murder too, Hath been enacted through your enmity; Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood. WINCHESTER. He shall submit, or I will never yield. GLOUCESTER. Compassion on the King commands me stoop, Or I would see his heart out ere the priest Should ever get that privilege of me. WARWICK. Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the Duke Hath banish'd moody discontented fury, As by his smoothed brows it doth appear; Why look you still so stem and tragical? GLOUCESTER. Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand. KING HENRY. Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach That malice was a great and grievous sin; And will not you maintain the thing you teach, But prove a chief offender in the same? WARWICK. Sweet King! The Bishop hath a kindly gird. For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent; What, shall a child instruct you what to do? WINCHESTER. Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee; Love for thy love and hand for hand I give. GLOUCESTER [Aside] Ay, but, I fear me, with a hollow heart. See here, my friends and loving countrymen: This token serveth for a flag of truce Betwixt ourselves and all our followers. So help me God, as I dissemble not! WINCHESTER [Aside] So help me God, as I intend it not! KING HENRY. O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester, How joyful am I made by this contract! Away, my masters! trouble us no more; But join in friendship, as your lords have done. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Content: I'll to the surgeon's. SECOND SERVING-MAN. And so will I. THIRD SERVING-MAN. And I will see what physic the tavern affords. Exeunt servants, MAYOR, &C. WARWICK. Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign; Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet We do exhibit to your Majesty. GLOUCESTER. Well urg'd, my Lord of Warwick; for, sweet prince, An if your Grace mark every circumstance, You have great reason to do Richard right; Especially for those occasions At Eltham Place I told your Majesty. KING HENRY. And those occasions, uncle, were of force; Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is That Richard be restored to his blood. WARWICK. Let Richard be restored to his blood; So shall his father's wrongs be recompens'd. WINCHESTER. As will the rest, so willeth Winchester. KING HENRY. If Richard will be true, not that alone But all the whole inheritance I give That doth belong unto the house of York, From whence you spring by lineal descent. PLANTAGENET. Thy humble servant vows obedience And humble service till the point of death. KING HENRY. Stoop then and set your knee against my foot; And in reguerdon of that duty done I girt thee with the valiant sword of York. Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet, And rise created princely Duke of York. PLANTAGENET. And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall! And as my duty springs, so perish they That grudge one thought against your Majesty! ALL. Welcome, high Prince, the mighty Duke of York! SOMERSET. [Aside] Perish, base Prince, ignoble Duke of York! GLOUCESTER. Now will it best avail your Majesty To cross the seas and to be crown'd in France: The presence of a king engenders love Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends, As it disanimates his enemies. KING HENRY. When Gloucester says the word, King Henry goes; For friendly counsel cuts off many foes. GLOUCESTER. Your ships already are in readiness. Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but EXETER EXETER. Ay, we may march in England or in France, Not seeing what is likely to ensue. This late dissension grown betwixt the peers Burns under feigned ashes of forg'd love And will at last break out into a flame; As fest'red members rot but by degree Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away, So will this base and envious discord breed. And now I fear that fatal prophecy. Which in the time of Henry nam'd the Fifth Was in the mouth of every sucking babe: That Henry born at Monmouth should win all, And Henry born at Windsor should lose all. Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish His days may finish ere that hapless time. Exit SCENE 2. France. Before Rouen
Enter LA PUCELLE disguis'd, with four soldiers dressed
like countrymen, with sacks upon their backs
PUCELLE. These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen, Through which our policy must make a breach. Take heed, be wary how you place your words; Talk like the vulgar sort of market-men That come to gather money for their corn. If we have entrance, as I hope we shall, And that we find the slothful watch but weak, I'll by a sign give notice to our friends, That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them. FIRST SOLDIER. Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city, And we be lords and rulers over Rouen; Therefore we'll knock. [Knocks] WATCH. [Within] Qui est la? PUCELLE. Paysans, pauvres gens de France Poor market-folks that come to sell their corn. WATCH. Enter, go in; the market-bell is rung. PUCELLE. Now, Rouen, I'll shake thy bulwarks to the ground. [LA PUCELLE, &c., enter the town]
Enter CHARLES, BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER, and forces
CHARLES. Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem! And once again we'll sleep secure in Rouen. BASTARD. Here ent'red Pucelle and her practisants; Now she is there, how will she specify Here is the best and safest passage in? ALENCON. By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower; Which once discern'd shows that her meaning is No way to that, for weakness, which she ent'red. Enter LA PUCELLE, on the top, thrusting out a torch burning PUCELLE. Behold, this is the happy wedding torch That joineth Rouen unto her countrymen, But burning fatal to the Talbotites. Exit BASTARD. See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend; The burning torch in yonder turret stands. CHARLES. Now shine it like a comet of revenge, A prophet to the fall of all our foes! ALENCON. Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends; Enter, and cry 'The Dauphin!' presently, And then do execution on the watch. Alarum. Exeunt An alarum. Enter TALBOT in an excursion
TALBOT. France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy tears, If Talbot but survive thy treachery. PUCELLE, that witch, that damned sorceress, Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares, That hardly we escap'd the pride of France. Exit An alarum; excursions. BEDFORD brought in sick in a chair. Enter TALBOT and BURGUNDY without; within, LA PUCELLE, CHARLES, BASTARD, ALENCON, and REIGNIER, on the walls PUCELLE. Good morrow, gallants! Want ye corn for bread? I think the Duke of Burgundy will fast Before he'll buy again at such a rate. 'Twas full of darnel-do you like the taste? BURGUNDY. Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtezan. I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own, And make thee curse the harvest of that corn. CHARLES. Your Grace may starve, perhaps, before that time. BEDFORD. O, let no words, but deeds, revenge this treason! PUCELLE. What you do, good grey beard? Break a lance, And run a tilt at death within a chair? TALBOT. Foul fiend of France and hag of all despite, Encompass'd with thy lustful paramours, Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age And twit with cowardice a man half dead? Damsel, I'll have a bout with you again, Or else let Talbot perish with this shame. PUCELLE. Are ye so hot, sir? Yet, Pucelle, hold thy peace; If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow. [The English party whisper together in council] God speed the parliament! Who shall be the Speaker? TALBOT. Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field? PUCELLE. Belike your lordship takes us then for fools, To try if that our own be ours or no. TALBOT. I speak not to that railing Hecate, But unto thee, Alencon, and the rest. Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out? ALENCON. Signior, no. TALBOT. Signior, hang! Base muleteers of France! Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls, And dare not take up arms like gentlemen. PUCELLE. Away, captains! Let's get us from the walls; For Talbot means no goodness by his looks. God b'uy, my lord; we came but to tell you That we are here. Exeunt from the walls TALBOT. And there will we be too, ere it be long, Or else reproach be Talbot's greatest fame! Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house, Prick'd on by public wrongs sustain'd in France, Either to get the town again or die; And I, as sure as English Henry lives And as his father here was conqueror, As sure as in this late betrayed town Great Coeur-de-lion's heart was buried So sure I swear to get the town or die. BURGUNDY. My vows are equal partners with thy vows. TALBOT. But ere we go, regard this dying prince, The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord, We will bestow you in some better place, Fitter for sickness and for crazy age. BEDFORD. Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me; Here will I sit before the walls of Rouen, And will be partner of your weal or woe. BURGUNDY. Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade you. BEDFORD. Not to be gone from hence; for once I read That stout Pendragon in his litter sick Came to the field, and vanquished his foes. Methinks I should revive the soldiers' hearts, Because I ever found them as myself. TALBOT. Undaunted spirit in a dying breast! Then be it so. Heavens keep old Bedford safe! And now no more ado, brave Burgundy, But gather we our forces out of hand And set upon our boasting enemy. Exeunt against the town all but BEDFORD and attendants An alarum; excursions. Enter SIR JOHN FASTOLFE, and a CAPTAIN CAPTAIN. Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste? FASTOLFE. Whither away? To save myself by flight: We are like to have the overthrow again. CAPTAIN. What! Will you and leave Lord Talbot? FASTOLFE. Ay, All the Talbots in the world, to save my life. Exit CAPTAIN. Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow thee! Exit into the town Retreat; excursions. LA PUCELLE, ALENCON, and CHARLES fly BEDFORD. Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please, For I have seen our enemies' overthrow. What is the trust or strength of foolish man? They that of late were daring with their scoffs Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves. [BEDFORD dies and is carried in by two in his chair] An alarum. Re-enter TALBOT, BURGUNDY, and the rest
TALBOT. Lost and recovered in a day again! This is a double honour, Burgundy. Yet heavens have glory for this victory! BURGUNDY. Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy Enshrines thee in his heart, and there erects Thy noble deeds as valour's monuments. TALBOT. Thanks, gentle Duke. But where is Pucelle now? I think her old familiar is asleep. Now where's the Bastard's braves, and Charles his gleeks? What, all amort? Rouen hangs her head for grief That such a valiant company are fled. Now will we take some order in the town, Placing therein some expert officers; And then depart to Paris to the King, For there young Henry with his nobles lie. BURGUNDY. What Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy. TALBOT. But yet, before we go, let's not forget The noble Duke of Bedford, late deceas'd, But see his exequies fulfill'd in Rouen. A braver soldier never couched lance, A gentler heart did never sway in court; But kings and mightiest potentates must die, For that's the end of human misery. Exeunt SCENE 3. The plains near Rouen
Enter CHARLES, the BASTARD, ALENCON, LA PUCELLE,
and forces
PUCELLE. Dismay not, Princes, at this accident, Nor grieve that Rouen is so recovered. Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied. Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while And like a peacock sweep along his tail; We'll pull his plumes and take away his train, If Dauphin and the rest will be but rul'd. CHARLES. We have guided by thee hitherto, And of thy cunning had no diffidence; One sudden foil shall never breed distrust BASTARD. Search out thy wit for secret policies, And we will make thee famous through the world. ALENCON. We'll set thy statue in some holy place, And have thee reverenc'd like a blessed saint. Employ thee, then, sweet virgin, for our good. PUCELLE. Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise: By fair persuasions, mix'd with sug'red words, We will entice the Duke of Burgundy To leave the Talbot and to follow us. CHARLES. Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that, France were no place for Henry's warriors; Nor should that nation boast it so with us, But be extirped from our provinces. ALENCON. For ever should they be expuls'd from France, And not have tide of an earldom here. PUCELLE. Your honours shall perceive how I will work To bring this matter to the wished end. [Drum sounds afar off] Hark! by the sound of drum you may perceive Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward. Here sound an English march. Enter, and pass over at a distance, TALBOT and his forces There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread, And all the troops of English after him. French march. Enter the DUKE OF BURGUNDY and his forces Now in the rearward comes the Duke and his. Fortune in favour makes him lag behind. Summon a parley; we will talk with him. [Trumpets sound a parley] CHARLES. A parley with the Duke of Burgundy! BURGUNDY. Who craves a parley with the Burgundy? PUCELLE. The princely Charles of France, thy countryman. BURGUNDY. What say'st thou, Charles? for I am marching hence. CHARLES. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words. PUCELLE. Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France! Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee. BURGUNDY. Speak on; but be not over-tedious. PUCELLE. Look on thy country, look on fertile France, And see the cities and the towns defac'd By wasting ruin of the cruel foe; As looks the mother on her lowly babe When death doth close his tender dying eyes, See, see the pining malady of France; Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds, Which thou thyself hast given her woeful breast. O, turn thy edged sword another way; Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help! One drop of blood drawn from thy country's bosom Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore. Return thee therefore with a flood of tears, And wash away thy country's stained spots. BURGUNDY. Either she hath bewitch'd me with her words, Or nature makes me suddenly relent. PUCELLE. Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee, Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny. Who join'st thou with but with a lordly nation That will not trust thee but for profit's sake? When Talbot hath set footing once in France, And fashion'd thee that instrument of ill, Who then but English Henry will be lord, And thou be thrust out like a fugitive? Call we to mind-and mark but this for proof: Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe? And was he not in England prisoner? But when they heard he was thine enemy They set him free without his ransom paid, In spite of Burgundy and all his friends. See then, thou fight'st against thy countrymen, And join'st with them will be thy slaughtermen. Come, come, return; return, thou wandering lord; Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms. BURGUNDY. I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers Have batt'red me like roaring cannon-shot And made me almost yield upon my knees. Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace. My forces and my power of men are yours; So, farewell, Talbot; I'll no longer trust thee. PUCELLE. Done like a Frenchman- [Aside] turn and turn again. CHARLES. Welcome, brave Duke! Thy friendship makes us fresh. BASTARD. And doth beget new courage in our breasts. ALENCON. Pucelle hath bravely play'd her part in this, And doth deserve a coronet of gold. CHARLES. Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers, And seek how we may prejudice the foe. Exeunt SCENE 4. Paris. The palace
Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, WINCHESTER, YORK,
SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WARWICK, EXETER,
VERNON, BASSET, and others. To them, with
his soldiers, TALBOT
TALBOT. My gracious Prince, and honourable peers, Hearing of your arrival in this realm, I have awhile given truce unto my wars To do my duty to my sovereign; In sign whereof, this arm that hath reclaim'd To your obedience fifty fortresses, Twelve cities, and seven walled towns of strength, Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem, Lets fall his sword before your Highness' feet, And with submissive loyalty of heart Ascribes the glory of his conquest got First to my God and next unto your Grace. [Kneels] KING HENRY. Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester, That hath so long been resident in France? GLOUCESTER. Yes, if it please your Majesty, my liege. KING HENRY. Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord! When I was young, as yet I am not old, I do remember how my father said A stouter champion never handled sword. Long since we were resolved of your truth, Your faithful service, and your toil in war; Yet never have you tasted our reward, Or been reguerdon'd with so much as thanks, Because till now we never saw your face. Therefore stand up; and for these good deserts We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury; And in our coronation take your place. Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but VERNON and BASSET VERNON. Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea, Disgracing of these colours that I wear In honour of my noble Lord of York Dar'st thou maintain the former words thou spak'st? BASSET. Yes, sir; as well as you dare patronage The envious barking of your saucy tongue Against my lord the Duke of Somerset. VERNON. Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is. BASSET. Why, what is he? As good a man as York! VERNON. Hark ye: not so. In witness, take ye that. [Strikes him] BASSET. Villain, thou knowest the law of arms is such That whoso draws a sword 'tis present death, Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood. But I'll unto his Majesty and crave I may have liberty to venge this wrong; When thou shalt see I'll meet thee to thy cost. VERNON. Well, miscreant, I'll be there as soon as you; And, after, meet you sooner than you would. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 1. Park. The palace
Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, WINCHESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WARWICK, TALBOT, EXETER, the GOVERNOR OF PARIS, and others GLOUCESTER. Lord Bishop, set the crown upon his head. WINCHESTER. God save King Henry, of that name the Sixth! GLOUCESTER. Now, Governor of Paris, take your oath [GOVERNOR kneels] That you elect no other king but him, Esteem none friends but such as are his friends, And none your foes but such as shall pretend Malicious practices against his state. This shall ye do, so help you righteous God! Exeunt GOVERNOR and his train Enter SIR JOHN FASTOLFE
FASTOLFE. My gracious sovereign, as I rode from Calais, To haste unto your coronation, A letter was deliver'd to my hands, Writ to your Grace from th' Duke of Burgundy. TALBOT. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee! I vow'd, base knight, when I did meet thee next To tear the Garter from thy craven's leg, [Plucking it off] Which I have done, because unworthily Thou wast installed in that high degree. Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest: This dastard, at the battle of Patay, When but in all I was six thousand strong, And that the French were almost ten to one, Before we met or that a stroke was given, Like to a trusty squire did run away; In which assault we lost twelve hundred men; Myself and divers gentlemen beside Were there surpris'd and taken prisoners. Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss, Or whether that such cowards ought to wear This ornament of knighthood-yea or no. GLOUCESTER. To say the truth, this fact was infamous And ill beseeming any common man, Much more a knight, a captain, and a leader. TALBOT. When first this order was ordain'd, my lords, Knights of the Garter were of noble birth, Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage, Such as were grown to credit by the wars; Not fearing death nor shrinking for distress, But always resolute in most extremes. He then that is not furnish'd in this sort Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight, Profaning this most honourable order, And should, if I were worthy to be judge, Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain That doth presume to boast of gentle blood. KING HENRY. Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear'st thy doom. Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight; Henceforth we banish thee on pain of death. Exit FASTOLFE And now, my Lord Protector, view the letter Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy. GLOUCESTER. [Viewing the superscription] What means his Grace, that he hath chang'd his style? No more but plain and bluntly 'To the King!' Hath he forgot he is his sovereign? Or doth this churlish superscription Pretend some alteration in good-will? What's here? [Reads] 'I have, upon especial cause, Mov'd with compassion of my country's wreck, Together with the pitiful complaints Of such as your oppression feeds upon, Forsaken your pernicious faction, And join'd with Charles, the rightful King of France.' O monstrous treachery! Can this be so That in alliance, amity, and oaths, There should be found such false dissembling guile? KING HENRY. What! Doth my uncle Burgundy revolt? GLOUCESTER. He doth, my lord, and is become your foe. KING HENRY. Is that the worst this letter doth contain? GLOUCESTER. It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes. KING HENRY. Why then Lord Talbot there shall talk with him And give him chastisement for this abuse. How say you, my lord, are you not content? TALBOT. Content, my liege! Yes; but that I am prevented, I should have begg'd I might have been employ'd. KING HENRY. Then gather strength and march unto him straight; Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason. And what offence it is to flout his friends. TALBOT. I go, my lord, in heart desiring still You may behold confusion of your foes. Exit Enter VERNON and BASSET
VERNON. Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign. BASSET. And me, my lord, grant me the combat too. YORK. This is my servant: hear him, noble Prince. SOMERSET. And this is mine: sweet Henry, favour him. KING HENRY. Be patient, lords, and give them leave to speak. Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim, And wherefore crave you combat, or with whom? VERNON. With him, my lord; for he hath done me wrong. BASSET. And I with him; for he hath done me wrong. KING HENRY. What is that wrong whereof you both complain? First let me know, and then I'll answer you. BASSET. Crossing the sea from England into France, This fellow here, with envious carping tongue, Upbraided me about the rose I wear, Saying the sanguine colour of the leaves Did represent my master's blushing cheeks When stubbornly he did repugn the truth About a certain question in the law Argu'd betwixt the Duke of York and him; With other vile and ignominious terms In confutation of which rude reproach And in defence of my lord's worthiness, I crave the benefit of law of arms. VERNON. And that is my petition, noble lord; For though he seem with forged quaint conceit To set a gloss upon his bold intent, Yet know, my lord, I was provok'd by him, And he first took exceptions at this badge, Pronouncing that the paleness of this flower Bewray'd the faintness of my master's heart. YORK. Will not this malice, Somerset, be left? SOMERSET. Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will out, Though ne'er so cunningly you smother it. KING HENRY. Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men, When for so slight and frivolous a cause Such factious emulations shall arise! Good cousins both, of York and Somerset, Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace. YORK. Let this dissension first be tried by fight, And then your Highness shall command a peace. SOMERSET. The quarrel toucheth none but us alone; Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then. YORK. There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset. VERNON. Nay, let it rest where it began at first. BASSET. Confirm it so, mine honourable lord. GLOUCESTER. Confirm it so? Confounded be your strife; And perish ye, with your audacious prate! Presumptuous vassals, are you not asham'd With this immodest clamorous outrage To trouble and disturb the King and us? And you, my lords- methinks you do not well To bear with their perverse objections, Much less to take occasion from their mouths To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves. Let me persuade you take a better course. EXETER. It grieves his Highness. Good my lords, be friends. KING HENRY. Come hither, you that would be combatants: Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour, Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause. And you, my lords, remember where we are: In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation; If they perceive dissension in our looks And that within ourselves we disagree, How will their grudging stomachs be provok'd To wilful disobedience, and rebel! Beside, what infamy will there arise When foreign princes shall be certified That for a toy, a thing of no regard, King Henry's peers and chief nobility Destroy'd themselves and lost the realm of France! O, think upon the conquest of my father, My tender years; and let us not forgo That for a trifle that was bought with blood! Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife. I see no reason, if I wear this rose, [Putting on a red rose] That any one should therefore be suspicious I more incline to Somerset than York: Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both. As well they may upbraid me with my crown, Because, forsooth, the King of Scots is crown'd. But your discretions better can persuade Than I am able to instruct or teach; And, therefore, as we hither came in peace, So let us still continue peace and love. Cousin of York, we institute your Grace To be our Regent in these parts of France. And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot; And like true subjects, sons of your progenitors, Go cheerfully together and digest Your angry choler on your enemies. Ourself, my Lord Protector, and the rest, After some respite will return to Calais; From thence to England, where I hope ere long To be presented by your victories With Charles, Alencon, and that traitorous rout. Flourish. Exeunt all but YORK, WARWICK, EXETER, VERNON WARWICK. My Lord of York, I promise you, the King Prettily, methought, did play the orator. YORK. And so he did; but yet I like it not, In that he wears the badge of Somerset. WARWICK. Tush, that was but his fancy; blame him not; I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm. YORK. An if I wist he did-but let it rest; Other affairs must now be managed. Exeunt all but EXETER EXETER. Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice; For had the passions of thy heart burst out, I fear we should have seen decipher'd there More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils, Than yet can be imagin'd or suppos'd. But howsoe'er, no simple man that sees This jarring discord of nobility, This shouldering of each other in the court, This factious bandying of their favourites, But that it doth presage some ill event. 'Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands; But more when envy breeds unkind division: There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. Exit SCENE 2. France. Before Bordeaux
Enter TALBOT, with trump and drum
TALBOT. Go to the gates of Bordeaux, trumpeter; Summon their general unto the wall. Trumpet sounds a parley. Enter, aloft, the GENERAL OF THE FRENCH, and others English John Talbot, Captains, calls you forth, Servant in arms to Harry King of England; And thus he would open your city gates, Be humble to us, call my sovereignvours And do him homage as obedient subjects, And I'll withdraw me and my bloody power; But if you frown upon this proffer'd peace, You tempt the fury of my three attendants, Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire; Who in a moment even with the earth Shall lay your stately and air braving towers, If you forsake the offer of their love. GENERAL OF THE FRENCH. Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, Our nation's terror and their bloody scourge! The period of thy tyranny approacheth. On us thou canst not enter but by death; For, I protest, we are well fortified, And strong enough to issue out and fight. If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee. On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch'd To wall thee from the liberty of flight, And no way canst thou turn thee for redress But death doth front thee with apparent spoil And pale destruction meets thee in the face. Ten thousand French have ta'en the sacrament To rive their dangerous artillery Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. Lo, there thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man, Of an invincible unconquer'd spirit! This is the latest glory of thy praise That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; For ere the glass that now begins to run Finish the process of his sandy hour, These eyes that see thee now well coloured Shall see thee withered, bloody, pale, and dead. [Drum afar off] Hark! hark! The Dauphin's drum, a warning bell, Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. Exit TALBOT. He fables not; I hear the enemy. Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings. O, negligent and heedless discipline! How are we park'd and bounded in a pale A little herd of England's timorous deer, Maz'd with a yelping kennel of French curs! If we be English deer, be then in blood; Not rascal-like to fall down with a pinch, But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags, Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel And make the cowards stand aloof at bay. Sell every man his life as dear as mine, And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends. God and Saint George, Talbot and England's right, Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! Exeunt SCENE 3. Plains in Gascony
Enter YORK, with trumpet and many soldiers. A
MESSENGER meets him
YORK. Are not the speedy scouts return'd again That dogg'd the mighty army of the Dauphin? MESSENGER. They are return'd, my lord, and give it out That he is march'd to Bordeaux with his power To fight with Talbot; as he march'd along, By your espials were discovered Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led, Which join'd with him and made their march for Bordeaux. YORK. A plague upon that villain Somerset That thus delays my promised supply Of horsemen that were levied for this siege! Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid, And I am louted by a traitor villain And cannot help the noble chevalier. God comfort him in this necessity! If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY
LUCY. Thou princely leader of our English strength, Never so needful on the earth of France, Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot, Who now is girdled with a waist of iron And hemm'd about with grim destruction. To Bordeaux, warlike Duke! to Bordeaux, York! Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England's honour. YORK. O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place! So should we save a valiant gentleman By forfeiting a traitor and a coward. Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep That thus we die while remiss traitors sleep. LUCY. O, send some succour to the distress'd lord! YORK. He dies; we lose; I break my warlike word. We mourn: France smiles. We lose: they daily get- All long of this vile traitor Somerset. LUCY. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's soul, And on his son, young John, who two hours since I met in travel toward his warlike father. This seven years did not Talbot see his son; And now they meet where both their lives are done. YORK. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have To bid his young son welcome to his grave? Away! vexation almost stops my breath, That sund'red friends greet in the hour of death. Lucy, farewell; no more my fortune can But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away Long all of Somerset and his delay. Exit with forces LUCY. Thus, while the vulture of sedition Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders, Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror, That ever-living man of memory, Henry the Fifth. Whiles they each other cross, Lives, honours, lands, and all, hurry to loss. Exit SCENE 4. Other plains of Gascony
Enter SOMERSET, With his forces; an OFFICER of
TALBOT'S with him
SOMERSET. It is too late; I cannot send them now. This expedition was by York and Talbot Too rashly plotted; all our general force Might with a sally of the very town Be buckled with. The over daring Talbot Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure. York set him on to fight and die in shame. That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name. OFFICER. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me Set from our o'er-match'd forces forth for aid. Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY
SOMERSET. How now, Sir William! Whither were you sent? LUCY. Whither, my lord! From bought and sold Lord Talbot, Who, ring'd about with bold adversity, Cries out for noble York and Somerset To beat assailing death from his weak legions; And whiles the honourable captain there Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs And, in advantage ling'ring, looks for rescue, You, his false hopes, the trust of England's honour, Keep off aloof with worthless emulation. Let not your private discord keep away The levied succours that should lend him aid, While he, renowned noble gentleman, Yield up his life unto a world of odds. Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy, Alencon, Reignier, compass him about, And Talbot perisheth by your default. SOMERSET. York set him on; York should have sent him aid. LUCY. And York as fast upon your Grace exclaims, Swearing that you withhold his levied host, Collected for this expedition. SOMERSET. York lies; he might have sent and had the horse. I owe him little duty and less love, And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending. LUCY. The fraud of England, not the force of France, Hath now entrapp'd the noble minded Talbot. Never to England shall he bear his life, But dies betray'd to fortune by your strife. SOMERSET. Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen straight; Within six hours they will be at his aid. LUCY. Too late comes rescue; he is ta'en or slain, For fly he could not if he would have fled; And fly would Talbot never, though he might. SOMERSET. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then, adieu! LUCY. His fame lives in the world, his shame in you. Exeunt SCENE 5. The English camp near Bordeaux
Enter TALBOT and JOHN his son
TALBOT. O young John Talbot! I did send for thee To tutor thee in stratagems of war, That Talbot's name might be in thee reviv'd When sapless age and weak unable limbs Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. But, O malignant and ill-boding stars! Now thou art come unto a feast of death, A terrible and unavoided danger; Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse, And I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape By sudden flight. Come, dally not, be gone. JOHN. Is my name Talbot, and am I your son? And shall I fly? O, if you love my mother, Dishonour not her honourable name, To make a bastard and a slave of me! The world will say he is not Talbot's blood That basely fled when noble Talbot stood. TALBOT. Fly to revenge my death, if I be slain. JOHN. He that flies so will ne'er return again. TALBOT. If we both stay, we both are sure to die. JOHN. Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly. Your loss is great, so your regard should be; My worth unknown, no loss is known in me; Upon my death the French can little boast; In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost. Flight cannot stain the honour you have won; But mine it will, that no exploit have done; You fled for vantage, every one will swear; But if I bow, they'll say it was for fear. There is no hope that ever I will stay If the first hour I shrink and run away. Here, on my knee, I beg mortality, Rather than life preserv'd with infamy. TALBOT. Shall all thy mother's hopes lie in one tomb? JOHN. Ay, rather than I'll shame my mother's womb. TALBOT. Upon my blessing I command thee go. JOHN. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe. TALBOT. Part of thy father may be sav'd in thee. JOHN. No part of him but will be shame in me. TALBOT. Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it. JOHN. Yes, your renowned name; shall flight abuse it? TALBOT. Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that stain. JOHN. You cannot witness for me, being slain. If death be so apparent, then both fly. TALBOT. And leave my followers here to fight and die? My age was never tainted with such shame. JOHN. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame? No more can I be severed from your side Than can yourself yourself yourself in twain divide. Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; For live I will not if my father die. TALBOT. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon. Come, side by side together live and die; And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. Exeunt SCENE 6. A field of battle
Alarum: excursions wherein JOHN TALBOT is hemm'd
about, and TALBOT rescues him
TALBOT. Saint George and victory! Fight, soldiers, fight. The Regent hath with Talbot broke his word And left us to the rage of France his sword. Where is John Talbot? Pause and take thy breath; I gave thee life and rescu'd thee from death. JOHN. O, twice my father, twice am I thy son! The life thou gav'st me first was lost and done Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate, To my determin'd time thou gav'st new date. TALBOT. When from the Dauphin's crest thy sword struck fire, It warm'd thy father's heart with proud desire Of bold-fac'd victory. Then leaden age, Quicken'd with youthful spleen and warlike rage, Beat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee. The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soon encountered And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed Some of his bastard blood; and in disgrace Bespoke him thus: 'Contaminated, base, And misbegotten blood I spill of thine, Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy.' Here purposing the Bastard to destroy, Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father's care; Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou fare? Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, Now thou art seal'd the son of chivalry? Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead: The help of one stands me in little stead. O, too much folly is it, well I wot, To hazard all our lives in one small boat! If I to-day die not with Frenchmen's rage, To-morrow I shall die with mickle age. By me they nothing gain an if I stay: 'Tis but the short'ning of my life one day. In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame. All these and more we hazard by thy stay; All these are sav'd if thou wilt fly away. JOHN. The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart; These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart. On that advantage, bought with such a shame, To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, The coward horse that bears me fall and die! And like me to the peasant boys of France, To be shame's scorn and subject of mischance! Surely, by all the glory you have won, An if I fly, I am not Talbot's son; Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; If son to Talbot, die at Talbot's foot. TALBOT. Then follow thou thy desp'rate sire of Crete, Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet. If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's side; And, commendable prov'd, let's die in pride. Exeunt SCENE 7. Another part of the field
Alarum; excursions. Enter old TALBOT led by a SERVANT
TALBOT. Where is my other life? Mine own is gone. O, where's young Talbot? Where is valiant John? Triumphant death, smear'd with captivity, Young Talbot's valour makes me smile at thee. When he perceiv'd me shrink and on my knee, His bloody sword he brandish'd over me, And like a hungry lion did commence Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience; But when my angry guardant stood alone, Tend'ring my ruin and assail'd of none, Dizzy-ey'd fury and great rage of heart Suddenly made him from my side to start Into the clust'ring battle of the French; And in that sea of blood my boy did drench His overmounting spirit; and there died, My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. Enter soldiers, bearing the body of JOHN TALBOT
SERVANT. O my dear lord, lo where your son is borne! TALBOT. Thou antic Death, which laugh'st us here to scorn, Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, In thy despite shall scape mortality. O thou whose wounds become hard-favoured Death, Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath! Brave Death by speaking, whether he will or no; Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say, Had Death been French, then Death had died to-day. Come, come, and lay him in his father's arms. My spirit can no longer bear these harms. Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave. [Dies] Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BURGUNDY, BASTARD, LA PUCELLE, and forces CHARLES. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in, We should have found a bloody day of this. BASTARD. How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging wood, Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood! PUCELLE. Once I encount'red him, and thus I said: 'Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by a maid.' But with a proud majestical high scorn He answer'd thus: 'Young Talbot was not born To be the pillage of a giglot wench.' So, rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. BURGUNDY. Doubtless he would have made a noble knight. See where he lies inhearsed in the arms Of the most bloody nurser of his harms! BASTARD. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder, Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder. CHARLES. O, no; forbear! For that which we have fled During the life, let us not wrong it dead. Enter SIR WILLIAM Lucy, attended; a FRENCH HERALD preceding LUCY. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent, To know who hath obtain'd the glory of the day. CHARLES. On what submissive message art thou sent? LUCY. Submission, Dauphin! 'Tis a mere French word: We English warriors wot not what it means. I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta'en, And to survey the bodies of the dead. CHARLES. For prisoners ask'st thou? Hell our prison is. But tell me whom thou seek'st. LUCY. But where's the great Alcides of the field, Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Created for his rare success in arms Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence, Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge, Knight of the noble order of Saint George, Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece, Great Marshal to Henry the Sixth Of all his wars within the realm of France? PUCELLE. Here's a silly-stately style indeed! The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, Writes not so tedious a style as this. Him that thou magnifi'st with all these tides, Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. LUCY. Is Talbot slain-the Frenchmen's only scourge, Your kingdom's terror and black Nemesis? O, were mine eye-bans into bullets turn'd, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! O that I could but can these dead to life! It were enough to fright the realm of France. Were but his picture left amongst you here, It would amaze the proudest of you all. Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence And give them burial as beseems their worth. PUCELLE. I think this upstart is old Talbot's ghost, He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit. For God's sake, let him have them; to keep them here, They would but stink, and putrefy the air. CHARLES. Go, take their bodies hence. LUCY. I'll bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be rear'd A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. CHARLES. So we be rid of them, do with them what thou wilt. And now to Paris in this conquering vein! All will be ours, now bloody Talbot's slain. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 1. London. The palace
Sennet. Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, and EXETER
KING HENRY. Have you perus'd the letters from the Pope, The Emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac? GLOUCESTER. I have, my lord; and their intent is this: They humbly sue unto your Excellence To have a godly peace concluded of Between the realms of England and of France. KING HENRY. How doth your Grace affect their motion? GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, and as the only means To stop effusion of our Christian blood And stablish quietness on every side. KING HENRY. Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought It was both impious and unnatural That such immanity and bloody strife Should reign among professors of one faith. GLOUCESTER. Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect And surer bind this knot of amity, The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles, A man of great authority in France, Proffers his only daughter to your Grace In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry. KING HENRY. Marriage, uncle! Alas, my years are young And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. Yet call th' ambassadors, and, as you please, So let them have their answers every one. I shall be well content with any choice Tends to God's glory and my country's weal. Enter in Cardinal's habit BEAUFORT, the PAPAL LEGATE, and two AMBASSADORS EXETER. What! Is my Lord of Winchester install'd And call'd unto a cardinal's degree? Then I perceive that will be verified Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy: 'If once he come to be a cardinal, He'll make his cap co-equal with the crown.' KING HENRY. My Lords Ambassadors, your several suits Have been consider'd and debated on. Your purpose is both good and reasonable, And therefore are we certainly resolv'd To draw conditions of a friendly peace, Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean Shall be transported presently to France. GLOUCESTER. And for the proffer of my lord your master, I have inform'd his Highness so at large, As, liking of the lady's virtuous gifts, Her beauty, and the value of her dower, He doth intend she shall be England's Queen. KING HENRY. [To AMBASSADOR] In argument and proof of which contract, Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection. And so, my Lord Protector, see them guarded And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp'd, Commit them to the fortune of the sea. Exeunt all but WINCHESTER and the LEGATE WINCHESTER. Stay, my Lord Legate; you shall first receive The sum of money which I promised Should be delivered to his Holiness For clothing me in these grave ornaments. LEGATE. I will attend upon your lordship's leisure. WINCHESTER. [Aside] Now Winchester will not submit, I trow, Or be inferior to the proudest peer. Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive That neither in birth or for authority The Bishop will be overborne by thee. I'll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee, Or sack this country with a mutiny. Exeunt SCENE 2. France. Plains in Anjou
Enter CHARLES, BURGUNDY, ALENCON, BASTARD,
REIGNIER, LA PUCELLE, and forces
CHARLES. These news, my lords, may cheer our drooping spirits: 'Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt And turn again unto the warlike French. ALENCON. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France, And keep not back your powers in dalliance. PUCELLE. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us; Else ruin combat with their palaces! Enter a SCOUT
SCOUT. Success unto our valiant general, And happiness to his accomplices! CHARLES. What tidings send our scouts? I prithee speak. SCOUT. The English army, that divided was Into two parties, is now conjoin'd in one, And means to give you battle presently. CHARLES. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is; But we will presently provide for them. BURGUNDY. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there. Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear. PUCELLE. Of all base passions fear is most accurs'd. Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine, Let Henry fret and all the world repine. CHARLES. Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate! Exeunt SCENE 3. Before Angiers
Alarum, excursions. Enter LA PUCELLE
PUCELLE. The Regent conquers and the Frenchmen fly. Now help, ye charming spells and periapts; And ye choice spirits that admonish me And give me signs of future accidents; [Thunder] You speedy helpers that are substitutes Under the lordly monarch of the north, Appear and aid me in this enterprise! Enter FIENDS
This speedy and quick appearance argues proof
Of your accustom'd diligence to me.
Now, ye familiar spirits that are cull'd
Out of the powerful regions under earth,
Help me this once, that France may get the field.
[They walk and speak not]
O, hold me not with silence over-long!
Where I was wont to feed you with my blood,
I'll lop a member off and give it you
In earnest of a further benefit,
So you do condescend to help me now.
[They hang their heads]
No hope to have redress? My body shall
Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit.
[They shake their heads]
Cannot my body nor blood sacrifice
Entreat you to your wonted furtherance?
Then take my soul-my body, soul, and all,
Before that England give the French the foil.
[They depart]
See! they forsake me. Now the time is come
That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest
And let her head fall into England's lap.
My ancient incantations are too weak,
And hell too strong for me to buckle with.
Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust. Exit
Excursions. Enter French and English, fighting.
LA PUCELLE and YORK fight hand to hand; LA PUCELLE
is taken. The French fly
YORK. Damsel of France, I think I have you fast. Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms, And try if they can gain your liberty. A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace! See how the ugly witch doth bend her brows As if, with Circe, she would change my shape! PUCELLE. Chang'd to a worser shape thou canst not be. YORK. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man: No shape but his can please your dainty eye. PUCELLE. A plaguing mischief fight on Charles and thee! And may ye both be suddenly surpris'd By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds! YORK. Fell banning hag; enchantress, hold thy tongue. PUCELLE. I prithee give me leave to curse awhile. YORK. Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake. Exeunt Alarum. Enter SUFFOLK, with MARGARET in his hand
SUFFOLK. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner. [Gazes on her] O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly! For I will touch thee but with reverent hands; I kiss these fingers for eternal peace, And lay them gently on thy tender side. Who art thou? Say, that I may honour thee. MARGARET. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king, The King of Naples-whosoe'er thou art. SUFFOLK. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call'd. Be not offended, nature's miracle, Thou art allotted to be ta'en by me. So doth the swan her downy cygnets save, Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings. Yet, if this servile usage once offend, Go and be free again as Suffolk's friend. [She is going] O, stay! [Aside] I have no power to let her pass; My hand would free her, but my heart says no. As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, Twinkling another counterfeited beam, So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak. I'll call for pen and ink, and write my mind. Fie, de la Pole! disable not thyself; Hast not a tongue? Is she not here thy prisoner? Wilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight? Ay, beauty's princely majesty is such Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough. MARGARET. Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so, What ransom must I pay before I pass? For I perceive I am thy prisoner. SUFFOLK. [Aside] How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit, Before thou make a trial of her love? MARGARET. Why speak'st thou not? What ransom must I pay? SUFFOLK. [Aside] She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd; She is a woman, therefore to be won. MARGARET. Wilt thou accept of ransom-yea or no? SUFFOLK. [Aside] Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife; Then how can Margaret be thy paramour? MARGARET. I were best leave him, for he will not hear. SUFFOLK. [Aside] There all is marr'd; there lies a cooling card. MARGARET. He talks at random; sure, the man is mad. SUFFOLK. [Aside] And yet a dispensation may be had. MARGARET. And yet I would that you would answer me. SUFFOLK. [Aside] I'll win this Lady Margaret. For whom? Why, for my King! Tush, that's a wooden thing! MARGARET. He talks of wood. It is some carpenter. SUFFOLK. [Aside] Yet so my fancy may be satisfied, And peace established between these realms. But there remains a scruple in that too; For though her father be the King of Naples, Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor, And our nobility will scorn the match. MARGARET. Hear ye, Captain-are you not at leisure? SUFFOLK. [Aside] It shall be so, disdain they ne'er so much. Henry is youthful, and will quickly yield. Madam, I have a secret to reveal. MARGARET. [Aside] What though I be enthrall'd? He seems a knight, And will not any way dishonour me. SUFFOLK. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say. MARGARET. [Aside] Perhaps I shall be rescu'd by the French; And then I need not crave his courtesy. SUFFOLK. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause MARGARET. [Aside] Tush! women have been captivate ere now. SUFFOLK. Lady, wherefore talk you so? MARGARET. I cry you mercy, 'tis but quid for quo. SUFFOLK. Say, gentle Princess, would you not suppose Your bondage happy, to be made a queen? MARGARET. To be a queen in bondage is more vile Than is a slave in base servility; For princes should be free. SUFFOLK. And so shall you, If happy England's royal king be free. MARGARET. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me? SUFFOLK. I'll undertake to make thee Henry's queen, To put a golden sceptre in thy hand And set a precious crown upon thy head, If thou wilt condescend to be my- MARGARET. What? SUFFOLK. His love. MARGARET. I am unworthy to be Henry's wife. SUFFOLK. No, gentle madam; I unworthy am To woo so fair a dame to be his wife And have no portion in the choice myself. How say you, madam? Are ye so content? MARGARET. An if my father please, I am content. SUFFOLK. Then call our captains and our colours forth! And, madam, at your father's castle walls We'll crave a parley to confer with him. Sound a parley. Enter REIGNIER on the walls
See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner!
REIGNIER. To whom? SUFFOLK. To me. REIGNIER. Suffolk, what remedy? I am a soldier and unapt to weep Or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness. SUFFOLK. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord. Consent, and for thy honour give consent, Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king, Whom I with pain have woo'd and won thereto; And this her easy-held imprisonment Hath gain'd thy daughter princely liberty. REIGNIER. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks? SUFFOLK. Fair Margaret knows That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign. REIGNIER. Upon thy princely warrant I descend To give thee answer of thy just demand. Exit REIGNIER from the walls SUFFOLK. And here I will expect thy coming. Trumpets sound. Enter REIGNIER below
REIGNIER. Welcome, brave Earl, into our territories; Command in Anjou what your Honour pleases. SUFFOLK. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child, Fit to be made companion with a king. What answer makes your Grace unto my suit? REIGNIER. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth To be the princely bride of such a lord, Upon condition I may quietly Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou, Free from oppression or the stroke of war, My daughter shall be Henry's, if he please. SUFFOLK. That is her ransom; I deliver her. And those two counties I will undertake Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy. REIGNIER. And I again, in Henry's royal name, As deputy unto that gracious king, Give thee her hand for sign of plighted faith. SUFFOLK. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks, Because this is in traffic of a king. [Aside] And yet, methinks, I could be well content To be mine own attorney in this case. I'll over then to England with this news, And make this marriage to be solemniz'd. So, farewell, Reignier. Set this diamond safe In golden palaces, as it becomes. REIGNIER. I do embrace thee as I would embrace The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here. MARGARET. Farewell, my lord. Good wishes, praise, and prayers, Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [She is going] SUFFOLK. Farewell, sweet madam. But hark you, Margaret No princely commendations to my king? MARGARET. Such commendations as becomes a maid, A virgin, and his servant, say to him. SUFFOLK. Words sweetly plac'd and modestly directed. But, madam, I must trouble you again No loving token to his Majesty? MARGARET. Yes, my good lord: a pure unspotted heart, Never yet taint with love, I send the King. SUFFOLK. And this withal. [Kisses her] MARGARET. That for thyself, I will not so presume To send such peevish tokens to a king. Exeunt REIGNIER and MARGARET SUFFOLK. O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay; Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth: There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk. Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise. Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount, And natural graces that extinguish art; Repeat their semblance often on the seas, That, when thou com'st to kneel at Henry's feet, Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder. Exit SCENE 4. Camp of the DUKE OF YORK in Anjou
Enter YORK, WARWICK, and others
YORK. Bring forth that sorceress, condemn'd to burn. Enter LA PUCELLE, guarded, and a SHEPHERD
SHEPHERD. Ah, Joan, this kills thy father's heart outright! Have I sought every country far and near, And, now it is my chance to find thee out, Must I behold thy timeless cruel death? Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I'll die with thee! PUCELLE. Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch! I am descended of a gentler blood; Thou art no father nor no friend of mine. SHEPHERD. Out, out! My lords, an please you, 'tis not so; I did beget her, all the parish knows. Her mother liveth yet, can testify She was the first fruit of my bach'lorship. WARWICK. Graceless, wilt thou deny thy parentage? YORK. This argues what her kind of life hath been- Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes. SHEPHERD. Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle! God knows thou art a collop of my flesh; And for thy sake have I shed many a tear. Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan. PUCELLE. Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn'd this man Of purpose to obscure my noble birth. SHEPHERD. 'Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest The morn that I was wedded to her mother. Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl. Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time Of thy nativity. I would the milk Thy mother gave thee when thou suck'dst her breast Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake. Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs afield, I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee. Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab? O, burn her, burn her! Hanging is too good. Exit YORK. Take her away; for she hath liv'd too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities. PUCELLE. First let me tell you whom you have condemn'd: Not me begotten of a shepherd swain, But issued from the progeny of kings; Virtuous and holy, chosen from above By inspiration of celestial grace, To work exceeding miracles on earth. I never had to do with wicked spirits. But you, that are polluted with your lusts, Stain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents, Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, Because you want the grace that others have, You judge it straight a thing impossible To compass wonders but by help of devils. No, misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been A virgin from her tender infancy, Chaste and immaculate in very thought; Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effus'd, Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven. YORK. Ay, ay. Away with her to execution! WARWICK. And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid, Spare for no fagots, let there be enow. Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake, That so her torture may be shortened. PUCELLE. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts? Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity That warranteth by law to be thy privilege: I am with child, ye bloody homicides; Murder not then the fruit within my womb, Although ye hale me to a violent death. YORK. Now heaven forfend! The holy maid with child! WARWICK. The greatest miracle that e'er ye wrought: Is all your strict preciseness come to this? YORK. She and the Dauphin have been juggling. I did imagine what would be her refuge. WARWICK. Well, go to; we'll have no bastards live; Especially since Charles must father it. PUCELLE. You are deceiv'd; my child is none of his: It was Alencon that enjoy'd my love. YORK. Alencon, that notorious Machiavel! It dies, an if it had a thousand lives. PUCELLE. O, give me leave, I have deluded you. 'Twas neither Charles nor yet the Duke I nam'd, But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail'd. WARWICK. A married man! That's most intolerable. YORK. Why, here's a girl! I think she knows not well There were so many-whom she may accuse. WARWICK. It's sign she hath been liberal and free. YORK. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure. Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee. Use no entreaty, for it is in vain. PUCELLE. Then lead me hence-with whom I leave my curse: May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode; But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you, till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves! Exit, guarded YORK. Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes, Thou foul accursed minister of hell! Enter CARDINAL BEAUFORT, attended
CARDINAL. Lord Regent, I do greet your Excellence With letters of commission from the King. For know, my lords, the states of Christendom, Mov'd with remorse of these outrageous broils, Have earnestly implor'd a general peace Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French; And here at hand the Dauphin and his train Approacheth, to confer about some matter. YORK. Is all our travail turn'd to this effect? After the slaughter of so many peers, So many captains, gentlemen, and soldiers, That in this quarrel have been overthrown And sold their bodies for their country's benefit, Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace? Have we not lost most part of all the towns, By treason, falsehood, and by treachery, Our great progenitors had conquered? O Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief The utter loss of all the realm of France. WARWICK. Be patient, York. If we conclude a peace, It shall be with such strict and severe covenants As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby. Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BASTARD, REIGNIER, and others
CHARLES. Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed That peaceful truce shall be proclaim'd in France, We come to be informed by yourselves What the conditions of that league must be. YORK. Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes The hollow passage of my poison'd voice, By sight of these our baleful enemies. CARDINAL. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus: That, in regard King Henry gives consent, Of mere compassion and of lenity, To ease your country of distressful war, An suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace, You shall become true liegemen to his crown; And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear To pay him tribute and submit thyself, Thou shalt be plac'd as viceroy under him, And still enjoy thy regal dignity. ALENCON. Must he be then as shadow of himself? Adorn his temples with a coronet And yet, in substance and authority, Retain but privilege of a private man? This proffer is absurd and reasonless. CHARLES. 'Tis known already that I am possess'd With more than half the Gallian territories, And therein reverenc'd for their lawful king. Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish'd, Detract so much from that prerogative As to be call'd but viceroy of the whole? No, Lord Ambassador; I'll rather keep That which I have than, coveting for more, Be cast from possibility of all. YORK. Insulting Charles! Hast thou by secret means Us'd intercession to obtain a league, And now the matter grows to compromise Stand'st thou aloof upon comparison? Either accept the title thou usurp'st, Of benefit proceeding from our king And not of any challenge of desert, Or we will plague thee with incessant wars. REIGNIER. [To CHARLES] My lord, you do not well in obstinacy To cavil in the course of this contract. If once it be neglected, ten to one We shall not find like opportunity. ALENCON. [To CHARLES] To say the truth, it is your policy To save your subjects from such massacre And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen By our proceeding in hostility; And therefore take this compact of a truce, Although you break it when your pleasure serves. WARWICK. How say'st thou, Charles? Shall our condition stand? CHARLES. It shall; Only reserv'd, you claim no interest In any of our towns of garrison. YORK. Then swear allegiance to his Majesty: As thou art knight, never to disobey Nor be rebellious to the crown of England Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England. [CHARLES and the rest give tokens of fealty] So, now dismiss your army when ye please; Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still, For here we entertain a solemn peace. Exeunt SCENE 5. London. The palace
Enter SUFFOLK, in conference with the KING,
GLOUCESTER and EXETER
KING HENRY. Your wondrous rare description, noble Earl, Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish'd me. Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart; And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love. SUFFOLK. Tush, my good lord! This superficial tale Is but a preface of her worthy praise. The chief perfections of that lovely dame, Had I sufficient skill to utter them, Would make a volume of enticing lines, Able to ravish any dull conceit; And, which is more, she is not so divine, So full-replete with choice of all delights, But with as humble lowliness of mind She is content to be at your command Command, I mean, of virtuous intents, To love and honour Henry as her lord. KING HENRY. And otherwise will Henry ne'er presume. Therefore, my Lord Protector, give consent That Margaret may be England's royal Queen. GLOUCESTER. So should I give consent to flatter sin. You know, my lord, your Highness is betroth'd Unto another lady of esteem. How shall we then dispense with that contract, And not deface your honour with reproach? SUFFOLK. As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths; Or one that at a triumph, having vow'd To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists By reason of his adversary's odds: A poor earl's daughter is unequal odds, And therefore may be broke without offence. GLOUCESTER. Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that? Her father is no better than an earl, Although in glorious titles he excel. SUFFOLK. Yes, my lord, her father is a king, The King of Naples and Jerusalem; And of such great authority in France As his alliance will confirm our peace, And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance. GLOUCESTER. And so the Earl of Armagnac may do, Because he is near kinsman unto Charles. EXETER. Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal dower; Where Reignier sooner will receive than give. SUFFOLK. A dow'r, my lords! Disgrace not so your king, That he should be so abject, base, and poor, To choose for wealth and not for perfect love. Henry is able to enrich his queen, And not to seek a queen to make him rich. So worthless peasants bargain for their wives, As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse. Marriage is a matter of more worth Than to be dealt in by attorneyship; Not whom we will, but whom his Grace affects, Must be companion of his nuptial bed. And therefore, lords, since he affects her most, It most of all these reasons bindeth us In our opinions she should be preferr'd; For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace. Whom should we match with Henry, being a king, But Margaret, that is daughter to a king? Her peerless feature, joined with her birth, Approves her fit for none but for a king; Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit, More than in women commonly is seen, Will answer our hope in issue of a king; For Henry, son unto a conqueror, Is likely to beget more conquerors, If with a lady of so high resolve As is fair Margaret he be link'd in love. Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me That Margaret shall be Queen, and none but she. KING HENRY. Whether it be through force of your report, My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that My tender youth was never yet attaint With any passion of inflaming love, I cannot tell; but this I am assur'd, I feel such sharp dissension in my breast, Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear, As I am sick with working of my thoughts. Take therefore shipping; post, my lord, to France; Agree to any covenants; and procure That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come To cross the seas to England, and be crown'd King Henry's faithful and anointed queen. For your expenses and sufficient charge, Among the people gather up a tenth. Be gone, I say; for till you do return I rest perplexed with a thousand cares. And you, good uncle, banish all offence: If you do censure me by what you were, Not what you are, I know it will excuse This sudden execution of my will. And so conduct me where, from company, I may revolve and ruminate my grief. Exit GLOUCESTER. Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last. Exeunt GLOUCESTER and EXETER SUFFOLK. Thus Suffolk hath prevail'd; and thus he goes, As did the youthful Paris once to Greece, With hope to find the like event in love But prosper better than the Troyan did. Margaret shall now be Queen, and rule the King; But I will rule both her, the King, and realm. Exit THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH Dramatis Personae
KING HENRY THE SIXTH HUMPHREY, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, his uncle CARDINAL BEAUFORT, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, great-uncle to the King RICHARD PLANTAGENET, DUKE OF YORK EDWARD and RICHARD, his sons DUKE OF SOMERSET DUKE OF SUFFOLK DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM LORD CLIFFORD YOUNG CLIFFORD, his son EARL OF SALISBURY EARL OF WARWICK LORD SCALES LORD SAY SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD WILLIAM STAFFORD, his brother SIR JOHN STANLEY VAUX MATTHEW GOFFE A LIEUTENANT, a SHIPMASTER, a MASTER'S MATE, and WALTER WHITMORE TWO GENTLEMEN, prisoners with Suffolk JOHN HUME and JOHN SOUTHWELL, two priests ROGER BOLINGBROKE, a conjurer A SPIRIT raised by him THOMAS HORNER, an armourer PETER, his man CLERK OF CHATHAM MAYOR OF SAINT ALBANS SAUNDER SIMPCOX, an impostor ALEXANDER IDEN, a Kentish gentleman JACK CADE, a rebel GEORGE BEVIS, JOHN HOLLAND, DICK THE BUTCHER, SMITH THE WEAVER, MICHAEL, &c., followers of Cade TWO MURDERERS MARGARET, Queen to King Henry ELEANOR, Duchess of Gloucester MARGERY JOURDAIN, a witch WIFE to SIMPCOX Lords, Ladies, and Attendants; Petitioners, Aldermen, a Herald, a Beadle, a Sheriff, Officers, Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c. SCENE: England ACT I. SCENE I. London. The palace Flourish of trumpets; then hautboys. Enter the KING, DUKE HUMPHREY OF GLOUCESTER, SALISBURY, WARWICK, and CARDINAL BEAUFORT, on the one side; the QUEEN, SUFFOLK, YORK, SOMERSET, and BUCKINGHAM, on the other
SUFFOLK. As by your high imperial Majesty I had in charge at my depart for France, As procurator to your Excellence, To marry Princess Margaret for your Grace; So, in the famous ancient city Tours, In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil, The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne, and Alencon, Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty reverend bishops, I have perform'd my task, and was espous'd; And humbly now upon my bended knee, In sight of England and her lordly peers, Deliver up my title in the Queen To your most gracious hands, that are the substance Of that great shadow I did represent: The happiest gift that ever marquis gave, The fairest queen that ever king receiv'd. KING HENRY. Suffolk, arise. Welcome, Queen Margaret: I can express no kinder sign of love Than this kind kiss. O Lord, that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness! For thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts. QUEEN. Great King of England, and my gracious lord, The mutual conference that my mind hath had, By day, by night, waking and in my dreams, In courtly company or at my beads, With you, mine alder-liefest sovereign, Makes me the bolder to salute my king With ruder terms, such as my wit affords And over-joy of heart doth minister. KING HENRY. Her sight did ravish, but her grace in speech, Her words y-clad with wisdom's majesty, Makes me from wond'ring fall to weeping joys, Such is the fulness of my heart's content. Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love. ALL. [Kneeling] Long live Queen Margaret, England's happiness! QUEEN. We thank you all. [Flourish] SUFFOLK. My Lord Protector, so it please your Grace, Here are the articles of contracted peace Between our sovereign and the French King Charles, For eighteen months concluded by consent. GLOUCESTER. [Reads] 'Imprimis: It is agreed between the French King Charles and William de la Pole, Marquess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry King of England, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daughter unto Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia, and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. Item: That the duchy of Anjou and the county of Maine shall be released and delivered to the King her father'- [Lets the paper fall] KING HENRY. Uncle, how now! GLOUCESTER. Pardon me, gracious lord; Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart, And dimm'd mine eyes, that I can read no further. KING HENRY. Uncle of Winchester, I pray read on. CARDINAL. [Reads] 'Item: It is further agreed between them that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered over to the King her father, and she sent over of the King of England's own proper cost and charges, without having any dowry.' KING HENRY. They please us well. Lord Marquess, kneel down. We here create thee the first Duke of Suffolk, And girt thee with the sword. Cousin of York, We here discharge your Grace from being Regent I' th' parts of France, till term of eighteen months Be full expir'd. Thanks, uncle Winchester, Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset, Salisbury, and Warwick; We thank you all for this great favour done In entertainment to my princely queen. Come, let us in, and with all speed provide To see her coronation be perform'd. Exeunt KING, QUEEN, and SUFFOLK GLOUCESTER. Brave peers of England, pillars of the state, To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief Your grief, the common grief of all the land. What! did my brother Henry spend his youth, His valour, coin, and people, in the wars? Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance? And did my brother Bedford toil his wits To keep by policy what Henry got? Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham, Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick, Receiv'd deep scars in France and Normandy? Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself, With all the learned Council of the realm, Studied so long, sat in the Council House Early and late, debating to and fro How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe? And had his Highness in his infancy Crowned in Paris, in despite of foes? And shall these labours and these honours die? Shall Henry's conquest, Bedford's vigilance, Your deeds of war, and all our counsel die? O peers of England, shameful is this league! Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame, Blotting your names from books of memory, Razing the characters of your renown, Defacing monuments of conquer'd France, Undoing all, as all had never been! CARDINAL. Nephew, what means this passionate discourse, This peroration with such circumstance? For France, 'tis ours; and we will keep it still. GLOUCESTER. Ay, uncle, we will keep it if we can; But now it is impossible we should. Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast, Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style Agrees not with the leanness of his purse. SALISBURY. Now, by the death of Him that died for all, These counties were the keys of Normandy! But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son? WARWICK. For grief that they are past recovery; For were there hope to conquer them again My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears. Anjou and Maine! myself did win them both; Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer; And are the cities that I got with wounds Deliver'd up again with peaceful words? Mort Dieu! YORK. For Suffolk's duke, may he be suffocate, That dims the honour of this warlike isle! France should have torn and rent my very heart Before I would have yielded to this league. I never read but England's kings have had Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives; And our King Henry gives away his own To match with her that brings no vantages. GLOUCESTER. A proper jest, and never heard before, That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth For costs and charges in transporting her! She should have stay'd in France, and starv'd in France, Before- CARDINAL. My Lord of Gloucester, now ye grow too hot: It was the pleasure of my lord the King. GLOUCESTER. My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind; 'Tis not my speeches that you do mislike, But 'tis my presence that doth trouble ye. Rancour will out: proud prelate, in thy face I see thy fury; if I longer stay We shall begin our ancient bickerings. Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone, I prophesied France will be lost ere long. Exit CARDINAL. So, there goes our Protector in a rage. 'Tis known to you he is mine enemy; Nay, more, an enemy unto you all, And no great friend, I fear me, to the King. Consider, lords, he is the next of blood And heir apparent to the English crown. Had Henry got an empire by his marriage And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west, There's reason he should be displeas'd at it. Look to it, lords; let not his smoothing words Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect. What though the common people favour him, Calling him 'Humphrey, the good Duke of Gloucester,' Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice 'Jesu maintain your royal excellence!' With 'God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!' I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss, He will be found a dangerous Protector. BUCKINGHAM. Why should he then protect our sovereign, He being of age to govern of himself? Cousin of Somerset, join you with me, And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk, We'll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat. CARDINAL. This weighty business will not brook delay; I'll to the Duke of Suffolk presently. Exit SOMERSET. Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey's pride And greatness of his place be grief to us, Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal; His insolence is more intolerable Than all the princes in the land beside; If Gloucester be displac'd, he'll be Protector. BUCKINGHAM. Or thou or I, Somerset, will be Protector, Despite Duke Humphrey or the Cardinal. Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and SOMERSET SALISBURY. Pride went before, ambition follows him. While these do labour for their own preferment, Behoves it us to labour for the realm. I never saw but Humphrey Duke of Gloucester Did bear him like a noble gentleman. Oft have I seen the haughty Cardinal- More like a soldier than a man o' th' church, As stout and proud as he were lord of all- Swear like a ruffian and demean himself Unlike the ruler of a commonweal. Warwick my son, the comfort of my age, Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy housekeeping, Hath won the greatest favour of the commons, Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey. And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland, In bringing them to civil discipline, Thy late exploits done in the heart of France When thou wert Regent for our sovereign, Have made thee fear'd and honour'd of the people: Join we together for the public good, In what we can, to bridle and suppress The pride of Suffolk and the Cardinal, With Somerset's and Buckingham's ambition; And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey's deeds While they do tend the profit of the land. WARWICK. So God help Warwick, as he loves the land And common profit of his country! YORK. And so says York- [Aside] for he hath greatest cause. SALISBURY. Then let's make haste away and look unto the main. WARWICK. Unto the main! O father, Maine is lost- That Maine which by main force Warwick did win, And would have kept so long as breath did last. Main chance, father, you meant; but I meant Maine, Which I will win from France, or else be slain. Exeunt WARWICK and SALISBURY YORK. Anjou and Maine are given to the French; Paris is lost; the state of Normandy Stands on a tickle point now they are gone. Suffolk concluded on the articles; The peers agreed; and Henry was well pleas'd To changes two dukedoms for a duke's fair daughter. I cannot blame them all: what is't to them? 'Tis thine they give away, and not their own. Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage, And purchase friends, and give to courtezans, Still revelling like lords till all be gone; While as the silly owner of the goods Weeps over them and wrings his hapless hands And shakes his head and trembling stands aloof, While all is shar'd and all is borne away, Ready to starve and dare not touch his own. So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue, While his own lands are bargain'd for and sold. Methinks the realms of England, France, and Ireland, Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood As did the fatal brand Althaea burnt Unto the prince's heart of Calydon. Anjou and Maine both given unto the French! Cold news for me, for I had hope of France, Even as I have of fertile England's soil. A day will come when York shall claim his own; And therefore I will take the Nevils' parts, And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey, And when I spy advantage, claim the crown, For that's the golden mark I seek to hit. Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right, Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist, Nor wear the diadem upon his head, Whose church-like humours fits not for a crown. Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve; Watch thou and wake, when others be asleep, To pry into the secrets of the state; Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love With his new bride and England's dear-bought queen, And Humphrey with the peers be fall'n at jars; Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose, With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfum'd, And in my standard bear the arms of York, To grapple with the house of Lancaster; And force perforce I'll make him yield the crown, Whose bookish rule hath pull'd fair England down. Exit SCENE II. The DUKE OF GLOUCESTER'S house Enter DUKE and his wife ELEANOR
DUCHESS. Why droops my lord, like over-ripen'd corn Hanging the head at Ceres' plenteous load? Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows, As frowning at the favours of the world? Why are thine eyes fix'd to the sullen earth, Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight? What see'st thou there? King Henry's diadem, Enchas'd with all the honours of the world? If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face Until thy head be circled with the same. Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold. What, is't too short? I'll lengthen it with mine; And having both together heav'd it up, We'll both together lift our heads to heaven, And never more abase our sight so low As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground. GLOUCESTER. O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord, Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts! And may that thought, when I imagine ill Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry, Be my last breathing in this mortal world! My troublous dreams this night doth make me sad. DUCHESS. What dream'd my lord? Tell me, and I'll requite it With sweet rehearsal of my morning's dream. GLOUCESTER. Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court, Was broke in twain; by whom I have forgot, But, as I think, it was by th' Cardinal; And on the pieces of the broken wand Were plac'd the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset And William de la Pole, first Duke of Suffolk. This was my dream; what it doth bode God knows. DUCHESS. Tut, this was nothing but an argument That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester's grove Shall lose his head for his presumption. But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet Duke: Methought I sat in seat of majesty In the cathedral church of Westminster, And in that chair where kings and queens were crown'd; Where Henry and Dame Margaret kneel'd to me, And on my head did set the diadem. GLOUCESTER. Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright. Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtur'd Eleanor! Art thou not second woman in the realm, And the Protector's wife, belov'd of him? Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command Above the reach or compass of thy thought? And wilt thou still be hammering treachery To tumble down thy husband and thyself From top of honour to disgrace's feet? Away from me, and let me hear no more! DUCHESS. What, what, my lord! Are you so choleric With Eleanor for telling but her dream? Next time I'll keep my dreams unto myself And not be check'd. GLOUCESTER. Nay, be not angry; I am pleas'd again. Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. My Lord Protector, 'tis his Highness' pleasure You do prepare to ride unto Saint Albans, Where as the King and Queen do mean to hawk. GLOUCESTER. I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us? DUCHESS. Yes, my good lord, I'll follow presently. Exeunt GLOUCESTER and MESSENGER Follow I must; I cannot go before, While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind. Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood, I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks And smooth my way upon their headless necks; And, being a woman, I will not be slack To play my part in Fortune's pageant. Where are you there, Sir John? Nay, fear not, man, We are alone; here's none but thee and I. Enter HUME
HUME. Jesus preserve your royal Majesty! DUCHESS. What say'st thou? Majesty! I am but Grace. HUME. But, by the grace of God and Hume's advice, Your Grace's title shall be multiplied. DUCHESS. What say'st thou, man? Hast thou as yet conferr'd With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch of Eie, With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer? And will they undertake to do me good? HUME. This they have promised, to show your Highness A spirit rais'd from depth of underground That shall make answer to such questions As by your Grace shall be propounded him DUCHESS. It is enough; I'll think upon the questions; When from Saint Albans we do make return We'll see these things effected to the full. Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man, With thy confederates in this weighty cause. Exit HUME. Hume must make merry with the Duchess' gold; Marry, and shall. But, how now, Sir John Hume! Seal up your lips and give no words but mum: The business asketh silent secrecy. Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch: Gold cannot come amiss were she a devil. Yet have I gold flies from another coast- I dare not say from the rich Cardinal, And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk; Yet I do find it so; for, to be plain, They, knowing Dame Eleanor's aspiring humour, Have hired me to undermine the Duchess, And buzz these conjurations in her brain. They say 'A crafty knave does need no broker'; Yet am I Suffolk and the Cardinal's broker. Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near To call them both a pair of crafty knaves. Well, so its stands; and thus, I fear, at last Hume's knavery will be the Duchess' wreck, And her attainture will be Humphrey's fall Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all. Exit SCENE III. London. The palace Enter three or four PETITIONERS, PETER, the Armourer's man, being one
FIRST PETITIONER. My masters, let's stand close; my Lord Protector will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the quill. SECOND PETITIONER. Marry, the Lord protect him, for he's a good man, Jesu bless him! Enter SUFFOLK and QUEEN
FIRST PETITIONER. Here 'a comes, methinks, and the Queen with him. I'll be the first, sure. SECOND PETITIONER. Come back, fool; this is the Duke of Suffolk and not my Lord Protector. SUFFOLK. How now, fellow! Wouldst anything with me? FIRST PETITIONER. I pray, my lord, pardon me; I took ye for my Lord Protector. QUEEN. [Reads] 'To my Lord Protector!' Are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them. What is thine? FIRST PETITIONER. Mine is, an't please your Grace, against John Goodman, my Lord Cardinal's man, for keeping my house and lands, and wife and all, from me. SUFFOLK. Thy wife too! That's some wrong indeed. What's yours? What's here! [Reads] 'Against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons of Melford.' How now, sir knave! SECOND PETITIONER. Alas, sir, I am but a poor petitioner of our whole township. PETER. [Presenting his petition] Against my master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown. QUEEN. What say'st thou? Did the Duke of York say he was rightful heir to the crown? PETER. That my master was? No, forsooth. My master said that he was, and that the King was an usurper. SUFFOLK. Who is there? [Enter servant] Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently. We'll hear more of your matter before the King. Exit servant with PETER QUEEN. And as for you, that love to be protected Under the wings of our Protector's grace, Begin your suits anew, and sue to him. [Tears the supplications] Away, base cullions! Suffolk, let them go. ALL. Come, let's be gone. Exeunt QUEEN. My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise, Is this the fashions in the court of England? Is this the government of Britain's isle, And this the royalty of Albion's king? What, shall King Henry be a pupil still, Under the surly Gloucester's governance? Am I a queen in title and in style, And must be made a subject to a duke? I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours Thou ran'st a tilt in honour of my love And stol'st away the ladies' hearts of France, I thought King Henry had resembled thee In courage, courtship, and proportion; But all his mind is bent to holiness, To number Ave-Maries on his beads; His champions are the prophets and apostles; His weapons, holy saws of sacred writ; His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves Are brazen images of canonized saints. I would the college of the Cardinals Would choose him Pope, and carry him to Rome, And set the triple crown upon his head; That were a state fit for his holiness. SUFFOLK. Madam, be patient. As I was cause Your Highness came to England, so will I In England work your Grace's full content. QUEEN. Beside the haughty Protector, have we Beaufort The imperious churchman; Somerset, Buckingham, And grumbling York; and not the least of these But can do more in England than the King. SUFFOLK. And he of these that can do most of all Cannot do more in England than the Nevils; Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers. QUEEN. Not all these lords do vex me half so much As that proud dame, the Lord Protector's wife. She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies, More like an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife. Strangers in court do take her for the Queen. She bears a duke's revenues on her back, And in her heart she scorns our poverty; Shall I not live to be aveng'd on her? Contemptuous base-born callet as she is, She vaunted 'mongst her minions t' other day The very train of her worst wearing gown Was better worth than all my father's lands, Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter. SUFFOLK. Madam, myself have lim'd a bush for her, And plac'd a quire of such enticing birds That she will light to listen to the lays, And never mount to trouble you again. So, let her rest. And, madam, list to me, For I am bold to counsel you in this: Although we fancy not the Cardinal, Yet must we join with him and with the lords, Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace. As for the Duke of York, this late complaint Will make but little for his benefit. So one by one we'll weed them all at last, And you yourself shall steer the happy helm. Sound a sennet. Enter the KING, DUKE HUMPHREY, CARDINAL BEAUFORT, BUCKINGHAM, YORK, SOMERSET, SALISBURY, WARWICK, and the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER KING HENRY. For my part, noble lords, I care not which: Or Somerset or York, all's one to me. YORK. If York have ill demean'd himself in France, Then let him be denay'd the regentship. SOMERSET. If Somerset be unworthy of the place, Let York be Regent; I will yield to him. WARWICK. Whether your Grace be worthy, yea or no, Dispute not that; York is the worthier. CARDINAL. Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak. WARWICK. The Cardinal's not my better in the field. BUCKINGHAM. All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick. WARWICK. Warwick may live to be the best of all. SALISBURY. Peace, son! And show some reason, Buckingham, Why Somerset should be preferr'd in this. QUEEN. Because the King, forsooth, will have it so. GLOUCESTER. Madam, the King is old enough himself To give his censure. These are no women's matters. QUEEN. If he be old enough, what needs your Grace To be Protector of his Excellence? GLOUCESTER. Madam, I am Protector of the realm; And at his pleasure will resign my place. SUFFOLK. Resign it then, and leave thine insolence. Since thou wert king- as who is king but thou?- The commonwealth hath daily run to wrack, The Dauphin hath prevail'd beyond the seas, And all the peers and nobles of the realm Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty. CARDINAL. The commons hast thou rack'd; the clergy's bags Are lank and lean with thy extortions. SOMERSET. Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife's attire Have cost a mass of public treasury. BUCKINGHAM. Thy cruelty in execution Upon offenders hath exceeded law, And left thee to the mercy of the law. QUEEN. Thy sale of offices and towns in France, If they were known, as the suspect is great, Would make thee quickly hop without thy head. Exit GLOUCESTER. The QUEEN drops QUEEN her fan Give me my fan. What, minion, can ye not? [She gives the DUCHESS a box on the ear] I cry your mercy, madam; was it you? DUCHESS. Was't I? Yea, I it was, proud Frenchwoman. Could I come near your beauty with my nails, I could set my ten commandments in your face. KING HENRY. Sweet aunt, be quiet; 'twas against her will. DUCHESS. Against her will, good King? Look to 't in time; She'll hamper thee and dandle thee like a baby. Though in this place most master wear no breeches, She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unreveng'd. Exit BUCKINGHAM. Lord Cardinal, I will follow Eleanor, And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds. She's tickled now; her fume needs no spurs, She'll gallop far enough to her destruction. Exit Re-enter GLOUCESTER
GLOUCESTER. Now, lords, my choler being overblown With walking once about the quadrangle, I come to talk of commonwealth affairs. As for your spiteful false objections, Prove them, and I lie open to the law; But God in mercy so deal with my soul As I in duty love my king and country! But to the matter that we have in hand: I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man To be your Regent in the realm of France. SUFFOLK. Before we make election, give me leave To show some reason, of no little force, That York is most unmeet of any man. YORK. I'll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet: First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride; Next, if I be appointed for the place, My Lord of Somerset will keep me here Without discharge, money, or furniture, Till France be won into the Dauphin's hands. Last time I danc'd attendance on his will Till Paris was besieg'd, famish'd, and lost. WARWICK. That can I witness; and a fouler fact Did never traitor in the land commit. SUFFOLK. Peace, headstrong Warwick! WARWICK. Image of pride, why should I hold my peace? Enter HORNER, the Armourer, and his man PETER, guarded
SUFFOLK. Because here is a man accus'd of treason: Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself! YORK. Doth any one accuse York for a traitor? KING HENRY. What mean'st thou, Suffolk? Tell me, what are these? SUFFOLK. Please it your Majesty, this is the man That doth accuse his master of high treason; His words were these: that Richard Duke of York Was rightful heir unto the English crown, And that your Majesty was an usurper. KING HENRY. Say, man, were these thy words? HORNER. An't shall please your Majesty, I never said nor thought any such matter. God is my witness, I am falsely accus'd by the villain. PETER. [Holding up his hands] By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night, as we were scouring my Lord of York's armour. YORK. Base dunghill villain and mechanical, I'll have thy head for this thy traitor's speech. I do beseech your royal Majesty, Let him have all the rigour of the law. HORNER`. Alas, my lord, hang me if ever I spake the words. My accuser is my prentice; and when I did correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his knees he would be even with me. I have good witness of this; therefore I beseech your Majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a villain's accusation. KING HENRY. Uncle, what shall we say to this in law? GLOUCESTER. This doom, my lord, if I may judge: Let Somerset be Regent o'er the French, Because in York this breeds suspicion; And let these have a day appointed them For single combat in convenient place, For he hath witness of his servant's malice. This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey's doom. SOMERSET. I humbly thank your royal Majesty. HORNER. And I accept the combat willingly. PETER. Alas, my lord, I cannot fight; for God's sake, pity my case! The spite of man prevaileth against me. O Lord, have mercy upon me, I shall never be able to fight a blow! O Lord, my heart! GLOUCESTER. Sirrah, or you must fight or else be hang'd. KING HENRY. Away with them to prison; and the day of combat shall be the last of the next month. Come, Somerset, we'll see thee sent away. Flourish. Exeunt SCENE IV. London. The DUKE OF GLOUCESTER'S garden Enter MARGERY JOURDAIN, the witch; the two priests, HUME and SOUTHWELL; and BOLINGBROKE
HUME. Come, my masters; the Duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises. BOLINGBROKE. Master Hume, we are therefore provided; will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms? HUME. Ay, what else? Fear you not her courage. BOLINGBROKE. I have heard her reported to be a woman of an invincible spirit; but it shall be convenient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft while we be busy below; and so I pray you go, in God's name, and leave us. [Exit HUME] Mother Jourdain, be you prostrate and grovel on the earth; John Southwell, read you; and let us to our work. Enter DUCHESS aloft, followed by HUME
DUCHESS. Well said, my masters; and welcome all. To this gear, the sooner the better. BOLINGBROKE. Patience, good lady; wizards know their times: Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night, The time of night when Troy was set on fire; The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl, And spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves- That time best fits the work we have in hand. Madam, sit you, and fear not: whom we raise We will make fast within a hallow'd verge. [Here they do the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle; BOLINGBROKE or SOUTHWELL reads: 'Conjuro te,' &c. It thunders and lightens terribly; then the SPIRIT riseth] SPIRIT. Adsum. MARGERY JOURDAIN. Asmath, By the eternal God, whose name and power Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask; For till thou speak thou shalt not pass from hence. SPIRIT. Ask what thou wilt; that I had said and done. BOLINGBROKE. [Reads] 'First of the king: what shall of him become?' SPIRIT. The Duke yet lives that Henry shall depose; But him outlive, and die a violent death. [As the SPIRIT speaks, SOUTHWELL writes the answer] BOLINGBROKE. 'What fates await the Duke of Suffolk?' SPIRIT. By water shall he die and take his end. BOLINGBROKE. 'What shall befall the Duke of Somerset?' SPIRIT. Let him shun castles: Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains Than where castles mounted stand. Have done, for more I hardly can endure. BOLINGBROKE. Descend to darkness and the burning lake; False fiend, avoid! Thunder and lightning. Exit SPIRIT Enter the DUKE OF YORK and the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM with guard, and break in YORK. Lay hands upon these traitors and their trash. Beldam, I think we watch'd you at an inch. What, madam, are you there? The King and commonweal Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains; My Lord Protector will, I doubt it not, See you well guerdon'd for these good deserts. DUCHESS. Not half so bad as thine to England's king, Injurious Duke, that threatest where's no cause. BUCKINGHAM. True, madam, none at all. What can you this? Away with them! let them be clapp'd up close, And kept asunder. You, madam, shall with us. Stafford, take her to thee. We'll see your trinkets here all forthcoming. All, away! Exeunt, above, DUCHESS and HUME, guarded; below, WITCH, SOUTHWELL and BOLINGBROKE, guarded YORK. Lord Buckingham, methinks you watch'd her well. A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon! Now, pray, my lord, let's see the devil's writ. What have we here? [Reads] 'The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose; But him outlive, and die a violent death.' Why, this is just 'Aio te, Aeacida, Romanos vincere posse.' Well, to the rest: 'Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk?' 'By water shall he die and take his end.' 'What shall betide the Duke of Somerset?' 'Let him shun castles; Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains Than where castles mounted stand.' Come, come, my lords; These oracles are hardly attain'd, And hardly understood. The King is now in progress towards Saint Albans, With him the husband of this lovely lady; Thither go these news as fast as horse can carry them- A sorry breakfast for my Lord Protector. BUCKINGHAM. Your Grace shall give me leave, my Lord of York, To be the post, in hope of his reward. YORK. At your pleasure, my good lord. Who's within there, ho? Enter a serving-man
Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick
To sup with me to-morrow night. Away! Exeunt
ACT II. SCENE I. Saint Albans Enter the KING, QUEEN, GLOUCESTER, CARDINAL, and SUFFOLK, with Falconers halloing
QUEEN. Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook, I saw not better sport these seven years' day; Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high, And ten to one old Joan had not gone out. KING HENRY. But what a point, my lord, your falcon made, And what a pitch she flew above the rest! To see how God in all His creatures works! Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. SUFFOLK. No marvel, an it like your Majesty, My Lord Protector's hawks do tow'r so well; They know their master loves to be aloft, And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch. GLOUCESTER. My lord, 'tis but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar. CARDINAL. I thought as much; he would be above the clouds. GLOUCESTER. Ay, my lord Cardinal, how think you by that? Were it not good your Grace could fly to heaven? KING HENRY. The treasury of everlasting joy! CARDINAL. Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart; Pernicious Protector, dangerous peer, That smooth'st it so with King and commonweal. GLOUCESTER. What, Cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory? Tantaene animis coelestibus irae? Churchmen so hot? Good uncle, hide such malice; With such holiness can you do it? SUFFOLK. No malice, sir; no more than well becomes So good a quarrel and so bad a peer. GLOUCESTER. As who, my lord? SUFFOLK. Why, as you, my lord, An't like your lordly Lord's Protectorship. GLOUCESTER. Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence. QUEEN. And thy ambition, Gloucester. KING HENRY. I prithee, peace, Good Queen, and whet not on these furious peers; For blessed are the peacemakers on earth. CARDINAL. Let me be blessed for the peace I make Against this proud Protector with my sword! GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CARDINAL] Faith, holy uncle, would 'twere come to that! CARDINAL. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] Marry, when thou dar'st. GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CARDINAL] Make up no factious numbers for the matter; In thine own person answer thy abuse. CARDINAL. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] Ay, where thou dar'st not peep; an if thou dar'st, This evening on the east side of the grove. KING HENRY. How now, my lords! CARDINAL. Believe me, cousin Gloucester, Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly, We had had more sport. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] Come with thy two-hand sword. GLOUCESTER. True, uncle. CARDINAL. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] Are ye advis'd? The east side of the grove? GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CARDINAL] Cardinal, I am with you. KING HENRY. Why, how now, uncle Gloucester! GLOUCESTER. Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord. [Aside to CARDINAL] Now, by God's Mother, priest, I'll shave your crown for this, Or all my fence shall fail. CARDINAL. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] Medice, teipsum; Protector, see to't well; protect yourself. KING HENRY. The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords. How irksome is this music to my heart! When such strings jar, what hope of harmony? I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife. Enter a TOWNSMAN of Saint Albans, crying 'A miracle!'
GLOUCESTER. What means this noise? Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim? TOWNSMAN. A miracle! A miracle! SUFFOLK. Come to the King, and tell him what miracle. TOWNSMAN. Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Albans shrine Within this half hour hath receiv'd his sight; A man that ne'er saw in his life before. KING HENRY. Now God be prais'd that to believing souls Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair! Enter the MAYOR OF SAINT ALBANS and his brethren, bearing Simpcox between two in a chair; his WIFE and a multitude following CARDINAL. Here comes the townsmen on procession To present your Highness with the man. KING HENRY. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale, Although by his sight his sin be multiplied. GLOUCESTER. Stand by, my masters; bring him near the King; His Highness' pleasure is to talk with him. KING HENRY. Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance, That we for thee may glorify the Lord. What, hast thou been long blind and now restor'd? SIMPCOX. Born blind, an't please your Grace. WIFE. Ay indeed was he. SUFFOLK. What woman is this? WIFE. His wife, an't like your worship. GLOUCESTER. Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told. KING HENRY. Where wert thou born? SIMPCOX. At Berwick in the north, an't like your Grace. KING HENRY. Poor soul, God's goodness hath been great to thee. Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, But still remember what the Lord hath done. QUEEN. Tell me, good fellow, cam'st thou here by chance, Or of devotion, to this holy shrine? SIMPCOX. God knows, of pure devotion; being call'd A hundred times and oft'ner, in my sleep, By good Saint Alban, who said 'Simpcox, come, Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.' WIFE. Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft Myself have heard a voice to call him so. CARDINAL. What, art thou lame? SIMPCOX. Ay, God Almighty help me! SUFFOLK. How cam'st thou so? SIMPCOX. A fall off of a tree. WIFE. A plum tree, master. GLOUCESTER. How long hast thou been blind? SIMPCOX. O, born so, master! GLOUCESTER. What, and wouldst climb a tree? SIMPCOX. But that in all my life, when I was a youth. WIFE. Too true; and bought his climbing very dear. GLOUCESTER. Mass, thou lov'dst plums well, that wouldst venture so. SIMPCOX. Alas, good master, my wife desir'd some damsons And made me climb, With danger of my life. GLOUCESTER. A subtle knave! But yet it shall not serve: Let me see thine eyes; wink now; now open them; In my opinion yet thou seest not well. SIMPCOX. Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and Saint Alban. GLOUCESTER. Say'st thou me so? What colour is this cloak of? SIMPCOX. Red, master; red as blood. GLOUCESTER. Why, that's well said. What colour is my gown of? SIMPCOX. Black, forsooth; coal-black as jet. KING HENRY. Why, then, thou know'st what colour jet is of? SUFFOLK. And yet, I think, jet did he never see. GLOUCESTER. But cloaks and gowns before this day a many. WIFE. Never before this day in all his life. GLOUCESTER. Tell me, sirrah, what's my name? SIMPCOX. Alas, master, I know not. GLOUCESTER. What's his name? SIMPCOX. I know not. GLOUCESTER. Nor his? SIMPCOX. No, indeed, master. GLOUCESTER. What's thine own name? SIMPCOX. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master. GLOUCESTER. Then, Saunder, sit there, the lying'st knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours; but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible. My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not think his cunning to be great that could restore this cripple to his legs again? SIMPCOX. O master, that you could! GLOUCESTER. My masters of Saint Albans, have you not beadles in your town, and things call'd whips? MAYOR. Yes, my lord, if it please your Grace. GLOUCESTER. Then send for one presently. MAYOR. Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight. Exit an attendant GLOUCESTER. Now fetch me a stool hither by and by. [A stool brought] Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool and run away. SIMPCOX. Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone! You go about to torture me in vain. Enter a BEADLE with whips
GLOUCESTER. Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool. BEADLE. I will, my lord. Come on, sirrah; off with your doublet quickly. SIMPCOX. Alas, master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand. After the BEADLE hath hit him once, he leaps over the stool and runs away; and they follow and cry 'A miracle!' KING HENRY. O God, seest Thou this, and bearest so long? QUEEN. It made me laugh to see the villain run. GLOUCESTER. Follow the knave, and take this drab away. WIFE. Alas, sir, we did it for pure need! GLOUCESTER. Let them be whipp'd through every market town till they come to Berwick, from whence they came. Exeunt MAYOR, BEADLE, WIFE, &c. CARDINAL. Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day. SUFFOLK. True; made the lame to leap and fly away. GLOUCESTER. But you have done more miracles than I: You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly. Enter BUCKINGHAM
KING HENRY. What tidings with our cousin Buckingham? BUCKINGHAM. Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold: A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent, Under the countenance and confederacy Of Lady Eleanor, the Protector's wife, The ringleader and head of all this rout, Have practis'd dangerously against your state, Dealing with witches and with conjurers, Whom we have apprehended in the fact, Raising up wicked spirits from under ground, Demanding of King Henry's life and death And other of your Highness' Privy Council, As more at large your Grace shall understand. CARDINAL. And so, my Lord Protector, by this means Your lady is forthcoming yet at London. This news, I think, hath turn'd your weapon's edge; 'Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour. GLOUCESTER. Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart. Sorrow and grief have vanquish'd all my powers; And, vanquish'd as I am, I yield to the Or to the meanest groom. KING HENRY. O God, what mischiefs work the wicked ones, Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby! QUEEN. Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest; And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best. GLOUCESTER. Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal How I have lov'd my King and commonweal; And for my wife I know not how it stands. Sorry I am to hear what I have heard. Noble she is; but if she have forgot Honour and virtue, and convers'd with such As, like to pitch, defile nobility, I banish her my bed and company And give her as a prey to law and shame, That hath dishonoured Gloucester's honest name. KING HENRY. Well, for this night we will repose us here. To-morrow toward London back again To look into this business thoroughly And call these foul offenders to their answers, And poise the cause in justice' equal scales, Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails. Flourish. Exeunt SCENE II. London. The DUKE OF YORK'S garden Enter YORK, SALISBURY, and WARWICK
YORK. Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick, Our simple supper ended, give me leave In this close walk to satisfy myself In craving your opinion of my tide, Which is infallible, to England's crown. SALISBURY. My lord, I long to hear it at full. WARWICK. Sweet York, begin; and if thy claim be good, The Nevils are thy subjects to command. YORK. Then thus: Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons; The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales; The second, William of Hatfield; and the third, Lionel Duke of Clarence; next to whom Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster; The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York; The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester; William of Windsor was the seventh and last. Edward the Black Prince died before his father And left behind him Richard, his only son, Who, after Edward the Third's death, reign'd as king Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt, Crown'd by the name of Henry the Fourth, Seiz'd on the realm, depos'd the rightful king, Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came. And him to Pomfret, where, as all you know, Harmless Richard was murdered traitorously. WARWICK. Father, the Duke hath told the truth; Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown. YORK. Which now they hold by force, and not by right; For Richard, the first son's heir, being dead, The issue of the next son should have reign'd. SALISBURY. But William of Hatfield died without an heir. YORK. The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line I claim the crown, had issue Philippe, a daughter, Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March; Edmund had issue, Roger Earl of March; Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor. SALISBURY. This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke, As I have read, laid claim unto the crown; And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king, Who kept him in captivity till he died. But, to the rest. YORK. His eldest sister, Anne, My mother, being heir unto the crown, Married Richard Earl of Cambridge, who was To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third's fifth son, son. By her I claim the kingdom: she was heir To Roger Earl of March, who was the son Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe, Sole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence; So, if the issue of the elder son Succeed before the younger, I am King. WARWICK. What plain proceedings is more plain than this? Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt, The fourth son: York claims it from the third. Till Lionel's issue fails, his should not reign. It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock. Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together, And in this private plot be we the first That shall salute our rightful sovereign With honour of his birthright to the crown. BOTH. Long live our sovereign Richard, England's King! YORK. We thank you, lords. But I am not your king Till I be crown'd, and that my sword be stain'd With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster; And that's not suddenly to be perform'd, But with advice and silent secrecy. Do you as I do in these dangerous days: Wink at the Duke of Suffolk's insolence, At Beaufort's pride, at Somerset's ambition, At Buckingham, and all the crew of them, Till they have snar'd the shepherd of the flock, That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey; 'Tis that they seek; and they, in seeking that, Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy. SALISBURY. My lord, break we off; we know your mind at full. WARWICK. My heart assures me that the Earl of Warwick Shall one day make the Duke of York a king. YORK. And, Nevil, this I do assure myself, Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick The greatest man in England but the King. Exeunt SCENE III. London. A hall of justice Sound trumpets. Enter the KING and State: the QUEEN, GLOUCESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, and SALISBURY, with guard, to banish the DUCHESS. Enter, guarded, the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, MARGERY JOURDAIN, HUME, SOUTHWELL, and BOLINGBROKE
KING HENRY. Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Gloucester's wife: In sight of God and us, your guilt is great; Receive the sentence of the law for sins Such as by God's book are adjudg'd to death. You four, from hence to prison back again; From thence unto the place of execution: The witch in Smithfield shall be burnt to ashes, And you three shall be strangled on the gallows. You, madam, for you are more nobly born, Despoiled of your honour in your life, Shall, after three days' open penance done, Live in your country here in banishment With Sir John Stanley in the Isle of Man. DUCHESS. Welcome is banishment; welcome were my death. GLOUCESTER. Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee. I cannot justify whom the law condemns. Exeunt the DUCHESS and the other prisoners, guarded Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief. Ah, Humphrey, this dishonour in thine age Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground! I beseech your Majesty give me leave to go; Sorrow would solace, and mine age would ease. KING HENRY. Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester; ere thou go, Give up thy staff; Henry will to himself Protector be; and God shall be my hope, My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet. And go in peace, Humphrey, no less belov'd Than when thou wert Protector to thy King. QUEEN. I see no reason why a king of years Should be to be protected like a child. God and King Henry govern England's realm! Give up your staff, sir, and the King his realm. GLOUCESTER. My staff! Here, noble Henry, is my staff. As willingly do I the same resign As ere thy father Henry made it mine; And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it As others would ambitiously receive it. Farewell, good King; when I am dead and gone, May honourable peace attend thy throne! Exit QUEEN. Why, now is Henry King, and Margaret Queen, And Humphrey Duke of Gloucester scarce himself, That bears so shrewd a maim: two pulls at once- His lady banish'd and a limb lopp'd off. This staff of honour raught, there let it stand Where it best fits to be, in Henry's hand. SUFFOLK. Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs his sprays; Thus Eleanor's pride dies in her youngest days. YORK. Lords, let him go. Please it your Majesty, This is the day appointed for the combat; And ready are the appellant and defendant, The armourer and his man, to enter the lists, So please your Highness to behold the fight. QUEEN. Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore Left I the court, to see this quarrel tried. KING HENRY. A God's name, see the lists and all things fit; Here let them end it, and God defend the right! YORK. I never saw a fellow worse bested, Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant, The servant of his armourer, my lords. Enter at one door, HORNER, the Armourer, and his NEIGHBOURS, drinking to him so much that he is drunk; and he enters with a drum before him and his staff with a sand-bag fastened to it; and at the other door PETER, his man, with a drum and sandbag, and PRENTICES drinking to him FIRST NEIGHBOUR. Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of sack; and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough. SECOND NEIGHBOUR. And here, neighbour, here's a cup of charneco. THIRD NEIGHBOUR. And here's a pot of good double beer, neighbour; drink, and fear not your man. HORNER. Let it come, i' faith, and I'll pledge you all; and a fig for Peter! FIRST PRENTICE. Here, Peter, I drink to thee; and be not afraid. SECOND PRENTICE. Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master: fight for credit of the prentices. PETER. I thank you all. Drink, and pray for me, I pray you; for I think I have taken my last draught in this world. Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee my apron; and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer; and here, Tom, take all the money that I have. O Lord bless me, I pray God! for I am never able to deal with my master, he hath learnt so much fence already. SALISBURY. Come, leave your drinking and fall to blows. Sirrah, what's thy name? PETER. Peter, forsooth. SALISBURY. Peter? What more? PETER. Thump. SALISBURY. Thump? Then see thou thump thy master well. HORNER. Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man's instigation, to prove him a knave and myself an honest man; and touching the Duke of York, I will take my death I never meant him any ill, nor the King, nor the Queen; and therefore, Peter, have at thee with a down right blow! YORK. Dispatch- this knave's tongue begins to double. Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants! [Alarum. They fight and PETER strikes him down] HORNER. Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess treason. [Dies] YORK. Take away his weapon. Fellow, thank God, and the good wine in thy master's way. PETER. O God, have I overcome mine enemies in this presence? O Peter, thou hast prevail'd in right! KING HENRY. Go, take hence that traitor from our sight, For by his death we do perceive his guilt; And God in justice hath reveal'd to us The truth and innocence of this poor fellow, Which he had thought to have murder'd wrongfully. Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward. Sound a flourish. Exeunt SCENE IV. London. A street Enter DUKE HUMPHREY and his men, in mourning cloaks
GLOUCESTER. Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud, And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold; So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. Sirs, what's o'clock? SERVING-MAN. Ten, my lord. GLOUCESTER. Ten is the hour that was appointed me To watch the coming of my punish'd duchess. Uneath may she endure the flinty streets To tread them with her tender-feeling feet. Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook The abject people gazing on thy face, With envious looks, laughing at thy shame, That erst did follow thy proud chariot wheels When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets. But, soft! I think she comes, and I'll prepare My tear-stain'd eyes to see her miseries. Enter the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER in a white sheet, and a taper burning in her hand, with SIR JOHN STANLEY, the SHERIFF, and OFFICERS SERVING-MAN. So please your Grace, we'll take her from the sheriff. GLOUCESTER. No, stir not for your lives; let her pass by. DUCHESS. Come you, my lord, to see my open shame? Now thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze! See how the giddy multitude do point And nod their heads and throw their eyes on thee; Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks, And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine! GLOUCESTER. Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this grief. DUCHESS. Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself! For whilst I think I am thy married wife And thou a prince, Protector of this land, Methinks I should not thus be led along, Mail'd up in shame, with papers on my back, And follow'd with a rabble that rejoice To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans. The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet, And when I start, the envious people laugh And bid me be advised how I tread. Ah, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke? Trowest thou that e'er I'll look upon the world Or count them happy that enjoy the sun? No; dark shall be my light and night my day; To think upon my pomp shall be my hell. Sometimes I'll say I am Duke Humphrey's wife, And he a prince, and ruler of the land; Yet so he rul'd, and such a prince he was, As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess, Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock To every idle rascal follower. But be thou mild, and blush not at my shame, Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death Hang over thee, as sure it shortly will. For Suffolk- he that can do all in all With her that hateth thee and hates us all- And York, and impious Beaufort, that false priest, Have all lim'd bushes to betray thy wings, And, fly thou how thou canst, they'll tangle thee. But fear not thou until thy foot be snar'd, Nor never seek prevention of thy foes. GLOUCESTER. Ah, Nell, forbear! Thou aimest all awry. I must offend before I be attainted; And had I twenty times so many foes, And each of them had twenty times their power, All these could not procure me any scathe So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless. Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach? Why, yet thy scandal were not wip'd away, But I in danger for the breach of law. Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell. I pray thee sort thy heart to patience; These few days' wonder will be quickly worn. Enter a HERALD
HERALD. I summon your Grace to his Majesty's Parliament, Holden at Bury the first of this next month. GLOUCESTER. And my consent ne'er ask'd herein before! This is close dealing. Well, I will be there. Exit HERALD My Nell, I take my leave- and, master sheriff, Let not her penance exceed the King's commission. SHERIFF. An't please your Grace, here my commission stays; And Sir John Stanley is appointed now To take her with him to the Isle of Man. GLOUCESTER. Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here? STANLEY. So am I given in charge, may't please your Grace. GLOUCESTER. Entreat her not the worse in that I pray You use her well; the world may laugh again, And I may live to do you kindness if You do it her. And so, Sir John, farewell. DUCHESS. What, gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell! GLOUCESTER. Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak. Exeunt GLOUCESTER and servants DUCHESS. Art thou gone too? All comfort go with thee! For none abides with me. My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity. Stanley, I prithee go, and take me hence; I care not whither, for I beg no favour, Only convey me where thou art commanded. STANLEY. Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man, There to be us'd according to your state. DUCHESS. That's bad enough, for I am but reproach- And shall I then be us'd reproachfully? STANLEY. Like to a duchess and Duke Humphrey's lady; According to that state you shall be us'd. DUCHESS. Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare, Although thou hast been conduct of my shame. SHERIFF. It is my office; and, madam, pardon me. DUCHESS. Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharg'd. Come, Stanley, shall we go? STANLEY. Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet, And go we to attire you for our journey. DUCHESS. My shame will not be shifted with my sheet. No, it will hang upon my richest robes And show itself, attire me how I can. Go, lead the way; I long to see my prison. Exeunt ACT III. SCENE I. The Abbey at Bury St. Edmunds Sound a sennet. Enter the KING, the QUEEN, CARDINAL, SUFFOLK, YORK, BUCKINGHAM, SALISBURY, and WARWICK, to the Parliament KING HENRY. I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not come. 'Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man, Whate'er occasion keeps him from us now. QUEEN. Can you not see, or will ye not observe The strangeness of his alter'd countenance? With what a majesty he bears himself; How insolent of late he is become, How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself? We know the time since he was mild and affable, And if we did but glance a far-off look Immediately he was upon his knee, That all the court admir'd him for submission. But meet him now and be it in the morn, When every one will give the time of day, He knits his brow and shows an angry eye And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee, Disdaining duty that to us belongs. Small curs are not regarded when they grin, But great men tremble when the lion roars, And Humphrey is no little man in England. First note that he is near you in descent, And should you fall he is the next will mount; Me seemeth, then, it is no policy- Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears, And his advantage following your decease- That he should come about your royal person Or be admitted to your Highness' Council. By flattery hath he won the commons' hearts; And when he please to make commotion, 'Tis to be fear'd they all will follow him. Now 'tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now, and they'll o'ergrow the garden And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. The reverent care I bear unto my lord Made me collect these dangers in the Duke. If it be fond, can it a woman's fear; Which fear if better reasons can supplant, I will subscribe, and say I wrong'd the Duke. My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York, Reprove my allegation if you can, Or else conclude my words effectual. SUFFOLK. Well hath your Highness seen into this duke; And had I first been put to speak my mind, I think I should have told your Grace's tale. The Duchess, by his subornation, Upon my life, began her devilish practices; Or if he were not privy to those faults, Yet by reputing of his high descent- As next the King he was successive heir- And such high vaunts of his nobility, Did instigate the bedlam brainsick Duchess By wicked means to frame our sovereign's fall. Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep, And in his simple show he harbours treason. The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb. No, no, my sovereign, Gloucester is a man Unsounded yet, and full of deep deceit. CARDINAL. Did he not, contrary to form of law, Devise strange deaths for small offences done? YORK. And did he not, in his protectorship, Levy great sums of money through the realm For soldiers' pay in France, and never sent it? By means whereof the towns each day revolted. BUCKINGHAM. Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey. KING HENRY. My lords, at once: the care you have of us, To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot, Is worthy praise; but shall I speak my conscience? Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent From meaning treason to our royal person As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove: The Duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given To dream on evil or to work my downfall. QUEEN. Ah, what's more dangerous than this fond affiance? Seems he a dove? His feathers are but borrow'd, For he's disposed as the hateful raven. Is he a lamb? His skin is surely lent him, For he's inclin'd as is the ravenous wolf. Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit? Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man. Enter SOMERSET
SOMERSET. All health unto my gracious sovereign! KING HENRY. Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France? SOMERSET. That all your interest in those territories Is utterly bereft you; all is lost. KING HENRY. Cold news, Lord Somerset; but God's will be done! YORK. [Aside] Cold news for me; for I had hope of France As firmly as I hope for fertile England. Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud, And caterpillars eat my leaves away; But I will remedy this gear ere long, Or sell my title for a glorious grave. Enter GLOUCESTER
GLOUCESTER. All happiness unto my lord the King! Pardon, my liege, that I have stay'd so long. SUFFOLK. Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon, Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art. I do arrest thee of high treason here. GLOUCESTER. Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush Nor change my countenance for this arrest: A heart unspotted is not easily daunted. The purest spring is not so free from mud As I am clear from treason to my sovereign. Who can accuse me? Wherein am I guilty? YORK. 'Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France And, being Protector, stay'd the soldiers' pay; By means whereof his Highness hath lost France. GLOUCESTER. Is it but thought so? What are they that think it? I never robb'd the soldiers of their pay Nor ever had one penny bribe from France. So help me God, as I have watch'd the night- Ay, night by night- in studying good for England! That doit that e'er I wrested from the King, Or any groat I hoarded to my use, Be brought against me at my trial-day! No; many a pound of mine own proper store, Because I would not tax the needy commons, Have I dispursed to the garrisons, And never ask'd for restitution. CARDINAL. It serves you well, my lord, to say so much. GLOUCESTER. I say no more than truth, so help me God! YORK. In your protectorship you did devise Strange tortures for offenders, never heard of, That England was defam'd by tyranny. GLOUCESTER. Why, 'tis well known that whiles I was Protector Pity was all the fault that was in me; For I should melt at an offender's tears, And lowly words were ransom for their fault. Unless it were a bloody murderer, Or foul felonious thief that fleec'd poor passengers, I never gave them condign punishment. Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortur'd Above the felon or what trespass else. SUFFOLK. My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answer'd; But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge, Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself. I do arrest you in His Highness' name, And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal To keep until your further time of trial. KING HENRY. My Lord of Gloucester, 'tis my special hope That you will clear yourself from all suspense. My conscience tells me you are innocent. GLOUCESTER. Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous! Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition, And charity chas'd hence by rancour's hand; Foul subornation is predominant, And equity exil'd your Highness' land. I know their complot is to have my life; And if my death might make this island happy And prove the period of their tyranny, I would expend it with all willingness. But mine is made the prologue to their play; For thousands more that yet suspect no peril Will not conclude their plotted tragedy. Beaufort's red sparkling eyes blab his heart's malice, And Suffolk's cloudy brow his stormy hate; Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue The envious load that lies upon his heart; And dogged York, that reaches at the moon, Whose overweening arm I have pluck'd back, By false accuse doth level at my life. And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest, Causeless have laid disgraces on my head, And with your best endeavour have stirr'd up My liefest liege to be mine enemy; Ay, all of you have laid your heads together- Myself had notice of your conventicles- And all to make away my guiltless life. I shall not want false witness to condemn me Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt. The ancient proverb will be well effected: 'A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.' CARDINAL. My liege, his railing is intolerable. If those that care to keep your royal person From treason's secret knife and traitor's rage Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at, And the offender granted scope of speech, 'Twill make them cool in zeal unto your Grace. SUFFOLK. Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here With ignominious words, though clerkly couch'd, As if she had suborned some to swear False allegations to o'erthrow his state? QUEEN. But I can give the loser leave to chide. GLOUCESTER. Far truer spoke than meant: I lose indeed. Beshrew the winners, for they play'd me false! And well such losers may have leave to speak. BUCKINGHAM. He'll wrest the sense, and hold us here all day. Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner. CARDINAL. Sirs, take away the Duke, and guard him sure. GLOUCESTER. Ah, thus King Henry throws away his crutch Before his legs be firm to bear his body! Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side, And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first. Ah, that my fear were false! ah, that it were! For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear. Exit, guarded KING HENRY. My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best Do or undo, as if ourself were here. QUEEN. What, will your Highness leave the Parliament? KING HENRY. Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown'd with grief, Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes; My body round engirt with misery- For what's more miserable than discontent? Ah, uncle Humphrey, in thy face I see The map of honour, truth, and loyalty! And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come That e'er I prov'd thee false or fear'd thy faith. What louring star now envies thy estate That these great lords, and Margaret our Queen, Do seek subversion of thy harmless life? Thou never didst them wrong, nor no man wrong; And as the butcher takes away the calf, And binds the wretch, and beats it when it strays, Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house, Even so, remorseless, have they borne him hence; And as the dam runs lowing up and down, Looking the way her harmless young one went, And can do nought but wail her darling's loss, Even so myself bewails good Gloucester's case With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm'd eyes Look after him, and cannot do him good, So mighty are his vowed enemies. His fortunes I will weep, and 'twixt each groan Say 'Who's a traitor? Gloucester he is none.' Exit QUEEN. Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun's hot beams: Henry my lord is cold in great affairs, Too full of foolish pity; and Gloucester's show Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile With sorrow snares relenting passengers; Or as the snake, roll'd in a flow'ring bank, With shining checker'd slough, doth sting a child That for the beauty thinks it excellent. Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I- And yet herein I judge mine own wit good- This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world To rid us from the fear we have of him. CARDINAL. That he should die is worthy policy; But yet we want a colour for his death. 'Tis meet he be condemn'd by course of law. SUFFOLK. But, in my mind, that were no policy: The King will labour still to save his life; The commons haply rise to save his life; And yet we have but trivial argument, More than mistrust, that shows him worthy death. YORK. So that, by this, you would not have him die. SUFFOLK. Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I! YORK. 'Tis York that hath more reason for his death. But, my Lord Cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk, Say as you think, and speak it from your souls: Were't not all one an empty eagle were set To guard the chicken from a hungry kite As place Duke Humphrey for the King's Protector? QUEEN. So the poor chicken should be sure of death. SUFFOLK. Madam, 'tis true; and were't not madness then To make the fox surveyor of the fold? Who being accus'd a crafty murderer, His guilt should be but idly posted over, Because his purpose is not executed. No; let him die, in that he is a fox, By nature prov'd an enemy to the flock, Before his chaps be stain'd with crimson blood, As Humphrey, prov'd by reasons, to my liege. And do not stand on quillets how to slay him; Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety, Sleeping or waking, 'tis no matter how, So he be dead; for that is good deceit Which mates him first that first intends deceit. QUEEN. Thrice-noble Suffolk, 'tis resolutely spoke. SUFFOLK. Not resolute, except so much were done, For things are often spoke and seldom meant; But that my heart accordeth with my tongue, Seeing the deed is meritorious, And to preserve my sovereign from his foe, Say but the word, and I will be his priest. CARDINAL. But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk, Ere you can take due orders for a priest; Say you consent and censure well the deed, And I'll provide his executioner- I tender so the safety of my liege. SUFFOLK. Here is my hand the deed is worthy doing. QUEEN. And so say I. YORK. And I. And now we three have spoke it, It skills not greatly who impugns our doom. Enter a POST
POST. Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain To signify that rebels there are up And put the Englishmen unto the sword. Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime, Before the wound do grow uncurable; For, being green, there is great hope of help. CARDINAL. A breach that craves a quick expedient stop! What counsel give you in this weighty cause? YORK. That Somerset be sent as Regent thither; 'Tis meet that lucky ruler be employ'd, Witness the fortune he hath had in France. SOMERSET. If York, with all his far-fet policy, Had been the Regent there instead of me, He never would have stay'd in France so long. YORK. No, not to lose it all as thou hast done. I rather would have lost my life betimes Than bring a burden of dishonour home By staying there so long till all were lost. Show me one scar character'd on thy skin: Men's flesh preserv'd so whole do seldom win. QUEEN. Nay then, this spark will prove a raging fire, If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with; No more, good York; sweet Somerset, be still. Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been Regent there, Might happily have prov'd far worse than his. YORK. What, worse than nought? Nay, then a shame take all! SOMERSET. And in the number, thee that wishest shame! CARDINAL. My Lord of York, try what your fortune is. Th' uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms And temper clay with blood of Englishmen; To Ireland will you lead a band of men, Collected choicely, from each county some, And try your hap against the Irishmen? YORK. I will, my lord, so please his Majesty. SUFFOLK. Why, our authority is his consent, And what we do establish he confirms; Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand. YORK. I am content; provide me soldiers, lords, Whiles I take order for mine own affairs. SUFFOLK. A charge, Lord York, that I will see perform'd. But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey. CARDINAL. No more of him; for I will deal with him That henceforth he shall trouble us no more. And so break off; the day is almost spent. Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event. YORK. My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days At Bristol I expect my soldiers; For there I'll ship them all for Ireland. SUFFOLK. I'll see it truly done, my Lord of York. Exeunt all but YORK YORK. Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts And change misdoubt to resolution; Be that thou hop'st to be; or what thou art Resign to death- it is not worth th' enjoying. Let pale-fac'd fear keep with the mean-born man And find no harbour in a royal heart. Faster than spring-time show'rs comes thought on thought, And not a thought but thinks on dignity. My brain, more busy than the labouring spider, Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies. Well, nobles, well, 'tis politicly done To send me packing with an host of men. I fear me you but warm the starved snake, Who, cherish'd in your breasts, will sting your hearts. 'Twas men I lack'd, and you will give them me; I take it kindly. Yet be well assur'd You put sharp weapons in a madman's hands. Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, I will stir up in England some black storm Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell; And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage Until the golden circuit on my head, Like to the glorious sun's transparent beams, Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw. And for a minister of my intent I have seduc'd a headstrong Kentishman, John Cade of Ashford, To make commotion, as full well he can, Under the tide of John Mortimer. In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade Oppose himself against a troop of kerns, And fought so long tiff that his thighs with darts Were almost like a sharp-quill'd porpentine; And in the end being rescu'd, I have seen Him caper upright like a wild Morisco, Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells. Full often, like a shag-hair'd crafty kern, Hath he conversed with the enemy, And undiscover'd come to me again And given me notice of their villainies. This devil here shall be my substitute; For that John Mortimer, which now is dead, In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble. By this I shall perceive the commons' mind, How they affect the house and claim of York. Say he be taken, rack'd, and tortured; I know no pain they can inflict upon him Will make him say I mov'd him to those arms. Say that he thrive, as 'tis great like he will, Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength, And reap the harvest which that rascal sow'd; For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be, And Henry put apart, the next for me. Exit SCENE II. Bury St. Edmunds. A room of state Enter two or three MURDERERS running over the stage, from the murder of DUKE HUMPHREY
FIRST MURDERER. Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know We have dispatch'd the Duke, as he commanded. SECOND MURDERER. O that it were to do! What have we done? Didst ever hear a man so penitent? Enter SUFFOLK
FIRST MURDERER. Here comes my lord. SUFFOLK. Now, sirs, have you dispatch'd this thing? FIRST MURDERER. Ay, my good lord, he's dead. SUFFOLK. Why, that's well said. Go, get you to my house; I will reward you for this venturous deed. The King and all the peers are here at hand. Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well, According as I gave directions? FIRST MURDERER. 'Tis, my good lord. SUFFOLK. Away! be gone. Exeunt MURDERERS Sound trumpets. Enter the KING, the QUEEN, CARDINAL, SOMERSET, with attendants KING HENRY. Go call our uncle to our presence straight; Say we intend to try his Grace to-day, If he be guilty, as 'tis published. SUFFOLK. I'll call him presently, my noble lord. Exit KING HENRY. Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all, Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester Than from true evidence, of good esteem, He be approv'd in practice culpable. QUEEN. God forbid any malice should prevail That faultless may condemn a nobleman! Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion! KING HENRY. I thank thee, Meg; these words content me much. Re-enter SUFFOLK
How now! Why look'st thou pale? Why tremblest thou?
Where is our uncle? What's the matter, Suffolk?
SUFFOLK. Dead in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead. QUEEN. Marry, God forfend! CARDINAL. God's secret judgment! I did dream to-night The Duke was dumb and could not speak a word. [The KING swoons] QUEEN. How fares my lord? Help, lords! The King is dead. SOMERSET. Rear up his body; wring him by the nose. QUEEN. Run, go, help, help! O Henry, ope thine eyes! SUFFOLK. He doth revive again; madam, be patient. KING. O heavenly God! QUEEN. How fares my gracious lord? SUFFOLK. Comfort, my sovereign! Gracious Henry, comfort! KING HENRY. What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me? Came he right now to sing a raven's note, Whose dismal tune bereft my vital pow'rs; And thinks he that the chirping of a wren, By crying comfort from a hollow breast, Can chase away the first conceived sound? Hide not thy poison with such sug'red words; Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say, Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting. Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight! Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny Sits in grim majesty to fright the world. Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding; Yet do not go away; come, basilisk, And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight; For in the shade of death I shall find joy- In life but double death,'now Gloucester's dead. QUEEN. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus? Although the Duke was enemy to him, Yet he most Christian-like laments his death; And for myself- foe as he was to me- Might liquid tears, or heart-offending groans, Or blood-consuming sighs, recall his life, I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans, Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs, And all to have the noble Duke alive. What know I how the world may deem of me? For it is known we were but hollow friends: It may be judg'd I made the Duke away; So shall my name with slander's tongue be wounded, And princes' courts be fill'd with my reproach. This get I by his death. Ay me, unhappy! To be a queen and crown'd with infamy! KING HENRY. Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, wretched man! QUEEN. Be woe for me, more wretched than he is. What, dost thou turn away, and hide thy face? I am no loathsome leper- look on me. What, art thou like the adder waxen deaf? Be poisonous too, and kill thy forlorn Queen. Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester's tomb? Why, then Dame Margaret was ne'er thy joy. Erect his statue and worship it, And make my image but an alehouse sign. Was I for this nigh wreck'd upon the sea, And twice by awkward wind from England's bank Drove back again unto my native clime? What boded this but well-forewarning wind Did seem to say 'Seek not a scorpion's nest, Nor set no footing on this unkind shore'? What did I then but curs'd the gentle gusts, And he that loos'd them forth their brazen caves; And bid them blow towards England's blessed shore, Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock? Yet Aeolus would not be a murderer, But left that hateful office unto thee. The pretty-vaulting sea refus'd to drown me, Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown'd on shore With tears as salt as sea through thy unkindness; The splitting rocks cow'r'd in the sinking sands And would not dash me with their ragged sides, Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they, Might in thy palace perish Margaret. As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs, When from thy shore the tempest beat us back, I stood upon the hatches in the storm; And when the dusky sky began to rob My earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view, I took a costly jewel from my neck- A heart it was, bound in with diamonds- And threw it towards thy land. The sea receiv'd it; And so I wish'd thy body might my heart. And even with this I lost fair England's view, And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart, And call'd them blind and dusky spectacles For losing ken of Albion's wished coast. How often have I tempted Suffolk's tongue- The agent of thy foul inconstancy- To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did When he to madding Dido would unfold His father's acts commenc'd in burning Troy! Am I not witch'd like her? Or thou not false like him? Ay me, I can no more! Die, Margaret, For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long. Noise within. Enter WARWICK, SALISBURY, and many commons WARWICK. It is reported, mighty sovereign, That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murd'red By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort's means. The commons, like an angry hive of bees That want their leader, scatter up and down And care not who they sting in his revenge. Myself have calm'd their spleenful mutiny Until they hear the order of his death. KING HENRY. That he is dead, good Warwick, 'tis too true; But how he died God knows, not Henry. Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse, And comment then upon his sudden death. WARWICK. That shall I do, my liege. Stay, Salisbury, With the rude multitude till I return. Exit Exit SALISBURY with the commons KING HENRY. O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts- My thoughts that labour to persuade my soul Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey's life! If my suspect be false, forgive me, God; For judgment only doth belong to Thee. Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips With twenty thousand kisses and to drain Upon his face an ocean of salt tears To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk; And with my fingers feel his hand un-feeling; But all in vain are these mean obsequies; And to survey his dead and earthy image, What were it but to make my sorrow greater? Bed put forth with the body. Enter WARWICK
WARWICK. Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body. KING HENRY. That is to see how deep my grave is made; For with his soul fled all my worldly solace, For, seeing him, I see my life in death. WARWICK. As surely as my soul intends to live With that dread King that took our state upon Him To free us from his Father's wrathful curse, I do believe that violent hands were laid Upon the life of this thrice-famed Duke. SUFFOLK. A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue! What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow? WARWICK. See how the blood is settled in his face. Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless, Being all descended to the labouring heart, Who, in the conflict that it holds with death, Attracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy, Which with the heart there cools, and ne'er returneth To blush and beautify the cheek again. But see, his face is black and full of blood; His eye-balls further out than when he liv'd, Staring full ghastly like a strangled man; His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with struggling; His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdu'd. Look, on the sheets his hair, you see, is sticking; His well-proportion'd beard made rough and rugged, Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodged. It cannot be but he was murd'red here: The least of all these signs were probable. SUFFOLK. Why, Warwick, who should do the Duke to death? Myself and Beaufort had him in protection; And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers. WARWICK. But both of you were vow'd Duke Humphrey's foes; And you, forsooth, had the good Duke to keep. 'Tis like you would not feast him like a friend; And 'tis well seen he found an enemy. QUEEN. Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen As guilty of Duke Humphrey's timeless death. WARWICK. Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh, And sees fast by a butcher with an axe, But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter? Who finds the partridge in the puttock's nest But may imagine how the bird was dead, Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak? Even so suspicious is this tragedy. QUEEN. Are you the butcher, Suffolk? Where's your knife? Is Beaufort term'd a kite? Where are his talons? SUFFOLK. I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men; But here's a vengeful sword, rusted with ease, That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart That slanders me with murder's crimson badge. Say if thou dar'st, proud Lord of Warwickshire, That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey's death. Exeunt CARDINAL, SOMERSET, and others WARWICK. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him? QUEEN. He dares not calm his contumelious spirit, Nor cease to be an arrogant controller, Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times. WARWICK. Madam, be still- with reverence may I say; For every word you speak in his behalf Is slander to your royal dignity. SUFFOLK. Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour, If ever lady wrong'd her lord so much, Thy mother took into her blameful bed Some stern untutor'd churl, and noble stock Was graft with crab-tree slip, whose fruit thou art, And never of the Nevils' noble race. WARWICK. But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee, And I should rob the deathsman of his fee, Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, And that my sovereign's presence makes me mild, I would, false murd'rous coward, on thy knee Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech And say it was thy mother that thou meant'st, That thou thyself was born in bastardy; And, after all this fearful homage done, Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell, Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men. SUFFOLK. Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood, If from this presence thou dar'st go with me. WARWICK. Away even now, or I will drag thee hence. Unworthy though thou art, I'll cope with thee, And do some service to Duke Humphrey's ghost. Exeunt SUFFOLK and WARWICK KING HENRY. What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted? Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just; And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. [A noise within] QUEEN. What noise is this? Re-enter SUFFOLK and WARWICK, with their weapons drawn
KING. Why, how now, lords, your wrathful weapons drawn Here in our presence! Dare you be so bold? Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here? SUFFOLK. The trait'rous Warwick, with the men of Bury, Set all upon me, mighty sovereign. Re-enter SALISBURY
SALISBURY. [To the Commons within] Sirs, stand apart, the King shall know your mind. Dread lord, the commons send you word by me Unless Lord Suffolk straight be done to death, Or banished fair England's territories, They will by violence tear him from your palace And torture him with grievous ling'ring death. They say by him the good Duke Humphrey died; They say in him they fear your Highness' death; And mere instinct of love and loyalty, Free from a stubborn opposite intent, As being thought to contradict your liking, Makes them thus forward in his banishment. They say, in care of your most royal person, That if your Highness should intend to sleep And charge that no man should disturb your rest, In pain of your dislike or pain of death, Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict, Were there a serpent seen with forked tongue That slily glided towards your Majesty, It were but necessary you were wak'd, Lest, being suffer'd in that harmful slumber, The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal. And therefore do they cry, though you forbid, That they will guard you, whe'er you will or no, From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is; With whose envenomed and fatal sting Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth, They say, is shamefully bereft of life. COMMONS. [Within] An answer from the King, my Lord of Salisbury! SUFFOLK. 'Tis like the commons, rude unpolish'd hinds, Could send such message to their sovereign; But you, my lord, were glad to be employ'd, To show how quaint an orator you are. But all the honour Salisbury hath won Is that he was the lord ambassador Sent from a sort of tinkers to the King. COMMONS. [Within] An answer from the King, or we will all break in! KING HENRY. Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me I thank them for their tender loving care; And had I not been cited so by them, Yet did I purpose as they do entreat; For sure my thoughts do hourly prophesy Mischance unto my state by Suffolk's means. And therefore by His Majesty I swear, Whose far unworthy deputy I am, He shall not breathe infection in this air But three days longer, on the pain of death. Exit SALISBURY QUEEN. O Henry, let me plead for gentle Suffolk! KING HENRY. Ungentle Queen, to call him gentle Suffolk! No more, I say; if thou dost plead for him, Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath. Had I but said, I would have kept my word; But when I swear, it is irrevocable. If after three days' space thou here be'st found On any ground that I am ruler of, The world shall not be ransom for thy life. Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me; I have great matters to impart to thee. Exeunt all but QUEEN and SUFFOLK QUEEN. Mischance and sorrow go along with you! Heart's discontent and sour affliction Be playfellows to keep you company! There's two of you; the devil make a third, And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps! SUFFOLK. Cease, gentle Queen, these execrations, And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave. QUEEN. Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted wretch, Has thou not spirit to curse thine enemy? SUFFOLK. A plague upon them! Wherefore should I curse them? Would curses kill as doth the mandrake's groan, I would invent as bitter searching terms, As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear, Deliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth, With full as many signs of deadly hate, As lean-fac'd Envy in her loathsome cave. My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words, Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint, Mine hair be fix'd an end, as one distract; Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban; And even now my burden'd heart would break, Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink! Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste! Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees! Their chiefest prospect murd'ring basilisks! Their softest touch as smart as lizards' stings! Their music frightful as the serpent's hiss, And boding screech-owls make the consort full! all the foul terrors in dark-seated hell- QUEEN. Enough, sweet Suffolk, thou torment'st thyself; And these dread curses, like the sun 'gainst glass, Or like an overcharged gun, recoil, And turns the force of them upon thyself. SUFFOLK. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave? Now, by the ground that I am banish'd from, Well could I curse away a winter's night, Though standing naked on a mountain top Where biting cold would never let grass grow, And think it but a minute spent in sport. QUEEN. O, let me entreat thee cease! Give me thy hand, That I may dew it with my mournful tears; Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place To wash away my woeful monuments. O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand, That thou might'st think upon these by the seal, Through whom a thousand sighs are breath'd for thee! So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief; 'Tis but surmis'd whiles thou art standing by, As one that surfeits thinking on a want. I will repeal thee or, be well assur'd, Adventure to be banished myself; And banished I am, if but from thee. Go, speak not to me; even now be gone. O, go not yet! Even thus two friends condemn'd Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves, Loather a hundred times to part than die. Yet now, farewell; and farewell life with thee! SUFFOLK. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished, Once by the King and three times thrice by thee, 'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence; A wilderness is populous enough, So Suffolk had thy heavenly company; For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world; And where thou art not, desolation. I can no more: Live thou to joy thy life; Myself no joy in nought but that thou liv'st. Enter VAUX
QUEEN. Whither goes Vaux so fast? What news, I prithee? VAUX. To signify unto his Majesty That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death; For suddenly a grievous sickness took him That makes him gasp, and stare, and catch the air, Blaspheming God, and cursing men on earth. Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey's ghost Were by his side; sometime he calls the King And whispers to his pillow, as to him, The secrets of his overcharged soul; And I am sent to tell his Majesty That even now he cries aloud for him. QUEEN. Go tell this heavy message to the King. Exit VAUX Ay me! What is this world! What news are these! But wherefore grieve I at an hour's poor loss, Omitting Suffolk's exile, my soul's treasure? Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee, And with the southern clouds contend in tears- Theirs for the earth's increase, mine for my sorrows? Now get thee hence: the King, thou know'st, is coming; If thou be found by me; thou art but dead. SUFFOLK. If I depart from thee I cannot live; And in thy sight to die, what were it else But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap? Here could I breathe my soul into the air, As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe Dying with mother's dug between its lips; Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes, To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth; So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul, Or I should breathe it so into thy body, And then it liv'd in sweet Elysium. To die by thee were but to die in jest: From thee to die were torture more than death. O, let me stay, befall what may befall! QUEEN. Away! Though parting be a fretful corrosive, It is applied to a deathful wound. To France, sweet Suffolk. Let me hear from thee; For whereso'er thou art in this world's globe I'll have an Iris that shall find thee out. SUFFOLK. I go. QUEEN. And take my heart with thee. [She kisses him] SUFFOLK. A jewel, lock'd into the woefull'st cask That ever did contain a thing of worth. Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we: This way fall I to death. QUEEN. This way for me. Exeunt severally SCENE III. London. CARDINAL BEAUFORT'S bedchamber Enter the KING, SALISBURY, and WARWICK, to the CARDINAL in bed
KING HENRY. How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign. CARDINAL. If thou be'st Death I'll give thee England's treasure, Enough to purchase such another island, So thou wilt let me live and feel no pain. KING HENRY. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life Where death's approach is seen so terrible! WARWICK. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee. CARDINAL. Bring me unto my trial when you will. Died he not in his bed? Where should he die? Can I make men live, whe'er they will or no? O, torture me no more! I will confess. Alive again? Then show me where he is; I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him. He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. Comb down his hair; look, look! it stands upright, Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul! Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. KING HENRY. O Thou eternal Mover of the heavens, Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch! O, beat away the busy meddling fiend That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul, And from his bosom purge this black despair! WARWICK. See how the pangs of death do make him grin SALISBURY. Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably. KING HENRY. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be! Lord Card'nal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. He dies, and makes no sign: O God, forgive him! WARWICK. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. KING HENRY. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close; And let us all to meditation. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE I. The coast of Kent Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a LIEUTENANT, a SHIPMASTER and his MATE, and WALTER WHITMORE, with sailors; SUFFOLK and other GENTLEMEN, as prisoners
LIEUTENANT. The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea; And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades That drag the tragic melancholy night; Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty jaws Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air. Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize; For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs, Here shall they make their ransom on the sand, Or with their blood stain this discoloured shore. Master, this prisoner freely give I thee; And thou that art his mate make boot of this; The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share. FIRST GENTLEMAN. What is my ransom, master, let me know? MASTER. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head. MATE. And so much shall you give, or off goes yours. LIEUTENANT. What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns, And bear the name and port of gentlemen? Cut both the villains' throats- for die you shall; The lives of those which we have lost in fight Be counterpois'd with such a petty sum! FIRST GENTLEMAN. I'll give it, sir: and therefore spare my life. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And so will I, and write home for it straight. WHITMORE. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, [To SUFFOLK] And therefore, to revenge it, shalt thou die; And so should these, if I might have my will. LIEUTENANT. Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live. SUFFOLK. Look on my George, I am a gentleman: Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid. WHITMORE. And so am I: my name is Walter Whitmore. How now! Why start'st thou? What, doth death affright? SUFFOLK. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death. A cunning man did calculate my birth And told me that by water I should die; Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded; Thy name is Gualtier, being rightly sounded. WHITMORE. Gualtier or Walter, which it is I care not: Never yet did base dishonour blur our name But with our sword we wip'd away the blot; Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge, Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defac'd, And I proclaim'd a coward through the world. SUFFOLK. Stay, Whitmore, for thy prisoner is a prince, The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole. WHITMORE. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags? SUFFOLK. Ay, but these rags are no part of the Duke: Jove sometime went disguis'd, and why not I? LIEUTENANT. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be. SUFFOLK. Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry's blood, The honourable blood of Lancaster, Must not be shed by such a jaded groom. Hast thou not kiss'd thy hand and held my stirrup, Bareheaded plodded by my foot-cloth mule, And thought thee happy when I shook my head? How often hast thou waited at my cup, Fed from my trencher, kneel'd down at the board, When I have feasted with Queen Margaret? Remember it, and let it make thee crestfall'n, Ay, and allay thus thy abortive pride, How in our voiding-lobby hast thou stood And duly waited for my coming forth. This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf, And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue. WHITMORE. Speak, Captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain? LIEUTENANT. First let my words stab him, as he hath me. SUFFOLK. Base slave, thy words are blunt, and so art thou. LIEUTENANT. Convey him hence, and on our longboat's side Strike off his head. SUFFOLK. Thou dar'st not, for thy own. LIEUTENANT. Poole! SUFFOLK. Poole? LIEUTENANT. Ay, kennel, puddle, sink, whose filth and dirt Troubles the silver spring where England drinks; Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth For swallowing the treasure of the realm. Thy lips, that kiss'd the Queen, shall sweep the ground; And thou that smil'dst at good Duke Humphrey's death Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain, Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again; And wedded be thou to the hags of hell For daring to affy a mighty lord Unto the daughter of a worthless king, Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem. By devilish policy art thou grown great, And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorg'd With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart. By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France; The false revolting Normans thorough thee Disdain to call us lord; and Picardy Hath slain their governors, surpris'd our forts, And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home. The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all, Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain, As hating thee, are rising up in arms; And now the house of York- thrust from the crown By shameful murder of a guiltless king And lofty proud encroaching tyranny- Burns with revenging fire, whose hopeful colours Advance our half-fac'd sun, striving to shine, Under the which is writ 'Invitis nubibus.' The commons here in Kent are up in arms; And to conclude, reproach and beggary Is crept into the palace of our King, And all by thee. Away! convey him hence. SUFFOLK. O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges! Small things make base men proud: this villain here, Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more Than Bargulus, the strong Illyrian pirate. Drones suck not eagles' blood but rob beehives. It is impossible that I should die By such a lowly vassal as thyself. Thy words move rage and not remorse in me. I go of message from the Queen to France: I charge thee waft me safely cross the Channel. LIEUTENANT. Walter- WHITMORE. Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death. SUFFOLK. Gelidus timor occupat artus: it is thee I fear. WHITMORE. Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee. What, are ye daunted now? Now will ye stoop? FIRST GENTLEMAN. My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair. SUFFOLK. Suffolk's imperial tongue is stem and rough, Us'd to command, untaught to plead for favour. Far be it we should honour such as these With humble suit: no, rather let my head Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any Save to the God of heaven and to my king; And sooner dance upon a bloody pole Than stand uncover'd to the vulgar groom. True nobility is exempt from fear: More can I bear than you dare execute. LIEUTENANT. Hale him away, and let him talk no more. SUFFOLK. Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can, That this my death may never be forgot- Great men oft die by vile bezonians: A Roman sworder and banditto slave Murder'd sweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand Stabb'd Julius Caesar; savage islanders Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates. Exit WALTER with SUFFOLK LIEUTENANT. And as for these, whose ransom we have set, It is our pleasure one of them depart; Therefore come you with us, and let him go. Exeunt all but the FIRST GENTLEMAN Re-enter WHITMORE with SUFFOLK'S body
WHITMORE. There let his head and lifeless body lie, Until the Queen his mistress bury it. Exit FIRST GENTLEMAN. O barbarous and bloody spectacle! His body will I bear unto the King. If he revenge it not, yet will his friends; So will the Queen, that living held him dear. Exit with the body SCENE II. Blackheath Enter GEORGE BEVIS and JOHN HOLLAND
GEORGE. Come and get thee a sword, though made of a lath; they have been up these two days. JOHN. They have the more need to sleep now, then. GEORGE. I tell thee Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it. JOHN. So he had need, for 'tis threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up. GEORGE. O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in handicraftsmen. JOHN. The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons. GEORGE. Nay, more, the King's Council are no good workmen. JOHN. True; and yet it is said 'Labour in thy vocation'; which is as much to say as 'Let the magistrates be labouring men'; and therefore should we be magistrates. GEORGE. Thou hast hit it; for there's no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand. JOHN. I see them! I see them! There's Best's son, the tanner of Wingham- GEORGE. He shall have the skins of our enemies to make dog's leather of. JOHN. And Dick the butcher- GEORGE. Then is sin struck down, like an ox, and iniquity's throat cut like a calf. JOHN. And Smith the weaver- GEORGE. Argo, their thread of life is spun. JOHN. Come, come, let's fall in with them. Drum. Enter CADE, DICK THE BUTCHER, SMITH THE WEAVER, and a SAWYER, with infinite numbers CADE. We John Cade, so term'd of our supposed father- DICK. [Aside] Or rather, of stealing a cade of herrings. CADE. For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired with the spirit of putting down kings and princes- command silence. DICK. Silence! CADE. My father was a Mortimer- DICK. [Aside] He was an honest man and a good bricklayer. CADE. My mother a Plantagenet- DICK. [Aside] I knew her well; she was a midwife. CADE. My wife descended of the Lacies- DICK. [Aside] She was, indeed, a pedlar's daughter, and sold many laces. SMITH. [Aside] But now of late, not able to travel with her furr'd pack, she washes bucks here at home. CADE. Therefore am I of an honourable house. DICK. [Aside] Ay, by my faith, the field is honourable, and there was he born, under a hedge, for his father had never a house but the cage. CADE. Valiant I am. SMITH. [Aside] 'A must needs; for beggary is valiant. CADE. I am able to endure much. DICK. [Aside] No question of that; for I have seen him whipt three market days together. CADE. I fear neither sword nor fire. SMITH. [Aside] He need not fear the sword, for his coat is of proof. DICK. [Aside] But methinks he should stand in fear of fire, being burnt i' th' hand for stealing of sheep. CADE. Be brave, then, for your captain is brave, and vows reformation. There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny; the three-hoop'd pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make it felony to drink small beer. All the realm shall be in common, and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass. And when I am king- as king I will be ALL. God save your Majesty! CADE. I thank you, good people- there shall be no money; all shall eat and drink on my score, and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers and worship me their lord. DICK. The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers. CADE. Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment? That parchment, being scribbl'd o'er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings; but I say 'tis the bee's wax; for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mine own man since. How now! Who's there? Enter some, bringing in the CLERK OF CHATHAM
SMITH. The clerk of Chatham. He can write and read and cast accompt. CADE. O monstrous! SMITH. We took him setting of boys' copies. CADE. Here's a villain! SMITH. Has a book in his pocket with red letters in't. CADE. Nay, then he is a conjurer. DICK. Nay, he can make obligations and write court-hand. CADE. I am sorry for't; the man is a proper man, of mine honour; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die. Come hither, sirrah, I must examine thee. What is thy name? CLERK. Emmanuel. DICK. They use to write it on the top of letters; 'twill go hard with you. CADE. Let me alone. Dost thou use to write thy name, or hast thou a mark to thyself, like a honest plain-dealing man? CLERK. Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up that I can write my name. ALL. He hath confess'd. Away with him! He's a villain and a traitor. CADE. Away with him, I say! Hang him with his pen and inkhorn about his neck. Exit one with the CLERK Enter MICHAEL
MICHAEL. Where's our General? CADE. Here I am, thou particular fellow. MICHAEL. Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the King's forces. CADE. Stand, villain, stand, or I'll fell thee down. He shall be encount'red with a man as good as himself. He is but a knight, is 'a? MICHAEL. No. CADE. To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently. [Kneels] Rise up, Sir John Mortimer. [Rises] Now have at him! Enter SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD and WILLIAM his brother, with drum and soldiers STAFFORD. Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent, Mark'd for the gallows, lay your weapons down; Home to your cottages, forsake this groom; The King is merciful if you revolt. WILLIAM STAFFORD. But angry, wrathful, and inclin'd to blood, If you go forward; therefore yield or die. CADE. As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not; It is to you, good people, that I speak, O'er whom, in time to come, I hope to reign; For I am rightful heir unto the crown. STAFFORD. Villain, thy father was a plasterer; And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not? CADE. And Adam was a gardener. WILLIAM STAFFORD. And what of that? CADE. Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, Married the Duke of Clarence' daughter, did he not? STAFFORD. Ay, sir. CADE. By her he had two children at one birth. WILLIAM STAFFORD. That's false. CADE. Ay, there's the question; but I say 'tis true. The elder of them being put to nurse, Was by a beggar-woman stol'n away, And, ignorant of his birth and parentage, Became a bricklayer when he came to age. His son am I; deny it if you can. DICK. Nay, 'tis too true; therefore he shall be king. SMITH. Sir, he made a chimney in my father's house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it; therefore deny it not. STAFFORD. And will you credit this base drudge's words That speaks he knows not what? ALL. Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone. WILLIAM STAFFORD. Jack Cade, the Duke of York hath taught you this. CADE. [Aside] He lies, for I invented it myself- Go to, sirrah, tell the King from me that for his father's sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys went to span-counter for French crowns, I am content he shall reign; but I'll be Protector over him. DICK. And furthermore, we'll have the Lord Say's head for selling the dukedom of Maine. CADE. And good reason; for thereby is England main'd and fain to go with a staff, but that my puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord Say hath gelded the commonwealth and made it an eunuch; and more than that, he can speak French, and therefore he is a traitor. STAFFORD. O gross and miserable ignorance! CADE. Nay, answer if you can; the Frenchmen are our enemies. Go to, then, I ask but this: can he that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good counsellor, or no? ALL. No, no; and therefore we'll have his head. WILLIAM STAFFORD. Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail, Assail them with the army of the King. STAFFORD. Herald, away; and throughout every town Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade; That those which fly before the battle ends May, even in their wives'and children's sight, Be hang'd up for example at their doors. And you that be the King's friends, follow me. Exeunt the TWO STAFFORDS and soldiers CADE. And you that love the commons follow me. Now show yourselves men; 'tis for liberty. We will not leave one lord, one gentleman; Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon, For they are thrifty honest men and such As would- but that they dare not- take our parts. DICK. They are all in order, and march toward us. CADE. But then are we in order when we are most out of order. Come, march forward. Exeunt SCENE III. Another part of Blackheath Alarums to the fight, wherein both the STAFFORDS are slain. Enter CADE and the rest CADE. Where's Dick, the butcher of Ashford? DICK. Here, sir. CADE. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter-house; therefore thus will I reward thee- the Lent shall be as long again as it is, and thou shalt have a licence to kill for a hundred lacking one. DICK. I desire no more. CADE. And, to speak truth, thou deserv'st no less. [Putting on SIR HUMPHREY'S brigandine] This monument of the victory will I bear, and the bodies shall be dragged at my horse heels till I do come to London, where we will have the mayor's sword borne before us. DICK. If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols and let out the prisoners. CADE. Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, let's march towards London. Exeunt SCENE IV. London. The palace Enter the KING with a supplication, and the QUEEN with SUFFOLK'S head; the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, and the LORD SAY
QUEEN. Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate; Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep. But who can cease to weep, and look on this? Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast; But where's the body that I should embrace? BUCKINGHAM. What answer makes your Grace to the rebels' supplication? KING HENRY. I'll send some holy bishop to entreat; For God forbid so many simple souls Should perish by the sword! And I myself, Rather than bloody war shall cut them short, Will parley with Jack Cade their general. But stay, I'll read it over once again. QUEEN. Ah, barbarous villains! Hath this lovely face Rul'd like a wandering planet over me, And could it not enforce them to relent That were unworthy to behold the same? KING HENRY. Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head. SAY. Ay, but I hope your Highness shall have his. KING HENRY. How now, madam! Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk's death? I fear me, love, if that I had been dead, Thou wouldst not have mourn'd so much for me. QUEEN. No, my love, I should not mourn, but die for thee. Enter A MESSENGER
KING HENRY. How now! What news? Why com'st thou in such haste? MESSENGER. The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord! Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, Descended from the Duke of Clarence' house, And calls your Grace usurper, openly, And vows to crown himself in Westminster. His army is a ragged multitude Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless; Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother's death Hath given them heart and courage to proceed. All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen, They call false caterpillars and intend their death. KING HENRY. O graceless men! they know not what they do. BUCKINGHAM. My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth Until a power be rais'd to put them down. QUEEN. Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive, These Kentish rebels would be soon appeas'd! KING HENRY. Lord Say, the traitors hate thee; Therefore away with us to Killingworth. SAY. So might your Grace's person be in danger. The sight of me is odious in their eyes; And therefore in this city will I stay And live alone as secret as I may. Enter another MESSENGER
SECOND MESSENGER. Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge. The citizens fly and forsake their houses; The rascal people, thirsting after prey, Join with the traitor; and they jointly swear To spoil the city and your royal court. BUCKINGHAM. Then linger not, my lord; away, take horse. KING HENRY. Come Margaret; God, our hope, will succour us. QUEEN. My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceas'd. KING HENRY. [To LORD SAY] Farewell, my lord, trust not the Kentish rebels. BUCKINGHAM. Trust nobody, for fear you be betray'd. SAY. The trust I have is in mine innocence, And therefore am I bold and resolute. Exeunt SCENE V. London. The Tower Enter LORD SCALES Upon the Tower, walking. Then enter two or three CITIZENS, below
SCALES. How now! Is Jack Cade slain? FIRST CITIZEN. No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they have won the bridge, killing all those that withstand them. The Lord Mayor craves aid of your honour from the Tower, to defend the city from the rebels. SCALES. Such aid as I can spare you shall command, But I am troubled here with them myself; The rebels have assay'd to win the Tower. But get you to Smithfield, and gather head, And thither I will send you Matthew Goffe; Fight for your King, your country, and your lives; And so, farewell, for I must hence again. Exeunt SCENE VI. London. Cannon street Enter JACK CADE and the rest, and strikes his staff on London Stone
CADE. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London Stone, I charge and command that, of the city's cost, the pissing conduit run nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign. And now henceforward it shall be treason for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer.
Enter a SOLDIER, running
SOLDIER. Jack Cade! Jack Cade! CADE. Knock him down there. [They kill him] SMITH. If this fellow be wise, he'll never call ye Jack Cade more; I think he hath a very fair warning. DICK. My lord, there's an army gathered together in Smithfield. CADE. Come then, let's go fight with them. But first go and set London Bridge on fire; and, if you can, burn down the Tower too. Come, let's away. Exeunt SCENE VII. London. Smithfield Alarums. MATTHEW GOFFE is slain, and all the rest. Then enter JACK CADE, with his company
CADE. So, sirs. Now go some and pull down the Savoy; others to th' Inns of Court; down with them all. DICK. I have a suit unto your lordship. CADE. Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word. DICK. Only that the laws of England may come out of your mouth. JOHN. [Aside] Mass, 'twill be sore law then; for he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and 'tis not whole yet. SMITH. [Aside] Nay, John, it will be stinking law; for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese. CADE. I have thought upon it; it shall be so. Away, burn all the records of the realm. My mouth shall be the Parliament of England. JOHN. [Aside] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teeth be pull'd out. CADE. And henceforward all things shall be in common. Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. My lord, a prize, a prize! Here's the Lord Say, which sold the towns in France; he that made us pay one and twenty fifteens, and one shining to the pound, the last subsidy.
Enter GEORGE BEVIS, with the LORD SAY
CADE. Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord! Now art thou within point blank of our jurisdiction regal. What canst thou answer to my Majesty for giving up of Normandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu the Dauphin of France? Be it known unto thee by these presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, that I am the besom that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school; and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be us'd, and, contrary to the King, his crown, and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison, and because they could not read, thou hast hang'd them, when, indeed, only for that cause they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride in a foot-cloth, dost thou not? SAY. What of that? CADE. Marry, thou ought'st not to let thy horse wear a cloak, when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets. DICK. And work in their shirt too, as myself, for example, that am a butcher. SAY. You men of Kent- DICK. What say you of Kent? SAY. Nothing but this: 'tis 'bona terra, mala gens.' CADE. Away with him, away with him! He speaks Latin. SAY. Hear me but speak, and bear me where you will. Kent, in the Commentaries Caesar writ, Is term'd the civil'st place of all this isle. Sweet is the country, because full of riches; The people liberal valiant, active, wealthy; Which makes me hope you are not void of pity. I sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy; Yet, to recover them, would lose my life. Justice with favour have I always done; Pray'rs and tears have mov'd me, gifts could never. When have I aught exacted at your hands, But to maintain the King, the realm, and you? Large gifts have I bestow'd on learned clerks, Because my book preferr'd me to the King, And seeing ignorance is the curse of God, Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven, Unless you be possess'd with devilish spirits You cannot but forbear to murder me. This tongue hath parley'd unto foreign kings For your behoof. CADE. Tut, when struck'st thou one blow in the field? SAY. Great men have reaching hands. Oft have I struck Those that I never saw, and struck them dead. GEORGE. O monstrous coward! What, to come behind folks? SAY. These cheeks are pale for watching for your good. CADE. Give him a box o' th' ear, and that will make 'em red again. SAY. Long sitting to determine poor men's causes Hath made me full of sickness and diseases. CADE. Ye shall have a hempen caudle then, and the help of hatchet. DICK. Why dost thou quiver, man? SAY. The palsy, and not fear, provokes me. CADE. Nay, he nods at us, as who should say 'I'll be even with you'; I'll see if his head will stand steadier on a pole, or no. Take him away, and behead him. SAY. Tell me: wherein have I offended most? Have I affected wealth or honour? Speak. Are my chests fill'd up with extorted gold? Is my apparel sumptuous to behold? Whom have I injur'd, that ye seek my death? These hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding, This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts. O, let me live! CADE. [Aside] I feel remorse in myself with his words; but I'll bridle it. He shall die, an it be but for pleading so well for his life.- Away with him! He has a familiar under his tongue; he speaks not o' God's name. Go, take him away, I say, and strike off his head presently, and then break into his son-in-law's house, Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head, and bring them both upon two poles hither. ALL. It shall be done. SAY. Ah, countrymen! if when you make your pray'rs, God should be so obdurate as yourselves, How would it fare with your departed souls? And therefore yet relent and save my life. CADE. Away with him, and do as I command ye. [Exeunt some with LORD SAY] The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head on his shoulders, unless he pay me tribute; there shall not a maid be married, but she shall pay to me her maidenhead ere they have it. Men shall hold of me in capite; and we charge and command that their wives be as free as heart can wish or tongue can tell. DICK. My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside, and take up commodities upon our bills? CADE. Marry, presently. ALL. O, brave! Re-enter one with the heads
CADE. But is not this braver? Let them kiss one another, for they lov'd well when they were alive. Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night; for with these borne before us instead of maces will we ride through the streets, and at every corner have them kiss. Away! Exeunt
SCENE VIII. Southwark Alarum and retreat. Enter again CADE and all his rabblement
CADE. Up Fish Street! down Saint Magnus' Corner! Kill and knock down! Throw them into Thames! [Sound a parley] What noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley when I command them kill?
Enter BUCKINGHAM and old CLIFFORD, attended
BUCKINGHAM. Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee. And therefore yet relent, and save my life. Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the King Unto the commons whom thou hast misled; And here pronounce free pardon to them all That will forsake thee and go home in peace. CLIFFORD. What say ye, countrymen? Will ye relent And yield to mercy whilst 'tis offer'd you, Or let a rebel lead you to your deaths? Who loves the King, and will embrace his pardon, Fling up his cap and say 'God save his Majesty!' Who hateth him and honours not his father, Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake, Shake he his weapon at us and pass by. ALL. God save the King! God save the King! CADE. What, Buckingham and Clifford, are ye so brave? And you, base peasants, do ye believe him? Will you needs be hang'd with your about your necks? Hath my sword therefore broke through London gates, that you should leave me at the White Hart in Southwark? I thought ye would never have given out these arms till you had recovered your ancient freedom. But you are all recreants and dastards, and delight to live in slavery to the nobility. Let them break your backs with burdens, take your houses over your heads, ravish your wives and daughters before your faces. For me, I will make shift for one; and so God's curse light upon you all! ALL. We'll follow Cade, we'll follow Cade! CLIFFORD. Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth, That thus you do exclaim you'll go with him? Will he conduct you through the heart of France, And make the meanest of you earls and dukes? Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to; Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil, Unless by robbing of your friends and us. Were't not a shame that whilst you live at jar The fearful French, whom you late vanquished, Should make a start o'er seas and vanquish you? Methinks already in this civil broil I see them lording it in London streets, Crying 'Villiago!' unto all they meet. Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman's mercy. To France, to France, and get what you have lost; Spare England, for it is your native coast. Henry hath money; you are strong and manly. God on our side, doubt not of victory. ALL. A Clifford! a Clifford! We'll follow the King and Clifford. CADE. Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to an hundred mischiefs, and makes them leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads together to surprise me. My sword make way for me for here is no staying. In despite of the devils and hell, have through the very middest of you! and heavens and honour be witness that no want of resolution in me, but only my followers' base and ignominious treasons, makes me betake me to my heels. Exit BUCKINGHAM. What, is he fled? Go some, and follow him; And he that brings his head unto the King Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward. Exeunt some of them Follow me, soldiers; we'll devise a mean To reconcile you all unto the King. Exeunt SCENE IX. Killing, worth Castle Sound trumpets. Enter KING, QUEEN, and SOMERSET, on the terrace
KING HENRY. Was ever king that joy'd an earthly throne And could command no more content than I? No sooner was I crept out of my cradle But I was made a king, at nine months old. Was never subject long'd to be a King As I do long and wish to be a subject. Enter BUCKINGHAM and old CLIFFORD
BUCKINGHAM. Health and glad tidings to your Majesty! KING HENRY. Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surpris'd? Or is he but retir'd to make him strong? Enter, below, multitudes, with halters about their necks
CLIFFORD. He is fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield, And humbly thus, with halters on their necks, Expect your Highness' doom of life or death. KING HENRY. Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates, To entertain my vows of thanks and praise! Soldiers, this day have you redeem'd your lives, And show'd how well you love your Prince and country. Continue still in this so good a mind, And Henry, though he be infortunate, Assure yourselves, will never be unkind. And so, with thanks and pardon to you all, I do dismiss you to your several countries. ALL. God save the King! God save the King! Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. Please it your Grace to be advertised The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland And with a puissant and a mighty power Of gallowglasses and stout kerns Is marching hitherward in proud array, And still proclaimeth, as he comes along, His arms are only to remove from thee The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor. KING HENRY. Thus stands my state, 'twixt Cade and York distress'd; Like to a ship that, having scap'd a tempest, Is straightway calm'd, and boarded with a pirate; But now is Cade driven back, his men dispers'd, And now is York in arms to second him. I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him And ask him what's the reason of these arms. Tell him I'll send Duke Edmund to the Tower- And Somerset, we will commit thee thither Until his army be dismiss'd from him. SOMERSET. My lord, I'll yield myself to prison willingly, Or unto death, to do my country good. KING HENRY. In any case be not too rough in terms, For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language. BUCKINGHAM. I will, my lord, and doubt not so to deal As all things shall redound unto your good. KING HENRY. Come, wife, let's in, and learn to govern better; For yet may England curse my wretched reign. Flourish. Exeunt SCENE X. Kent. Iden's garden Enter CADE
CADE. Fie on ambitions! Fie on myself, that have a sword and yet am ready to famish! These five days have I hid me in these woods and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me; but now am I so hungry that, if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years, I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climb'd into this garden, to see if I can eat grass or pick a sallet another while, which is not amiss to cool a man's stomach this hot weather. And I think this word 'sallet' was born to do me good; for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pain had been cleft with a brown bill; and many a time, when I have been dry, and bravely marching, it hath serv'd me instead of a quart-pot to drink in; and now the word 'sallet' must serve me to feed on.
Enter IDEN
IDEN. Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court And may enjoy such quiet walks as these? This small inheritance my father left me Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy. I seek not to wax great by others' waning Or gather wealth I care not with what envy; Sufficeth that I have maintains my state, And sends the poor well pleased from my gate. CADE. Here's the lord of the soil come to seize me for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave. Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand crowns of the King by carrying my head to him; but I'll make thee eat iron like an ostrich and swallow my sword like a great pin ere thou and I part. IDEN. Why, rude companion, whatsoe'er thou be, I know thee not; why then should I betray thee? Is't not enough to break into my garden And like a thief to come to rob my grounds, Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner, But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms? CADE. Brave thee? Ay, by the best blood that ever was broach'd, and beard thee too. Look on me well: I have eat no meat these five days, yet come thou and thy five men and if I do not leave you all as dead as a door-nail, I pray God I may never eat grass more. IDEN. Nay, it shall ne'er be said, while England stands, That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent, Took odds to combat a poor famish'd man. Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine; See if thou canst outface me with thy looks; Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser; Thy hand is but a finger to my fist, Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon; My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast, And if mine arm be heaved in the air, Thy grave is digg'd already in the earth. As for words, whose greatness answers words, Let this my sword report what speech forbears. CADE. By my valour, the most complete champion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the burly bon'd clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I beseech God on my knees thou mayst be turn'd to hobnails. [Here they fight; CADE falls] O, I am slain! famine and no other hath slain me. Let ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I'd defy them all. Wither, garden, and be henceforth a burying place to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquered soul of Cade is fled. IDEN. Is't Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor? Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed And hang thee o'er my tomb when I am dead. Ne'er shall this blood be wiped from thy point, But thou shalt wear it as a herald's coat To emblaze the honour that thy master got. CADE. Iden, farewell; and be proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me she hath lost her best man, and exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour. [Dies] IDEN. How much thou wrong'st me, heaven be my judge. Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee! And as I thrust thy body in with my sword, So wish I, I might thrust thy soul to hell. Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels Unto a dunghill, which shall be thy grave, And there cut off thy most ungracious head, Which I will bear in triumph to the King, Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon. Exit ACT V. SCENE I. Fields between Dartford and Blackheath Enter YORK, and his army of Irish, with drum and colours
YORK. From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right And pluck the crown from feeble Henry's head: Ring bells aloud, burn bonfires clear and bright, To entertain great England's lawful king. Ah, sancta majestas! who would not buy thee dear? Let them obey that knows not how to rule; This hand was made to handle nought but gold. I cannot give due action to my words Except a sword or sceptre balance it. A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul On which I'll toss the flower-de-luce of France. Enter BUCKINGHAM
[Aside] Whom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me?
The King hath sent him, sure: I must dissemble.
BUCKINGHAM. York, if thou meanest well I greet thee well. YORK. Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy greeting. Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure? BUCKINGHAM. A messenger from Henry, our dread liege, To know the reason of these arms in peace; Or why thou, being a subject as I am, Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn, Should raise so great a power without his leave, Or dare to bring thy force so near the court. YORK. [Aside] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. O, I could hew up rocks and fight with flint, I am so angry at these abject terms; And now, like Ajax Telamonius, On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury. I am far better born than is the King, More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts; But I must make fair weather yet awhile, Till Henry be more weak and I more strong.- Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me That I have given no answer all this while; My mind was troubled with deep melancholy. The cause why I have brought this army hither Is to remove proud Somerset from the King, Seditious to his Grace and to the state. BUCKINGHAM. That is too much presumption on thy part; But if thy arms be to no other end, The King hath yielded unto thy demand: The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower. YORK. Upon thine honour, is he prisoner? BUCKINGHAM. Upon mine honour, he is prisoner. YORK. Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my pow'rs. Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves; Meet me to-morrow in Saint George's field, You shall have pay and everything you wish. And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry, Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons, As pledges of my fealty and love. I'll send them all as willing as I live: Lands, goods, horse, armour, anything I have, Is his to use, so Somerset may die. BUCKINGHAM. York, I commend this kind submission. We twain will go into his Highness' tent. Enter the KING, and attendants
KING HENRY. Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to us, That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm? YORK. In all submission and humility York doth present himself unto your Highness. KING HENRY. Then what intends these forces thou dost bring? YORK. To heave the traitor Somerset from hence, And fight against that monstrous rebel Cade, Who since I heard to be discomfited. Enter IDEN, with CADE's head
IDEN. If one so rude and of so mean condition May pass into the presence of a king, Lo, I present your Grace a traitor's head, The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew. KING HENRY. The head of Cade! Great God, how just art Thou! O, let me view his visage, being dead, That living wrought me such exceeding trouble. Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him? IDEN. I was, an't like your Majesty. KING HENRY. How art thou call'd? And what is thy degree? IDEN. Alexander Iden, that's my name; A poor esquire of Kent that loves his king. BUCKINGHAM. So please it you, my lord, 'twere not amiss He were created knight for his good service. KING HENRY. Iden, kneel down. [He kneels] Rise up a knight. We give thee for reward a thousand marks, And will that thou thenceforth attend on us. IDEN. May Iden live to merit such a bounty, And never live but true unto his liege! Enter the QUEEN and SOMERSET
KING HENRY. See, Buckingham! Somerset comes with th' Queen: Go, bid her hide him quickly from the Duke. QUEEN. For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his head, But boldly stand and front him to his face. YORK. How now! Is Somerset at liberty? Then, York, unloose thy long-imprisoned thoughts And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart. Shall I endure the sight of Somerset? False king, why hast thou broken faith with me, Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse? King did I call thee? No, thou art not king; Not fit to govern and rule multitudes, Which dar'st not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor. That head of thine doth not become a crown; Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer's staff, And not to grace an awful princely sceptre. That gold must round engirt these brows of mine, Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles' spear, Is able with the change to kill and cure. Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up, And with the same to act controlling laws. Give place. By heaven, thou shalt rule no more O'er him whom heaven created for thy ruler. SOMERSET. O monstrous traitor! I arrest thee, York, Of capital treason 'gainst the King and crown. Obey, audacious traitor; kneel for grace. YORK. Wouldst have me kneel? First let me ask of these, If they can brook I bow a knee to man. Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail: Exit attendant I know, ere thy will have me go to ward, They'll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement. QUEEN. Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain, To say if that the bastard boys of York Shall be the surety for their traitor father. Exit BUCKINGHAM YORK. O blood-bespotted Neapolitan, Outcast of Naples, England's bloody scourge! The sons of York, thy betters in their birth, Shall be their father's bail; and bane to those That for my surety will refuse the boys! Enter EDWARD and RICHARD PLANTAGENET
See where they come: I'll warrant they'll make it good.
Enter CLIFFORD and his SON
QUEEN. And here comes Clifford to deny their bail. CLIFFORD. Health and all happiness to my lord the King! [Kneels] YORK. I thank thee, Clifford. Say, what news with thee? Nay, do not fright us with an angry look. We are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again; For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. CLIFFORD. This is my King, York, I do not mistake; But thou mistakes me much to think I do. To Bedlam with him! Is the man grown mad? KING HENRY. Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious humour Makes him oppose himself against his king. CLIFFORD. He is a traitor; let him to the Tower, And chop away that factious pate of his. QUEEN. He is arrested, but will not obey; His sons, he says, shall give their words for him. YORK. Will you not, sons? EDWARD. Ay, noble father, if our words will serve. RICHARD. And if words will not, then our weapons shall. CLIFFORD. Why, what a brood of traitors have we here! YORK. Look in a glass, and call thy image so: I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor. Call hither to the stake my two brave bears, That with the very shaking of their chains They may astonish these fell-lurking curs. Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me. Enter the EARLS OF WARWICK and SALISBURY
CLIFFORD. Are these thy bears? We'll bait thy bears to death, And manacle the berard in their chains, If thou dar'st bring them to the baiting-place. RICHARD. Oft have I seen a hot o'er weening cur Run back and bite, because he was withheld; Who, being suffer'd, with the bear's fell paw, Hath clapp'd his tail between his legs and cried; And such a piece of service will you do, If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick. CLIFFORD. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump, As crooked in thy manners as thy shape! YORK. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon. CLIFFORD. Take heed, lest by your heat you burn yourselves. KING HENRY. Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow? Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair, Thou mad misleader of thy brainsick son! What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles? O, where is faith? O, where is loyalty? If it be banish'd from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbour in the earth? Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war And shame thine honourable age with blood? Why art thou old, and want'st experience? Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it? For shame! In duty bend thy knee to me, That bows unto the grave with mickle age. SALISBURY. My lord, I have considered with myself The tide of this most renowned duke, And in my conscience do repute his Grace The rightful heir to England's royal seat. KING HENRY. Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me? SALISBURY. I have. KING HENRY. Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath? SALISBURY. It is great sin to swear unto a sin; But greater sin to keep a sinful oath. Who can be bound by any solemn vow To do a murd'rous deed, to rob a man, To force a spotless virgin's chastity, To reave the orphan of his patrimony, To wring the widow from her custom'd right, And have no other reason for this wrong But that he was bound by a solemn oath? QUEEN. A subtle traitor needs no sophister. KING HENRY. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. YORK. Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast, I am resolv'd for death or dignity. CLIFFORD. The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true. WARWICK. You were best to go to bed and dream again To keep thee from the tempest of the field. CLIFFORD. I am resolv'd to bear a greater storm Than any thou canst conjure up to-day; And that I'll write upon thy burgonet, Might I but know thee by thy household badge. WARWICK. Now, by my father's badge, old Nevil's crest, The rampant bear chain'd to the ragged staff, This day I'll wear aloft my burgonet, As on a mountain-top the cedar shows, That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm, Even to affright thee with the view thereof. CLIFFORD. And from thy burgonet I'll rend thy bear And tread it under foot with all contempt, Despite the berard that protects the bear. YOUNG CLIFFORD. And so to arms, victorious father, To quell the rebels and their complices. RICHARD. Fie! charity, for shame! Speak not in spite, For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night. YOUNG CLIFFORD. Foul stigmatic, that's more than thou canst tell. RICHARD. If not in heaven, you'll surely sup in hell. Exeunt severally SCENE II. Saint Albans Alarums to the battle. Enter WARWICK
WARWICK. Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis Warwick calls; And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear, Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum And dead men's cries do fill the empty air, Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me. Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland, WARWICK is hoarse with calling thee to arms. Enter YORK
How now, my noble lord! what, all a-foot?
YORK. The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed; But match to match I have encount'red him, And made a prey for carrion kites and crows Even of the bonny beast he lov'd so well. Enter OLD CLIFFORD
WARWICK. Of one or both of us the time is come. YORK. Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase, For I myself must hunt this deer to death. WARWICK. Then, nobly, York; 'tis for a crown thou fight'st. As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day, It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail'd. Exit CLIFFORD. What seest thou in me, York? Why dost thou pause? YORK. With thy brave bearing should I be in love But that thou art so fast mine enemy. CLIFFORD. Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem But that 'tis shown ignobly and in treason. YORK. So let it help me now against thy sword, As I in justice and true right express it! CLIFFORD. My soul and body on the action both! YORK. A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly. [They fight and CLIFFORD falls] CLIFFORD. La fin couronne les oeuvres. [Dies] YORK. Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still. Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will! Exit Enter YOUNG CLIFFORD
YOUNG CLIFFORD. Shame and confusion! All is on the rout; Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds Where it should guard. O war, thou son of hell, Whom angry heavens do make their minister, Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly. He that is truly dedicate to war Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself Hath not essentially, but by circumstance, The name of valour. [Sees his father's body] O, let the vile world end And the premised flames of the last day Knit earth and heaven together! Now let the general trumpet blow his blast, Particularities and petty sounds To cease! Wast thou ordain'd, dear father, To lose thy youth in peace and to achieve The silver livery of advised age, And in thy reverence and thy chair-days thus To die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight My heart is turn'd to stone; and while 'tis mine It shall be stony. York not our old men spares; No more will I their babes. Tears virginal Shall be to me even as the dew to fire; And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims, Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax. Henceforth I will not have to do with pity: Meet I an infant of the house of York, Into as many gobbets will I cut it As wild Medea young Absyrtus did; In cruelty will I seek out my fame. Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford's house; As did Aeneas old Anchises bear, So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders; But then Aeneas bare a living load, Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine. Exit with the body Enter RICHARD and SOMERSET to fight. SOMERSET is killed
RICHARD. So, lie thou there; For underneath an alehouse' paltry sign, The Castle in Saint Albans, Somerset Hath made the wizard famous in his death. Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still: Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill. Exit Fight. Excursions. Enter KING, QUEEN, and others
QUEEN. Away, my lord! You are slow; for shame, away! KING HENRY. Can we outrun the heavens? Good Margaret, stay. QUEEN. What are you made of? You'll nor fight nor fly. Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence, To give the enemy way, and to secure us By what we can, which can no more but fly. [Alarum afar off] If you be ta'en, we then should see the bottom Of all our fortunes; but if we haply scape- As well we may, if not through your neglect- We shall to London get, where you are lov'd, And where this breach now in our fortunes made May readily be stopp'd. Re-enter YOUNG CLIFFORD
YOUNG CLIFFORD. But that my heart's on future mischief set, I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly; But fly you must; uncurable discomfit Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts. Away, for your relief! and we will live To see their day and them our fortune give. Away, my lord, away! Exeunt SCENE III. Fields near Saint Albans Alarum. Retreat. Enter YORK, RICHARD, WARWICK, and soldiers, with drum and colours
YORK. Of Salisbury, who can report of him, That winter lion, who in rage forgets Aged contusions and all brush of time And, like a gallant in the brow of youth, Repairs him with occasion? This happy day Is not itself, nor have we won one foot, If Salisbury be lost. RICHARD. My noble father, Three times to-day I holp him to his horse, Three times bestrid him, thrice I led him off, Persuaded him from any further act; But still where danger was, still there I met him; And like rich hangings in a homely house, So was his will in his old feeble body. But, noble as he is, look where he comes. Enter SALISBURY
SALISBURY. Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day! By th' mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard: God knows how long it is I have to live, And it hath pleas'd Him that three times to-day You have defended me from imminent death. Well, lords, we have not got that which we have; 'Tis not enough our foes are this time fled, Being opposites of such repairing nature. YORK. I know our safety is to follow them; For, as I hear, the King is fled to London To call a present court of Parliament. Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth. What says Lord Warwick? Shall we after them? WARWICK. After them? Nay, before them, if we can. Now, by my faith, lords, 'twas a glorious day: Saint Albans' battle, won by famous York, Shall be eterniz'd in all age to come. Sound drum and trumpets and to London all; And more such days as these to us befall! Exeunt THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH DRAMATIS PERSONAE KING HENRY THE SIXTH EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES, his son LEWIS XI, King of France DUKE OF SOMERSET DUKE OF EXETER EARL OF OXFORD EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND EARL OF WESTMORELAND LORD CLIFFORD RICHARD PLANTAGENET, DUKE OF YORK EDWARD, EARL OF MARCH, afterwards KING EDWARD IV, his son EDMUND, EARL OF RUTLAND, his son GEORGE, afterwards DUKE OF CLARENCE, his son RICHARD, afterwards DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, his son DUKE OF NORFOLK MARQUIS OF MONTAGUE EARL OF WARWICK EARL OF PEMBROKE LORD HASTINGS LORD STAFFORD SIR JOHN MORTIMER, uncle to the Duke of York SIR HUGH MORTIMER, uncle to the Duke of York HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, a youth LORD RIVERS, brother to Lady Grey SIR WILLIAM STANLEY SIR JOHN MONTGOMERY SIR JOHN SOMERVILLE TUTOR, to Rutland MAYOR OF YORK LIEUTENANT OF THE TOWER A NOBLEMAN TWO KEEPERS A HUNTSMAN A SON that has killed his father A FATHER that has killed his son QUEEN MARGARET LADY GREY, afterwards QUEEN to Edward IV BONA, sister to the French Queen Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers, Watchmen, etc.
SCENE: England and France ACT I. SCENE I. London. The Parliament House Alarum. Enter DUKE OF YORK, EDWARD, RICHARD, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and soldiers, with white roses in their hats
WARWICK. I wonder how the King escap'd our hands. YORK. While we pursu'd the horsemen of the north, He slily stole away and left his men; Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat, Cheer'd up the drooping army, and himself, Lord Clifford, and Lord Stafford, all abreast, Charg'd our main battle's front, and, breaking in, Were by the swords of common soldiers slain. EDWARD. Lord Stafford's father, Duke of Buckingham, Is either slain or wounded dangerous; I cleft his beaver with a downright blow. That this is true, father, behold his blood. MONTAGUE. And, brother, here's the Earl of Wiltshire's blood, Whom I encount'red as the battles join'd. RICHARD. Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did. [Throwing down SOMERSET'S head] YORK. Richard hath best deserv'd of all my sons. But is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset? NORFOLK. Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt! RICHARD. Thus do I hope to shake King Henry's head. WARWICK. And so do I. Victorious Prince of York, Before I see thee seated in that throne Which now the house of Lancaster usurps, I vow by heaven these eyes shall never close. This is the palace of the fearful King, And this the regal seat. Possess it, York; For this is thine, and not King Henry's heirs'. YORK. Assist me then, sweet Warwick, and I will; For hither we have broken in by force. NORFOLK. We'll all assist you; he that flies shall die. YORK. Thanks, gentle Norfolk. Stay by me, my lords; And, soldiers, stay and lodge by me this night. [They go up] WARWICK. And when the King comes, offer him no violence. Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce. YORK. The Queen this day here holds her parliament, But little thinks we shall be of her council. By words or blows here let us win our right. RICHARD. Arm'd as we are, let's stay within this house. WARWICK. The bloody parliament shall this be call'd, Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be King, And bashful Henry depos'd, whose cowardice Hath made us by-words to our enemies. YORK. Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute: I mean to take possession of my right. WARWICK. Neither the King, nor he that loves him best, The proudest he that holds up Lancaster, Dares stir a wing if Warwick shake his bells. I'll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares. Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown. [YORK occupies the throne] Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, WESTMORELAND, EXETER, and others, with red roses in their hats KING HENRY. My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits, Even in the chair of state! Belike he means, Back'd by the power of Warwick, that false peer, To aspire unto the crown and reign as king. Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father; And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vow'd revenge On him, his sons, his favourites, and his friends. NORTHUMBERLAND. If I be not, heavens be reveng'd on me! CLIFFORD. The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel. WESTMORELAND. What, shall we suffer this? Let's pluck him down; My heart for anger burns; I cannot brook it. KING HENRY. Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland. CLIFFORD. Patience is for poltroons such as he; He durst not sit there had your father liv'd. My gracious lord, here in the parliament Let us assail the family of York. NORTHUMBERLAND. Well hast thou spoken, cousin; be it so. KING HENRY. Ah, know you not the city favours them, And they have troops of soldiers at their beck? EXETER. But when the Duke is slain they'll quickly fly. KING HENRY. Far be the thought of this from Henry's heart, To make a shambles of the parliament house! Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats, Shall be the war that Henry means to use. Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet; I am thy sovereign. YORK. I am thine. EXETER. For shame, come down; he made thee Duke of York. YORK. 'Twas my inheritance, as the earldom was. EXETER. Thy father was a traitor to the crown. WARWICK. Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown In following this usurping Henry. CLIFFORD. Whom should he follow but his natural king? WARWICK. True, Clifford; and that's Richard Duke of York. KING HENRY. And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne? YORK. It must and shall be so; content thyself. WARWICK. Be Duke of Lancaster; let him be King. WESTMORELAND. He is both King and Duke of Lancaster; And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain. WARWICK. And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget That we are those which chas'd you from the field, And slew your fathers, and with colours spread March'd through the city to the palace gates. NORTHUMBERLAND. Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief; And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it. WESTMORELAND. Plantagenet, of thee, and these thy sons, Thy kinsmen, and thy friends, I'll have more lives Than drops of blood were in my father's veins. CLIFFORD. Urge it no more; lest that instead of words I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger As shall revenge his death before I stir. WARWICK. Poor Clifford, how I scorn his worthless threats! YORK. Will you we show our title to the crown? If not, our swords shall plead it in the field. KING HENRY. What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown? Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York; Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March: I am the son of Henry the Fifth, Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop, And seiz'd upon their towns and provinces. WARWICK. Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all. KING HENRY. The Lord Protector lost it, and not I: When I was crown'd, I was but nine months old. RICHARD. You are old enough now, and yet methinks you lose. Father, tear the crown from the usurper's head. EDWARD. Sweet father, do so; set it on your head. MONTAGUE. Good brother, as thou lov'st and honourest arms, Let's fight it out and not stand cavilling thus. RICHARD. Sound drums and trumpets, and the King will fly. YORK. Sons, peace! KING HENRY. Peace thou! and give King Henry leave to speak. WARWICK. Plantagenet shall speak first. Hear him, lords; And be you silent and attentive too, For he that interrupts him shall not live. KING HENRY. Think'st thou that I will leave my kingly throne, Wherein my grandsire and my father sat? No; first shall war unpeople this my realm; Ay, and their colours, often borne in France, And now in England to our heart's great sorrow, Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords? My title's good, and better far than his. WARWICK. Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be King. KING HENRY. Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown. YORK. 'Twas by rebellion against his king. KING HENRY. [Aside] I know not what to say; my title's weak.- Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir? YORK. What then? KING HENRY. An if he may, then am I lawful King; For Richard, in the view of many lords, Resign'd the crown to Henry the Fourth, Whose heir my father was, and I am his. YORK. He rose against him, being his sovereign, And made him to resign his crown perforce. WARWICK. Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrain'd, Think you 'twere prejudicial to his crown? EXETER. No; for he could not so resign his crown But that the next heir should succeed and reign. KING HENRY. Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter? EXETER. His is the right, and therefore pardon me. YORK. Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not? EXETER. My conscience tells me he is lawful King. KING HENRY. [Aside] All will revolt from me, and turn to him. NORTHUMBERLAND. Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay'st, Think not that Henry shall be so depos'd. WARWICK. Depos'd he shall be, in despite of all. NORTHUMBERLAND. Thou art deceiv'd. 'Tis not thy southern power Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent, Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud, Can set the Duke up in despite of me. CLIFFORD. King Henry, be thy title right or wrong, Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence. May that ground gape, and swallow me alive, Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father! KING HENRY. O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart! YORK. Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown. What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords? WARWICK. Do right unto this princely Duke of York; Or I will fill the house with armed men, And over the chair of state, where now he sits, Write up his title with usurping blood. [He stamps with his foot and the soldiers show themselves] KING HENRY. My Lord of Warwick, hear but one word: Let me for this my life-time reign as king. YORK. Confirm the crown to me and to mine heirs, And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv'st. KING HENRY. I am content. Richard Plantagenet, Enjoy the kingdom after my decease. CLIFFORD. What wrong is this unto the Prince your son! WARWICK. What good is this to England and himself! WESTMORELAND. Base, fearful, and despairing Henry! CLIFFORD. How hast thou injur'd both thyself and or us! WESTMORELAND. I cannot stay to hear these articles. NORTHUMBERLAND. Nor I. CLIFFORD. Come, cousin, let us tell the Queen these news. WESTMORELAND. Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate king, In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides. NORTHUMBERLAND. Be thou a prey unto the house of York And die in bands for this unmanly deed! CLIFFORD. In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome, Or live in peace abandon'd and despis'd! Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND, CLIFFORD, and WESTMORELAND WARWICK. Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not. EXETER. They seek revenge, and therefore will not yield. KING HENRY. Ah, Exeter! WARWICK. Why should you sigh, my lord? KING HENRY. Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son, Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit. But be it as it may. [To YORK] I here entail The crown to thee and to thine heirs for ever; Conditionally, that here thou take an oath To cease this civil war, and, whilst I live, To honour me as thy king and sovereign, And neither by treason nor hostility To seek to put me down and reign thyself. YORK. This oath I willingly take, and will perform. [Coming from the throne] WARWICK. Long live King Henry! Plantagenet, embrace him. KING HENRY. And long live thou, and these thy forward sons! YORK. Now York and Lancaster are reconcil'd. EXETER. Accurs'd be he that seeks to make them foes! [Sennet. Here they come down] YORK. Farewell, my gracious lord; I'll to my castle. WARWICK. And I'll keep London with my soldiers. NORFOLK. And I to Norfolk with my followers. MONTAGUE. And I unto the sea, from whence I came. Exeunt the YORKISTS KING HENRY. And I, with grief and sorrow, to the court. Enter QUEEN MARGARET and the PRINCE OF WALES
EXETER. Here comes the Queen, whose looks bewray her anger. I'll steal away. KING HENRY. Exeter, so will I. QUEEN MARGARET. Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee. KING HENRY. Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay. QUEEN MARGARET. Who can be patient in such extremes? Ah, wretched man! Would I had died a maid, And never seen thee, never borne thee son, Seeing thou hast prov'd so unnatural a father! Hath he deserv'd to lose his birthright thus? Hadst thou but lov'd him half so well as I, Or felt that pain which I did for him once, Or nourish'd him as I did with my blood, Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir, And disinherited thine only son. PRINCE OF WALES. Father, you cannot disinherit me. If you be King, why should not I succeed? KING HENRY. Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet son. The Earl of Warwick and the Duke enforc'd me. QUEEN MARGARET. Enforc'd thee! Art thou King and wilt be forc'd? I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch! Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me; And giv'n unto the house of York such head As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. To entail him and his heirs unto the crown, What is it but to make thy sepulchre And creep into it far before thy time? Warwick is Chancellor and the lord of Calais; Stern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas; The Duke is made Protector of the realm; And yet shalt thou be safe? Such safety finds The trembling lamb environed with wolves. Had I been there, which am a silly woman, The soldiers should have toss'd me on their pikes Before I would have granted to that act. But thou prefer'st thy life before thine honour; And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself, Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, Until that act of parliament be repeal'd Whereby my son is disinherited. The northern lords that have forsworn thy colours Will follow mine, if once they see them spread; And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace And utter ruin of the house of York. Thus do I leave thee. Come, son, let's away; Our army is ready; come, we'll after them. KING HENRY. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. QUEEN MARGARET. Thou hast spoke too much already; get thee gone. KING HENRY. Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me? QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, to be murder'd by his enemies. PRINCE OF WALES. When I return with victory from the field I'll see your Grace; till then I'll follow her. QUEEN MARGARET. Come, son, away; we may not linger thus. Exeunt QUEEN MARGARET and the PRINCE KING HENRY. Poor queen! How love to me and to her son Hath made her break out into terms of rage! Reveng'd may she be on that hateful Duke, Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire, Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle Tire on the flesh of me and of my son! The loss of those three lords torments my heart. I'll write unto them, and entreat them fair; Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger. EXETER. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all. Exeunt SCENE II. Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, in Yorkshire Flourish. Enter EDWARD, RICHARD, and MONTAGUE
RICHARD. Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave. EDWARD. No, I can better play the orator. MONTAGUE. But I have reasons strong and forcible. Enter the DUKE OF YORK
YORK. Why, how now, sons and brother! at a strife? What is your quarrel? How began it first? EDWARD. No quarrel, but a slight contention. YORK. About what? RICHARD. About that which concerns your Grace and us- The crown of England, father, which is yours. YORK. Mine, boy? Not till King Henry be dead. RICHARD. Your right depends not on his life or death. EDWARD. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now. By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe, It will outrun you, father, in the end. YORK. I took an oath that he should quietly reign. EDWARD. But for a kingdom any oath may be broken: I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year. RICHARD. No; God forbid your Grace should be forsworn. YORK. I shall be, if I claim by open war. RICHARD. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak. YORK. Thou canst not, son; it is impossible. RICHARD. An oath is of no moment, being not took Before a true and lawful magistrate That hath authority over him that swears. Henry had none, but did usurp the place; Then, seeing 'twas he that made you to depose, Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore, to arms. And, father, do but think How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown, Within whose circuit is Elysium And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest Until the white rose that I wear be dy'd Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart. YORK. Richard, enough; I will be King, or die. Brother, thou shalt to London presently And whet on Warwick to this enterprise. Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk And tell him privily of our intent. You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise; In them I trust, for they are soldiers, Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit. While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more But that I seek occasion how to rise, And yet the King not privy to my drift, Nor any of the house of Lancaster? Enter a MESSENGER
But, stay. What news? Why com'st thou in such post?
MESSENGER. The Queen with all the northern earls and lords Intend here to besiege you in your castle. She is hard by with twenty thousand men; And therefore fortify your hold, my lord. YORK. Ay, with my sword. What! think'st thou that we fear them? Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me; My brother Montague shall post to London. Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, Whom we have left protectors of the King, With pow'rful policy strengthen themselves And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths. MONTAGUE. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not. And thus most humbly I do take my leave. Exit Enter SIR JOHN and SIR HUGH MORTIMER
YORK. Sir john and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles! You are come to Sandal in a happy hour; The army of the Queen mean to besiege us. SIR JOHN. She shall not need; we'll meet her in the field. YORK. What, with five thousand men? RICHARD. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. A woman's general; what should we fear? [A march afar off] EDWARD. I hear their drums. Let's set our men in order, And issue forth and bid them battle straight. YORK. Five men to twenty! Though the odds be great, I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. Many a battle have I won in France, When as the enemy hath been ten to one; Why should I not now have the like success? Exeunt SCENE III. Field of battle between Sandal Castle and Wakefield Alarum. Enter RUTLAND and his TUTOR
RUTLAND. Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their hands? Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes! Enter CLIFFORD and soldiers
CLIFFORD. Chaplain, away! Thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed duke, Whose father slew my father, he shall die. TUTOR. And I, my lord, will bear him company. CLIFFORD. Soldiers, away with him! TUTOR. Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man. Exit, forced off by soldiers CLIFFORD. How now, is he dead already? Or is it fear That makes him close his eyes? I'll open them. RUTLAND. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws; And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey, And so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder. Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel threat'ning look! Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die. I am too mean a subject for thy wrath; Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live. CLIFFORD. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter. RUTLAND. Then let my father's blood open it again: He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. CLIFFORD. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine Were not revenge sufficient for me; No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, It could not slake mine ire nor ease my heart. The sight of any of the house of York Is as a fury to torment my soul; And till I root out their accursed line And leave not one alive, I live in hell. Therefore- RUTLAND. O, let me pray before I take my death! To thee I pray: sweet Clifford, pity me. CLIFFORD. Such pity as my rapier's point affords. RUTLAND. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me? CLIFFORD. Thy father hath. RUTLAND. But 'twas ere I was born. Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me, Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just, He be as miserably slain as I. Ah, let me live in prison all my days; And when I give occasion of offence Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. CLIFFORD. No cause! Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. [Stabs him] RUTLAND. Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae! [Dies] CLIFFORD. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet; And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. Exit SCENE IV. Another part of the field Alarum. Enter the DUKE OF YORK
YORK. The army of the Queen hath got the field. My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; And all my followers to the eager foe Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind, Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves. My sons- God knows what hath bechanced them; But this I know- they have demean'd themselves Like men born to renown by life or death. Three times did Richard make a lane to me, And thrice cried 'Courage, father! fight it out.' And full as oft came Edward to my side With purple falchion, painted to the hilt In blood of those that had encount'red him. And when the hardiest warriors did retire, Richard cried 'Charge, and give no foot of ground!' And cried 'A crown, or else a glorious tomb! A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!' With this we charg'd again; but out alas! We bodg'd again; as I have seen a swan With bootless labour swim against the tide And spend her strength with over-matching waves. [A short alarum within] Ah, hark! The fatal followers do pursue, And I am faint and cannot fly their fury; And were I strong, I would not shun their fury. The sands are numb'red that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, the PRINCE OF WALES, and soldiers Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchless fury to more rage; I am your butt, and I abide your shot. NORTHUMBERLAND. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. CLIFFORD. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm With downright payment show'd unto my father. Now Phaethon hath tumbled from his car, And made an evening at the noontide prick. YORK. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth A bird that will revenge upon you all; And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven, Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with. Why come you not? What! multitudes, and fear? CLIFFORD. So cowards fight when they can fly no further; So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons; So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers. YORK. O Clifford, but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought o'errun my former time; And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face, And bite thy tongue that slanders him with cowardice Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this! CLIFFORD. I will not bandy with thee word for word, But buckler with thee blows, twice two for one. QUEEN MARGARET. Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thousand causes I would prolong awhile the traitor's life. Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland. NORTHUMBERLAND. Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart. What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? It is war's prize to take all vantages; And ten to one is no impeach of valour. [They lay hands on YORK, who struggles] CLIFFORD. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. NORTHUMBERLAND. So doth the cony struggle in the net. YORK. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty; So true men yield, with robbers so o'er-match'd. NORTHUMBERLAND. What would your Grace have done unto him now? QUEEN MARGARET. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come, make him stand upon this molehill here That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. What, was it you that would be England's king? Was't you that revell'd in our parliament And made a preachment of your high descent? Where are your mess of sons to back you now? The wanton Edward and the lusty George? And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy, Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies? Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland? Look, York: I stain'd this napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point Made issue from the bosom of the boy; And if thine eyes can water for his death, I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state. I prithee grieve to make me merry, York. What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death? Why art thou patient, man? Thou shouldst be mad; And I to make thee mad do mock thee thus. Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. Thou wouldst be fee'd, I see, to make me sport; York cannot speak unless he wear a crown. A crown for York!-and, lords, bow low to him. Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on. [Putting a paper crown on his head] Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king! Ay, this is he that took King Henry's chair, And this is he was his adopted heir. But how is it that great Plantagenet Is crown'd so soon and broke his solemn oath? As I bethink me, you should not be King Till our King Henry had shook hands with death. And will you pale your head in Henry's glory, And rob his temples of the diadem, Now in his life, against your holy oath? O, 'tis a fault too too Off with the crown and with the crown his head; And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead. CLIFFORD. That is my office, for my father's sake. QUEEN MARGARET. Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he makes. YORK. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph like an Amazonian trull Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! But that thy face is visard-like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds, I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd, Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen; Unless the adage must be verified, That beggars mounted run their horse to death. 'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; But, God He knows, thy share thereof is small. 'Tis virtue that doth make them most admir'd; The contrary doth make thee wond'red at. 'Tis government that makes them seem divine; The want thereof makes thee abominable. Thou art as opposite to every good As the Antipodes are unto us, Or as the south to the septentrion. O tiger's heart wrapp'd in a woman's hide! How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible: Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Bid'st thou me rage? Why, now thou hast thy wish; Wouldst have me weep? Why, now thou hast thy will; For raging wind blows up incessant showers, And when the rage allays, the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies; And every drop cries vengeance for his death 'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman. NORTHUMBERLAND. Beshrew me, but his passions move me so That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. YORK. That face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood; But you are more inhuman, more inexorable- O, ten times more- than tigers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears. This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy, And I with tears do wash the blood away. Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this; And if thou tell'st the heavy story right, Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears And say 'Alas, it was a piteous deed!' There, take the crown, and with the crown my curse; And in thy need such comfort come to thee As now I reap at thy too cruel hand! Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world; My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads! NORTHUMBERLAND. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin, I should not for my life but weep with him, To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul. QUEEN MARGARET. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Think but upon the wrong he did us all, And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. CLIFFORD. Here's for my oath, here's for my father's death. [Stabbing him] QUEEN MARGARET. And here's to right our gentle-hearted king. [Stabbing him] YORK. Open Thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee. [Dies] QUEEN MARGARET. Off with his head, and set it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York. Flourish. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE I. A plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire A march. Enter EDWARD, RICHARD, and their power
EDWARD. I wonder how our princely father scap'd, Or whether he be scap'd away or no From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit. Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news; Had he been slain, we should have heard the news; Or had he scap'd, methinks we should have heard The happy tidings of his good escape. How fares my brother? Why is he so sad? RICHARD. I cannot joy until I be resolv'd Where our right valiant father is become. I saw him in the battle range about, And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth. Methought he bore him in the thickest troop As doth a lion in a herd of neat; Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs, Who having pinch'd a few and made them cry, The rest stand all aloof and bark at him. So far'd our father with his enemies; So fled his enemies my warlike father. Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son. See how the morning opes her golden gates And takes her farewell of the glorious sun. How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love! EDWARD. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns? RICHARD. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun; Not separated with the racking clouds, But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky. See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they vow'd some league inviolable. Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. In this the heaven figures some event. EDWARD. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of. I think it cites us, brother, to the field, That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet, Each one already blazing by our meeds, Should notwithstanding join our lights together And overshine the earth, as this the world. Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear Upon my target three fair shining suns. RICHARD. Nay, bear three daughters- by your leave I speak it, You love the breeder better than the male. Enter a MESSENGER, blowing
But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?
MESSENGER. Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on When as the noble Duke of York was slain, Your princely father and my loving lord! EDWARD. O, speak no more! for I have heard too much. RICHARD. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. MESSENGER. Environed he was with many foes, And stood against them as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks that would have ent'red Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds; And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hews down and fells the hardest-timber'd oak. By many hands your father was subdu'd; But only slaught'red by the ireful arm Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen, Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high despite, Laugh'd in his face; and when with grief he wept, The ruthless Queen gave him to dry his cheeks A napkin steeped in the harmless blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain; And after many scorns, many foul taunts, They took his head, and on the gates of York They set the same; and there it doth remain, The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd. EDWARD. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon, Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay. O Clifford, boist'rous Clifford, thou hast slain The flow'r of Europe for his chivalry; And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him, For hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee. Now my soul's palace is become a prison. Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed up in rest! For never henceforth shall I joy again; Never, O never, shall I see more joy. RICHARD. I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart; Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden, For self-same wind that I should speak withal Is kindling coals that fires all my breast, And burns me up with flames that tears would quench. To weep is to make less the depth of grief. Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me! Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it. EDWARD. His name that valiant duke hath left with thee; His dukedom and his chair with me is left. RICHARD. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird, Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun; For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom, say: Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. March. Enter WARWICK, MONTAGUE, and their army
WARWICK. How now, fair lords! What fare? What news abroad? RICHARD. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news and at each word's deliverance Stab poinards in our flesh till all were told, The words would add more anguish than the wounds. O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain! EDWARD. O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death. WARWICK. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears; And now, to add more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befall'n. After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp, Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run, Were brought me of your loss and his depart. I, then in London, keeper of the King, Muster'd my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, March'd toward Saint Albans to intercept the Queen, Bearing the King in my behalf along; For by my scouts I was advertised That she was coming with a full intent To dash our late decree in parliament Touching King Henry's oath and your succession. Short tale to make- we at Saint Albans met, Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought; But whether 'twas the coldness of the King, Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen, That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen, Or whether 'twas report of her success, Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour, Who thunders to his captives blood and death, I cannot judge; but, to conclude with truth, Their weapons like to lightning came and went: Our soldiers', like the night-owl's lazy flight Or like an idle thresher with a flail, Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause, With promise of high pay and great rewards, But all in vain; they had no heart to fight, And we in them no hope to win the day; So that we fled: the King unto the Queen; Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself, In haste post-haste are come to join with you; For in the marches here we heard you were Making another head to fight again. EDWARD. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England? WARWICK. Some six miles off the Duke is with the soldiers; And for your brother, he was lately sent From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy, With aid of soldiers to this needful war. RICHARD. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled. Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, But ne'er till now his scandal of retire. WARWICK. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear; For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, Were he as famous and as bold in war As he is fam'd for mildness, peace, and prayer. RICHARD. I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not. 'Tis love I bear thy glories makes me speak. But in this troublous time what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our coats of steel And wrap our bodies in black mourning-gowns, Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads? Or shall we on the helmets of our foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? If for the last, say 'Ay,' and to it, lords. WARWICK. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out; And therefore comes my brother Montague. Attend me, lords. The proud insulting Queen, With Clifford and the haught Northumberland, And of their feather many moe proud birds, Have wrought the easy-melting King like wax. He swore consent to your succession, His oath enrolled in the parliament; And now to London all the crew are gone To frustrate both his oath and what beside May make against the house of Lancaster. Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong. Now if the help of Norfolk and myself, With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March, Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, Why, Via! to London will we march amain, And once again bestride our foaming steeds, And once again cry 'Charge upon our foes!' But never once again turn back and fly. RICHARD. Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak. Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day That cries 'Retire!' if Warwick bid him stay. EDWARD. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; And when thou fail'st- as God forbid the hour!- Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend. WARWICK. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York; The next degree is England's royal throne, For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd In every borough as we pass along; And he that throws not up his cap for joy Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague, Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets and about our task. RICHARD. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel, As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, I come to pierce it or to give thee mine. EDWARD. Then strike up drums. God and Saint George for us! Enter a MESSENGER
WARWICK. How now! what news? MESSENGER. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me The Queen is coming with a puissant host, And craves your company for speedy counsel. WARWICK. Why, then it sorts; brave warriors, let's away. Exeunt SCENE II. Before York Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, the PRINCE OF WALES, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, with drum and trumpets QUEEN MARGARET. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York. Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy That sought to be encompass'd with your crown. Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord? KING HENRY. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck- To see this sight, it irks my very soul. Withhold revenge, dear God; 'tis not my fault, Nor wittingly have I infring'd my vow. CLIFFORD. My gracious liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside. To whom do lions cast their gentle looks? Not to the beast that would usurp their den. Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick? Not his that spoils her young before her face. Who scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting? Not he that sets his foot upon her back, The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. Ambitious York did level at thy crown, Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows. He, but a Duke, would have his son a king, And raise his issue like a loving sire: Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son, Didst yield consent to disinherit him, Which argued thee a most unloving father. Unreasonable creatures feed their young; And though man's face be fearful to their eyes, Yet, in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seen them- even with those wings Which sometime they have us'd with fearful flight- Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest, Offering their own lives in their young's defence For shame, my liege, make them your precedent! Were it not pity that this goodly boy Should lose his birthright by his father's fault, And long hereafter say unto his child 'What my great-grandfather and grandsire got My careless father fondly gave away'? Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy; And let his manly face, which promiseth Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart To hold thine own and leave thine own with him. KING HENRY. Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force. But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear That things ill got had ever bad success? And happy always was it for that son Whose father for his hoarding went to hell? I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind; And would my father had left me no more! For all the rest is held at such a rate As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep Than in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did know How it doth grieve me that thy head is here! QUEEN MARGARET. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh, And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promis'd knighthood to our forward son: Unsheathe your sword and dub him presently. Edward, kneel down. KING HENRY. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn this lesson: Draw thy sword in right. PRINCE OF WALES. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, I'll draw it as apparent to the crown, And in that quarrel use it to the death. CLIFFORD. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince. Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. Royal commanders, be in readiness; For with a band of thirty thousand men Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York, And in the towns, as they do march along, Proclaims him king, and many fly to him. Darraign your battle, for they are at hand. CLIFFORD. I would your Highness would depart the field: The Queen hath best success when you are absent. QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune. KING HENRY. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay. NORTHUMBERLAND. Be it with resolution, then, to fight. PRINCE OF WALES. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence. Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry 'Saint George!' March. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WARWICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and soldiers EDWARD. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace And set thy diadem upon my head, Or bide the mortal fortune of the field? QUEEN MARGARET. Go rate thy minions, proud insulting boy. Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king? EDWARD. I am his king, and he should bow his knee. I was adopted heir by his consent: Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, You that are King, though he do wear the crown, Have caus'd him by new act of parliament To blot out me and put his own son in. CLIFFORD. And reason too: Who should succeed the father but the son? RICHARD. Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak! CLIFFORD. Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee, Or any he, the proudest of thy sort. RICHARD. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not? CLIFFORD. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. RICHARD. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight. WARWICK. What say'st thou, Henry? Wilt thou yield the crown? QUEEN MARGARET. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick! Dare you speak? When you and I met at Saint Albans last Your legs did better service than your hands. WARWICK. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine. CLIFFORD. You said so much before, and yet you fled. WARWICK. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence. NORTHUMBERLAND. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay. RICHARD. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently. Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain The execution of my big-swol'n heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer. CLIFFORD. I slew thy father; call'st thou him a child? RICHARD. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland; But ere sunset I'll make thee curse the deed. KING HENRY. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak. QUEEN MARGARET. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips. KING HENRY. I prithee give no limits to my tongue: I am a king, and privileg'd to speak. CLIFFORD. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still. RICHARD. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword. By Him that made us all, I am resolv'd That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue. EDWARD. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no? A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day That ne'er shall dine unless thou yield the crown. WARWICK. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head; For York in justice puts his armour on. PRINCE OF WALES. If that be right which Warwick says is right, There is no wrong, but every thing is right. RICHARD. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands; For well I wot thou hast thy mother's tongue. QUEEN MARGARET. But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam; But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided, As venom toads or lizards' dreadful stings. RICHARD. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt, Whose father bears the title of a king- As if a channel should be call'd the sea- Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart? EDWARD. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns To make this shameless callet know herself. Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, Although thy husband may be Menelaus; And ne'er was Agamemmon's brother wrong'd By that false woman as this king by thee. His father revell'd in the heart of France, And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin stoop; And had he match'd according to his state, He might have kept that glory to this day; But when he took a beggar to his bed And grac'd thy poor sire with his bridal day, Even then that sunshine brew'd a show'r for him That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France And heap'd sedition on his crown at home. For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy pride? Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept; And we, in pity of the gentle King, Had slipp'd our claim until another age. GEORGE. But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring, And that thy summer bred us no increase, We set the axe to thy usurping root; And though the edge hath something hit ourselves, Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike, We'll never leave till we have hewn thee down, Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods. EDWARD. And in this resolution I defy thee; Not willing any longer conference, Since thou deniest the gentle King to speak. Sound trumpets; let our bloody colours wave, And either victory or else a grave! QUEEN MARGARET. Stay, Edward. EDWARD. No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer stay; These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. Exeunt SCENE III. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire Alarum; excursions. Enter WARWICK
WARWICK. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe; For strokes receiv'd and many blows repaid Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength, And spite of spite needs must I rest awhile. Enter EDWARD, running
EDWARD. Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death; For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded. WARWICK. How now, my lord. What hap? What hope of good? Enter GEORGE
GEORGE. Our hap is lost, our hope but sad despair; Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us. What counsel give you? Whither shall we fly? EDWARD. Bootless is flight: they follow us with wings; And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit. Enter RICHARD
RICHARD. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself? Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance; And in the very pangs of death he cried, Like to a dismal clangor heard from far, 'Warwick, revenge! Brother, revenge my death.' So, underneath the belly of their steeds, That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood, The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. WARWICK. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood. I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly. Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage, And look upon, as if the tragedy Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors? Here on my knee I vow to God above I'll never pause again, never stand still, Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine Or fortune given me measure of revenge. EDWARD. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chain my soul to thine! And ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee, Thou setter-up and plucker-down of kings, Beseeching Thee, if with Thy will it stands That to my foes this body must be prey, Yet that Thy brazen gates of heaven may ope And give sweet passage to my sinful soul. Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, Where'er it be, in heaven or in earth. RICHARD. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick, Let me embrace thee in my weary arms. I that did never weep now melt with woe That winter should cut off our spring-time so. WARWICK. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell. GEORGE. Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave to fly that will not stay, And call them pillars that will stand to us; And if we thrive, promise them such rewards As victors wear at the Olympian games. This may plant courage in their quailing breasts, For yet is hope of life and victory. Forslow no longer; make we hence amain. Exeunt SCENE IV. Another part of the field Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD
RICHARD. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone. Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall. CLIFFORD. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone. This is the hand that stabbed thy father York; And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland; And here's the heart that triumphs in their death And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother To execute the like upon thyself; And so, have at thee! [They fight] Enter WARWICK; CLIFFORD flies
RICHARD. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. Exeunt SCENE V. Another part of the field Alarum. Enter KING HENRY alone
KING HENRY. This battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with growing light, What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind. Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; Now one the better, then another best; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered. So is the equal poise of this fell war. Here on this molehill will I sit me down. To whom God will, there be the victory! For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me from the battle, swearing both They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would I were dead, if God's good will were so! For what is in this world but grief and woe? O God! methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run- How many makes the hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times- So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will can; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects' treachery? O yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude: the shepherd's homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince's delicates- His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him. Alarum. Enter a son that hath kill'd his Father, at one door; and a FATHER that hath kill'd his Son, at another door SON. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight May be possessed with some store of crowns; And I, that haply take them from him now, May yet ere night yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me. Who's this? O God! It is my father's face, Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd. O heavy times, begetting such events! From London by the King was I press'd forth; My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man, Came on the part of York, press'd by his master; And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life, Have by my hands of life bereaved him. Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did. And pardon, father, for I knew not thee. My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks; And no more words till they have flow'd their fill. KING HENRY. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! Whiles lions war and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. Weep, wretched man; I'll aid thee tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, Be blind with tears and break o'ercharg'd with grief. Enter FATHER, bearing of his SON
FATHER. Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; For I have bought it with an hundred blows. But let me see. Is this our foeman's face? Ah, no, no, no, no, it is mine only son! Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eye! See, see what show'rs arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart Upon thy wounds, that kills mine eye and heart! O, pity, God, this miserable age! What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! KING HENRY. Woe above woe! grief more than common grief! O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds! O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity! The red rose and the white are on his face, The fatal colours of our striving houses: The one his purple blood right well resembles; The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth. Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! If you contend, a thousand lives must perish. SON. How will my mother for a father's death Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfied! FATHER. How will my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied! KING HENRY. How will the country for these woeful chances Misthink the King, and not be satisfied! SON. Was ever son so rued a father's death? FATHER. Was ever father so bemoan'd his son? KING HENRY. Was ever king so griev'd for subjects' woe? Much is your sorrow; mine ten times so much. SON. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. Exit with the body FATHER. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go; My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; And so obsequious will thy father be, Even for the loss of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons. I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill. Exit with the body KING HENRY. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woeful than you are. Alarums, excursions. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE OF WALES, and EXETER PRINCE OF WALES. Fly, father, fly; for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull. Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit. QUEEN MARGARET. Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain. Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds Having the fearful flying hare in sight, With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath, And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands, Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain. EXETER. Away! for vengeance comes along with them. Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed; Or else come after. I'll away before. KING HENRY. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter. Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the Queen intends. Forward; away! Exeunt SCENE VI. Another part of the field A loud alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded
CLIFFORD. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow More than my body's parting with my soul! My love and fear glu'd many friends to thee; And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts, Impairing Henry, strength'ning misproud York. The common people swarm like summer flies; And whither fly the gnats but to the sun? And who shines now but Henry's enemies? O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent That Phaethon should check thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car never had scorch'd the earth! And, Henry, hadst thou sway'd as kings should do, Or as thy father and his father did, Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer flies; I and ten thousand in this luckless realm Had left no mourning widows for our death; And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity? Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds. No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight. The foe is merciless and will not pity; For at their hands I have deserv'd no pity. The air hath got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest; I stabb'd your fathers' bosoms: split my breast. [He faints] Alarum and retreat. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and soldiers EDWARD. Now breathe we, lords. Good fortune bids us pause And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen That led calm Henry, though he were a king, As doth a sail, fill'd with a fretting gust, Command an argosy to stern the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them? WARWICK. No, 'tis impossible he should escape; For, though before his face I speak the words, Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave; And, whereso'er he is, he's surely dead. [CLIFFORD groans, and dies] RICHARD. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave? A deadly groan, like life and death's departing. See who it is. EDWARD. And now the battle's ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used. RICHARD. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford; Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, But set his murd'ring knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring- I mean our princely father, Duke of York. WARWICK. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father's head, which Clifford placed there; Instead whereof let this supply the room. Measure for measure must be answered. EDWARD. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house, That nothing sung but death to us and ours. Now death shall stop his dismal threat'ning sound, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak. WARWICK. I think his understanding is bereft. Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee? Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life, And he nor sees nor hears us what we say. RICHARD. O, would he did! and so, perhaps, he doth. 'Tis but his policy to counterfeit, Because he would avoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gave our father. GEORGE. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words. RICHARD. Clifford, ask mercy and obtain no grace. EDWARD. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence. WARWICK. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults. GEORGE. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. RICHARD. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York. EDWARD. Thou pitied'st Rutland, I will pity thee. GEORGE. Where's Captain Margaret, to fence you now? WARWICK. They mock thee, Clifford; swear as thou wast wont. RICHARD. What, not an oath? Nay, then the world goes hard When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. I know by that he's dead; and by my soul, If this right hand would buy two hours' life, That I in all despite might rail at him, This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst York and young Rutland could not satisfy. WARWICK. Ay, but he's dead. Off with the traitor's head, And rear it in the place your father's stands. And now to London with triumphant march, There to be crowned England's royal King; From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen. So shalt thou sinew both these lands together; And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread The scatt'red foe that hopes to rise again; For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears. First will I see the coronation; And then to Brittany I'll cross the sea To effect this marriage, so it please my lord. EDWARD. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be; For in thy shoulder do I build my seat, And never will I undertake the thing Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting. Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester; And George, of Clarence; Warwick, as ourself, Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best. RICHARD. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester; For Gloucester's dukedom is too ominous. WARWICK. Tut, that's a foolish observation. Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London To see these honours in possession. Exeunt ACT III. SCENE I. A chase in the north of England Enter two KEEPERS, with cross-bows in their hands
FIRST KEEPER. Under this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves, For through this laund anon the deer will come; And in this covert will we make our stand, Culling the principal of all the deer. SECOND KEEPER. I'll stay above the hill, so both may shoot. FIRST KEEPER. That cannot be; the noise of thy cross-bow Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. Here stand we both, and aim we at the best; And, for the time shall not seem tedious, I'll tell thee what befell me on a day In this self-place where now we mean to stand. SECOND KEEPER. Here comes a man; let's stay till he be past. Enter KING HENRY, disguised, with a prayer-book
KING HENRY. From Scotland am I stol'n, even of pure love, To greet mine own land with my wishful sight. No, Harry, Harry, 'tis no land of thine; Thy place is fill'd, thy sceptre wrung from thee, Thy balm wash'd off wherewith thou wast anointed. No bending knee will call thee Caesar now, No humble suitors press to speak for right, No, not a man comes for redress of thee; For how can I help them and not myself? FIRST KEEPER. Ay, here's a deer whose skin's a keeper's fee. This is the quondam King; let's seize upon him. KING HENRY. Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, For wise men say it is the wisest course. SECOND KEEPER. Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him. FIRST KEEPER. Forbear awhile; we'll hear a little more. KING HENRY. My Queen and son are gone to France for aid; And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick Is thither gone to crave the French King's sister To wife for Edward. If this news be true, Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost; For Warwick is a subtle orator, And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words. By this account, then, Margaret may win him; For she's a woman to be pitied much. Her sighs will make a batt'ry in his breast; Her tears will pierce into a marble heart; The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn; And Nero will be tainted with remorse To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. Ay, but she's come to beg: Warwick, to give. She, on his left side, craving aid for Henry: He, on his right, asking a wife for Edward. She weeps, and says her Henry is depos'd: He smiles, and says his Edward is install'd; That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more; Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong, Inferreth arguments of mighty strength, And in conclusion wins the King from her With promise of his sister, and what else, To strengthen and support King Edward's place. O Margaret, thus 'twill be; and thou, poor soul, Art then forsaken, as thou went'st forlorn! SECOND KEEPER. Say, what art thou that talk'st of kings and queens? KING HENRY. More than I seem, and less than I was born to: A man at least, for less I should not be; And men may talk of kings, and why not I? SECOND KEEPER. Ay, but thou talk'st as if thou wert a king. KING HENRY. Why, so I am- in mind; and that's enough. SECOND KEEPER. But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown? KING HENRY. My crown is in my heart, not on my head; Not deck'd with diamonds and Indian stones, Not to be seen. My crown is call'd content; A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy. SECOND KEEPER. Well, if you be a king crown'd with content, Your crown content and you must be contented To go along with us; for as we think, You are the king King Edward hath depos'd; And we his subjects, sworn in all allegiance, Will apprehend you as his enemy. KING HENRY. But did you never swear, and break an oath? SECOND KEEPER. No, never such an oath; nor will not now. KING HENRY. Where did you dwell when I was King of England? SECOND KEEPER. Here in this country, where we now remain. KING HENRY. I was anointed king at nine months old; My father and my grandfather were kings; And you were sworn true subjects unto me; And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths? FIRST KEEPER. No; For we were subjects but while you were king. KING HENRY. Why, am I dead? Do I not breathe a man? Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear! Look, as I blow this feather from my face, And as the air blows it to me again, Obeying with my wind when I do blow, And yielding to another when it blows, Commanded always by the greater gust, Such is the lightness of you common men. But do not break your oaths; for of that sin My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty. Go where you will, the King shall be commanded; And be you kings: command, and I'll obey. FIRST KEEPER. We are true subjects to the King, King Edward. KING HENRY. So would you be again to Henry, If he were seated as King Edward is. FIRST KEEPER. We charge you, in God's name and the King's, To go with us unto the officers. KING HENRY. In God's name, lead; your King's name be obey'd; And what God will, that let your King perform; And what he will, I humbly yield unto. Exeunt SCENE II. London. The palace Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and LADY GREY
KING EDWARD. Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Albans' field This lady's husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slain, His land then seiz'd on by the conqueror. Her suit is now to repossess those lands; Which we in justice cannot well deny, Because in quarrel of the house of York The worthy gentleman did lose his life. GLOUCESTER. Your Highness shall do well to grant her suit; It were dishonour to deny it her. KING EDWARD. It were no less; but yet I'll make a pause. GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CLARENCE] Yea, is it so? I see the lady hath a thing to grant, Before the King will grant her humble suit. CLARENCE. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] He knows the game; how true he keeps the wind! GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CLARENCE] Silence! KING EDWARD. Widow, we will consider of your suit; And come some other time to know our mind. LADY GREY. Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay. May it please your Highness to resolve me now; And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] Ay, widow? Then I'll warrant you all your lands, An if what pleases him shall pleasure you. Fight closer or, good faith, you'll catch a blow. CLARENCE. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] I fear her not, unless she chance to fall. GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CLARENCE] God forbid that, for he'll take vantages. KING EDWARD. How many children hast thou, widow, tell me. CLARENCE. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] I think he means to beg a child of her. GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CLARENCE] Nay, then whip me; he'll rather give her two. LADY GREY. Three, my most gracious lord. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] You shall have four if you'll be rul'd by him. KING EDWARD. 'Twere pity they should lose their father's lands. LADY GREY. Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it, then. KING EDWARD. Lords, give us leave; I'll try this widow's wit. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] Ay, good leave have you; for you will have leave Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch. [GLOUCESTER and CLARENCE withdraw] KING EDWARD. Now tell me, madam, do you love your children? LADY GREY. Ay, full as dearly as I love myself. KING EDWARD. And would you not do much to do them good? LADY GREY. To do them good I would sustain some harm. KING EDWARD. Then get your husband's lands, to do them good. LADY GREY. Therefore I came unto your Majesty. KING EDWARD. I'll tell you how these lands are to be got. LADY GREY. So shall you bind me to your Highness' service. KING EDWARD. What service wilt thou do me if I give them? LADY GREY. What you command that rests in me to do. KING EDWARD. But you will take exceptions to my boon. LADY GREY. No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it. KING EDWARD. Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask. LADY GREY. Why, then I will do what your Grace commands. GLOUCESTER. He plies her hard; and much rain wears the marble. CLARENCE. As red as fire! Nay, then her wax must melt. LADY GREY. Why stops my lord? Shall I not hear my task? KING EDWARD. An easy task; 'tis but to love a king. LADY GREY. That's soon perform'd, because I am a subject. KING EDWARD. Why, then, thy husband's lands I freely give thee. LADY GREY. I take my leave with many thousand thanks. GLOUCESTER. The match is made; she seals it with a curtsy. KING EDWARD. But stay thee- 'tis the fruits of love I mean. LADY GREY. The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege. KING EDWARD. Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense. What love, thinkst thou, I sue so much to get? LADY GREY. My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers; That love which virtue begs and virtue grants. KING EDWARD. No, by my troth, I did not mean such love. LADY GREY. Why, then you mean not as I thought you did. KING EDWARD. But now you partly may perceive my mind. LADY GREY. My mind will never grant what I perceive Your Highness aims at, if I aim aright. KING EDWARD. To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee. LADY GREY. To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison. KING EDWARD. Why, then thou shalt not have thy husband's lands. LADY GREY. Why, then mine honesty shall be my dower; For by that loss I will not purchase them. KING EDWARD. Therein thou wrong'st thy children mightily. LADY GREY. Herein your Highness wrongs both them and me. But, mighty lord, this merry inclination Accords not with the sadness of my suit. Please you dismiss me, either with ay or no. KING EDWARD. Ay, if thou wilt say ay to my request; No, if thou dost say no to my demand. LADY GREY. Then, no, my lord. My suit is at an end. GLOUCESTER. The widow likes him not; she knits her brows. CLARENCE. He is the bluntest wooer in Christendom. KING EDWARD. [Aside] Her looks doth argue her replete with modesty; Her words doth show her wit incomparable; All her perfections challenge sovereignty. One way or other, she is for a king; And she shall be my love, or else my queen. Say that King Edward take thee for his queen? LADY GREY. 'Tis better said than done, my gracious lord. I am a subject fit to jest withal, But far unfit to be a sovereign. KING EDWARD. Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee I speak no more than what my soul intends; And that is to enjoy thee for my love. LADY GREY. And that is more than I will yield unto. I know I am too mean to be your queen, And yet too good to be your concubine. KING EDWARD. You cavil, widow; I did mean my queen. LADY GREY. 'Twill grieve your Grace my sons should call you father. KING EDWARD.No more than when my daughters call thee mother. Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children; And, by God's Mother, I, being but a bachelor, Have other some. Why, 'tis a happy thing To be the father unto many sons. Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen. GLOUCESTER. The ghostly father now hath done his shrift. CLARENCE. When he was made a shriver, 'twas for shrift. KING EDWARD. Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had. GLOUCESTER. The widow likes it not, for she looks very sad. KING EDWARD. You'd think it strange if I should marry her. CLARENCE. To who, my lord? KING EDWARD. Why, Clarence, to myself. GLOUCESTER. That would be ten days' wonder at the least. CLARENCE. That's a day longer than a wonder lasts. GLOUCESTER. By so much is the wonder in extremes. KING EDWARD. Well, jest on, brothers; I can tell you both Her suit is granted for her husband's lands. Enter a NOBLEMAN
NOBLEMAN. My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken And brought your prisoner to your palace gate. KING EDWARD. See that he be convey'd unto the Tower. And go we, brothers, to the man that took him To question of his apprehension. Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably. Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER GLOUCESTER. Ay, Edward will use women honourably. Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all, That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring To cross me from the golden time I look for! And yet, between my soul's desire and me- The lustful Edward's title buried- Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward, And all the unlook'd for issue of their bodies, To take their rooms ere I can place myself. A cold premeditation for my purpose! Why, then I do but dream on sovereignty; Like one that stands upon a promontory And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, Wishing his foot were equal with his eye; And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, Saying he'll lade it dry to have his way- So do I wish the crown, being so far off; And so I chide the means that keeps me from it; And so I say I'll cut the causes off, Flattering me with impossibilities. My eye's too quick, my heart o'erweens too much, Unless my hand and strength could equal them. Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard; What other pleasure can the world afford? I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap, And deck my body in gay ornaments, And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. O miserable thought! and more unlikely Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns. Why, love forswore me in my mother's womb; And, for I should not deal in her soft laws, She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub To make an envious mountain on my back, Where sits deformity to mock my body; To shape my legs of an unequal size; To disproportion me in every part, Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp That carries no impression like the dam. And am I, then, a man to be belov'd? O monstrous fault to harbour such a thought! Then, since this earth affords no joy to me But to command, to check, to o'erbear such As are of better person than myself, I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown, And whiles I live t' account this world but hell, Until my misshap'd trunk that bear this head Be round impaled with a glorious crown. And yet I know not how to get the crown, For many lives stand between me and home; And I- like one lost in a thorny wood That rents the thorns and is rent with the thorns, Seeking a way and straying from the way Not knowing how to find the open air, But toiling desperately to find it out- Torment myself to catch the English crown; And from that torment I will free myself Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'Content!' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face to all occasions. I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk; I'll play the orator as well as Nestor, Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. I can add colours to the chameleon, Change shapes with Protheus for advantages, And set the murderous Machiavel to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down. Exit SCENE III. France. The KING'S palace Flourish. Enter LEWIS the French King, his sister BONA, his Admiral call'd BOURBON; PRINCE EDWARD, QUEEN MARGARET, and the EARL of OXFORD. LEWIS sits, and riseth up again
LEWIS. Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret, Sit down with us. It ill befits thy state And birth that thou shouldst stand while Lewis doth sit. QUEEN MARGARET. No, mighty King of France. Now Margaret Must strike her sail and learn a while to serve Where kings command. I was, I must confess, Great Albion's Queen in former golden days; But now mischance hath trod my title down And with dishonour laid me on the ground, Where I must take like seat unto my fortune, And to my humble seat conform myself. LEWIS. Why, say, fair Queen, whence springs this deep despair? QUEEN MARGARET. From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears And stops my tongue, while heart is drown'd in cares. LEWIS. Whate'er it be, be thou still like thyself, And sit thee by our side. [Seats her by him] Yield not thy neck To fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance. Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief; It shall be eas'd, if France can yield relief. QUEEN MARGARET. Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak. Now therefore be it known to noble Lewis That Henry, sole possessor of my love, Is, of a king, become a banish'd man, And forc'd to live in Scotland a forlorn; While proud ambitious Edward Duke of York Usurps the regal title and the seat Of England's true-anointed lawful King. This is the cause that I, poor Margaret, With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry's heir, Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid; And if thou fail us, all our hope is done. Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help; Our people and our peers are both misled, Our treasure seiz'd, our soldiers put to flight, And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight. LEWIS. Renowned Queen, with patience calm the storm, While we bethink a means to break it off. QUEEN MARGARET. The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe. LEWIS. The more I stay, the more I'll succour thee. QUEEN MARGARET. O, but impatience waiteth on true sorrow. And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow! Enter WARWICK
LEWIS. What's he approacheth boldly to our presence? QUEEN MARGARET. Our Earl of Warwick, Edward's greatest friend. LEWIS. Welcome, brave Warwick! What brings thee to France? [He descends. She ariseth] QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, now begins a second storm to rise; For this is he that moves both wind and tide. WARWICK. From worthy Edward, King of Albion, My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend, I come, in kindness and unfeigned love, First to do greetings to thy royal person, And then to crave a league of amity, And lastly to confirm that amity With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister, To England's King in lawful marriage. QUEEN MARGARET. [Aside] If that go forward, Henry's hope is done. WARWICK. [To BONA] And, gracious madam, in our king's behalf, I am commanded, with your leave and favour, Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue To tell the passion of my sovereign's heart; Where fame, late ent'ring at his heedful ears, Hath plac'd thy beauty's image and thy virtue. QUEEN MARGARET. King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me speak Before you answer Warwick. His demand Springs not from Edward's well-meant honest love, But from deceit bred by necessity; For how can tyrants safely govern home Unless abroad they purchase great alliance? To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice, That Henry liveth still; but were he dead, Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry's son. Look therefore, Lewis, that by this league and marriage Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour; For though usurpers sway the rule a while Yet heav'ns are just, and time suppresseth wrongs. WARWICK. Injurious Margaret! PRINCE OF WALES. And why not Queen? WARWICK. Because thy father Henry did usurp; And thou no more art prince than she is queen. OXFORD. Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt, Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain; And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth, Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest; And, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth, Who by his prowess conquered all France. From these our Henry lineally descends. WARWICK. Oxford, how haps it in this smooth discourse You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten? Methinks these peers of France should smile at that. But for the rest: you tell a pedigree Of threescore and two years- a silly time To make prescription for a kingdom's worth. OXFORD. Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege, Whom thou obeyed'st thirty and six years, And not betray thy treason with a blush? WARWICK. Can Oxford that did ever fence the right Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree? For shame! Leave Henry, and call Edward king. OXFORD. Call him my king by whose injurious doom My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere, Was done to death; and more than so, my father, Even in the downfall of his mellow'd years, When nature brought him to the door of death? No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm, This arm upholds the house of Lancaster. WARWICK. And I the house of York. LEWIS. Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford, Vouchsafe at our request to stand aside While I use further conference with Warwick. [They stand aloof] QUEEN MARGARET. Heavens grant that Warwick's words bewitch him not! LEWIS. Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon thy conscience, Is Edward your true king? for I were loath To link with him that were not lawful chosen. WARWICK. Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour. LEWIS. But is he gracious in the people's eye? WARWICK. The more that Henry was unfortunate. LEWIS. Then further: all dissembling set aside, Tell me for truth the measure of his love Unto our sister Bona. WARWICK. Such it seems As may beseem a monarch like himself. Myself have often heard him say and swear That this his love was an eternal plant Whereof the root was fix'd in virtue's ground, The leaves and fruit maintain'd with beauty's sun, Exempt from envy, but not from disdain, Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. LEWIS. Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve. BONA. Your grant or your denial shall be mine. [To WARWICK] Yet I confess that often ere this day, When I have heard your king's desert recounted, Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire. LEWIS. Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward's. And now forthwith shall articles be drawn Touching the jointure that your king must make, Which with her dowry shall be counterpois'd. Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness That Bona shall be wife to the English king. PRINCE OF WALES. To Edward, but not to the English king. QUEEN MARGARET. Deceitful Warwick, it was thy device By this alliance to make void my suit. Before thy coming, Lewis was Henry's friend. LEWIS. And still is friend to him and Margaret. But if your title to the crown be weak, As may appear by Edward's good success, Then 'tis but reason that I be releas'd From giving aid which late I promised. Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand That your estate requires and mine can yield. WARWICK. Henry now lives in Scotland at his case, Where having nothing, nothing can he lose. And as for you yourself, our quondam queen, You have a father able to maintain you, And better 'twere you troubled him than France. QUEEN MARGARET. Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick, Proud setter up and puller down of kings! I will not hence till with my talk and tears, Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold Thy sly conveyance and thy lord's false love; For both of you are birds of self-same feather. [POST blowing a horn within] LEWIS. Warwick, this is some post to us or thee. Enter the POST
POST. My lord ambassador, these letters are for you, Sent from your brother, Marquis Montague. These from our King unto your Majesty. And, madam, these for you; from whom I know not. [They all read their letters] OXFORD. I like it well that our fair Queen and mistress Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his. PRINCE OF WALES. Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled. I hope all's for the best. LEWIS. Warwick, what are thy news? And yours, fair Queen? QUEEN MARGARET. Mine such as fill my heart with unhop'd joys. WARWICK. Mine, full of sorrow and heart's discontent. LEWIS. What, has your king married the Lady Grey? And now, to soothe your forgery and his, Sends me a paper to persuade me patience? Is this th' alliance that he seeks with France? Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner? QUEEN MARGARET. I told your Majesty as much before. This proveth Edward's love and Warwick's honesty. WARWICK. King Lewis, I here protest in sight of heaven, And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss, That I am clear from this misdeed of Edward's- No more my king, for he dishonours me, But most himself, if he could see his shame. Did I forget that by the house of York My father came untimely to his death? Did I let pass th' abuse done to my niece? Did I impale him with the regal crown? Did I put Henry from his native right? And am I guerdon'd at the last with shame? Shame on himself! for my desert is honour; And to repair my honour lost for him I here renounce him and return to Henry. My noble Queen, let former grudges pass, And henceforth I am thy true servitor. I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona, And replant Henry in his former state. QUEEN MARGARET. Warwick, these words have turn'd my hate to love; And I forgive and quite forget old faults, And joy that thou becom'st King Henry's friend. WARWICK. So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend, That if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us With some few bands of chosen soldiers, I'll undertake to land them on our coast And force the tyrant from his seat by war. 'Tis not his new-made bride shall succour him; And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me, He's very likely now to fall from him For matching more for wanton lust than honour Or than for strength and safety of our country. BONA. Dear brother, how shall Bona be reveng'd But by thy help to this distressed queen? QUEEN MARGARET. Renowned Prince, how shall poor Henry live Unless thou rescue him from foul despair? BONA. My quarrel and this English queen's are one. WARWICK. And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours. LEWIS. And mine with hers, and thine, and Margaret's. Therefore, at last, I firmly am resolv'd You shall have aid. QUEEN MARGARET. Let me give humble thanks for all at once. LEWIS. Then, England's messenger, return in post And tell false Edward, thy supposed king, That Lewis of France is sending over masquers To revel it with him and his new bride. Thou seest what's past; go fear thy king withal. BONA. Tell him, in hope he'll prove a widower shortly, I'll wear the willow-garland for his sake. QUEEN MARGARET. Tell him my mourning weeds are laid aside, And I am ready to put armour on. WARWICK. Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong, And therefore I'll uncrown him ere't be long. There's thy reward; be gone. Exit POST LEWIS. But, Warwick, Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men, Shall cross the seas and bid false Edward battle: And, as occasion serves, this noble Queen And Prince shall follow with a fresh supply. Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt: What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty? WARWICK. This shall assure my constant loyalty: That if our Queen and this young Prince agree, I'll join mine eldest daughter and my joy To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands. QUEEN MARGARET. Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion. Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous, Therefore delay not- give thy hand to Warwick; And with thy hand thy faith irrevocable That only Warwick's daughter shall be thine. PRINCE OF WALES. Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it; And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand. [He gives his hand to WARWICK] LEWIS. stay we now? These soldiers shall be levied; And thou, Lord Bourbon, our High Admiral, Shall waft them over with our royal fleet. I long till Edward fall by war's mischance For mocking marriage with a dame of France. Exeunt all but WARWICK WARWICK. I came from Edward as ambassador, But I return his sworn and mortal foe. Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me, But dreadful war shall answer his demand. Had he none else to make a stale but me? Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow. I was the chief that rais'd him to the crown, And I'll be chief to bring him down again; Not that I pity Henry's misery, But seek revenge on Edward's mockery. Exit ACT IV. SCENE I. London. The palace Enter GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, SOMERSET, and MONTAGUE
GLOUCESTER. Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey? Hath not our brother made a worthy choice? CLARENCE. Alas, you know 'tis far from hence to France! How could he stay till Warwick made return? SOMERSET. My lords, forbear this talk; here comes the King. Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, attended; LADY GREY, as Queen; PEMBROKE, STAFFORD, HASTINGS, and others. Four stand on one side, and four on the other GLOUCESTER. And his well-chosen bride. CLARENCE. I mind to tell him plainly what I think. KING EDWARD. Now, brother of Clarence, how like you our choice That you stand pensive as half malcontent? CLARENCE. As well as Lewis of France or the Earl of Warwick, Which are so weak of courage and in judgment That they'll take no offence at our abuse. KING EDWARD. Suppose they take offence without a cause; They are but Lewis and Warwick: I am Edward, Your King and Warwick's and must have my will. GLOUCESTER. And shall have your will, because our King. Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well. KING EDWARD. Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too? GLOUCESTER. Not I. No, God forbid that I should wish them sever'd Whom God hath join'd together; ay, and 'twere pity To sunder them that yoke so well together. KING EDWARD. Setting your scorns and your mislike aside, Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey Should not become my wife and England's Queen. And you too, Somerset and Montague, Speak freely what you think. CLARENCE. Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis Becomes your enemy for mocking him About the marriage of the Lady Bona. GLOUCESTER. And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge, Is now dishonoured by this new marriage. KING EDWARD. What if both Lewis and Warwick be appeas'd By such invention as I can devise? MONTAGUE. Yet to have join'd with France in such alliance Would more have strength'ned this our commonwealth 'Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred marriage. HASTINGS. Why, knows not Montague that of itself England is safe, if true within itself? MONTAGUE. But the safer when 'tis back'd with France. HASTINGS. 'Tis better using France than trusting France. Let us be back'd with God, and with the seas Which He hath giv'n for fence impregnable, And with their helps only defend ourselves. In them and in ourselves our safety lies. CLARENCE. For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. KING EDWARD. Ay, what of that? it was my will and grant; And for this once my will shall stand for law. GLOUCESTER. And yet methinks your Grace hath not done well To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales Unto the brother of your loving bride. She better would have fitted me or Clarence; But in your bride you bury brotherhood. CLARENCE. Or else you would not have bestow'd the heir Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife's son, And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere. KING EDWARD. Alas, poor Clarence! Is it for a wife That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee. CLARENCE. In choosing for yourself you show'd your judgment, Which being shallow, you shall give me leave To play the broker in mine own behalf; And to that end I shortly mind to leave you. KING EDWARD. Leave me or tarry, Edward will be King, And not be tied unto his brother's will. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My lords, before it pleas'd his Majesty To raise my state to title of a queen, Do me but right, and you must all confess That I was not ignoble of descent: And meaner than myself have had like fortune. But as this title honours me and mine, So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing, Doth cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow. KING EDWARD. My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns. What danger or what sorrow can befall thee, So long as Edward is thy constant friend And their true sovereign whom they must obey? Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too, Unless they seek for hatred at my hands; Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe, And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] I hear, yet say not much, but think the more. Enter a POST
KING EDWARD. Now, messenger, what letters or what news From France? MESSENGER. My sovereign liege, no letters, and few words, But such as I, without your special pardon, Dare not relate. KING EDWARD. Go to, we pardon thee; therefore, in brief, Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them. What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters? MESSENGER. At my depart, these were his very words: 'Go tell false Edward, the supposed king, That Lewis of France is sending over masquers To revel it with him and his new bride.' KING EDWARD. IS Lewis so brave? Belike he thinks me Henry. But what said Lady Bona to my marriage? MESSENGER. These were her words, utt'red with mild disdain: 'Tell him, in hope he'll prove a widower shortly, I'll wear the willow-garland for his sake.' KING EDWARD. I blame not her: she could say little less; She had the wrong. But what said Henry's queen? For I have heard that she was there in place. MESSENGER. 'Tell him' quoth she 'my mourning weeds are done, And I am ready to put armour on.' KING EDWARD. Belike she minds to play the Amazon. But what said Warwick to these injuries? MESSENGER. He, more incens'd against your Majesty Than all the rest, discharg'd me with these words: 'Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong; And therefore I'll uncrown him ere't be long.' KING EDWARD. Ha! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words? Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn'd. They shall have wars and pay for their presumption. But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret? MESSENGER. Ay, gracious sovereign; they are so link'd in friendship That young Prince Edward marries Warwick's daughter. CLARENCE. Belike the elder; Clarence will have the younger. Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast, For I will hence to Warwick's other daughter; That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage I may not prove inferior to yourself. You that love me and Warwick, follow me. Exit, and SOMERSET follows GLOUCESTER. [Aside] Not I. My thoughts aim at a further matter; I Stay not for the love of Edward but the crown. KING EDWARD. Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick! Yet am I arm'd against the worst can happen; And haste is needful in this desp'rate case. Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf Go levy men and make prepare for war; They are already, or quickly will be landed. Myself in person will straight follow you. Exeunt PEMBROKE and STAFFORD But ere I go, Hastings and Montague, Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest, Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance. Tell me if you love Warwick more than me? If it be so, then both depart to him: I rather wish you foes than hollow friends. But if you mind to hold your true obedience, Give me assurance with some friendly vow, That I may never have you in suspect. MONTAGUE. So God help Montague as he proves true! HASTINGS. And Hastings as he favours Edward's cause! KING EDWARD. Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us? GLOUCESTER. Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you. KING EDWARD. Why, so! then am I sure of victory. Now therefore let us hence, and lose no hour Till we meet Warwick with his foreign pow'r. Exeunt SCENE II. A plain in Warwickshire Enter WARWICK and OXFORD, with French soldiers
WARWICK. Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well; The common people by numbers swarm to us. Enter CLARENCE and SOMERSET
But see where Somerset and Clarence comes.
Speak suddenly, my lords- are we all friends?
CLARENCE. Fear not that, my lord. WARWICK. Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick; And welcome, Somerset. I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawn'd an open hand in sign of love; Else might I think that Clarence, Edward's brother, Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings. But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine. And now what rests but, in night's coverture, Thy brother being carelessly encamp'd, His soldiers lurking in the towns about, And but attended by a simple guard, We may surprise and take him at our pleasure? Our scouts have found the adventure very easy; That as Ulysses and stout Diomede With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus' tents, And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds, So we, well cover'd with the night's black mantle, At unawares may beat down Edward's guard And seize himself- I say not 'slaughter him,' For I intend but only to surprise him. You that will follow me to this attempt, Applaud the name of Henry with your leader. [They all cry 'Henry!'] Why then, let's on our way in silent sort. For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George! Exeunt SCENE III. Edward's camp, near Warwick Enter three WATCHMEN, to guard the KING'S tent
FIRST WATCHMAN. Come on, my masters, each man take his stand; The King by this is set him down to sleep. SECOND WATCHMAN. What, will he not to bed? FIRST WATCHMAN. Why, no; for he hath made a solemn vow Never to lie and take his natural rest Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress'd. SECOND WATCHMAN. To-morrow then, belike, shall be the day, If Warwick be so near as men report. THIRD WATCHMAN. But say, I pray, what nobleman is that That with the King here resteth in his tent? FIRST WATCHMAN. 'Tis the Lord Hastings, the King's chiefest friend. THIRD WATCHMAN. O, is it So? But why commands the King That his chief followers lodge in towns about him, While he himself keeps in the cold field? SECOND WATCHMAN. 'Tis the more honour, because more dangerous. THIRD WATCHMAN. Ay, but give me worship and quietness; I like it better than dangerous honour. If Warwick knew in what estate he stands, 'Tis to be doubted he would waken him. FIRST WATCHMAN. Unless our halberds did shut up his passage. SECOND WATCHMAN. Ay, wherefore else guard we his royal tent But to defend his person from night-foes? Enter WARWICK, CLARENCE, OXFORD, SOMERSET, and French soldiers, silent all WARWICK. This is his tent; and see where stand his guard. Courage, my masters! Honour now or never! But follow me, and Edward shall be ours. FIRST WATCHMAN. Who goes there? SECOND WATCHMAN. Stay, or thou diest. WARWICK and the rest cry all 'Warwick! Warwick!' and set upon the guard, who fly, crying 'Arm! Arm!' WARWICK and the rest following them The drum playing and trumpet sounding, re-enter WARWICK and the rest, bringing the KING out in his gown, sitting in a chair. GLOUCESTER and HASTINGS fly over the stage SOMERSET. What are they that fly there? WARWICK. Richard and Hastings. Let them go; here is the Duke. KING EDWARD. The Duke! Why, Warwick, when we parted, Thou call'dst me King? WARWICK. Ay, but the case is alter'd. When you disgrac'd me in my embassade, Then I degraded you from being King, And come now to create you Duke of York. Alas, how should you govern any kingdom That know not how to use ambassadors, Nor how to be contented with one wife, Nor how to use your brothers brotherly, Nor how to study for the people's welfare, Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies? KING EDWARD. Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here too? Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down. Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance, Of thee thyself and all thy complices, Edward will always bear himself as King. Though fortune's malice overthrow my state, My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel. WARWICK. Then, for his mind, be Edward England's king; [Takes off his crown] But Henry now shall wear the English crown And be true King indeed; thou but the shadow. My Lord of Somerset, at my request, See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey'd Unto my brother, Archbishop of York. When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows, I'll follow you and tell what answer Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him. Now for a while farewell, good Duke of York. KING EDWARD. What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide. [They lead him out forcibly] OXFORD. What now remains, my lords, for us to do But march to London with our soldiers? WARWICK. Ay, that's the first thing that we have to do; To free King Henry from imprisonment, And see him seated in the regal throne. Exeunt SCENE IV. London. The palace Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH and RIVERS
RIVERS. Madam, what makes you in this sudden change? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn What late misfortune is befall'n King Edward? RIVERS. What, loss of some pitch'd battle against Warwick? QUEEN ELIZABETH. No, but the loss of his own royal person. RIVERS. Then is my sovereign slain? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner; Either betray'd by falsehood of his guard Or by his foe surpris'd at unawares; And, as I further have to understand, Is new committed to the Bishop of York, Fell Warwick's brother, and by that our foe. RIVERS. These news, I must confess, are full of grief; Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may: Warwick may lose that now hath won the day. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Till then, fair hope must hinder life's decay. And I the rather wean me from despair For love of Edward's offspring in my womb. This is it that makes me bridle passion And bear with mildness my misfortune's cross; Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs, Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown King Edward's fruit, true heir to th' English crown. RIVERS. But, madam, where is Warwick then become? QUEEN ELIZABETH. I am inform'd that he comes towards London To set the crown once more on Henry's head. Guess thou the rest: King Edward's friends must down. But to prevent the tyrant's violence- For trust not him that hath once broken faith- I'll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary To save at least the heir of Edward's right. There shall I rest secure from force and fraud. Come, therefore, let us fly while we may fly: If Warwick take us, we are sure to die. Exeunt SCENE V. A park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire Enter GLOUCESTER, LORD HASTINGS, SIR WILLIAM STANLEY, and others
GLOUCESTER. Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Stanley, Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither Into this chiefest thicket of the park. Thus stands the case: you know our King, my brother, Is prisoner to the Bishop here, at whose hands He hath good usage and great liberty; And often but attended with weak guard Comes hunting this way to disport himself. I have advertis'd him by secret means That if about this hour he make this way, Under the colour of his usual game, He shall here find his friends, with horse and men, To set him free from his captivity. Enter KING EDWARD and a HUNTSMAN with him
HUNTSMAN. This way, my lord; for this way lies the game. KING EDWARD. Nay, this way, man. See where the huntsmen stand. Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest, Stand you thus close to steal the Bishop's deer? GLOUCESTER. Brother, the time and case requireth haste; Your horse stands ready at the park corner. KING EDWARD. But whither shall we then? HASTINGS. To Lynn, my lord; and shipt from thence to Flanders. GLOUCESTER. Well guess'd, believe me; for that was my meaning. KING EDWARD. Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness. GLOUCESTER. But wherefore stay we? 'Tis no time to talk. KING EDWARD. Huntsman, what say'st thou? Wilt thou go along? HUNTSMAN. Better do so than tarry and be hang'd. GLOUCESTER. Come then, away; let's ha' no more ado. KING EDWARD. Bishop, farewell. Shield thee from Warwick's frown, And pray that I may repossess the crown. Exeunt SCENE VI. London. The Tower Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, CLARENCE, WARWICK, SOMERSET, young HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, OXFORD, MONTAGUE, LIEUTENANT OF THE TOWER, and attendants KING HENRY. Master Lieutenant, now that God and friends Have shaken Edward from the regal seat And turn'd my captive state to liberty, My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys, At our enlargement what are thy due fees? LIEUTENANT. Subjects may challenge nothing of their sov'reigns; But if an humble prayer may prevail, I then crave pardon of your Majesty. KING HENRY. For what, Lieutenant? For well using me? Nay, be thou sure I'll well requite thy kindness, For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure; Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds Conceive when, after many moody thoughts, At last by notes of household harmony They quite forget their loss of liberty. But, Warwick, after God, thou set'st me free, And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee; He was the author, thou the instrument. Therefore, that I may conquer fortune's spite By living low where fortune cannot hurt me, And that the people of this blessed land May not be punish'd with my thwarting stars, Warwick, although my head still wear the crown, I here resign my government to thee, For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds. WARWICK. Your Grace hath still been fam'd for virtuous, And now may seem as wise as virtuous By spying and avoiding fortune's malice, For few men rightly temper with the stars; Yet in this one thing let me blame your Grace, For choosing me when Clarence is in place. CLARENCE. No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway, To whom the heav'ns in thy nativity Adjudg'd an olive branch and laurel crown, As likely to be blest in peace and war; And therefore I yield thee my free consent. WARWICK. And I choose Clarence only for Protector. KING HENRY. Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands. Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts, That no dissension hinder government. I make you both Protectors of this land, While I myself will lead a private life And in devotion spend my latter days, To sin's rebuke and my Creator's praise. WARWICK. What answers Clarence to his sovereign's will? CLARENCE. That he consents, if Warwick yield consent, For on thy fortune I repose myself. WARWICK. Why, then, though loath, yet must I be content. We'll yoke together, like a double shadow To Henry's body, and supply his place; I mean, in bearing weight of government, While he enjoys the honour and his ease. And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful Forthwith that Edward be pronounc'd a traitor, And all his lands and goods confiscated. CLARENCE. What else? And that succession be determin'd. WARWICK. Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part. KING HENRY. But, with the first of all your chief affairs, Let me entreat- for I command no more- That Margaret your Queen and my son Edward Be sent for to return from France with speed; For till I see them here, by doubtful fear My joy of liberty is half eclips'd. CLARENCE. It shall be done, my sovereign, with all speed. KING HENRY. My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that, Of whom you seem to have so tender care? SOMERSET. My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of Richmond. KING HENRY. Come hither, England's hope. [Lays his hand on his head] If secret powers Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts, This pretty lad will prove our country's bliss. His looks are full of peaceful majesty; His head by nature fram'd to wear a crown, His hand to wield a sceptre; and himself Likely in time to bless a regal throne. Make much of him, my lords; for this is he Must help you more than you are hurt by me. Enter a POST
WARWICK. What news, my friend? POST. That Edward is escaped from your brother And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy. WARWICK. Unsavoury news! But how made he escape? POST. He was convey'd by Richard Duke of Gloucester And the Lord Hastings, who attended him In secret ambush on the forest side And from the Bishop's huntsmen rescu'd him; For hunting was his daily exercise. WARWICK. My brother was too careless of his charge. But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide A salve for any sore that may betide. Exeunt all but SOMERSET, RICHMOND, and OXFORD SOMERSET. My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward's; For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help, And we shall have more wars befor't be long. As Henry's late presaging prophecy Did glad my heart with hope of this young Richmond, So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts, What may befall him to his harm and ours. Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst, Forthwith we'll send him hence to Brittany, Till storms be past of civil enmity. OXFORD. Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown, 'Tis like that Richmond with the rest shall down. SOMERSET. It shall be so; he shall to Brittany. Come therefore, let's about it speedily. Exeunt SCENE VII. Before York Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and soldiers
KING EDWARD. Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest, Yet thus far fortune maketh us amends, And says that once more I shall interchange My waned state for Henry's regal crown. Well have we pass'd and now repass'd the seas, And brought desired help from Burgundy; What then remains, we being thus arriv'd From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York, But that we enter, as into our dukedom? GLOUCESTER. The gates made fast! Brother, I like not this; For many men that stumble at the threshold Are well foretold that danger lurks within. KING EDWARD. Tush, man, abodements must not now affright us. By fair or foul means we must enter in, For hither will our friends repair to us. HASTINGS. My liege, I'll knock once more to summon them. Enter, on the walls, the MAYOR OF YORK and his BRETHREN MAYOR. My lords, we were forewarned of your coming And shut the gates for safety of ourselves, For now we owe allegiance unto Henry. KING EDWARD. But, Master Mayor, if Henry be your King, Yet Edward at the least is Duke of York. MAYOR. True, my good lord; I know you for no less. KING EDWARD. Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom, As being well content with that alone. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] But when the fox hath once got in his nose, He'll soon find means to make the body follow. HASTINGS. Why, Master Mayor, why stand you in a doubt? Open the gates; we are King Henry's friends. MAYOR. Ay, say you so? The gates shall then be open'd. [He descends] GLOUCESTER. A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded! HASTINGS. The good old man would fain that all were well, So 'twere not long of him; but being ent'red, I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade Both him and all his brothers unto reason. Enter, below, the MAYOR and two ALDERMEN
KING EDWARD. So, Master Mayor. These gates must not be shut But in the night or in the time of war. What! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys; [Takes his keys] For Edward will defend the town and thee, And all those friends that deign to follow me. March. Enter MONTGOMERY with drum and soldiers
GLOUCESTER. Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery, Our trusty friend, unless I be deceiv'd. KING EDWARD. Welcome, Sir john! But why come you in arms? MONTGOMERY. To help King Edward in his time of storm, As every loyal subject ought to do. KING EDWARD. Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now forget Our title to the crown, and only claim Our dukedom till God please to send the rest. MONTGOMERY. Then fare you well, for I will hence again. I came to serve a king and not a duke. Drummer, strike up, and let us march away. [The drum begins to march] KING EDWARD. Nay, stay, Sir John, a while, and we'll debate By what safe means the crown may be recover'd. MONTGOMERY. What talk you of debating? In few words: If you'll not here proclaim yourself our King, I'll leave you to your fortune and be gone To keep them back that come to succour you. Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title? GLOUCESTER. Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points? KING EDWARD. When we grow stronger, then we'll make our claim; Till then 'tis wisdom to conceal our meaning. HASTINGS. Away with scrupulous wit! Now arms must rule. GLOUCESTER. And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns. Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand; The bruit thereof will bring you many friends. KING EDWARD. Then be it as you will; for 'tis my right, And Henry but usurps the diadem. MONTGOMERY. Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like himself; And now will I be Edward's champion. HASTINGS. Sound trumpet; Edward shall be here proclaim'd. Come, fellow soldier, make thou proclamation. [Gives him a paper. Flourish] SOLDIER. [Reads] 'Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, &c.' MONTGOMERY. And whoso'er gainsays King Edward's right, By this I challenge him to single fight. [Throws down gauntlet] ALL. Long live Edward the Fourth! KING EDWARD. Thanks, brave Montgomery, and thanks unto you all; If fortune serve me, I'll requite this kindness. Now for this night let's harbour here in York; And when the morning sun shall raise his car Above the border of this horizon, We'll forward towards Warwick and his mates; For well I wot that Henry is no soldier. Ah, froward Clarence, how evil it beseems the To flatter Henry and forsake thy brother! Yet, as we may, we'll meet both thee and Warwick. Come on, brave soldiers; doubt not of the day, And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay. Exeunt SCENE VIII. London. The palace Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, WARWICK, MONTAGUE, CLARENCE, OXFORD, and EXETER
WARWICK. What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia, With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders, Hath pass'd in safety through the narrow seas And with his troops doth march amain to London; And many giddy people flock to him. KING HENRY. Let's levy men and beat him back again. CLARENCE. A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench. WARWICK. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends, Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war; Those will I muster up, and thou, son Clarence, Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent, The knights and gentlemen to come with thee. Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham, Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find Men well inclin'd to hear what thou command'st. And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well belov'd, In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends. My sovereign, with the loving citizens, Like to his island girt in with the ocean Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs, Shall rest in London till we come to him. Fair lords, take leave and stand not to reply. Farewell, my sovereign. KING HENRY. Farewell, my Hector and my Troy's true hope. CLARENCE. In sign of truth, I kiss your Highness' hand. KING HENRY. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate! MONTAGUE. Comfort, my lord; and so I take my leave. OXFORD. [Kissing the KING'S band] And thus I seal my truth and bid adieu. KING HENRY. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, And all at once, once more a happy farewell. WARWICK. Farewell, sweet lords; let's meet at Coventry. Exeunt all but the KING and EXETER KING HENRY. Here at the palace will I rest a while. Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship? Methinks the power that Edward hath in field Should not be able to encounter mine. EXETER. The doubt is that he will seduce the rest. KING HENRY. That's not my fear; my meed hath got me fame: I have not stopp'd mine ears to their demands, Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allay'd their swelling griefs, My mercy dried their water-flowing tears; I have not been desirous of their wealth, Nor much oppress'd them with great subsidies, Nor forward of revenge, though they much err'd. Then why should they love Edward more than me? No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace; And, when the lion fawns upon the lamb, The lamb will never cease to follow him. [Shout within 'A Lancaster! A Lancaster!'] EXETER. Hark, hark, my lord! What shouts are these? Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, and soldiers
KING EDWARD. Seize on the shame-fac'd Henry, bear him hence; And once again proclaim us King of England. You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow. Now stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry, And swell so much the higher by their ebb. Hence with him to the Tower: let him not speak. Exeunt some with KING HENRY And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course, Where peremptory Warwick now remains. The sun shines hot; and, if we use delay, Cold biting winter mars our hop'd-for hay. GLOUCESTER. Away betimes, before his forces join, And take the great-grown traitor unawares. Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE I. Coventry Enter WARWICK, the MAYOR OF COVENTRY, two MESSENGERS, and others upon the walls
WARWICK. Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford? How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow? FIRST MESSENGER. By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward. WARWICK. How far off is our brother Montague? Where is the post that came from Montague? SECOND MESSENGER. By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop. Enter SIR JOHN SOMERVILLE
WARWICK. Say, Somerville, what says my loving son? And by thy guess how nigh is Clarence now? SOMERVILLE. At Southam I did leave him with his forces, And do expect him here some two hours hence. [Drum heard] WARWICK. Then Clarence is at hand; I hear his drum. SOMERVILLE. It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies. The drum your Honour hears marcheth from Warwick. WARWICK. Who should that be? Belike unlook'd for friends. SOMERVILLE. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know. March. Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, and soldiers KING EDWARD. Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle. GLOUCESTER. See how the surly Warwick mans the wall. WARWICK. O unbid spite! Is sportful Edward come? Where slept our scouts or how are they seduc'd That we could hear no news of his repair? KING EDWARD. Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates, Speak gentle words, and humbly bend thy knee, Call Edward King, and at his hands beg mercy? And he shall pardon thee these outrages. WARWICK. Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, Confess who set thee up and pluck'd thee down, Call Warwick patron, and be penitent? And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York. GLOUCESTER. I thought, at least, he would have said the King; Or did he make the jest against his will? WARWICK. Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift? GLOUCESTER. Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give. I'll do thee service for so good a gift. WARWICK. 'Twas I that gave the kingdom to thy brother. KING EDWARD. Why then 'tis mine, if but by Warwick's gift. WARWICK. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight; And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again; And Henry is my King, Warwick his subject. KING EDWARD. But Warwick's king is Edward's prisoner. And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this: What is the body when the head is off? GLOUCESTER. Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast, But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten, The king was slily finger'd from the deck! You left poor Henry at the Bishop's palace, And ten to one you'll meet him in the Tower. KING EDWARD. 'Tis even so; yet you are Warwick still. GLOUCESTER. Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down. Nay, when? Strike now, or else the iron cools. WARWICK. I had rather chop this hand off at a blow, And with the other fling it at thy face, Than bear so low a sail to strike to thee. KING EDWARD. Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend, This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair, Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off, Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood: 'Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.' Enter OXFORD, with drum and colours
WARWICK. O cheerful colours! See where Oxford comes. OXFORD. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster! [He and his forces enter the city] GLOUCESTER. The gates are open, let us enter too. KING EDWARD. So other foes may set upon our backs. Stand we in good array, for they no doubt Will issue out again and bid us battle; If not, the city being but of small defence, We'll quietly rouse the traitors in the same. WARWICK. O, welcome, Oxford! for we want thy help. Enter MONTAGUE, with drum and colours
MONTAGUE. Montague, Montague, for Lancaster! [He and his forces enter the city] GLOUCESTER. Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear. KING EDWARD. The harder match'd, the greater victory. My mind presageth happy gain and conquest. Enter SOMERSET, with drum and colours
SOMERSET. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster! [He and his forces enter the city] GLOUCESTER. Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset, Have sold their lives unto the house of York; And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold. Enter CLARENCE, with drum and colours
WARWICK. And lo where George of Clarence sweeps along, Of force enough to bid his brother battle; With whom an upright zeal to right prevails More than the nature of a brother's love. CLARENCE. Clarence, Clarence, for Lancaster! KING EDWARD. Et tu Brute- wilt thou stab Caesar too? A parley, sirrah, to George of Clarence. [Sound a parley. RICHARD and CLARENCE whisper] WARWICK. Come, Clarence, come. Thou wilt if Warwick call. CLARENCE. [Taking the red rose from his hat and throwing it at WARWICK] Father of Warwick, know you what this means? Look here, I throw my infamy at thee. I will not ruinate my father's house, Who gave his blood to lime the stones together, And set up Lancaster. Why, trowest thou, Warwick, That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural, To bend the fatal instruments of war Against his brother and his lawful King? Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath. To keep that oath were more impiety Than Jephtha when he sacrific'd his daughter. I am so sorry for my trespass made That, to deserve well at my brother's hands, I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe; With resolution whereso'er I meet thee- As I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad- To plague thee for thy foul misleading me. And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee, And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks. Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends; And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults, For I will henceforth be no more unconstant. KING EDWARD. Now welcome more, and ten times more belov'd, Than if thou never hadst deserv'd our hate. GLOUCESTER. Welcome, good Clarence; this is brother-like. WARWICK. O passing traitor, perjur'd and unjust! KING EDWARD. What, Warwick, wilt thou leave die town and fight? Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears? WARWICK. Alas, I am not coop'd here for defence! I will away towards Barnet presently And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar'st. KING EDWARD. Yes, Warwick, Edward dares and leads the way. Lords, to the field; Saint George and victory! Exeunt YORKISTS [March. WARWICK and his company follow] SCENE II. A field of battle near Barnet Alarum and excursions. Enter KING EDWARD, bringing forth WARWICK, wounded
KING EDWARD. So, lie thou there. Die thou, and die our fear; For Warwick was a bug that fear'd us all. Now, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee, That Warwick's bones may keep thine company. Exit WARWICK. Ah, who is nigh? Come to me, friend or foe, And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick? Why ask I that? My mangled body shows, My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows, That I must yield my body to the earth And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading tree And kept low shrubs from winter's pow'rful wind. These eyes, that now are dimm'd with death's black veil, Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun To search the secret treasons of the world; The wrinkles in my brows, now fill'd with blood, Were lik'ned oft to kingly sepulchres; For who liv'd King, but I could dig his grave? And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow? Lo now my glory smear'd in dust and blood! My parks, my walks, my manors, that I had, Even now forsake me; and of all my lands Is nothing left me but my body's length. what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And live we how we can, yet die we must. Enter OXFORD and SOMERSET
SOMERSET. Ah, Warwick, Warwick! wert thou as we are, We might recover all our loss again. The Queen from France hath brought a puissant power; Even now we heard the news. Ah, couldst thou fly! WARWICK. Why then, I would not fly. Ah, Montague, If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand, And with thy lips keep in my soul a while! Thou lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou didst, Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood That glues my lips and will not let me speak. Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead. SOMERSET. Ah, Warwick! Montague hath breath'd his last; And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick, And said 'Commend me to my valiant brother.' And more he would have said; and more he spoke, Which sounded like a clamour in a vault, That mought not be distinguish'd; but at last, I well might hear, delivered with a groan, 'O farewell, Warwick!' WARWICK. Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves: For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven. [Dies] OXFORD. Away, away, to meet the Queen's great power! [Here they bear away his body] SCENE III. Another part of the field Flourish. Enter KING in triumph; with GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and the rest
KING EDWARD. Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course, And we are grac'd with wreaths of victory. But in the midst of this bright-shining day I spy a black, suspicious, threat'ning cloud That will encounter with our glorious sun Ere he attain his easeful western bed- I mean, my lords, those powers that the Queen Hath rais'd in Gallia have arriv'd our coast And, as we hear, march on to fight with us. CLARENCE. A little gale will soon disperse that cloud And blow it to the source from whence it came; Thy very beams will dry those vapours up, For every cloud engenders not a storm. GLOUCESTER. The Queen is valued thirty thousand strong, And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her. If she have time to breathe, be well assur'd Her faction will be full as strong as ours. KING EDWARD. are advertis'd by our loving friends That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury; We, having now the best at Barnet field, Will thither straight, for willingness rids way; And as we march our strength will be augmented In every county as we go along. Strike up the drum; cry 'Courage!' and away. Exeunt SCENE IV. Plains wear Tewksbury Flourish. March. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE EDWARD, SOMERSET, OXFORD, and SOLDIERS
QUEEN MARGARET. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. What though the mast be now blown overboard, The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, And half our sailors swallow'd in the flood; Yet lives our pilot still. Is't meet that he Should leave the helm and, like a fearful lad, With tearful eyes add water to the sea And give more strength to that which hath too much; Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock, Which industry and courage might have sav'd? Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this! Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that? And Montague our top-mast; what of him? Our slaught'red friends the tackles; what of these? Why, is not Oxford here another anchor? And Somerset another goodly mast? The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings? And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I For once allow'd the skilful pilot's charge? We will not from the helm to sit and weep, But keep our course, though the rough wind say no, From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck, As good to chide the waves as speak them fair. And what is Edward but a ruthless sea? What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit? And Richard but a ragged fatal rock? All these the enemies to our poor bark. Say you can swim; alas, 'tis but a while! Tread on the sand; why, there you quickly sink. Bestride the rock; the tide will wash you off, Or else you famish- that's a threefold death. This speak I, lords, to let you understand, If case some one of you would fly from us, That there's no hop'd-for mercy with the brothers More than with ruthless waves, with sands, and rocks. Why, courage then! What cannot be avoided 'Twere childish weakness to lament or fear. PRINCE OF WALES. Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit Should, if a coward hear her speak these words, Infuse his breast with magnanimity And make him naked foil a man-at-arms. I speak not this as doubting any here; For did I but suspect a fearful man, He should have leave to go away betimes, Lest in our need he might infect another And make him of the like spirit to himself. If any such be here- as God forbid!- Let him depart before we need his help. OXFORD. Women and children of so high a courage, And warriors faint! Why, 'twere perpetual shame. O brave young Prince! thy famous grandfather Doth live again in thee. Long mayst thou Eve To bear his image and renew his glories! SOMERSET. And he that will not fight for such a hope, Go home to bed and, like the owl by day, If he arise, be mock'd and wond'red at. QUEEN MARGARET. Thanks, gentle Somerset; sweet Oxford, thanks. PRINCE OF WALES. And take his thanks that yet hath nothing else. Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand Ready to fight; therefore be resolute. OXFORD. I thought no less. It is his policy To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided. SOMERSET. But he's deceiv'd; we are in readiness. QUEEN MARGARET. This cheers my heart, to see your forwardness. OXFORD. Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge. Flourish and march. Enter, at a distance, KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and soldiers KING EDWARD. Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood Which, by the heavens' assistance and your strength, Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night. I need not add more fuel to your fire, For well I wot ye blaze to burn them out. Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords. QUEEN MARGARET. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say My tears gainsay; for every word I speak, Ye see, I drink the water of my eye. Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign, Is prisoner to the foe; his state usurp'd, His realm a slaughter-house, his subjects slain, His statutes cancell'd, and his treasure spent; And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. You fight in justice. Then, in God's name, lords, Be valiant, and give signal to the fight. Alarum, retreat, excursions. Exeunt SCENE V. Another part of the field Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and forces, With QUEEN MARGARET, OXFORD, and SOMERSET, prisoners KING EDWARD. Now here a period of tumultuous broils. Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight; For Somerset, off with his guilty head. Go, bear them hence; I will not hear them speak. OXFORD. For my part, I'll not trouble thee with words. SOMERSET. Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune. Exeunt OXFORD and SOMERSET, guarded QUEEN MARGARET. So part we sadly in this troublous world, To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. KING EDWARD. Is proclamation made that who finds Edward Shall have a high reward, and he his life? GLOUCESTER. It is; and lo where youthful Edward comes. Enter soldiers, with PRINCE EDWARD
KING EDWARD. Bring forth the gallant; let us hear him speak. What, can so young a man begin to prick? Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects, And all the trouble thou hast turn'd me to? PRINCE OF WALES. Speak like a subject, proud ambitious York. Suppose that I am now my father's mouth; Resign thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou, Whilst I propose the self-same words to the Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to. QUEEN MARGARET. Ah, that thy father had been so resolv'd! GLOUCESTER. That you might still have worn the petticoat And ne'er have stol'n the breech from Lancaster. PRINCE OF WALES. Let Aesop fable in a winter's night; His currish riddle sorts not with this place. GLOUCESTER. By heaven, brat, I'll plague ye for that word. QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to men. GLOUCESTER. For God's sake, take away this captive scold. PRINCE OF WALES. Nay, take away this scolding crookback rather. KING EDWARD. Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your tongue. CLARENCE. Untutor'd lad, thou art too malapert. PRINCE OF WALES. I know my duty; you are all undutiful. Lascivious Edward, and thou perjur'd George, And thou misshapen Dick, I tell ye all I am your better, traitors as ye are; And thou usurp'st my father's right and mine. KING EDWARD. Take that, the likeness of this railer here. [Stabs him] GLOUCESTER. Sprawl'st thou? Take that, to end thy agony. [Stabs him] CLARENCE. And there's for twitting me with perjury. [Stabs him] QUEEN MARGARET. O, kill me too! GLOUCESTER. Marry, and shall. [Offers to kill her] KING EDWARD. Hold, Richard, hold; for we have done to much. GLOUCESTER. Why should she live to fill the world with words? KING EDWARD. What, doth she swoon? Use means for her recovery. GLOUCESTER. Clarence, excuse me to the King my brother. I'll hence to London on a serious matter; Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news. CLARENCE. What? what? GLOUCESTER. The Tower! the Tower! Exit QUEEN MARGARET. O Ned, sweet Ned, speak to thy mother, boy! Canst thou not speak? O traitors! murderers! They that stabb'd Caesar shed no blood at all, Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame, If this foul deed were by to equal it. He was a man: this, in respect, a child; And men ne'er spend their fury on a child. What's worse than murderer, that I may name it? No, no, my heart will burst, an if I speak- And I will speak, that so my heart may burst. Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals! How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd! You have no children, butchers, if you had, The thought of them would have stirr'd up remorse. But if you ever chance to have a child, Look in his youth to have him so cut off As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young prince! KING EDWARD. Away with her; go, bear her hence perforce. QUEEN MARGARET. Nay, never bear me hence; dispatch me here. Here sheathe thy sword; I'll pardon thee my death. What, wilt thou not? Then, Clarence, do it thou. CLARENCE. By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease. QUEEN MARGARET. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it. CLARENCE. Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it? QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself. 'Twas sin before, but now 'tis charity. What! wilt thou not? Where is that devil's butcher, Hard-favour'd Richard? Richard, where art thou? Thou art not here. Murder is thy alms-deed; Petitioners for blood thou ne'er put'st back. KING EDWARD. Away, I say; I charge ye bear her hence. QUEEN MARGARET. So come to you and yours as to this prince. Exit, led out forcibly KING EDWARD. Where's Richard gone? CLARENCE. To London, all in post; and, as I guess, To make a bloody supper in the Tower. KING EDWARD. He's sudden, if a thing comes in his head. Now march we hence. Discharge the common sort With pay and thanks; and let's away to London And see our gentle queen how well she fares. By this, I hope, she hath a son for me. Exeunt SCENE VI. London. The Tower Enter KING HENRY and GLOUCESTER with the LIEUTENANT, on the walls
GLOUCESTER. Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard? KING HENRY. Ay, my good lord- my lord, I should say rather. 'Tis sin to flatter; 'good' was little better. 'Good Gloucester' and 'good devil' were alike, And both preposterous; therefore, not 'good lord.' GLOUCESTER. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves; we must confer. Exit LIEUTENANT KING HENRY. So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf; So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece, And next his throat unto the butcher's knife. What scene of death hath Roscius now to act? GLOUCESTER. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind: The thief doth fear each bush an officer. KING HENRY. The bird that hath been limed in a bush With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush; And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird, Have now the fatal object in my eye Where my poor young was lim'd, was caught, and kill'd. GLOUCESTER. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete That taught his son the office of a fowl! And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown'd. KING HENRY. I, Daedalus; my poor boy, Icarus; Thy father, Minos, that denied our course; The sun that sear'd the wings of my sweet boy, Thy brother Edward; and thyself, the sea Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words! My breast can better brook thy dagger's point Than can my ears that tragic history. But wherefore dost thou come? Is't for my life? GLOUCESTER. Think'st thou I am an executioner? KING HENRY. A persecutor I am sure thou art. If murdering innocents be executing, Why, then thou are an executioner. GLOUCESTER. Thy son I kill'd for his presumption. KING HENRY. Hadst thou been kill'd when first thou didst presume, Thou hadst not liv'd to kill a son of mine. And thus I prophesy, that many a thousand Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, And many an old man's sigh, and many a widow's, And many an orphan's water-standing eye- Men for their sons, wives for their husbands, Orphans for their parents' timeless death- Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. The owl shriek'd at thy birth- an evil sign; The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time; Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempest shook down trees; The raven rook'd her on the chimney's top, And chatt'ring pies in dismal discords sung; Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain, And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope, To wit, an indigest deformed lump, Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, To signify thou cam'st to bite the world; And if the rest be true which I have heard, Thou cam'st- GLOUCESTER. I'll hear no more. Die, prophet, in thy speech. [Stabs him] For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain'd. KING HENRY. Ay, and for much more slaughter after this. O, God forgive my sins and pardon thee! [Dies] GLOUCESTER. What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. See how my sword weeps for the poor King's death. O, may such purple tears be always shed From those that wish the downfall of our house! If any spark of life be yet remaining, Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither- [Stabs him again] I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. Indeed, 'tis true that Henry told me of; For I have often heard my mother say I came into the world with my legs forward. Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste And seek their ruin that usurp'd our right? The midwife wonder'd; and the women cried 'O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!' And so I was, which plainly signified That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog. Then, since the heavens have shap'd my body so, Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it. I have no brother, I am like no brother; And this word 'love,' which greybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another, And not in me! I am myself alone. Clarence, beware; thou keep'st me from the light, But I will sort a pitchy day for thee; For I will buzz abroad such prophecies That Edward shall be fearful of his life; And then to purge his fear, I'll be thy death. King Henry and the Prince his son are gone. Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest; Counting myself but bad till I be best. I'll throw thy body in another room, And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. Exit with the body SCENE VII. London. The palace Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, QUEEN ELIZABETH, CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, NURSE, with the Young PRINCE, and attendants KING EDWARD. Once more we sit in England's royal throne, Repurchas'd with the blood of enemies. What valiant foemen, like to autumn's corn, Have we mow'd down in tops of all their pride! Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown'd For hardy and undoubted champions; Two Cliffords, as the father and the son; And two Northumberlands- two braver men Ne'er spurr'd their coursers at the trumpet's sound; With them the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague, That in their chains fetter'd the kingly lion And made the forest tremble when they roar'd. Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat And made our footstool of security. Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy. Young Ned, for thee thine uncles and myself Have in our armours watch'd the winter's night, Went all afoot in summer's scalding heat, That thou might'st repossess the crown in peace; And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] I'll blast his harvest if your head were laid; For yet I am not look'd on in the world. This shoulder was ordain'd so thick to heave; And heave it shall some weight or break my back. Work thou the way- and that shall execute. KING EDWARD. Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely queen; And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both. CLARENCE. The duty that I owe unto your Majesty I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe. KING EDWARD. Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks. GLOUCESTER. And that I love the tree from whence thou sprang'st, Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. [Aside] To say the truth, so Judas kiss'd his master And cried 'All hail!' when as he meant all harm. KING EDWARD. Now am I seated as my soul delights, Having my country's peace and brothers' loves. CLARENCE. What will your Grace have done with Margaret? Reignier, her father, to the King of France Hath pawn'd the Sicils and Jerusalem, And hither have they sent it for her ransom. KING EDWARD. Away with her, and waft her hence to France. And now what rests but that we spend the time With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, Such as befits the pleasure of the court? Sound drums and trumpets. Farewell, sour annoy! For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy. Exeunt KING HENRY THE EIGHTH DRAMATIS PERSONAE KING HENRY THE EIGHTH CARDINAL WOLSEY CARDINAL CAMPEIUS CAPUCIUS, Ambassador from the Emperor Charles V CRANMER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY DUKE OF NORFOLK DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM DUKE OF SUFFOLK EARL OF SURREY LORD CHAMBERLAIN LORD CHANCELLOR GARDINER, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER BISHOP OF LINCOLN LORD ABERGAVENNY LORD SANDYS SIR HENRY GUILDFORD SIR THOMAS LOVELL SIR ANTHONY DENNY SIR NICHOLAS VAUX SECRETARIES to Wolsey CROMWELL, servant to Wolsey GRIFFITH, gentleman-usher to Queen Katharine THREE GENTLEMEN DOCTOR BUTTS, physician to the King GARTER KING-AT-ARMS SURVEYOR to the Duke of Buckingham BRANDON, and a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS DOORKEEPER Of the Council chamber PORTER, and his MAN PAGE to Gardiner A CRIER QUEEN KATHARINE, wife to King Henry, afterwards divorced ANNE BULLEN, her Maid of Honour, afterwards Queen AN OLD LADY, friend to Anne Bullen PATIENCE, woman to Queen Katharine Lord Mayor, Aldermen, Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women attending upon the Queen; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and other Attendants; Spirits SCENE: London; Westminster; Kimbolton
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH THE PROLOGUE. I come no more to make you laugh; things now That bear a weighty and a serious brow, Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe, Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow, We now present. Those that can pity here May, if they think it well, let fall a tear: The subject will deserve it. Such as give Their money out of hope they may believe May here find truth too. Those that come to see Only a show or two, and so agree The play may pass, if they be still and willing, I'll undertake may see away their shilling Richly in two short hours. Only they That come to hear a merry bawdy play, A noise of targets, or to see a fellow In a long motley coat guarded with yellow, Will be deceiv'd; for, gentle hearers, know, To rank our chosen truth with such a show As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring To make that only true we now intend, Will leave us never an understanding friend. Therefore, for goodness sake, and as you are known The first and happiest hearers of the town, Be sad, as we would make ye. Think ye see The very persons of our noble story As they were living; think you see them great, And follow'd with the general throng and sweat Of thousand friends; then, in a moment, see How soon this mightiness meets misery. And if you can be merry then, I'll say A man may weep upon his wedding-day. ACT I. SCENE 1. London. The palace
Enter the DUKE OF NORFOLK at one door; at the other, the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM and the LORD ABERGAVENNY
BUCKINGHAM. Good morrow, and well met. How have ye done Since last we saw in France? NORFOLK. I thank your Grace, Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer Of what I saw there. BUCKINGHAM. An untimely ague Stay'd me a prisoner in my chamber when Those suns of glory, those two lights of men, Met in the vale of Andren. NORFOLK. 'Twixt Guynes and Arde- I was then present, saw them salute on horseback; Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung In their embracement, as they grew together; Which had they, what four thron'd ones could have weigh'd Such a compounded one? BUCKINGHAM. All the whole time I was my chamber's prisoner. NORFOLK. Then you lost The view of earthly glory; men might say, Till this time pomp was single, but now married To one above itself. Each following day Became the next day's master, till the last Made former wonders its. To-day the French, All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, Shone down the English; and to-morrow they Made Britain India: every man that stood Show'd like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were As cherubins, an gilt; the madams too, Not us'd to toil, did almost sweat to bear The pride upon them, that their very labour Was to them as a painting. Now this masque Was cried incomparable; and th' ensuing night Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings, Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst, As presence did present them: him in eye still him in praise; and being present both, 'Twas said they saw but one, and no discerner Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns- For so they phrase 'em-by their heralds challeng'd The noble spirits to arms, they did perform Beyond thought's compass, that former fabulous story, Being now seen possible enough, got credit, That Bevis was believ'd. BUCKINGHAM. O, you go far! NORFOLK. As I belong to worship, and affect In honour honesty, the tract of ev'rything Would by a good discourser lose some life Which action's self was tongue to. All was royal: To the disposing of it nought rebell'd; Order gave each thing view. The office did Distinctly his full function. BUCKINGHAM. Who did guide- I mean, who set the body and the limbs Of this great sport together, as you guess? NORFOLK. One, certes, that promises no element In such a business. BUCKINGHAM. I pray you, who, my lord? NORFOLK. All this was ord'red by the good discretion Of the right reverend Cardinal of York. BUCKINGHAM. The devil speed him! No man's pie is freed From his ambitious finger. What had he To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder That such a keech can with his very bulk Take up the rays o' th' beneficial sun, And keep it from the earth. NORFOLK. Surely, sir, There's in him stuff that puts him to these ends; For, being not propp'd by ancestry, whose grace Chalks successors their way, nor call'd upon For high feats done to th' crown, neither allied To eminent assistants, but spider-like, Out of his self-drawing web, 'a gives us note The force of his own merit makes his way- A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys A place next to the King. ABERGAVENNY. I cannot tell What heaven hath given him-let some graver eye Pierce into that; but I can see his pride Peep through each part of him. Whence has he that? If not from hell, the devil is a niggard Or has given all before, and he begins A new hell in himself. BUCKINGHAM. Why the devil, Upon this French going out, took he upon him- Without the privity o' th' King-t' appoint Who should attend on him? He makes up the file Of all the gentry; for the most part such To whom as great a charge as little honour He meant to lay upon; and his own letter, The honourable board of council out, Must fetch him in he papers. ABERGAVENNY. I do know Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have By this so sicken'd their estates that never They shall abound as formerly. BUCKINGHAM. O, many Have broke their backs with laying manors on 'em For this great journey. What did this vanity But minister communication of A most poor issue? NORFOLK. Grievingly I think The peace between the French and us not values The cost that did conclude it. BUCKINGHAM. Every man, After the hideous storm that follow'd, was A thing inspir'd, and, not consulting, broke Into a general prophecy-that this tempest, Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded The sudden breach on't. NORFOLK. Which is budded out; For France hath flaw'd the league, and hath attach'd Our merchants' goods at Bordeaux. ABERGAVENNY. Is it therefore Th' ambassador is silenc'd? NORFOLK. Marry, is't. ABERGAVENNY. A proper tide of a peace, and purchas'd At a superfluous rate! BUCKINGHAM. Why, all this business Our reverend Cardinal carried. NORFOLK. Like it your Grace, The state takes notice of the private difference Betwixt you and the Cardinal. I advise you- And take it from a heart that wishes towards you Honour and plenteous safety-that you read The Cardinal's malice and his potency Together; to consider further, that What his high hatred would effect wants not A minister in his power. You know his nature, That he's revengeful; and I know his sword Hath a sharp edge-it's long and't may be said It reaches far, and where 'twill not extend, Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel You'll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that rock That I advise your shunning. Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, the purse borne before him, certain of the guard, and two SECRETARIES with papers. The CARDINAL in his passage fixeth his eye on BUCKINGHAM, and BUCKINGHAM on him, both full of disdain
WOLSEY. The Duke of Buckingham's surveyor? Ha! Where's his examination? SECRETARY. Here, so please you. WOLSEY. Is he in person ready? SECRETARY. Ay, please your Grace. WOLSEY. Well, we shall then know more, and Buckingham shall lessen this big look. Exeunt WOLSEY and his train BUCKINGHAM. This butcher's cur is venom-mouth'd, and I Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar's book Outworths a noble's blood. NORFOLK. What, are you chaf'd? Ask God for temp'rance; that's th' appliance only Which your disease requires. BUCKINGHAM. I read in's looks Matter against me, and his eye revil'd Me as his abject object. At this instant He bores me with some trick. He's gone to th' King; I'll follow, and outstare him. NORFOLK. Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about. To climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like A full hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you; be to yourself As you would to your friend. BUCKINGHAM. I'll to the King, And from a mouth of honour quite cry down This Ipswich fellow's insolence; or proclaim There's difference in no persons. NORFOLK. Be advis'd: Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself. We may outrun By violent swiftness that which we run at, And lose by over-running. Know you not The fire that mounts the liquor till't run o'er In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advis'd. I say again there is no English soul More stronger to direct you than yourself, If with the sap of reason you would quench Or but allay the fire of passion. BUCKINGHAM. Sir, I am thankful to you, and I'll go along By your prescription; but this top-proud fellow- Whom from the flow of gan I name not, but From sincere motions, by intelligence, And proofs as clear as founts in July when We see each grain of gravel-I do know To be corrupt and treasonous. NORFOLK. Say not treasonous. BUCKINGHAM. To th' King I'll say't, and make my vouch as strong As shore of rock. Attend: this holy fox, Or wolf, or both-for he is equal rav'nous As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief As able to perform't, his mind and place Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally- Only to show his pomp as well in France As here at home, suggests the King our master To this last costly treaty, th' interview That swallowed so much treasure and like a glass Did break i' th' wrenching. NORFOLK. Faith, and so it did. BUCKINGHAM. Pray, give me favour, sir; this cunning cardinal The articles o' th' combination drew As himself pleas'd; and they were ratified As he cried 'Thus let be' to as much end As give a crutch to th' dead. But our Count-Cardinal Has done this, and 'tis well; for worthy Wolsey, Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows, Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy To th' old dam treason: Charles the Emperor, Under pretence to see the Queen his aunt- For 'twas indeed his colour, but he came To whisper Wolsey-here makes visitation- His fears were that the interview betwixt England and France might through their amity Breed him some prejudice; for from this league Peep'd harms that menac'd him-privily Deals with our Cardinal; and, as I trow- Which I do well, for I am sure the Emperor Paid ere he promis'd; whereby his suit was granted Ere it was ask'd-but when the way was made, And pav'd with gold, the Emperor thus desir'd, That he would please to alter the King's course, And break the foresaid peace. Let the King know, As soon he shall by me, that thus the Cardinal Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases, And for his own advantage. NORFOLK. I am sorry To hear this of him, and could wish he were Something mistaken in't. BUCKINGHAM. No, not a syllable: I do pronounce him in that very shape He shall appear in proof. Enter BRANDON, a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS before him, and two or three of the guard BRANDON. Your office, sergeant: execute it. SERGEANT. Sir, My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I Arrest thee of high treason, in the name Of our most sovereign King. BUCKINGHAM. Lo you, my lord, The net has fall'n upon me! I shall perish Under device and practice. BRANDON. I am sorry To see you ta'en from liberty, to look on The business present; 'tis his Highness' pleasure You shall to th' Tower. BUCKINGHAM. It will help nothing To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me Which makes my whit'st part black. The will of heav'n Be done in this and all things! I obey. O my Lord Aberga'ny, fare you well! BRANDON. Nay, he must bear you company. [To ABERGAVENNY] The King Is pleas'd you shall to th' Tower, till you know How he determines further. ABERGAVENNY. As the Duke said, The will of heaven be done, and the King's pleasure By me obey'd. BRANDON. Here is warrant from The King t' attach Lord Montacute and the bodies Of the Duke's confessor, John de la Car, One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor- BUCKINGHAM. So, so! These are the limbs o' th' plot; no more, I hope. BRANDON. A monk o' th' Chartreux. BUCKINGHAM. O, Nicholas Hopkins? BRANDON. He. BUCKINGHAM. My surveyor is false. The o'er-great Cardinal Hath show'd him gold; my life is spann'd already. I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on By dark'ning my clear sun. My lord, farewell. Exeunt ACT I. SCENE 2. London. The Council Chamber
Cornets. Enter KING HENRY, leaning on the CARDINAL'S shoulder, the NOBLES, and SIR THOMAS LOVELL, with others. The CARDINAL places himself under the KING'S feet on his right side
KING. My life itself, and the best heart of it, Thanks you for this great care; I stood i' th' level Of a full-charg'd confederacy, and give thanks To you that chok'd it. Let be call'd before us That gentleman of Buckingham's. In person I'll hear his confessions justify; And point by point the treasons of his master He shall again relate. A noise within, crying 'Room for the Queen!' Enter the QUEEN, usher'd by the DUKES OF NORFOLK and SUFFOLK; she kneels. The KING riseth from his state, takes her up, kisses and placeth her by him
QUEEN KATHARINE. Nay, we must longer kneel: I am suitor. KING. Arise, and take place by us. Half your suit Never name to us: you have half our power. The other moiety ere you ask is given; Repeat your will, and take it. QUEEN KATHARINE. Thank your Majesty. That you would love yourself, and in that love Not unconsidered leave your honour nor The dignity of your office, is the point Of my petition. KING. Lady mine, proceed. QUEEN KATHARINE. I am solicited, not by a few, And those of true condition, that your subjects Are in great grievance: there have been commissions Sent down among 'em which hath flaw'd the heart Of all their loyalties; wherein, although, My good Lord Cardinal, they vent reproaches Most bitterly on you as putter-on Of these exactions, yet the King our master- Whose honour Heaven shield from soil!-even he escapes not Language unmannerly; yea, such which breaks The sides of loyalty, and almost appears In loud rebellion. NORFOLK. Not almost appears- It doth appear; for, upon these taxations, The clothiers all, not able to maintain The many to them 'longing, have put of The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger And lack of other means, in desperate manner Daring th' event to th' teeth, are all in uproar, And danger serves among them. KING. Taxation! Wherein? and what taxation? My Lord Cardinal, You that are blam'd for it alike with us, Know you of this taxation? WOLSEY. Please you, sir, I know but of a single part in aught Pertains to th' state, and front but in that file Where others tell steps with me. QUEEN KATHARINE. No, my lord! You know no more than others! But you frame Things that are known alike, which are not wholesome To those which would not know them, and yet must Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions, Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are Most pestilent to th' hearing; and to bear 'em The back is sacrifice to th' load. They say They are devis'd by you, or else you suffer Too hard an exclamation. KING. Still exaction! The nature of it? In what kind, let's know, Is this exaction? QUEEN KATHARINE. I am much too venturous In tempting of your patience, but am bold'ned Under your promis'd pardon. The subjects' grief Comes through commissions, which compels from each The sixth part of his substance, to be levied Without delay; and the pretence for this Is nam'd your wars in France. This makes bold mouths; Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze Allegiance in them; their curses now Live where their prayers did; and it's come to pass This tractable obedience is a slave To each incensed will. I would your Highness Would give it quick consideration, for There is no primer business. KING. By my life, This is against our pleasure. WOLSEY. And for me, I have no further gone in this than by A single voice; and that not pass'd me but By learned approbation of the judges. If I am Traduc'd by ignorant tongues, which neither know My faculties nor person, yet will be The chronicles of my doing, let me say 'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake That virtue must go through. We must not stint Our necessary actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever As rav'nous fishes do a vessel follow That is new-trimm'd, but benefit no further Than vainly longing. What we oft do best, By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is Not ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up For our best act. If we shall stand still, In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at, We should take root here where we sit, or sit State-statues only. KING. Things done well And with a care exempt themselves from fear: Things done without example, in their issue Are to be fear'd. Have you a precedent Of this commission? I believe, not any. We must not rend our subjects from our laws, And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each? A trembling contribution! Why, we take From every tree lop, bark, and part o' th' timber; And though we leave it with a root, thus hack'd, The air will drink the sap. To every county Where this is question'd send our letters with Free pardon to each man that has denied The force of this commission. Pray, look tot; I put it to your care. WOLSEY. [Aside to the SECRETARY] A word with you. Let there be letters writ to every shire Of the King's grace and pardon. The grieved commons Hardly conceive of me-let it be nois'd That through our intercession this revokement And pardon comes. I shall anon advise you Further in the proceeding. Exit SECRETARY Enter SURVEYOR
QUEEN KATHARINE. I am sorry that the Duke of Buckingham Is run in your displeasure. KING. It grieves many. The gentleman is learn'd and a most rare speaker; To nature none more bound; his training such That he may furnish and instruct great teachers And never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see, When these so noble benefits shall prove Not well dispos'd, the mind growing once corrupt, They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly Than ever they were fair. This man so complete, Who was enroll'd 'mongst wonders, and when we, Almost with ravish'd list'ning, could not find His hour of speech a minute-he, my lady, Hath into monstrous habits put the graces That once were his, and is become as black As if besmear'd in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear- This was his gentleman in trust-of him Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount The fore-recited practices, whereof We cannot feel too little, hear too much. WOLSEY. Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what you, Most like a careful subject, have collected Out of the Duke of Buckingham. KING. Speak freely. SURVEYOR. First, it was usual with him-every day It would infect his speech-that if the King Should without issue die, he'll carry it so To make the sceptre his. These very words I've heard him utter to his son-in-law, Lord Aberga'ny, to whom by oath he menac'd Revenge upon the Cardinal. WOLSEY. Please your Highness, note This dangerous conception in this point: Not friended by his wish, to your high person His will is most malignant, and it stretches Beyond you to your friends. QUEEN KATHARINE. My learn'd Lord Cardinal, Deliver all with charity. KING. Speak on. How grounded he his title to the crown Upon our fail? To this point hast thou heard him At any time speak aught? SURVEYOR. He was brought to this By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Henton. KING. What was that Henton? SURVEYOR. Sir, a Chartreux friar, His confessor, who fed him every minute With words of sovereignty. KING. How know'st thou this? SURVEYOR. Not long before your Highness sped to France, The Duke being at the Rose, within the parish Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand What was the speech among the Londoners Concerning the French journey. I replied Men fear'd the French would prove perfidious, To the King's danger. Presently the Duke Said 'twas the fear indeed and that he doubted 'Twould prove the verity of certain words Spoke by a holy monk 'that oft' says he 'Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour To hear from him a matter of some moment; Whom after under the confession's seal He solemnly had sworn that what he spoke My chaplain to no creature living but To me should utter, with demure confidence This pausingly ensu'd: "Neither the King nor's heirs, Tell you the Duke, shall prosper; bid him strive To gain the love o' th' commonalty; the Duke Shall govern England."' QUEEN KATHARINE. If I know you well, You were the Duke's surveyor, and lost your office On the complaint o' th' tenants. Take good heed You charge not in your spleen a noble person And spoil your nobler soul. I say, take heed; Yes, heartily beseech you. KING. Let him on. Go forward. SURVEYOR. On my soul, I'll speak but truth. I told my lord the Duke, by th' devil's illusions The monk might be deceiv'd, and that 'twas dangerous for him To ruminate on this so far, until It forg'd him some design, which, being believ'd, It was much like to do. He answer'd 'Tush, It can do me no damage'; adding further That, had the King in his last sickness fail'd, The Cardinal's and Sir Thomas Lovell's heads Should have gone off. KING. Ha! what, so rank? Ah ha! There's mischief in this man. Canst thou say further? SURVEYOR. I can, my liege. KING. Proceed. SURVEYOR. Being at Greenwich, After your Highness had reprov'd the Duke About Sir William Bulmer- KING. I remember Of such a time: being my sworn servant, The Duke retain'd him his. But on: what hence? SURVEYOR. 'If' quoth he 'I for this had been committed- As to the Tower I thought-I would have play'd The part my father meant to act upon Th' usurper Richard; who, being at Salisbury, Made suit to come in's presence, which if granted, As he made semblance of his duty, would Have put his knife into him.' KING. A giant traitor! WOLSEY. Now, madam, may his Highness live in freedom, And this man out of prison? QUEEN KATHARINE. God mend all! KING. There's something more would out of thee: what say'st? SURVEYOR. After 'the Duke his father' with the 'knife,' He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger, Another spread on's breast, mounting his eyes, He did discharge a horrible oath, whose tenour Was, were he evil us'd, he would outgo His father by as much as a performance Does an irresolute purpose. KING. There's his period, To sheath his knife in us. He is attach'd; Call him to present trial. If he may Find mercy in the law, 'tis his; if none, Let him not seek't of us. By day and night! He's traitor to th' height. Exeunt ACT I. SCENE 3. London. The palace
Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN and LORD SANDYS
CHAMBERLAIN. Is't possible the spells of France should juggle Men into such strange mysteries? SANDYS. New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous, Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd. CHAMBERLAIN. As far as I see, all the good our English Have got by the late voyage is but merely A fit or two o' th' face; but they are shrewd ones; For when they hold 'em, you would swear directly Their very noses had been counsellors To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so. SANDYS. They have all new legs, and lame ones. One would take it, That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin Or springhalt reign'd among 'em. CHAMBERLAIN. Death! my lord, Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to't, That sure th' have worn out Christendom. Enter SIR THOMAS LOVELL
How now?
What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?
LOVELL. Faith, my lord, I hear of none but the new proclamation That's clapp'd upon the court gate. CHAMBERLAIN. What is't for? LOVELL. The reformation of our travell'd gallants, That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. CHAMBERLAIN. I am glad 'tis there. Now I would pray our monsieurs To think an English courtier may be wise, And never see the Louvre. LOVELL. They must either, For so run the conditions, leave those remnants Of fool and feather that they got in France, With all their honourable points of ignorance Pertaining thereunto-as fights and fireworks; Abusing better men than they can be, Out of a foreign wisdom-renouncing clean The faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings, Short blist'red breeches, and those types of travel And understand again like honest men, Or pack to their old playfellows. There, I take it, They may, cum privilegio, wear away The lag end of their lewdness and be laugh'd at. SANDYS. 'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases Are grown so catching. CHAMBERLAIN. What a loss our ladies Will have of these trim vanities! LOVELL. Ay, marry, There will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies. A French song and a fiddle has no fellow. SANDYS. The devil fiddle 'em! I am glad they are going, For sure there's no converting 'em. Now An honest country lord, as I am, beaten A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong And have an hour of hearing; and, by'r Lady, Held current music too. CHAMBERLAIN. Well said, Lord Sandys; Your colt's tooth is not cast yet. SANDYS. No, my lord, Nor shall not while I have a stamp. CHAMBERLAIN. Sir Thomas, Whither were you a-going? LOVELL. To the Cardinal's; Your lordship is a guest too. CHAMBERLAIN. O, 'tis true; This night he makes a supper, and a great one, To many lords and ladies; there will be The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you. LOVELL. That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed, A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dews fall everywhere. CHAMBERLAIN. No doubt he's noble; He had a black mouth that said other of him. SANDYS. He may, my lord; has wherewithal. In him Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine: Men of his way should be most liberal, They are set here for examples. CHAMBERLAIN. True, they are so; But few now give so great ones. My barge stays; Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas, We shall be late else; which I would not be, For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford, This night to be comptrollers. SANDYS. I am your lordship's. Exeunt ACT I. SCENE 4. London. The Presence Chamber in York Place
Hautboys. A small table under a state for the Cardinal, a longer table for the guests. Then enter ANNE BULLEN, and divers other LADIES and GENTLEMEN, as guests, at one door; at another door enter SIR HENRY GUILDFORD
GUILDFORD. Ladies, a general welcome from his Grace Salutes ye all; this night he dedicates To fair content and you. None here, he hopes, In all this noble bevy, has brought with her One care abroad; he would have all as merry As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome, Can make good people. Enter LORD CHAMBERLAIN, LORD SANDYS, and SIR THOMAS LOVELL O, my lord, y'are tardy, The very thought of this fair company Clapp'd wings to me. CHAMBERLAIN. You are young, Sir Harry Guildford. SANDYS. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the Cardinal But half my lay thoughts in him, some of these Should find a running banquet ere they rested I think would better please 'em. By my life, They are a sweet society of fair ones. LOVELL. O that your lordship were but now confessor To one or two of these! SANDYS. I would I were; They should find easy penance. LOVELL. Faith, how easy? SANDYS. As easy as a down bed would afford it. CHAMBERLAIN. Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry, Place you that side; I'll take the charge of this. His Grace is ent'ring. Nay, you must not freeze: Two women plac'd together makes cold weather. My Lord Sandys, you are one will keep 'em waking: Pray sit between these ladies. SANDYS. By my faith, And thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet ladies. [Seats himself between ANNE BULLEN and another lady] If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father. ANNE. Was he mad, sir? SANDYS. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too. But he would bite none; just as I do now, He would kiss you twenty with a breath. [Kisses her] CHAMBERLAIN. Well said, my lord. So, now y'are fairly seated. Gentlemen, The penance lies on you if these fair ladies Pass away frowning. SANDYS. For my little cure, Let me alone. Hautboys. Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, attended; and takes his state WOLSEY. Y'are welcome, my fair guests. That noble lady Or gentleman that is not freely merry Is not my friend. This, to confirm my welcome- And to you all, good health! [Drinks] SANDYS. Your Grace is noble. Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks And save me so much talking. WOLSEY. My Lord Sandys, I am beholding to you. Cheer your neighbours. Ladies, you are not merry. Gentlemen, Whose fault is this? SANDYS. The red wine first must rise In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have 'em Talk us to silence. ANNE. You are a merry gamester, My Lord Sandys. SANDYS. Yes, if I make my play. Here's to your ladyship; and pledge it, madam, For 'tis to such a thing- ANNE. You cannot show me. SANDYS. I told your Grace they would talk anon. [Drum and trumpet. Chambers discharg'd] WOLSEY. What's that? CHAMBERLAIN. Look out there, some of ye. Exit a SERVANT WOLSEY. What warlike voice, And to what end, is this? Nay, ladies, fear not: By all the laws of war y'are privileg'd. Re-enter SERVANT
CHAMBERLAIN. How now! what is't? SERVANT. A noble troop of strangers- For so they seem. Th' have left their barge and landed, And hither make, as great ambassadors From foreign princes. WOLSEY. Good Lord Chamberlain, Go, give 'em welcome; you can speak the French tongue; And pray receive 'em nobly and conduct 'em Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him. Exit CHAMBERLAIN attended. All rise, and tables remov'd You have now a broken banquet, but we'll mend it. A good digestion to you all; and once more I show'r a welcome on ye; welcome all. Hautboys. Enter the KING, and others, as maskers, habited like shepherds, usher'd by the LORD CHAMBERLAIN. They pass directly before the CARDINAL, and gracefully salute him A noble company! What are their pleasures? CHAMBERLAIN. Because they speak no English, thus they pray'd To tell your Grace, that, having heard by fame Of this so noble and so fair assembly This night to meet here, they could do no less, Out of the great respect they bear to beauty, But leave their flocks and, under your fair conduct, Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat An hour of revels with 'em. WOLSEY. Say, Lord Chamberlain, They have done my poor house grace; for which I pay 'em A thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their pleasures. [They choose ladies. The KING chooses ANNE BULLEN] KING. The fairest hand I ever touch'd! O beauty, Till now I never knew thee! [Music. Dance] WOLSEY. My lord! CHAMBERLAIN. Your Grace? WOLSEY. Pray tell 'em thus much from me: There should be one amongst 'em, by his person, More worthy this place than myself; to whom, If I but knew him, with my love and duty I would surrender it. CHAMBERLAIN. I will, my lord. [He whispers to the maskers] WOLSEY. What say they? CHAMBERLAIN. Such a one, they all confess, There is indeed; which they would have your Grace Find out, and he will take it. WOLSEY. Let me see, then. [Comes from his state] By all your good leaves, gentlemen, here I'll make My royal choice. KING. [Unmasking] Ye have found him, Cardinal. You hold a fair assembly; you do well, lord. You are a churchman, or, I'll tell you, Cardinal, I should judge now unhappily. WOLSEY. I am glad Your Grace is grown so pleasant. KING. My Lord Chamberlain, Prithee come hither: what fair lady's that? CHAMBERLAIN. An't please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullen's daughter- The Viscount Rochford-one of her Highness' women. KING. By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweet heart, I were unmannerly to take you out And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen! Let it go round. WOLSEY. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready I' th' privy chamber? LOVELL. Yes, my lord. WOLSEY. Your Grace, I fear, with dancing is a little heated. KING. I fear, too much. WOLSEY. There's fresher air, my lord, In the next chamber. KING. Lead in your ladies, ev'ry one. Sweet partner, I must not yet forsake you. Let's be merry: Good my Lord Cardinal, I have half a dozen healths To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure To lead 'em once again; and then let's dream Who's best in favour. Let the music knock it. Exeunt, with trumpets ACT II. SCENE 1. Westminster. A street
Enter two GENTLEMEN, at several doors
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Whither away so fast? SECOND GENTLEMAN. O, God save ye! Ev'n to the Hall, to hear what shall become Of the great Duke of Buckingham. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I'll save you That labour, sir. All's now done but the ceremony Of bringing back the prisoner. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Were you there? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, indeed, was I. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Pray, speak what has happen'd. FIRST GENTLEMAN. You may guess quickly what. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Is he found guilty? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, truly is he, and condemn'd upon't. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am sorry for't. FIRST GENTLEMAN. So are a number more. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But, pray, how pass'd it? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I'll tell you in a little. The great Duke. Came to the bar; where to his accusations He pleaded still not guilty, and alleged Many sharp reasons to defeat the law. The King's attorney, on the contrary, Urg'd on the examinations, proofs, confessions, Of divers witnesses; which the Duke desir'd To have brought, viva voce, to his face; At which appear'd against him his surveyor, Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor, and John Car, Confessor to him, with that devil-monk, Hopkins, that made this mischief. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That was he That fed him with his prophecies? FIRST GENTLEMAN. The same. All these accus'd him strongly, which he fain Would have flung from him; but indeed he could not; And so his peers, upon this evidence, Have found him guilty of high treason. Much He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all Was either pitied in him or forgotten. SECOND GENTLEMAN. After all this, how did he bear him-self FIRST GENTLEMAN. When he was brought again to th' bar to hear His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr'd With such an agony he sweat extremely, And something spoke in choler, ill and hasty; But he fell to himself again, and sweetly In all the rest show'd a most noble patience. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do not think he fears death. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sure, he does not; He never was so womanish; the cause He may a little grieve at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Certainly The Cardinal is the end of this. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis likely, By all conjectures: first, Kildare's attainder, Then deputy of Ireland, who remov'd, Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too, Lest he should help his father. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That trick of state Was a deep envious one. FIRST GENTLEMAN. At his return No doubt he will requite it. This is noted, And generally: whoever the King favours The Cardinal instantly will find employment, And far enough from court too. SECOND GENTLEMAN. All the commons Hate him perniciously, and, o' my conscience, Wish him ten fathom deep: this Duke as much They love and dote on; call him bounteous Buckingham, The mirror of all courtesy- Enter BUCKINGHAM from his arraignment, tip-staves before him; the axe with the edge towards him; halberds on each side; accompanied with SIR THOMAS LOVELL, SIR NICHOLAS VAUX, SIR WILLIAM SANDYS, and common people, etc. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Stay there, sir, And see the noble ruin'd man you speak of. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Let's stand close, and behold him. BUCKINGHAM. All good people, You that thus far have come to pity me, Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. I have this day receiv'd a traitor's judgment, And by that name must die; yet, heaven bear witness, And if I have a conscience, let it sink me Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful! The law I bear no malice for my death: 'T has done, upon the premises, but justice. But those that sought it I could wish more Christians. Be what they will, I heartily forgive 'em; Yet let 'em look they glory not in mischief Nor build their evils on the graves of great men, For then my guiltless blood must cry against 'em. For further life in this world I ne'er hope Nor will I sue, although the King have mercies More than I dare make faults. You few that lov'd me And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave Is only bitter to him, only dying, Go with me like good angels to my end; And as the long divorce of steel falls on me Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, a God's name. LOVELL. I do beseech your Grace, for charity, If ever any malice in your heart Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly. BUCKINGHAM. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you As I would be forgiven. I forgive all. There cannot be those numberless offences 'Gainst me that I cannot take peace with. No black envy Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his Grace; And if he speak of Buckingham, pray tell him You met him half in heaven. My vows and prayers Yet are the King's, and, till my soul forsake, Shall cry for blessings on him. May he live Longer than I have time to tell his years; Ever belov'd and loving may his rule be; And when old time Shall lead him to his end, Goodness and he fill up one monument! LOVELL. To th' water side I must conduct your Grace; Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux, Who undertakes you to your end. VAUX. Prepare there; The Duke is coming; see the barge be ready; And fit it with such furniture as suits The greatness of his person. BUCKINGHAM. Nay, Sir Nicholas, Let it alone; my state now will but mock me. When I came hither I was Lord High Constable And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Bohun. Yet I am richer than my base accusers That never knew what truth meant; I now seal it; And with that blood will make 'em one day groan fort. My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, Who first rais'd head against usurping Richard, Flying for succour to his servant Banister, Being distress'd, was by that wretch betray'd And without trial fell; God's peace be with him! Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying My father's loss, like a most royal prince, Restor'd me to my honours, and out of ruins Made my name once more noble. Now his son, Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name, and all That made me happy, at one stroke has taken For ever from the world. I had my trial, And must needs say a noble one; which makes me A little happier than my wretched father; Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both Fell by our servants, by those men we lov'd most- A most unnatural and faithless service. Heaven has an end in all. Yet, you that hear me, This from a dying man receive as certain: Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels, Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends And give your hearts to, when they once perceive The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye, never found again But where they mean to sink ye. All good people, Pray for me! I must now forsake ye; the last hour Of my long weary life is come upon me. Farewell; And when you would say something that is sad, Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me! Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and train FIRST GENTLEMAN. O, this is full of pity! Sir, it calls, I fear, too many curses on their heads That were the authors. SECOND GENTLEMAN. If the Duke be guiltless, 'Tis full of woe; yet I can give you inkling Of an ensuing evil, if it fall, Greater than this. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Good angels keep it from us! What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir? SECOND GENTLEMAN. This secret is so weighty, 'twill require A strong faith to conceal it. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Let me have it; I do not talk much. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am confident. You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear A buzzing of a separation Between the King and Katharine? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, but it held not; For when the King once heard it, out of anger He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight To stop the rumour and allay those tongues That durst disperse it. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But that slander, sir, Is found a truth now; for it grows again Fresher than e'er it was, and held for certain The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinal Or some about him near have, out of malice To the good Queen, possess'd him with a scruple That will undo her. To confirm this too, Cardinal Campeius is arriv'd and lately; As all think, for this business. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis the Cardinal; And merely to revenge him on the Emperor For not bestowing on him at his asking The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purpos'd. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I think you have hit the mark; but is't not cruel That she should feel the smart of this? The Cardinal Will have his will, and she must fall. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis woeful. We are too open here to argue this; Let's think in private more. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 2. London. The palace
Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN reading this letter
CHAMBERLAIN. 'My lord, 'The horses your lordship sent for, with all the care had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnish'd. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the north. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinal's, by commission, and main power, took 'em from me, with this reason: his master would be serv'd before a subject, if not before the King; which stopp'd our mouths, sir.' I fear he will indeed. Well, let him have them. He will have all, I think. Enter to the LORD CHAMBERLAIN the DUKES OF NORFOLK and SUFFOLK
NORFOLK. Well met, my Lord Chamberlain. CHAMBERLAIN. Good day to both your Graces. SUFFOLK. How is the King employ'd? CHAMBERLAIN. I left him private, Full of sad thoughts and troubles. NORFOLK. What's the cause? CHAMBERLAIN. It seems the marriage with his brother's wife Has crept too near his conscience. SUFFOLK. No, his conscience Has crept too near another lady. NORFOLK. 'Tis so; This is the Cardinal's doing; the King-Cardinal, That blind priest, like the eldest son of fortune, Turns what he list. The King will know him one day. SUFFOLK. Pray God he do! He'll never know himself else. NORFOLK. How holily he works in all his business! And with what zeal! For, now he has crack'd the league Between us and the Emperor, the Queen's great nephew, He dives into the King's soul and there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience, Fears, and despairs-and all these for his marriage; And out of all these to restore the King, He counsels a divorce, a loss of her That like a jewel has hung twenty years About his neck, yet never lost her lustre; Of her that loves him with that excellence That angels love good men with; even of her That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls, Will bless the King-and is not this course pious? CHAMBERLAIN. Heaven keep me from such counsel! 'Tis most true These news are everywhere; every tongue speaks 'em, And every true heart weeps for 't. All that dare Look into these affairs see this main end- The French King's sister. Heaven will one day open The King's eyes, that so long have slept upon This bold bad man. SUFFOLK. And free us from his slavery. NORFOLK. We had need pray, and heartily, for our deliverance; Or this imperious man will work us an From princes into pages. All men's honours Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion'd Into what pitch he please. SUFFOLK. For me, my lords, I love him not, nor fear him-there's my creed; As I am made without him, so I'll stand, If the King please; his curses and his blessings Touch me alike; th' are breath I not believe in. I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him To him that made him proud-the Pope. NORFOLK. Let's in; And with some other business put the King From these sad thoughts that work too much upon him. My lord, you'll bear us company? CHAMBERLAIN. Excuse me, The King has sent me otherwhere; besides, You'll find a most unfit time to disturb him. Health to your lordships! NORFOLK. Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain. Exit LORD CHAMBERLAIN; and the KING draws the curtain and sits reading pensively SUFFOLK. How sad he looks; sure, he is much afflicted. KING. Who's there, ha? NORFOLK. Pray God he be not angry. KING HENRY. Who's there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves Into my private meditations? Who am I, ha? NORFOLK. A gracious king that pardons all offences Malice ne'er meant. Our breach of duty this way Is business of estate, in which we come To know your royal pleasure. KING. Ye are too bold. Go to; I'll make ye know your times of business. Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha? Enter WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS with a commission
Who's there? My good Lord Cardinal? O my Wolsey,
The quiet of my wounded conscience,
Thou art a cure fit for a King. [To CAMPEIUS] You're
welcome,
Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom.
Use us and it. [To WOLSEY] My good lord, have great care
I be not found a talker.
WOLSEY. Sir, you cannot. I would your Grace would give us but an hour Of private conference. KING. [To NORFOLK and SUFFOLK] We are busy; go. NORFOLK. [Aside to SUFFOLK] This priest has no pride in him! SUFFOLK. [Aside to NORFOLK] Not to speak of! I would not be so sick though for his place. But this cannot continue. NORFOLK. [Aside to SUFFOLK] If it do, I'll venture one have-at-him. SUFFOLK. [Aside to NORFOLK] I another. Exeunt NORFOLK and SUFFOLK WOLSEY. Your Grace has given a precedent of wisdom Above all princes, in committing freely Your scruple to the voice of Christendom. Who can be angry now? What envy reach you? The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her, Must now confess, if they have any goodness, The trial just and noble. All the clerks, I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms Have their free voices. Rome the nurse of judgment, Invited by your noble self, hath sent One general tongue unto us, this good man, This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius, Whom once more I present unto your Highness. KING. And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome, And thank the holy conclave for their loves. They have sent me such a man I would have wish'd for. CAMPEIUS. Your Grace must needs deserve an strangers' loves, You are so noble. To your Highness' hand I tender my commission; by whose virtue- The court of Rome commanding-you, my Lord Cardinal of York, are join'd with me their servant In the unpartial judging of this business. KING. Two equal men. The Queen shall be acquainted Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner? WOLSEY. I know your Majesty has always lov'd her So dear in heart not to deny her that A woman of less place might ask by law- Scholars allow'd freely to argue for her. KING. Ay, and the best she shall have; and my favour To him that does best. God forbid else. Cardinal, Prithee call Gardiner to me, my new secretary; I find him a fit fellow. Exit WOLSEY Re-enter WOLSEY with GARDINER
WOLSEY. [Aside to GARDINER] Give me your hand: much joy and favour to you; You are the King's now. GARDINER. [Aside to WOLSEY] But to be commanded For ever by your Grace, whose hand has rais'd me. KING. Come hither, Gardiner. [Walks and whispers] CAMPEIUS. My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace In this man's place before him? WOLSEY. Yes, he was. CAMPEIUS. Was he not held a learned man? WOLSEY. Yes, surely. CAMPEIUS. Believe me, there's an ill opinion spread then, Even of yourself, Lord Cardinal. WOLSEY. How! Of me? CAMPEIUS. They will not stick to say you envied him And, fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous, Kept him a foreign man still; which so griev'd him That he ran mad and died. WOLSEY. Heav'n's peace be with him! That's Christian care enough. For living murmurers There's places of rebuke. He was a fool, For he would needs be virtuous: that good fellow, If I command him, follows my appointment. I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother, We live not to be grip'd by meaner persons. KING. Deliver this with modesty to th' Queen. Exit GARDINER The most convenient place that I can think of For such receipt of learning is Blackfriars; There ye shall meet about this weighty business- My Wolsey, see it furnish'd. O, my lord, Would it not grieve an able man to leave So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience! O, 'tis a tender place! and I must leave her. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 3. London. The palace
Enter ANNE BULLEN and an OLD LADY
ANNE. Not for that neither. Here's the pang that pinches: His Highness having liv'd so long with her, and she So good a lady that no tongue could ever Pronounce dishonour of her-by my life, She never knew harm-doing-O, now, after So many courses of the sun enthroned, Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than 'Tis sweet at first t' acquire-after this process, To give her the avaunt, it is a pity Would move a monster. OLD LADY. Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for her. ANNE. O, God's will! much better She ne'er had known pomp; though't be temporal, Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging As soul and body's severing. OLD LADY. Alas, poor lady! She's a stranger now again. ANNE. So much the more Must pity drop upon her. Verily, I swear 'tis better to be lowly born And range with humble livers in content Than to be perk'd up in a glist'ring grief And wear a golden sorrow. OLD LADY. Our content Is our best having. ANNE. By my troth and maidenhead, I would not be a queen. OLD LADY. Beshrew me, I would, And venture maidenhead for 't; and so would you, For all this spice of your hypocrisy. You that have so fair parts of woman on you Have too a woman's heart, which ever yet Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty; Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts, Saving your mincing, the capacity Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive If you might please to stretch it. ANNE. Nay, good troth. OLD LADY. Yes, troth and troth. You would not be a queen! ANNE. No, not for all the riches under heaven. OLD LADY. 'Tis strange: a threepence bow'd would hire me, Old as I am, to queen it. But, I pray you, What think you of a duchess? Have you limbs To bear that load of title? ANNE. No, in truth. OLD LADY. Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little; I would not be a young count in your way For more than blushing comes to. If your back Cannot vouchsafe this burden, 'tis too weak Ever to get a boy. ANNE. How you do talk! I swear again I would not be a queen For all the world. OLD LADY. In faith, for little England You'd venture an emballing. I myself Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long'd No more to th' crown but that. Lo, who comes here? Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN
CHAMBERLAIN. Good morrow, ladies. What were't worth to know The secret of your conference? ANNE. My good lord, Not your demand; it values not your asking. Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying. CHAMBERLAIN. It was a gentle business and becoming The action of good women; there is hope All will be well. ANNE. Now, I pray God, amen! CHAMBERLAIN. You bear a gentle mind, and heav'nly blessings Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady, Perceive I speak sincerely and high notes Ta'en of your many virtues, the King's Majesty Commends his good opinion of you to you, and Does purpose honour to you no less flowing Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which tide A thousand pound a year, annual support, Out of his grace he adds. ANNE. I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender; More than my all is nothing, nor my prayers Are not words duly hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship, Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience, As from a blushing handmaid, to his Highness; Whose health and royalty I pray for. CHAMBERLAIN. Lady, I shall not fail t' approve the fair conceit The King hath of you. [Aside] I have perus'd her well: Beauty and honour in her are so mingled That they have caught the King; and who knows yet But from this lady may proceed a gem To lighten all this isle?-I'll to the King And say I spoke with you. ANNE. My honour'd lord! Exit LORD CHAMBERLAIN OLD LADY. Why, this it is: see, see! I have been begging sixteen years in court- Am yet a courtier beggarly-nor could Come pat betwixt too early and too late For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate! A very fresh-fish here-fie, fie, fie upon This compell'd fortune!-have your mouth fill'd up Before you open it. ANNE. This is strange to me. OLD LADY. How tastes it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no. There was a lady once-'tis an old story- That would not be a queen, that would she not, For all the mud in Egypt. Have you heard it? ANNE. Come, you are pleasant. OLD LADY. With your theme I could O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke! A thousand pounds a year for pure respect! No other obligation! By my life, That promises moe thousands: honour's train Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time I know your back will bear a duchess. Say, Are you not stronger than you were? ANNE. Good lady, Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy, And leave me out on't. Would I had no being, If this salute my blood a jot; it faints me To think what follows. The Queen is comfortless, and we forgetful In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver What here y' have heard to her. OLD LADY. What do you think me? Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 4. London. A hall in Blackfriars
Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two VERGERS, with short silver wands; next them, two SCRIBES, in the habit of doctors; after them, the ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY alone; after him, the BISHOPS OF LINCOLN, ELY, ROCHESTER, and SAINT ASAPH; next them, with some small distance, follows a GENTLEMAN bearing the purse, with the great seal, and a Cardinal's hat; then two PRIESTS, bearing each silver cross; then a GENTLEMAN USHER bareheaded, accompanied with a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS bearing a silver mace; then two GENTLEMEN bearing two great silver pillars; after them, side by side, the two CARDINALS, WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS; two NOBLEMEN with the sword and mace. Then enter the KING and QUEEN and their trains. The KING takes place under the cloth of state; the two CARDINALS sit under him as judges. The QUEEN takes place some distance from the KING. The BISHOPS place themselves on each side of the court, in manner of consistory; below them the SCRIBES. The LORDS sit next the BISHOPS. The rest of the attendants stand in convenient order about the stage
WOLSEY. Whilst our commission from Rome is read, Let silence be commanded. KING. What's the need? It hath already publicly been read, And on all sides th' authority allow'd; You may then spare that time. WOLSEY. Be't so; proceed. SCRIBE. Say 'Henry King of England, come into the court.' CRIER. Henry King of England, &c. KING. Here. SCRIBE. Say 'Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.' CRIER. Katharine Queen of England, &c. The QUEEN makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court, comes to the KING, and kneels at his feet; then speaks QUEEN KATHARINE. Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, And to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman and a stranger, Born out of your dominions, having here No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, In what have I offended you? What cause Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure That thus you should proceed to put me of And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness, I have been to you a true and humble wife, At all times to your will conformable, Ever in fear to kindle your dislike, Yea, subject to your countenance-glad or sorry As I saw it inclin'd. When was the hour I ever contradicted your desire Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends Have I not strove to love, although I knew He were mine enemy? What friend of mine That had to him deriv'd your anger did Continue in my liking? Nay, gave notice He was from thence discharg'd? Sir, call to mind That I have been your wife in this obedience Upward of twenty years, and have been blest With many children by you. If, in the course And process of this time, you can report, And prove it too against mine honour, aught, My bond to wedlock or my love and duty, Against your sacred person, in God's name, Turn me away and let the foul'st contempt Shut door upon me, and so give me up To the sharp'st kind of justice. Please you, sir, The King, your father, was reputed for A prince most prudent, of an excellent And unmatch'd wit and judgment; Ferdinand, My father, King of Spain, was reckon'd one The wisest prince that there had reign'd by many A year before. It is not to be question'd That they had gather'd a wise council to them Of every realm, that did debate this business, Who deem'd our marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly Beseech you, sir, to spare me till I may Be by my friends in Spain advis'd, whose counsel I will implore. If not, i' th' name of God, Your pleasure be fulfill'd! WOLSEY. You have here, lady, And of your choice, these reverend fathers-men Of singular integrity and learning, Yea, the elect o' th' land, who are assembled To plead your cause. It shall be therefore bootless That longer you desire the court, as well For your own quiet as to rectify What is unsettled in the King. CAMPEIUS. His Grace Hath spoken well and justly; therefore, madam, It's fit this royal session do proceed And that, without delay, their arguments Be now produc'd and heard. QUEEN KATHARINE. Lord Cardinal, To you I speak. WOLSEY. Your pleasure, madam? QUEEN KATHARINE. Sir, I am about to weep; but, thinking that We are a queen, or long have dream'd so, certain The daughter of a king, my drops of tears I'll turn to sparks of fire. WOLSEY. Be patient yet. QUEEN KATHARINE. I Will, when you are humble; nay, before Or God will punish me. I do believe, Induc'd by potent circumstances, that You are mine enemy, and make my challenge You shall not be my judge; for it is you Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me- Which God's dew quench! Therefore I say again, I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul Refuse you for my judge, whom yet once more I hold my most malicious foe and think not At all a friend to truth. WOLSEY. I do profess You speak not like yourself, who ever yet Have stood to charity and display'd th' effects Of disposition gentle and of wisdom O'ertopping woman's pow'r. Madam, you do me wrong: I have no spleen against you, nor injustice For you or any; how far I have proceeded, Or how far further shall, is warranted By a commission from the Consistory, Yea, the whole Consistory of Rome. You charge me That I have blown this coal: I do deny it. The King is present; if it be known to him That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound, And worthily, my falsehood! Yea, as much As you have done my truth. If he know That I am free of your report, he knows I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him It lies to cure me, and the cure is to Remove these thoughts from you; the which before His Highness shall speak in, I do beseech You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking And to say so no more. QUEEN KATHARINE. My lord, my lord, I am a simple woman, much too weak T' oppose your cunning. Y'are meek and humble-mouth'd; You sign your place and calling, in full seeming, With meekness and humility; but your heart Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. You have, by fortune and his Highness' favours, Gone slightly o'er low steps, and now are mounted Where pow'rs are your retainers, and your words, Domestics to you, serve your will as't please Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you You tender more your person's honour than Your high profession spiritual; that again I do refuse you for my judge and here, Before you all, appeal unto the Pope, To bring my whole cause 'fore his Holiness And to be judg'd by him. [She curtsies to the KING, and offers to depart] CAMPEIUS. The Queen is obstinate, Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and Disdainful to be tried by't; 'tis not well. She's going away. KING. Call her again. CRIER. Katharine Queen of England, come into the court. GENTLEMAN USHER. Madam, you are call'd back. QUEEN KATHARINE. What need you note it? Pray you keep your way; When you are call'd, return. Now the Lord help! They vex me past my patience. Pray you pass on. I will not tarry; no, nor ever more Upon this business my appearance make In any of their courts. Exeunt QUEEN and her attendants KING. Go thy ways, Kate. That man i' th' world who shall report he has A better wife, let him in nought be trusted For speaking false in that. Thou art, alone- If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, Obeying in commanding, and thy parts Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out- The queen of earthly queens. She's noble born; And like her true nobility she has Carried herself towards me. WOLSEY. Most gracious sir, In humblest manner I require your Highness That it shall please you to declare in hearing Of all these ears-for where I am robb'd and bound, There must I be unloos'd, although not there At once and fully satisfied-whether ever I Did broach this business to your Highness, or Laid any scruple in your way which might Induce you to the question on't, or ever Have to you, but with thanks to God for such A royal lady, spake one the least word that might Be to the prejudice of her present state, Or touch of her good person? KING. My Lord Cardinal, I do excuse you; yea, upon mine honour, I free you from't. You are not to be taught That you have many enemies that know not Why they are so, but, like to village curs, Bark when their fellows do. By some of these The Queen is put in anger. Y'are excus'd. But will you be more justified? You ever Have wish'd the sleeping of this business; never desir'd It to be stirr'd; but oft have hind'red, oft, The passages made toward it. On my honour, I speak my good Lord Cardinal to this point, And thus far clear him. Now, what mov'd me to't, I will be bold with time and your attention. Then mark th' inducement. Thus it came-give heed to't: My conscience first receiv'd a tenderness, Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter'd By th' Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador, Who had been hither sent on the debating A marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleans and Our daughter Mary. I' th' progress of this business, Ere a determinate resolution, he- I mean the Bishop-did require a respite Wherein he might the King his lord advertise Whether our daughter were legitimate, Respecting this our marriage with the dowager, Sometimes our brother's wife. This respite shook The bosom of my conscience, enter'd me, Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble The region of my breast, which forc'd such way That many maz'd considerings did throng And press'd in with this caution. First, methought I stood not in the smile of heaven, who had Commanded nature that my lady's womb, If it conceiv'd a male child by me, should Do no more offices of life to't than The grave does to the dead; for her male issue Or died where they were made, or shortly after This world had air'd them. Hence I took a thought This was a judgment on me, that my kingdom, Well worthy the best heir o' th' world, should not Be gladded in't by me. Then follows that I weigh'd the danger which my realms stood in By this my issue's fail, and that gave to me Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer Toward this remedy, whereupon we are Now present here together; that's to say I meant to rectify my conscience, which I then did feel full sick, and yet not well, By all the reverend fathers of the land And doctors learn'd. First, I began in private With you, my Lord of Lincoln; you remember How under my oppression I did reek, When I first mov'd you. LINCOLN. Very well, my liege. KING. I have spoke long; be pleas'd yourself to say How far you satisfied me. LINCOLN. So please your Highness, The question did at first so stagger me- Bearing a state of mighty moment in't And consequence of dread-that I committed The daring'st counsel which I had to doubt, And did entreat your Highness to this course Which you are running here. KING. I then mov'd you, My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leave To make this present summons. Unsolicited I left no reverend person in this court, But by particular consent proceeded Under your hands and seals; therefore, go on, For no dislike i' th' world against the person Of the good Queen, but the sharp thorny points Of my alleged reasons, drives this forward. Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life And kingly dignity, we are contented To wear our moral state to come with her, Katharine our queen, before the primest creature That's paragon'd o' th' world. CAMPEIUS. So please your Highness, The Queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness That we adjourn this court till further day; Meanwhile must be an earnest motion Made to the Queen to call back her appeal She intends unto his Holiness. KING. [Aside] I may perceive These cardinals trifle with me. I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome. My learn'd and well-beloved servant, Cranmer, Prithee return. With thy approach I know My comfort comes along. -Break up the court; I say, set on. Exuent in manner as they entered ACT III. SCENE 1. London. The QUEEN'S apartments
Enter the QUEEN and her women, as at work
QUEEN KATHARINE. Take thy lute, wench. My soul grows sad with troubles; Sing and disperse 'em, if thou canst. Leave working. SONG
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing;
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung, as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep or hearing die.
Enter a GENTLEMAN
QUEEN KATHARINE. How now? GENTLEMAN. An't please your Grace, the two great Cardinals Wait in the presence. QUEEN KATHARINE. Would they speak with me? GENTLEMAN. They will'd me say so, madam. QUEEN KATHARINE. Pray their Graces To come near. [Exit GENTLEMAN] What can be their business With me, a poor weak woman, fall'n from favour? I do not like their coming. Now I think on't, They should be good men, their affairs as righteous; But all hoods make not monks. Enter the two CARDINALS, WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS
WOLSEY. Peace to your Highness! QUEEN KATHARINE. Your Graces find me here part of housewife; I would be all, against the worst may happen. What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords? WOLSEY. May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw Into your private chamber, we shall give you The full cause of our coming. QUEEN KATHARINE. Speak it here; There's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience, Deserves a corner. Would all other women Could speak this with as free a soul as I do! My lords, I care not-so much I am happy Above a number-if my actions Were tried by ev'ry tongue, ev'ry eye saw 'em, Envy and base opinion set against 'em, I know my life so even. If your business Seek me out, and that way I am wife in, Out with it boldly; truth loves open dealing. WOLSEY. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenis-sima- QUEEN KATHARINE. O, good my lord, no Latin! I am not such a truant since my coming, As not to know the language I have liv'd in; A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious; Pray speak in English. Here are some will thank you, If you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake: Believe me, she has had much wrong. Lord Cardinal, The willing'st sin I ever yet committed May be absolv'd in English. WOLSEY. Noble lady, I am sorry my integrity should breed, And service to his Majesty and you, So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant We come not by the way of accusation To taint that honour every good tongue blesses, Nor to betray you any way to sorrow- You have too much, good lady; but to know How you stand minded in the weighty difference Between the King and you, and to deliver, Like free and honest men, our just opinions And comforts to your cause. CAMPEIUS. Most honour'd madam, My Lord of York, out of his noble nature, Zeal and obedience he still bore your Grace, Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure Both of his truth and him-which was too far- Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace, His service and his counsel. QUEEN KATHARINE. [Aside] To betray me.- My lords, I thank you both for your good wins; Ye speak like honest men-pray God ye prove so! But how to make ye suddenly an answer, In such a point of weight, so near mine honour, More near my life, I fear, with my weak wit, And to such men of gravity and learning, In truth I know not. I was set at work Among my maids, full little, God knows, looking Either for such men or such business. For her sake that I have been-for I feel The last fit of my greatness-good your Graces, Let me have time and counsel for my cause. Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless! WOLSEY. Madam, you wrong the King's love with these fears; Your hopes and friends are infinite. QUEEN KATHARINE. In England But little for my profit; can you think, lords, That any Englishman dare give me counsel? Or be a known friend, 'gainst his Highness' pleasure- Though he be grown so desperate to be honest- And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends, They that must weigh out my afflictions, They that my trust must grow to, live not here; They are, as all my other comforts, far hence, In mine own country, lords. CAMPEIUS. I would your Grace Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel. QUEEN KATHARINE. How, sir? CAMPEIUS. Put your main cause into the King's protection; He's loving and most gracious. 'Twill be much Both for your honour better and your cause; For if the trial of the law o'ertake ye You'll part away disgrac'd. WOLSEY. He tells you rightly. QUEEN KATHARINE. Ye tell me what ye wish for both-my ruin. Is this your Christian counsel? Out upon ye! Heaven is above all yet: there sits a Judge That no king can corrupt. CAMPEIUS. Your rage mistakes us. QUEEN KATHARINE. The more shame for ye; holy men I thought ye, Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues; But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye. Mend 'em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort? The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady- A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd? I will not wish ye half my miseries: I have more charity; but say I warned ye. Take heed, for heaven's sake take heed, lest at once The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye. WOLSEY. Madam, this is a mere distraction; You turn the good we offer into envy. QUEEN KATHARINE. Ye turn me into nothing. Woe upon ye, And all such false professors! Would you have me- If you have any justice, any pity, If ye be any thing but churchmen's habits- Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me? Alas! has banish'd me his bed already, His love too long ago! I am old, my lords, And all the fellowship I hold now with him Is only my obedience. What can happen To me above this wretchedness? All your studies Make me a curse like this. CAMPEIUS. Your fears are worse. QUEEN KATHARINE. Have I liv'd thus long-let me speak myself, Since virtue finds no friends-a wife, a true one? A woman, I dare say without vain-glory, Never yet branded with suspicion? Have I with all my full affections Still met the King, lov'd him next heav'n, obey'd him, Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him, Almost forgot my prayers to content him, And am I thus rewarded? 'Tis not well, lords. Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience. WOLSEY. Madam, you wander from the good we aim at. QUEEN KATHARINE. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, To give up willingly that noble title Your master wed me to: nothing but death Shall e'er divorce my dignities. WOLSEY. Pray hear me. QUEEN KATHARINE. Would I had never trod this English earth, Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it! Ye have angels' faces, but heaven knows your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched lady? I am the most unhappy woman living. [To her WOMEN] Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, No friends, no hope; no kindred weep for me; Almost no grave allow'd me. Like the My, That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd, I'll hang my head and perish. WOLSEY. If your Grace Could but be brought to know our ends are honest, You'd feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady, Upon what cause, wrong you? Alas, our places, The way of our profession is against it; We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em. For goodness' sake, consider what you do; How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly Grow from the King's acquaintance, by this carriage. The hearts of princes kiss obedience, So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits They swell and grow as terrible as storms. I know you have a gentle, noble temper, A soul as even as a calm. Pray think us Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants. CAMPEIUS. Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong your virtues With these weak women's fears. A noble spirit, As yours was put into you, ever casts Such doubts as false coin from it. The King loves you; Beware you lose it not. For us, if you please To trust us in your business, we are ready To use our utmost studies in your service. QUEEN KATHARINE. Do what ye will my lords; and pray forgive me If I have us'd myself unmannerly; You know I am a woman, lacking wit To make a seemly answer to such persons. Pray do my service to his Majesty; He has my heart yet, and shall have my prayers While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, Bestow your counsels on me; she now begs That little thought, when she set footing here, She should have bought her dignities so dear. Exeunt ACT III.SCENE 2. London. The palace
Enter the DUKE OF NORFOLK, the DUKE OF SUFFOLK, the EARL OF SURREY, and the LORD CHAMBERLAIN
NORFOLK. If you will now unite in your complaints And force them with a constancy, the Cardinal Cannot stand under them: if you omit The offer of this time, I cannot promise But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces With these you bear already. SURREY. I am joyful To meet the least occasion that may give me Remembrance of my father-in-law, the Duke, To be reveng'd on him. SUFFOLK. Which of the peers Have uncontemn'd gone by him, or at least Strangely neglected? When did he regard The stamp of nobleness in any person Out of himself? CHAMBERLAIN. My lords, you speak your pleasures. What he deserves of you and me I know; What we can do to him-though now the time Gives way to us-I much fear. If you cannot Bar his access to th' King, never attempt Anything on him; for he hath a witchcraft Over the King in's tongue. NORFOLK. O, fear him not! His spell in that is out; the King hath found Matter against him that for ever mars The honey of his language. No, he's settled, Not to come off, in his displeasure. SURREY. Sir, I should be glad to hear such news as this Once every hour. NORFOLK. Believe it, this is true: In the divorce his contrary proceedings Are all unfolded; wherein he appears As I would wish mine enemy. SURREY. How came His practices to light? SUFFOLK. Most Strangely. SURREY. O, how, how? SUFFOLK. The Cardinal's letters to the Pope miscarried, And came to th' eye o' th' King; wherein was read How that the Cardinal did entreat his Holiness To stay the judgment o' th' divorce; for if It did take place, 'I do' quoth he 'perceive My king is tangled in affection to A creature of the Queen's, Lady Anne Bullen.' SURREY. Has the King this? SUFFOLK. Believe it. SURREY. Will this work? CHAMBERLAIN. The King in this perceives him how he coasts And hedges his own way. But in this point All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic After his patient's death: the King already Hath married the fair lady. SURREY. Would he had! SUFFOLK. May you be happy in your wish, my lord! For, I profess, you have it. SURREY. Now, all my joy Trace the conjunction! SUFFOLK. My amen to't! NORFOLK. An men's! SUFFOLK. There's order given for her coronation; Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords, She is a gallant creature, and complete In mind and feature. I persuade me from her Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall In it be memoriz'd. SURREY. But will the King Digest this letter of the Cardinal's? The Lord forbid! NORFOLK. Marry, amen! SUFFOLK. No, no; There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius Is stol'n away to Rome; hath ta'en no leave; Has left the cause o' th' King unhandled, and Is posted, as the agent of our Cardinal, To second all his plot. I do assure you The King cried 'Ha!' at this. CHAMBERLAIN. Now, God incense him, And let him cry 'Ha!' louder! NORFOLK. But, my lord, When returns Cranmer? SUFFOLK. He is return'd in his opinions; which Have satisfied the King for his divorce, Together with all famous colleges Almost in Christendom. Shortly, I believe, His second marriage shall be publish'd, and Her coronation. Katharine no more Shall be call'd queen, but princess dowager And widow to Prince Arthur. NORFOLK. This same Cranmer's A worthy fellow, and hath ta'en much pain In the King's business. SUFFOLK. He has; and we shall see him For it an archbishop. NORFOLK. So I hear. SUFFOLK. 'Tis so. Enter WOLSEY and CROMWELL
The Cardinal!
NORFOLK. Observe, observe, he's moody. WOLSEY. The packet, Cromwell, Gave't you the King? CROMWELL. To his own hand, in's bedchamber. WOLSEY. Look'd he o' th' inside of the paper? CROMWELL. Presently He did unseal them; and the first he view'd, He did it with a serious mind; a heed Was in his countenance. You he bade Attend him here this morning. WOLSEY. Is he ready To come abroad? CROMWELL. I think by this he is. WOLSEY. Leave me awhile. Exit CROMWELL [Aside] It shall be to the Duchess of Alencon, The French King's sister; he shall marry her. Anne Bullen! No, I'll no Anne Bullens for him; There's more in't than fair visage. Bullen! No, we'll no Bullens. Speedily I wish To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke! NORFOLK. He's discontented. SUFFOLK. May be he hears the King Does whet his anger to him. SURREY. Sharp enough, Lord, for thy justice! WOLSEY. [Aside] The late Queen's gentlewoman, a knight's daughter, To be her mistress' mistress! The Queen's queen! This candle burns not clear. 'Tis I must snuff it; Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous And well deserving? Yet I know her for A spleeny Lutheran; and not wholesome to Our cause that she should lie i' th' bosom of Our hard-rul'd King. Again, there is sprung up An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one Hath crawl'd into the favour of the King, And is his oracle. NORFOLK. He is vex'd at something. Enter the KING, reading of a schedule, and LOVELL
SURREY. I would 'twere something that would fret the string, The master-cord on's heart! SUFFOLK. The King, the King! KING. What piles of wealth hath he accumulated To his own portion! And what expense by th' hour Seems to flow from him! How, i' th' name of thrift, Does he rake this together?-Now, my lords, Saw you the Cardinal? NORFOLK. My lord, we have Stood here observing him. Some strange commotion Is in his brain: he bites his lip and starts, Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, Then lays his finger on his temple; straight Springs out into fast gait; then stops again, Strikes his breast hard; and anon he casts His eye against the moon. In most strange postures We have seen him set himself. KING. It may well be There is a mutiny in's mind. This morning Papers of state he sent me to peruse, As I requir'd; and wot you what I found There-on my conscience, put unwittingly? Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing The several parcels of his plate, his treasure, Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which I find at such proud rate that it outspeaks Possession of a subject. NORFOLK. It's heaven's will; Some spirit put this paper in the packet To bless your eye withal. KING. If we did think His contemplation were above the earth And fix'd on spiritual object, he should still dwell in his musings; but I am afraid His thinkings are below the moon, not worth His serious considering. [The KING takes his seat and whispers LOVELL, who goes to the CARDINAL] WOLSEY. Heaven forgive me! Ever God bless your Highness! KING. Good, my lord, You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory Of your best graces in your mind; the which You were now running o'er. You have scarce time To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span To keep your earthly audit; sure, in that I deem you an ill husband, and am glad To have you therein my companion. WOLSEY. Sir, For holy offices I have a time; a time To think upon the part of business which I bear i' th' state; and nature does require Her times of preservation, which perforce I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal, Must give my tendance to. KING. You have said well. WOLSEY. And ever may your Highness yoke together, As I will lend you cause, my doing well With my well saying! KING. 'Tis well said again; And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well; And yet words are no deeds. My father lov'd you: He said he did; and with his deed did crown His word upon you. Since I had my office I have kept you next my heart; have not alone Employ'd you where high profits might come home, But par'd my present havings to bestow My bounties upon you. WOLSEY. [Aside] What should this mean? SURREY. [Aside] The Lord increase this business! KING. Have I not made you The prime man of the state? I pray you tell me If what I now pronounce you have found true; And, if you may confess it, say withal If you are bound to us or no. What say you? WOLSEY. My sovereign, I confess your royal graces, Show'r'd on me daily, have been more than could My studied purposes requite; which went Beyond all man's endeavours. My endeavours, Have ever come too short of my desires, Yet fil'd with my abilities; mine own ends Have been mine so that evermore they pointed To th' good of your most sacred person and The profit of the state. For your great graces Heap'd upon me, poor undeserver, I Can nothing render but allegiant thanks; My pray'rs to heaven for you; my loyalty, Which ever has and ever shall be growing, Till death, that winter, kill it. KING. Fairly answer'd! A loyal and obedient subject is Therein illustrated; the honour of it Does pay the act of it, as, i' th' contrary, The foulness is the punishment. I presume That, as my hand has open'd bounty to you, My heart dropp'd love, my pow'r rain'd honour, more On you than any, so your hand and heart, Your brain, and every function of your power, Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty, As 'twere in love's particular, be more To me, your friend, than any. WOLSEY. I do profess That for your Highness' good I ever labour'd More than mine own; that am, have, and will be- Though all the world should crack their duty to you, And throw it from their soul; though perils did Abound as thick as thought could make 'em, and Appear in forms more horrid-yet my duty, As doth a rock against the chiding flood, Should the approach of this wild river break, And stand unshaken yours. KING. 'Tis nobly spoken. Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast, For you have seen him open 't. Read o'er this; [Giving him papers] And after, this; and then to breakfast with What appetite you have. Exit the KING, frowning upon the CARDINAL; the NOBLES throng after him, smiling and whispering WOLSEY. What should this mean? What sudden anger's this? How have I reap'd it? He parted frowning from me, as if ruin Leap'd from his eyes; so looks the chafed lion Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him- Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper; I fear, the story of his anger. 'Tis so; This paper has undone me. 'Tis th' account Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together For mine own ends; indeed to gain the popedom, And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence, Fit for a fool to fall by! What cross devil Made me put this main secret in the packet I sent the King? Is there no way to cure this? No new device to beat this from his brains? I know 'twill stir him strongly; yet I know A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune, Will bring me off again. What's this? 'To th' Pope.' The letter, as I live, with all the business I writ to's Holiness. Nay then, farewell! I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting. I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. Re-enter to WOLSEY the DUKES OF NORFOLK and SUFFOLK, the EARL OF SURREY, and the LORD CHAMBERLAIN NORFOLK. Hear the King's pleasure, Cardinal, who commands you To render up the great seal presently Into our hands, and to confine yourself To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester's, Till you hear further from his Highness. WOLSEY. Stay: Where's your commission, lords? Words cannot carry Authority so weighty. SUFFOLK. Who dares cross 'em, Bearing the King's will from his mouth expressly? WOLSEY. Till I find more than will or words to do it- I mean your malice-know, officious lords, I dare and must deny it. Now I feel Of what coarse metal ye are moulded-envy; How eagerly ye follow my disgraces, As if it fed ye; and how sleek and wanton Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin! Follow your envious courses, men of malice; You have Christian warrant for 'em, and no doubt In time will find their fit rewards. That seal You ask with such a violence, the King- Mine and your master-with his own hand gave me; Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, During my life; and, to confirm his goodness, Tied it by letters-patents. Now, who'll take it? SURREY. The King, that gave it. WOLSEY. It must be himself then. SURREY. Thou art a proud traitor, priest. WOLSEY. Proud lord, thou liest. Within these forty hours Surrey durst better Have burnt that tongue than said so. SURREY. Thy ambition, Thou scarlet sin, robb'd this bewailing land Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law. The heads of all thy brother cardinals, With thee and all thy best parts bound together, Weigh'd not a hair of his. Plague of your policy! You sent me deputy for Ireland; Far from his succour, from the King, from all That might have mercy on the fault thou gav'st him; Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, Absolv'd him with an axe. WOLSEY. This, and all else This talking lord can lay upon my credit, I answer is most false. The Duke by law Found his deserts; how innocent I was From any private malice in his end, His noble jury and foul cause can witness. If I lov'd many words, lord, I should tell you You have as little honesty as honour, That in the way of loyalty and truth Toward the King, my ever royal master, Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be And an that love his follies. SURREY. By my soul, Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst feel My sword i' the life-blood of thee else. My lords Can ye endure to hear this arrogance? And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely, To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, Farewell nobility! Let his Grace go forward And dare us with his cap like larks. WOLSEY. All goodness Is poison to thy stomach. SURREY. Yes, that goodness Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one, Into your own hands, Cardinal, by extortion; The goodness of your intercepted packets You writ to th' Pope against the King; your goodness, Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble, As you respect the common good, the state Of our despis'd nobility, our issues, Whom, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen- Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles Collected from his life. I'll startle you Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown wench Lay kissing in your arms, Lord Cardinal. WOLSEY. How much, methinks, I could despise this man, But that I am bound in charity against it! NORFOLK. Those articles, my lord, are in the King's hand; But, thus much, they are foul ones. WOLSEY. So much fairer And spotless shall mine innocence arise, When the King knows my truth. SURREY. This cannot save you. I thank my memory I yet remember Some of these articles; and out they shall. Now, if you can blush and cry guilty, Cardinal, You'll show a little honesty. WOLSEY. Speak on, sir; I dare your worst objections. If I blush, It is to see a nobleman want manners. SURREY. I had rather want those than my head. Have at you! First, that without the King's assent or knowledge You wrought to be a legate; by which power You maim'd the jurisdiction of all bishops. NORFOLK. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else To foreign princes, 'Ego et Rex meus' Was still inscrib'd; in which you brought the King To be your servant. SUFFOLK. Then, that without the knowledge Either of King or Council, when you went Ambassador to the Emperor, you made bold To carry into Flanders the great seal. SURREY. Item, you sent a large commission To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude, Without the King's will or the state's allowance, A league between his Highness and Ferrara. SUFFOLK. That out of mere ambition you have caus'd Your holy hat to be stamp'd on the King's coin. SURREY. Then, that you have sent innumerable substance, By what means got I leave to your own conscience, To furnish Rome and to prepare the ways You have for dignities, to the mere undoing Of all the kingdom. Many more there are, Which, since they are of you, and odious, I will not taint my mouth with. CHAMBERLAIN. O my lord, Press not a falling man too far! 'Tis virtue. His faults lie open to the laws; let them, Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him So little of his great self. SURREY. I forgive him. SUFFOLK. Lord Cardinal, the King's further pleasure is- Because all those things you have done of late, By your power legatine within this kingdom, Fall into th' compass of a praemunire- That therefore such a writ be sued against you: To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements, Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be Out of the King's protection. This is my charge. NORFOLK. And so we'll leave you to your meditations How to live better. For your stubborn answer About the giving back the great seal to us, The King shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you. So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal. Exeunt all but WOLSEY WOLSEY. So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye; I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. Enter CROMWELL, standing amazed
Why, how now, Cromwell!
CROMWELL. I have no power to speak, sir. WOLSEY. What, amaz'd At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep, I am fall'n indeed. CROMWELL. How does your Grace? WOLSEY. Why, well; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now, and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The King has cur'd me, I humbly thank his Grace; and from these shoulders, These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy-too much honour. O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven! CROMWELL. I am glad your Grace has made that right use of it. WOLSEY. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks, Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, To endure more miseries and greater far Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad? CROMWELL. The heaviest and the worst Is your displeasure with the King. WOLSEY. God bless him! CROMWELL. The next is that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place. WOLSEY. That's somewhat sudden. But he's a learned man. May he continue Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice For truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him! What more? CROMWELL. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome, Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. WOLSEY. That's news indeed. CROMWELL. Last, that the Lady Anne, Whom the King hath in secrecy long married, This day was view'd in open as his queen, Going to chapel; and the voice is now Only about her coronation. WOLSEY. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O Cromwell, The King has gone beyond me. All my glories In that one woman I have lost for ever. No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go get thee from me, Cromwell; I am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master. Seek the King; That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him What and how true thou art. He will advance thee; Some little memory of me will stir him- I know his noble nature-not to let Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, Neglect him not; make use now, and provide For thine own future safety. CROMWELL. O my lord, Must I then leave you? Must I needs forgo So good, so noble, and so true a master? Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. The King shall have my service; but my prayers For ever and for ever shall be yours. WOLSEY. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell, And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say I taught thee- Say Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in- A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall and that that ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels. How can man then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not; Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the King, and-prithee lead me in. There take an inventory of all I have To the last penny; 'tis the King's. My robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal I serv'd my King, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. CROMWELL. Good sir, have patience. WOLSEY. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do dwell. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 1. A street in Westminster
Enter two GENTLEMEN, meeting one another
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Y'are well met once again. SECOND GENTLEMAN. So are you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. You come to take your stand here, and behold The Lady Anne pass from her coronation? SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis all my business. At our last encounter The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis very true. But that time offer'd sorrow; This, general joy. SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis well. The citizens, I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds- As, let 'em have their rights, they are ever forward- In celebration of this day with shows, Pageants, and sights of honour. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Never greater, Nor, I'll assure you, better taken, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN. May I be bold to ask what that contains, That paper in your hand? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes; 'tis the list Of those that claim their offices this day, By custom of the coronation. The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims To be High Steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk, He to be Earl Marshal. You may read the rest. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thank you, sir; had I not known those customs, I should have been beholding to your paper. But, I beseech you, what's become of Katharine, The Princess Dowager? How goes her business? FIRST GENTLEMAN. That I can tell you too. The Archbishop Of Canterbury, accompanied with other Learned and reverend fathers of his order, Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles of From Ampthill, where the Princess lay; to which She was often cited by them, but appear'd not. And, to be short, for not appearance and The King's late scruple, by the main assent Of all these learned men, she was divorc'd, And the late marriage made of none effect; Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, Where she remains now sick. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Alas, good lady! [Trumpets] The trumpets sound. Stand close, the Queen is coming. [Hautboys] THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION. 1. A lively flourish of trumpets. 2. Then two JUDGES. 3. LORD CHANCELLOR, with purse and mace before him. 4. CHORISTERS singing. [Music] 5. MAYOR OF LONDON, bearing the mace. Then GARTER, in his coat of arms, and on his head he wore a gilt copper crown. 6. MARQUIS DORSET, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, the EARL OF SURREY, bearing the rod of silver with the dove, crowned with an earl's coronet. Collars of Esses. 7. DUKE OF SUFFOLK, in his robe of estate, his coronet on his head, bearing a long white wand, as High Steward. With him, the DUKE OF NORFOLK, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of Esses. 8. A canopy borne by four of the CINQUE-PORTS; under it the QUEEN in her robe; in her hair richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side her, the BISHOPS OF LONDON and WINCHESTER. 9. The old DUCHESS OF NORFOLK, in a coronal of gold wrought with flowers, bearing the QUEEN'S train. 10. Certain LADIES or COUNTESSES, with plain circlets of gold without flowers. Exeunt, first passing over the stage in order and state, and then a great flourish of trumpets SECOND GENTLEMAN. A royal train, believe me. These know. Who's that that bears the sceptre? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Marquis Dorset; And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod. SECOND GENTLEMAN. A bold brave gentleman. That should be The Duke of Suffolk? FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis the same-High Steward. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And that my Lord of Norfolk? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes. SECOND GENTLEMAN. [Looking on the QUEEN] Heaven bless thee! Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on. Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel; Our king has all the Indies in his arms, And more and richer, when he strains that lady; I cannot blame his conscience. FIRST GENTLEMAN. They that bear The cloth of honour over her are four barons Of the Cinque-ports. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Those men are happy; and so are all are near her. I take it she that carries up the train Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk. FIRST GENTLEMAN. It is; and all the rest are countesses. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed, And sometimes falling ones. FIRST GENTLEMAN. No more of that. Exit Procession, with a great flourish of trumpets Enter a third GENTLEMAN
God save you, sir! Where have you been broiling?
THIRD GENTLEMAN. Among the crowds i' th' Abbey, where a finger Could not be wedg'd in more; I am stifled With the mere rankness of their joy. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You saw The ceremony? THIRD GENTLEMAN. That I did. FIRST GENTLEMAN. How was it? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Well worth the seeing. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Good sir, speak it to us. THIRD GENTLEMAN. As well as I am able. The rich stream Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen To a prepar'd place in the choir, fell of A distance from her, while her Grace sat down To rest awhile, some half an hour or so, In a rich chair of state, opposing freely The beauty of her person to the people. Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman That ever lay by man; which when the people Had the full view of, such a noise arose As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, As loud, and to as many tunes; hats, cloaks- Doublets, I think-flew up, and had their faces Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy I never saw before. Great-bellied women, That had not half a week to go, like rams In the old time of war, would shake the press, And make 'em reel before 'em. No man living Could say 'This is my wife' there, all were woven So strangely in one piece. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what follow'd? THIRD GENTLEMAN. At length her Grace rose, and with modest paces Came to the altar, where she kneel'd, and saintlike Cast her fair eyes to heaven, and pray'd devoutly. Then rose again, and bow'd her to the people; When by the Archbishop of Canterbury She had all the royal makings of a queen: As holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown, The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems Laid nobly on her; which perform'd, the choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung 'Te Deum.' So she parted, And with the same full state pac'd back again To York Place, where the feast is held. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sir, You must no more call it York Place: that's past: For since the Cardinal fell that title's lost. 'Tis now the King's, and called Whitehall. THIRD GENTLEMAN. I know it; But 'tis so lately alter'd that the old name Is fresh about me. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What two reverend bishops Were those that went on each side of the Queen? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Stokesly and Gardiner: the one of Winchester, Newly preferr'd from the King's secretary; The other, London. SECOND GENTLEMAN. He of Winchester Is held no great good lover of the Archbishop's, The virtuous Cranmer. THIRD GENTLEMAN. All the land knows that; However, yet there is no great breach. When it comes, Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Who may that be, I pray you? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Thomas Cromwell, A man in much esteem with th' King, and truly A worthy friend. The King has made him Master O' th' jewel House, And one, already, of the Privy Council. SECOND GENTLEMAN. He will deserve more. THIRD GENTLEMAN. Yes, without all doubt. Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which Is to th' court, and there ye shall be my guests: Something I can command. As I walk thither, I'll tell ye more. BOTH. You may command us, sir. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 2. Kimbolton
Enter KATHARINE, Dowager, sick; led between GRIFFITH, her Gentleman Usher, and PATIENCE, her woman
GRIFFITH. How does your Grace? KATHARINE. O Griffith, sick to death! My legs like loaden branches bow to th' earth, Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair. So-now, methinks, I feel a little ease. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me, That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead? GRIFFITH. Yes, madam; but I think your Grace, Out of the pain you suffer'd, gave no ear to't. KATHARINE. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died. If well, he stepp'd before me, happily, For my example. GRIFFITH. Well, the voice goes, madam; For after the stout Earl Northumberland Arrested him at York and brought him forward, As a man sorely tainted, to his answer, He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill He could not sit his mule. KATHARINE. Alas, poor man! GRIFFITH. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, Lodg'd in the abbey; where the reverend abbot, With all his covent, honourably receiv'd him; To whom he gave these words: 'O father Abbot, An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye; Give him a little earth for charity!' So went to bed; where eagerly his sickness Pursu'd him still And three nights after this, About the hour of eight-which he himself Foretold should be his last-full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. KATHARINE. So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, And yet with charity. He was a man Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion, Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair play; His own opinion was his law. I' th' presence He would say untruths, and be ever double Both in his words and meaning. He was never, But where he meant to ruin, pitiful. His promises were, as he then was, mighty; But his performance, as he is now, nothing. Of his own body he was ill, and gave The clergy ill example. GRIFFITH. Noble madam, Men's evil manners live in brass: their virtues We write in water. May it please your Highness To hear me speak his good now? KATHARINE. Yes, good Griffith; I were malicious else. GRIFFITH. This Cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashion'd to much honour from his cradle. He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not, But to those men that sought him sweet as summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting- Which was a sin-yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely: ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he rais'd in you, Ipswich and Oxford! One of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him; For then, and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little. And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God. KATHARINE. After my death I wish no other herald, No other speaker of my living actions, To keep mine honour from corruption, But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, With thy religious truth and modesty, Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him! patience, be near me still, and set me lower: I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, Cause the musicians play me that sad note I nam'd my knell, whilst I sit meditating On that celestial harmony I go to. [Sad and solemn music] GRIFFITH. She is asleep. Good wench, let's sit down quiet, For fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience. THE VISION. Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six PERSONAGES clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces; branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head, at which the other four make reverent curtsies. Then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes, and holding the garland over her head; which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order; at which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven. And so in their dancing vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues
KATHARINE. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone? And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye? GRIFFITH. Madam, we are here. KATHARINE. It is not you I call for. Saw ye none enter since I slept? GRIFFITH. None, madam. KATHARINE. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun? They promis'd me eternal happiness, And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall, assuredly. GRIFFITH. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams Possess your fancy. KATHARINE. Bid the music leave, They are harsh and heavy to me. [Music ceases] PATIENCE. Do you note How much her Grace is alter'd on the sudden? How long her face is drawn! How pale she looks, And of an earthly cold! Mark her eyes. GRIFFITH. She is going, wench. Pray, pray. PATIENCE. Heaven comfort her! Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. An't like your Grace- KATHARINE. You are a saucy fellow. Deserve we no more reverence? GRIFFITH. You are to blame, Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness, To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel. MESSENGER. I humbly do entreat your Highness' pardon; My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying A gentleman, sent from the King, to see you. KATHARINE. Admit him entrance, Griffith; but this fellow Let me ne'er see again. Exit MESSENGER Enter LORD CAPUCIUS
If my sight fail not,
You should be Lord Ambassador from the Emperor,
My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.
CAPUCIUS. Madam, the same-your servant. KATHARINE. O, my Lord, The times and titles now are alter'd strangely With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you, What is your pleasure with me? CAPUCIUS. Noble lady, First, mine own service to your Grace; the next, The King's request that I would visit you, Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me Sends you his princely commendations And heartily entreats you take good comfort. KATHARINE. O my good lord, that comfort comes too late, 'Tis like a pardon after execution: That gentle physic, given in time, had cur'd me; But now I am past all comforts here, but prayers. How does his Highness? CAPUCIUS. Madam, in good health. KATHARINE. So may he ever do! and ever flourish When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name Banish'd the kingdom! Patience, is that letter I caus'd you write yet sent away? PATIENCE. No, madam. [Giving it to KATHARINE] KATHARINE. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver This to my lord the King. CAPUCIUS. Most willing, madam. KATHARINE. In which I have commended to his goodness The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter- The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!- Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding- She is young, and of a noble modest nature; I hope she will deserve well-and a little To love her for her mother's sake, that lov'd him, Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition Is that his noble Grace would have some pity Upon my wretched women that so long Have follow'd both my fortunes faithfully; Of which there is not one, I dare avow- And now I should not lie-but will deserve, For virtue and true beauty of the soul, For honesty and decent carriage, A right good husband, let him be a noble; And sure those men are happy that shall have 'em. The last is for my men-they are the poorest, But poverty could never draw 'em from me- That they may have their wages duly paid 'em, And something over to remember me by. If heaven had pleas'd to have given me longer life And able means, we had not parted thus. These are the whole contents; and, good my lord, By that you love the dearest in this world, As you wish Christian peace to souls departed, Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the King To do me this last right. CAPUCIUS. By heaven, I will, Or let me lose the fashion of a man! KATHARINE. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me In all humility unto his Highness; Say his long trouble now is passing Out of this world. Tell him in death I bless'd him, For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience, You must not leave me yet. I must to bed; Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench, Let me be us'd with honour; strew me over With maiden flowers, that all the world may know I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me, Then lay me forth; although unqueen'd, yet like A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. I can no more. Exeunt, leading KATHARINE ACT V. SCENE 1. London. A gallery in the palace
Enter GARDINER, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, a PAGE with a torch before him, met by SIR THOMAS LOVELL
GARDINER. It's one o'clock, boy, is't not? BOY. It hath struck. GARDINER. These should be hours for necessities, Not for delights; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not for us To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas! Whither so late? LOVELL. Came you from the King, my lord? GARDINER. I did, Sir Thomas, and left him at primero With the Duke of Suffolk. LOVELL. I must to him too, Before he go to bed. I'll take my leave. GARDINER. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What's the matter? It seems you are in haste. An if there be No great offence belongs to't, give your friend Some touch of your late business. Affairs that walk- As they say spirits do-at midnight, have In them a wilder nature than the business That seeks despatch by day. LOVELL. My lord, I love you; And durst commend a secret to your ear Much weightier than this work. The Queen's in labour, They say in great extremity, and fear'd She'll with the labour end. GARDINER. The fruit she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may find Good time, and live; but for the stock, Sir Thomas, I wish it grubb'd up now. LOVELL. Methinks I could Cry thee amen; and yet my conscience says She's a good creature, and, sweet lady, does Deserve our better wishes. GARDINER. But, sir, sir- Hear me, Sir Thomas. Y'are a gentleman Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious; And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well- 'Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take't of me- Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she, Sleep in their graves. LOVELL. Now, sir, you speak of two The most remark'd i' th' kingdom. As for Cromwell, Beside that of the Jewel House, is made Master O' th' Rolls, and the King's secretary; further, sir, Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments, With which the time will load him. Th' Archbishop Is the King's hand and tongue, and who dare speak One syllable against him? GARDINER. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that dare; and I myself have ventur'd To speak my mind of him; and indeed this day, Sir-I may tell it you-I think I have Incens'd the lords o' th' Council, that he is- For so I know he is, they know he is- A most arch heretic, a pestilence That does infect the land; with which they moved Have broken with the King, who hath so far Given ear to our complaint-of his great grace And princely care, foreseeing those fell mischiefs Our reasons laid before him-hath commanded To-morrow morning to the Council board He be convented. He's a rank weed, Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your affairs I hinder you too long-good night, Sir Thomas. LOVELL. Many good nights, my lord; I rest your servant. Exeunt GARDINER and PAGE Enter the KING and the DUKE OF SUFFOLK
KING. Charles, I will play no more to-night; My mind's not on't; you are too hard for me. SUFFOLK. Sir, I did never win of you before. KING. But little, Charles; Nor shall not, when my fancy's on my play. Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news? LOVELL. I could not personally deliver to her What you commanded me, but by her woman I sent your message; who return'd her thanks In the great'st humbleness, and desir'd your Highness Most heartily to pray for her. KING. What say'st thou, ha? To pray for her? What, is she crying out? LOVELL. So said her woman; and that her suff'rance made Almost each pang a death. KING. Alas, good lady! SUFFOLK. God safely quit her of her burden, and With gentle travail, to the gladding of Your Highness with an heir! KING. 'Tis midnight, Charles; Prithee to bed; and in thy pray'rs remember Th' estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone, For I must think of that which company Will not be friendly to. SUFFOLK. I wish your Highness A quiet night, and my good mistress will Remember in my prayers. KING. Charles, good night. Exit SUFFOLK Enter SIR ANTHONY DENNY
Well, sir, what follows?
DENNY. Sir, I have brought my lord the Archbishop, As you commanded me. KING. Ha! Canterbury? DENNY. Ay, my good lord. KING. 'Tis true. Where is he, Denny? DENNY. He attends your Highness' pleasure. KING. Bring him to us. Exit DENNY LOVELL. [Aside] This is about that which the bishop spake. I am happily come hither. Re-enter DENNY, With CRANMER
KING. Avoid the gallery. [LOVELL seems to stay] Ha! I have said. Be gone. What! Exeunt LOVELL and DENNY CRANMER. [Aside] I am fearful-wherefore frowns he thus? 'Tis his aspect of terror. All's not well. KING. How now, my lord? You do desire to know Wherefore I sent for you. CRANMER. [Kneeling] It is my duty T'attend your Highness' pleasure. KING. Pray you, arise, My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. Come, you and I must walk a turn together; I have news to tell you; come, come, me your hand. Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, And am right sorry to repeat what follows. I have, and most unwillingly, of late Heard many grievous-I do say, my lord, Grievous-complaints of you; which, being consider'd, Have mov'd us and our Council that you shall This morning come before us; where I know You cannot with such freedom purge yourself But that, till further trial in those charges Which will require your answer, you must take Your patience to you and be well contented To make your house our Tow'r. You a brother of us, It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness Would come against you. CRANMER. I humbly thank your Highness And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to be winnowed where my chaff And corn shall fly asunder; for I know There's none stands under more calumnious tongues Than I myself, poor man. KING. Stand up, good Canterbury; Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted In us, thy friend. Give me thy hand, stand up; Prithee let's walk. Now, by my holidame, What manner of man are you? My lord, I look'd You would have given me your petition that I should have ta'en some pains to bring together Yourself and your accusers, and to have heard you Without indurance further. CRANMER. Most dread liege, The good I stand on is my truth and honesty; If they shall fail, I with mine enemies Will triumph o'er my person; which I weigh not, Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing What can be said against me. KING. Know you not How your state stands i' th' world, with the whole world? Your enemies are many, and not small; their practices Must bear the same proportion; and not ever The justice and the truth o' th' question carries The due o' th' verdict with it; at what ease Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt To swear against you? Such things have been done. You are potently oppos'd, and with a malice Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, I mean in perjur'd witness, than your Master, Whose minister you are, whiles here He liv'd Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to; You take a precipice for no leap of danger, And woo your own destruction. CRANMER. God and your Majesty Protect mine innocence, or I fall into The trap is laid for me! KING. Be of good cheer; They shall no more prevail than we give way to. Keep comfort to you, and this morning see You do appear before them; if they shall chance, In charging you with matters, to commit you, The best persuasions to the contrary Fail not to use, and with what vehemency Th' occasion shall instruct you. If entreaties Will render you no remedy, this ring Deliver them, and your appeal to us There make before them. Look, the good man weeps! He's honest, on mine honour. God's blest Mother! I swear he is true-hearted, and a soul None better in my kingdom. Get you gone, And do as I have bid you. Exit CRANMER He has strangled his language in his tears. Enter OLD LADY
GENTLEMAN. [Within] Come back; what mean you? OLD LADY. I'll not come back; the tidings that I bring Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels Fly o'er thy royal head, and shade thy person Under their blessed wings! KING. Now, by thy looks I guess thy message. Is the Queen deliver'd? Say ay, and of a boy. OLD LADY. Ay, ay, my liege; And of a lovely boy. The God of Heaven Both now and ever bless her! 'Tis a girl, Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen Desires your visitation, and to be Acquainted with this stranger; 'tis as like you As cherry is to cherry. KING. Lovell! Enter LOVELL
LOVELL. Sir? KING. Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the Queen. Exit OLD LADY. An hundred marks? By this light, I'll ha' more! An ordinary groom is for such payment. I will have more, or scold it out of him. Said I for this the girl was like to him! I'll Have more, or else unsay't; and now, while 'tis hot, I'll put it to the issue. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 2. Lobby before the Council Chamber
Enter CRANMER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY
CRANMER. I hope I am not too late; and yet the gentleman That was sent to me from the Council pray'd me To make great haste. All fast? What means this? Ho! Who waits there? Sure you know me? Enter KEEPER
KEEPER. Yes, my lord; But yet I cannot help you. CRANMER. Why? KEEPER. Your Grace must wait till you be call'd for. Enter DOCTOR BUTTS
CRANMER. So. BUTTS. [Aside] This is a piece of malice. I am glad I came this way so happily; the King Shall understand it presently. Exit CRANMER. [Aside] 'Tis Butts, The King's physician; as he pass'd along, How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me! Pray heaven he sound not my disgrace! For certain, This is of purpose laid by some that hate me- God turn their hearts! I never sought their malice- To quench mine honour; they would shame to make me Wait else at door, a fellow councillor, 'Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures Must be fulfill'd, and I attend with patience. Enter the KING and BUTTS at window above
BUTTS. I'll show your Grace the strangest sight- KING. What's that, Butts? BUTTS. I think your Highness saw this many a day. KING. Body a me, where is it? BUTTS. There my lord: The high promotion of his Grace of Canterbury; Who holds his state at door, 'mongst pursuivants, Pages, and footboys. KING. Ha, 'tis he indeed. Is this the honour they do one another? 'Tis well there's one above 'em yet. I had thought They had parted so much honesty among 'em- At least good manners-as not thus to suffer A man of his place, and so near our favour, To dance attendance on their lordships' pleasures, And at the door too, like a post with packets. By holy Mary, Butts, there's knavery! Let 'em alone, and draw the curtain close; We shall hear more anon. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 3. The Council Chamber
A Council table brought in, with chairs and stools, and placed under the state. Enter LORD CHANCELLOR, places himself at the upper end of the table on the left band, a seat being left void above him, as for Canterbury's seat. DUKE OF SUFFOLK, DUKE OF NORFOLK, SURREY, LORD CHAMBERLAIN, GARDINER, seat themselves in order on each side; CROMWELL at lower end, as secretary. KEEPER at the door
CHANCELLOR. Speak to the business, master secretary; Why are we met in council? CROMWELL. Please your honours, The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury. GARDINER. Has he had knowledge of it? CROMWELL. Yes. NORFOLK. Who waits there? KEEPER. Without, my noble lords? GARDINER. Yes. KEEPER. My Lord Archbishop; And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures. CHANCELLOR. Let him come in. KEEPER. Your Grace may enter now. CRANMER approaches the Council table
CHANCELLOR. My good Lord Archbishop, I am very sorry To sit here at this present, and behold That chair stand empty; but we all are men, In our own natures frail and capable Of our flesh; few are angels; out of which frailty And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us, Have misdemean'd yourself, and not a little, Toward the King first, then his laws, in filling The whole realm by your teaching and your chaplains- For so we are inform'd-with new opinions, Divers and dangerous; which are heresies, And, not reform'd, may prove pernicious. GARDINER. Which reformation must be sudden too, My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle, But stop their mouth with stubborn bits and spur 'em Till they obey the manage. If we suffer, Out of our easiness and childish pity To one man's honour, this contagious sickness, Farewell all physic; and what follows then? Commotions, uproars, with a general taint Of the whole state; as of late days our neighbours, The upper Germany, can dearly witness, Yet freshly pitied in our memories. CRANMER. My good lords, hitherto in all the progress Both of my life and office, I have labour'd, And with no little study, that my teaching And the strong course of my authority Might go one way, and safely; and the end Was ever to do well. Nor is there living- I speak it with a single heart, my lords- A man that more detests, more stirs against, Both in his private conscience and his place, Defacers of a public peace than I do. Pray heaven the King may never find a heart With less allegiance in it! Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships That, in this case of justice, my accusers, Be what they will, may stand forth face to face And freely urge against me. SUFFOLK. Nay, my lord, That cannot be; you are a councillor, And by that virtue no man dare accuse you. GARDINER. My lord, because we have business of more moment, We will be short with you. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure And our consent, for better trial of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower; Where, being but a private man again, You shall know many dare accuse you boldly, More than, I fear, you are provided for. CRANMER. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you; You are always my good friend; if your will pass, I shall both find your lordship judge and juror, You are so merciful. I see your end- 'Tis my undoing. Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition; Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away. That I shall clear myself, Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, I make as little doubt as you do conscience In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, But reverence to your calling makes me modest. GARDINER. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary; That's the plain truth. Your painted gloss discovers, To men that understand you, words and weakness. CROMWELL. My Lord of Winchester, y'are a little, By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been; 'tis a cruelty To load a falling man. GARDINER. Good Master Secretary, I cry your honour mercy; you may, worst Of all this table, say so. CROMWELL. Why, my lord? GARDINER. Do not I know you for a favourer Of this new sect? Ye are not sound. CROMWELL. Not sound? GARDINER. Not sound, I say. CROMWELL. Would you were half so honest! Men's prayers then would seek you, not their fears. GARDINER. I shall remember this bold language. CROMWELL. Do. Remember your bold life too. CHANCELLOR. This is too much; Forbear, for shame, my lords. GARDINER. I have done. CROMWELL. And I. CHANCELLOR. Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed, I take it, by all voices, that forthwith You be convey'd to th' Tower a prisoner; There to remain till the King's further pleasure Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords? ALL. We are. CRANMER. Is there no other way of mercy, But I must needs to th' Tower, my lords? GARDINER. What other Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome. Let some o' th' guard be ready there. Enter the guard
CRANMER. For me? Must I go like a traitor thither? GARDINER. Receive him, And see him safe i' th' Tower. CRANMER. Stay, good my lords, I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords; By virtue of that ring I take my cause Out of the gripes of cruel men and give it To a most noble judge, the King my master. CHAMBERLAIN. This is the King's ring. SURREY. 'Tis no counterfeit. SUFFOLK. 'Tis the right ring, by heav'n. I told ye all, When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling, 'Twould fall upon ourselves. NORFOLK. Do you think, my lords, The King will suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex'd? CHAMBERLAIN. 'Tis now too certain; How much more is his life in value with him! Would I were fairly out on't! CROMWELL. My mind gave me, In seeking tales and informations Against this man-whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at- Ye blew the fire that burns ye. Now have at ye! Enter the KING frowning on them; he takes his seat
GARDINER. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince; Not only good and wise but most religious; One that in all obedience makes the church The chief aim of his honour and, to strengthen That holy duty, out of dear respect, His royal self in judgment comes to hear The cause betwixt her and this great offender. KING. You were ever good at sudden commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know I come not To hear such flattery now, and in my presence They are too thin and bare to hide offences. To me you cannot reach you play the spaniel, And think with wagging of your tongue to win me; But whatsoe'er thou tak'st me for, I'm sure Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody. [To CRANMER] Good man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest He that dares most but wag his finger at thee. By all that's holy, he had better starve Than but once think this place becomes thee not. SURREY. May it please your Grace- KING. No, sir, it does not please me. I had thought I had had men of some understanding And wisdom of my Council; but I find none. Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, This good man-few of you deserve that title- This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy At chamber door? and one as great as you are? Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye Power as he was a councillor to try him, Not as a groom. There's some of ye, I see, More out of malice than integrity, Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean; Which ye shall never have while I live. CHANCELLOR. Thus far, My most dread sovereign, may it like your Grace To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos'd concerning his imprisonment was rather- If there be faith in men-meant for his trial And fair purgation to the world, than malice, I'm sure, in me. KING. Well, well, my lords, respect him; Take him, and use him well, he's worthy of it. I will say thus much for him: if a prince May be beholding to a subject, Am for his love and service so to him. Make me no more ado, but all embrace him; Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of Canterbury, I have a suit which you must not deny me: That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism; You must be godfather, and answer for her. CRANMER. The greatest monarch now alive may glory In such an honour; how may I deserve it, That am a poor and humble subject to you? KING. Come, come, my lord, you'd spare your spoons. You shall have Two noble partners with you: the old Duchess of Norfolk And Lady Marquis Dorset. Will these please you? Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, Embrace and love this man. GARDINER. With a true heart And brother-love I do it. CRANMER. And let heaven Witness how dear I hold this confirmation. KING. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart. The common voice, I see, is verified Of thee, which says thus: 'Do my Lord of Canterbury A shrewd turn and he's your friend for ever.' Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long To have this young one made a Christian. As I have made ye one, lords, one remain; So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 4. The palace yard
Noise and tumult within. Enter PORTER and his MAN
PORTER. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you take the court for Paris garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping. [Within: Good master porter, I belong to th' larder.] PORTER. Belong to th' gallows, and be hang'd, ye rogue! Is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones; these are but switches to 'em. I'll scratch your heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals? MAN. Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible, Unless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons, To scatter 'em as 'tis to make 'em sleep On May-day morning; which will never be. We may as well push against Paul's as stir 'em. PORTER. How got they in, and be hang'd? MAN. Alas, I know not: how gets the tide in? As much as one sound cudgel of four foot- You see the poor remainder-could distribute, I made no spare, sir. PORTER. You did nothing, sir. MAN. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, To mow 'em down before me; but if I spar'd any That had a head to hit, either young or old, He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again; And that I would not for a cow, God save her! [ Within: Do you hear, master porter?] PORTER. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah. MAN. What would you have me do? PORTER. What should you do, but knock 'em down by th' dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand: here will be father, godfather, and all together. MAN. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in's nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance. That fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that rail'd upon me till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss'd the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out 'Clubs!' when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o' th' Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place. At length they came to th' broomstaff to me; I defied 'em still; when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot, deliver'd such a show'r of pebbles that I was fain to draw mine honour in and let 'em win the work: the devil was amongst 'em, I think surely. PORTER. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the tribulation of Tower-hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come. Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN
CHAMBERLAIN. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here! They grow still too; from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, These lazy knaves? Y'have made a fine hand, fellows. There's a trim rabble let in: are all these Your faithful friends o' th' suburbs? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, When they pass back from the christening. PORTER. An't please your honour, We are but men; and what so many may do, Not being torn a pieces, we have done. An army cannot rule 'em. CHAMBERLAIN. As I live, If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye an By th' heels, and suddenly; and on your heads Clap round fines for neglect. Y'are lazy knaves; And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound; Th' are come already from the christening. Go break among the press and find a way out To let the troops pass fairly, or I'll find A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months. PORTER. Make way there for the Princess. MAN. You great fellow, Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache. PORTER. You i' th' camlet, get up o' th' rail; I'll peck you o'er the pales else. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 5. The palace
Enter TRUMPETS, sounding; then two ALDERMEN, LORD MAYOR, GARTER, CRANMER, DUKE OF NORFOLK, with his marshal's staff, DUKE OF SUFFOLK, two Noblemen bearing great standing-bowls for the christening gifts; then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the DUCHESS OF NORFOLK, godmother, bearing the CHILD richly habited in a mantle, etc., train borne by a LADY; then follows the MARCHIONESS DORSET, the other godmother, and LADIES. The troop pass once about the stage, and GARTER speaks
GARTER. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long and ever-happy, to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth!
Flourish. Enter KING and guard
CRANMER. [Kneeling] And to your royal Grace and the good Queen! My noble partners and myself thus pray: All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady, Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy, May hourly fall upon ye! KING. Thank you, good Lord Archbishop. What is her name? CRANMER. Elizabeth. KING. Stand up, lord. [The KING kisses the child] With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee! Into whose hand I give thy life. CRANMER. Amen. KING. My noble gossips, y'have been too prodigal; I thank ye heartily. So shall this lady, When she has so much English. CRANMER. Let me speak, sir, For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter Let none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth. This royal infant-heaven still move about her!- Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand blessings, Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be- But few now living can behold that goodness- A pattern to all princes living with her, And all that shall succeed. Saba was never More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue Than this pure soul shall be. All princely graces That mould up such a mighty piece as this is, With all the virtues that attend the good, Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall nurse her, Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her; She shall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own shall bless her: Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, And hang their heads with sorrow. Good grows with her; In her days every man shall eat in safety Under his own vine what he plants, and sing The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours. God shall be truly known; and those about her From her shall read the perfect ways of honour, And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix Her ashes new create another heir As great in admiration as herself, So shall she leave her blessedness to one- When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness- Who from the sacred ashes of her honour Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, And so stand fix'd. Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, That were the servants to this chosen infant, Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him; Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, His honour and the greatness of his name Shall be, and make new nations; he shall flourish, And like a mountain cedar reach his branches To all the plains about him; our children's children Shall see this and bless heaven. KING. Thou speakest wonders. CRANMER. She shall be, to the happiness of England, An aged princess; many days shall see her, And yet no day without a deed to crown it. Would I had known no more! But she must die- She must, the saints must have her-yet a virgin; A most unspotted lily shall she pass To th' ground, and all the world shall mourn her. KING. O Lord Archbishop, Thou hast made me now a man; never before This happy child did I get anything. This oracle of comfort has so pleas'd me That when I am in heaven I shall desire To see what this child does, and praise my Maker. I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor, And you, good brethren, I am much beholding; I have receiv'd much honour by your presence, And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords; Ye must all see the Queen, and she must thank ye, She will be sick else. This day, no man think Has business at his house; for all shall stay. This little one shall make it holiday. Exeunt KING_HENRY_VIII|EPILOGUE THE EPILOGUE. 'Tis ten to one this play can never please All that are here. Some come to take their ease And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear, W'have frighted with our trumpets; so, 'tis clear, They'll say 'tis nought; others to hear the city Abus'd extremely, and to cry 'That's witty!' Which we have not done neither; that, I fear, All the expected good w'are like to hear For this play at this time is only in The merciful construction of good women; For such a one we show'd 'em. If they smile And say 'twill do, I know within a while All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap If they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap. KING JOHN DRAMATIS PERSONAE KING JOHN PRINCE HENRY, his son ARTHUR, DUKE OF BRITAINE, son of Geffrey, late Duke of Britaine, the elder brother of King John EARL OF PEMBROKE EARL OF ESSEX EARL OF SALISBURY LORD BIGOT HUBERT DE BURGH ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE, son to Sir Robert Faulconbridge PHILIP THE BASTARD, his half-brother JAMES GURNEY, servant to Lady Faulconbridge PETER OF POMFRET, a prophet KING PHILIP OF FRANCE LEWIS, the Dauphin LYMOGES, Duke of Austria CARDINAL PANDULPH, the Pope's legate MELUN, a French lord CHATILLON, ambassador from France to King John QUEEN ELINOR, widow of King Henry II and mother to King John CONSTANCE, Mother to Arthur BLANCH OF SPAIN, daughter to the King of Castile and niece to King John LADY FAULCONBRIDGE, widow of Sir Robert Faulconbridge Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Executioners, Messengers, Attendants SCENE: England and France ACT I. SCENE 1 KING JOHN's palace
Enter KING JOHN, QUEEN ELINOR, PEMBROKE, ESSEX, SALISBURY, and others, with CHATILLON
KING JOHN. Now, say, Chatillon, what would France with us? CHATILLON. Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France In my behaviour to the majesty, The borrowed majesty, of England here. ELINOR. A strange beginning- 'borrowed majesty'! KING JOHN. Silence, good mother; hear the embassy. CHATILLON. Philip of France, in right and true behalf Of thy deceased brother Geffrey's son, Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim To this fair island and the territories, To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, Desiring thee to lay aside the sword Which sways usurpingly these several titles, And put the same into young Arthur's hand, Thy nephew and right royal sovereign. KING JOHN. What follows if we disallow of this? CHATILLON. The proud control of fierce and bloody war, To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld. KING JOHN. Here have we war for war, and blood for blood, Controlment for controlment- so answer France. CHATILLON. Then take my king's defiance from my mouth- The farthest limit of my embassy. KING JOHN. Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace; Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France; For ere thou canst report I will be there, The thunder of my cannon shall be heard. So hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath And sullen presage of your own decay. An honourable conduct let him have- Pembroke, look to 't. Farewell, Chatillon. Exeunt CHATILLON and PEMBROKE ELINOR. What now, my son! Have I not ever said How that ambitious Constance would not cease Till she had kindled France and all the world Upon the right and party of her son? This might have been prevented and made whole With very easy arguments of love, Which now the manage of two kingdoms must With fearful bloody issue arbitrate. KING JOHN. Our strong possession and our right for us! ELINOR. Your strong possession much more than your right, Or else it must go wrong with you and me; So much my conscience whispers in your ear, Which none but heaven and you and I shall hear. Enter a SHERIFF
ESSEX. My liege, here is the strangest controversy Come from the country to be judg'd by you That e'er I heard. Shall I produce the men? KING JOHN. Let them approach. Exit SHERIFF Our abbeys and our priories shall pay This expedition's charge. Enter ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE and PHILIP, his bastard brother What men are you? BASTARD. Your faithful subject I, a gentleman Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son, As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge- A soldier by the honour-giving hand Of Coeur-de-lion knighted in the field. KING JOHN. What art thou? ROBERT. The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge. KING JOHN. Is that the elder, and art thou the heir? You came not of one mother then, it seems. BASTARD. Most certain of one mother, mighty king- That is well known- and, as I think, one father; But for the certain knowledge of that truth I put you o'er to heaven and to my mother. Of that I doubt, as all men's children may. ELINOR. Out on thee, rude man! Thou dost shame thy mother, And wound her honour with this diffidence. BASTARD. I, madam? No, I have no reason for it- That is my brother's plea, and none of mine; The which if he can prove, 'a pops me out At least from fair five hundred pound a year. Heaven guard my mother's honour and my land! KING JOHN. A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born, Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance? BASTARD. I know not why, except to get the land. But once he slander'd me with bastardy; But whe'er I be as true begot or no, That still I lay upon my mother's head; But that I am as well begot, my liege- Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!- Compare our faces and be judge yourself. If old Sir Robert did beget us both And were our father, and this son like him- O old Sir Robert, father, on my knee I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee! KING JOHN. Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here! ELINOR. He hath a trick of Coeur-de-lion's face; The accent of his tongue affecteth him. Do you not read some tokens of my son In the large composition of this man? KING JOHN. Mine eye hath well examined his parts And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak, What doth move you to claim your brother's land? BASTARD. Because he hath a half-face, like my father. With half that face would he have all my land: A half-fac'd groat five hundred pound a year! ROBERT. My gracious liege, when that my father liv'd, Your brother did employ my father much- BASTARD. Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land: Your tale must be how he employ'd my mother. ROBERT. And once dispatch'd him in an embassy To Germany, there with the Emperor To treat of high affairs touching that time. Th' advantage of his absence took the King, And in the meantime sojourn'd at my father's; Where how he did prevail I shame to speak- But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores Between my father and my mother lay, As I have heard my father speak himself, When this same lusty gentleman was got. Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath'd His lands to me, and took it on his death That this my mother's son was none of his; And if he were, he came into the world Full fourteen weeks before the course of time. Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine, My father's land, as was my father's will. KING JOHN. Sirrah, your brother is legitimate: Your father's wife did after wedlock bear him, And if she did play false, the fault was hers; Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother, Who, as you say, took pains to get this son, Had of your father claim'd this son for his? In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept This calf, bred from his cow, from all the world; In sooth, he might; then, if he were my brother's, My brother might not claim him; nor your father, Being none of his, refuse him. This concludes: My mother's son did get your father's heir; Your father's heir must have your father's land. ROBERT. Shall then my father's will be of no force To dispossess that child which is not his? BASTARD. Of no more force to dispossess me, sir, Than was his will to get me, as I think. ELINOR. Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge, And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land, Or the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion, Lord of thy presence and no land beside? BASTARD. Madam, an if my brother had my shape And I had his, Sir Robert's his, like him; And if my legs were two such riding-rods, My arms such eel-skins stuff'd, my face so thin That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose Lest men should say 'Look where three-farthings goes!' And, to his shape, were heir to all this land- Would I might never stir from off this place, I would give it every foot to have this face! I would not be Sir Nob in any case. ELINOR. I like thee well. Wilt thou forsake thy fortune, Bequeath thy land to him and follow me? I am a soldier and now bound to France. BASTARD. Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance. Your face hath got five hundred pound a year, Yet sell your face for fivepence and 'tis dear. Madam, I'll follow you unto the death. ELINOR. Nay, I would have you go before me thither. BASTARD. Our country manners give our betters way. KING JOHN. What is thy name? BASTARD. Philip, my liege, so is my name begun: Philip, good old Sir Robert's wife's eldest son. KING JOHN. From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bearest: Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great- Arise Sir Richard and Plantagenet. BASTARD. Brother by th' mother's side, give me your hand; My father gave me honour, yours gave land. Now blessed be the hour, by night or day, When I was got, Sir Robert was away! ELINOR. The very spirit of Plantagenet! I am thy grandam, Richard: call me so. BASTARD. Madam, by chance, but not by truth; what though? Something about, a little from the right, In at the window, or else o'er the hatch; Who dares not stir by day must walk by night; And have is have, however men do catch. Near or far off, well won is still well shot; And I am I, howe'er I was begot. KING JOHN. Go, Faulconbridge; now hast thou thy desire: A landless knight makes thee a landed squire. Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed For France, for France, for it is more than need. BASTARD. Brother, adieu. Good fortune come to thee! For thou wast got i' th' way of honesty. Exeunt all but the BASTARD A foot of honour better than I was; But many a many foot of land the worse. Well, now can I make any Joan a lady. 'Good den, Sir Richard!'-'God-a-mercy, fellow!' And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter; For new-made honour doth forget men's names: 'Tis too respective and too sociable For your conversion. Now your traveller, He and his toothpick at my worship's mess- And when my knightly stomach is suffic'd, Why then I suck my teeth and catechize My picked man of countries: 'My dear sir,' Thus leaning on mine elbow I begin 'I shall beseech you'-That is question now; And then comes answer like an Absey book: 'O sir,' says answer 'at your best command, At your employment, at your service, sir!' 'No, sir,' says question 'I, sweet sir, at yours.' And so, ere answer knows what question would, Saving in dialogue of compliment, And talking of the Alps and Apennines, The Pyrenean and the river Po- It draws toward supper in conclusion so. But this is worshipful society, And fits the mounting spirit like myself; For he is but a bastard to the time That doth not smack of observation- And so am I, whether I smack or no; And not alone in habit and device, Exterior form, outward accoutrement, But from the inward motion to deliver Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth; Which, though I will not practise to deceive, Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn; For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising. But who comes in such haste in riding-robes? What woman-post is this? Hath she no husband That will take pains to blow a horn before her? Enter LADY FAULCONBRIDGE, and JAMES GURNEY
O me, 'tis my mother! How now, good lady!
What brings you here to court so hastily?
LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Where is that slave, thy brother? Where is he That holds in chase mine honour up and down? BASTARD. My brother Robert, old Sir Robert's son? Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man? Is it Sir Robert's son that you seek so? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Sir Robert's son! Ay, thou unreverend boy, Sir Robert's son! Why scorn'st thou at Sir Robert? He is Sir Robert's son, and so art thou. BASTARD. James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile? GURNEY. Good leave, good Philip. BASTARD. Philip-Sparrow! James, There's toys abroad-anon I'll tell thee more. Exit GURNEY Madam, I was not old Sir Robert's son; Sir Robert might have eat his part in me Upon Good Friday, and ne'er broke his fast. Sir Robert could do: well-marry, to confess- Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it: We know his handiwork. Therefore, good mother, To whom am I beholding for these limbs? Sir Robert never holp to make this leg. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou conspired with thy brother too, That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour? What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave? BASTARD. Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like. What! I am dubb'd; I have it on my shoulder. But, mother, I am not Sir Robert's son: I have disclaim'd Sir Robert and my land; Legitimation, name, and all is gone. Then, good my mother, let me know my father- Some proper man, I hope. Who was it, mother? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge? BASTARD. As faithfully as I deny the devil. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. King Richard Coeur-de-lion was thy father. By long and vehement suit I was seduc'd To make room for him in my husband's bed. Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge! Thou art the issue of my dear offence, Which was so strongly urg'd past my defence. BASTARD. Now, by this light, were I to get again, Madam, I would not wish a better father. Some sins do bear their privilege on earth, And so doth yours: your fault was not your folly; Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose, Subjected tribute to commanding love, Against whose fury and unmatched force The aweless lion could not wage the fight Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand. He that perforce robs lions of their hearts May easily win a woman's. Ay, my mother, With all my heart I thank thee for my father! Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well When I was got, I'll send his soul to hell. Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin; And they shall say when Richard me begot, If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin. Who says it was, he lies; I say 'twas not. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 1 France. Before Angiers
Enter, on one side, AUSTRIA and forces; on the other, KING PHILIP OF FRANCE, LEWIS the Dauphin, CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and forces KING PHILIP. Before Angiers well met, brave Austria. Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, Richard, that robb'd the lion of his heart And fought the holy wars in Palestine, By this brave duke came early to his grave; And for amends to his posterity, At our importance hither is he come To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf; And to rebuke the usurpation Of thy unnatural uncle, English John. Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither. ARTHUR. God shall forgive you Coeur-de-lion's death The rather that you give his offspring life, Shadowing their right under your wings of war. I give you welcome with a powerless hand, But with a heart full of unstained love; Welcome before the gates of Angiers, Duke. KING PHILIP. A noble boy! Who would not do thee right? AUSTRIA. Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss As seal to this indenture of my love: That to my home I will no more return Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France, Together with that pale, that white-fac'd shore, Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides And coops from other lands her islanders- Even till that England, hedg'd in with the main, That water-walled bulwark, still secure And confident from foreign purposes- Even till that utmost corner of the west Salute thee for her king. Till then, fair boy, Will I not think of home, but follow arms. CONSTANCE. O, take his mother's thanks, a widow's thanks, Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength To make a more requital to your love! AUSTRIA. The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords In such a just and charitable war. KING PHILIP. Well then, to work! Our cannon shall be bent Against the brows of this resisting town; Call for our chiefest men of discipline, To cull the plots of best advantages. We'll lay before this town our royal bones, Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen's blood, But we will make it subject to this boy. CONSTANCE. Stay for an answer to your embassy, Lest unadvis'd you stain your swords with blood; My Lord Chatillon may from England bring That right in peace which here we urge in war, And then we shall repent each drop of blood That hot rash haste so indirectly shed. Enter CHATILLON
KING PHILIP. A wonder, lady! Lo, upon thy wish, Our messenger Chatillon is arriv'd. What England says, say briefly, gentle lord; We coldly pause for thee. Chatillon, speak. CHATILLON. Then turn your forces from this paltry siege And stir them up against a mightier task. England, impatient of your just demands, Hath put himself in arms. The adverse winds, Whose leisure I have stay'd, have given him time To land his legions all as soon as I; His marches are expedient to this town, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. With him along is come the mother-queen, An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife; With her the Lady Blanch of Spain; With them a bastard of the king's deceas'd; And all th' unsettled humours of the land- Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With ladies' faces and fierce dragons' spleens- Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make a hazard of new fortunes here. In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er Did never float upon the swelling tide To do offence and scathe in Christendom. [Drum beats] The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand; To parley or to fight, therefore prepare. KING PHILIP. How much unlook'd for is this expedition! AUSTRIA. By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endeavour for defence, For courage mounteth with occasion. Let them be welcome then; we are prepar'd. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, BLANCH, the BASTARD, PEMBROKE, and others KING JOHN. Peace be to France, if France in peace permit Our just and lineal entrance to our own! If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven, Whiles we, God's wrathful agent, do correct Their proud contempt that beats His peace to heaven! KING PHILIP. Peace be to England, if that war return From France to England, there to live in peace! England we love, and for that England's sake With burden of our armour here we sweat. This toil of ours should be a work of thine; But thou from loving England art so far That thou hast under-wrought his lawful king, Cut off the sequence of posterity, Outfaced infant state, and done a rape Upon the maiden virtue of the crown. Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face: These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his; This little abstract doth contain that large Which died in Geffrey, and the hand of time Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume. That Geffrey was thy elder brother born, And this his son; England was Geffrey's right, And this is Geffrey's. In the name of God, How comes it then that thou art call'd a king, When living blood doth in these temples beat Which owe the crown that thou o'er-masterest? KING JOHN. From whom hast thou this great commission, France, To draw my answer from thy articles? KING PHILIP. From that supernal judge that stirs good thoughts In any breast of strong authority To look into the blots and stains of right. That judge hath made me guardian to this boy, Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong, And by whose help I mean to chastise it. KING JOHN. Alack, thou dost usurp authority. KING PHILIP. Excuse it is to beat usurping down. ELINOR. Who is it thou dost call usurper, France? CONSTANCE. Let me make answer: thy usurping son. ELINOR. Out, insolent! Thy bastard shall be king, That thou mayst be a queen and check the world! CONSTANCE. My bed was ever to thy son as true As thine was to thy husband; and this boy Liker in feature to his father Geffrey Than thou and John in manners-being as Eke As rain to water, or devil to his dam. My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think His father never was so true begot; It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother. ELINOR. There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father. CONSTANCE. There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee. AUSTRIA. Peace! BASTARD. Hear the crier. AUSTRIA. What the devil art thou? BASTARD. One that will play the devil, sir, with you, An 'a may catch your hide and you alone. You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard; I'll smoke your skin-coat an I catch you right; Sirrah, look to 't; i' faith I will, i' faith. BLANCH. O, well did he become that lion's robe That did disrobe the lion of that robe! BASTARD. It lies as sightly on the back of him As great Alcides' shows upon an ass; But, ass, I'll take that burden from your back, Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack. AUSTRIA. What cracker is this same that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath? King Philip, determine what we shall do straight. KING PHILIP. Women and fools, break off your conference. King John, this is the very sum of all: England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, In right of Arthur, do I claim of thee; Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms? KING JOHN. My life as soon. I do defy thee, France. Arthur of Britaine, yield thee to my hand, And out of my dear love I'll give thee more Than e'er the coward hand of France can win. Submit thee, boy. ELINOR. Come to thy grandam, child. CONSTANCE. Do, child, go to it grandam, child; Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig. There's a good grandam! ARTHUR. Good my mother, peace! I would that I were low laid in my grave: I am not worth this coil that's made for me. ELINOR. His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps. CONSTANCE. Now shame upon you, whe'er she does or no! His grandam's wrongs, and not his mother's shames, Draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes, Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee; Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be brib'd To do him justice and revenge on you. ELINOR. Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth! CONSTANCE. Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth, Call not me slanderer! Thou and thine usurp The dominations, royalties, and rights, Of this oppressed boy; this is thy eldest son's son, Infortunate in nothing but in thee. Thy sins are visited in this poor child; The canon of the law is laid on him, Being but the second generation Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb. KING JOHN. Bedlam, have done. CONSTANCE. I have but this to say- That he is not only plagued for her sin, But God hath made her sin and her the plague On this removed issue, plagued for her And with her plague; her sin his injury, Her injury the beadle to her sin; All punish'd in the person of this child, And all for her-a plague upon her! ELINOR. Thou unadvised scold, I can produce A will that bars the title of thy son. CONSTANCE. Ay, who doubts that? A will, a wicked will; A woman's will; a cank'red grandam's will! KING PHILIP. Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate. It ill beseems this presence to cry aim To these ill-tuned repetitions. Some trumpet summon hither to the walls These men of Angiers; let us hear them speak Whose title they admit, Arthur's or John's. Trumpet sounds. Enter citizens upon the walls
CITIZEN. Who is it that hath warn'd us to the walls? KING PHILIP. 'Tis France, for England. KING JOHN. England for itself. You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects- KING PHILIP. You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's subjects, Our trumpet call'd you to this gentle parle- KING JOHN. For our advantage; therefore hear us first. These flags of France, that are advanced here Before the eye and prospect of your town, Have hither march'd to your endamagement; The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, And ready mounted are they to spit forth Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls; All preparation for a bloody siege And merciless proceeding by these French Confront your city's eyes, your winking gates; And but for our approach those sleeping stones That as a waist doth girdle you about By the compulsion of their ordinance By this time from their fixed beds of lime Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made For bloody power to rush upon your peace. But on the sight of us your lawful king, Who painfully with much expedient march Have brought a countercheck before your gates, To save unscratch'd your city's threat'ned cheeks- Behold, the French amaz'd vouchsafe a parle; And now, instead of bullets wrapp'd in fire, To make a shaking fever in your walls, They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke, To make a faithless error in your cars; Which trust accordingly, kind citizens, And let us in-your King, whose labour'd spirits, Forwearied in this action of swift speed, Craves harbourage within your city walls. KING PHILIP. When I have said, make answer to us both. Lo, in this right hand, whose protection Is most divinely vow'd upon the right Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet, Son to the elder brother of this man, And king o'er him and all that he enjoys; For this down-trodden equity we tread In warlike march these greens before your town, Being no further enemy to you Than the constraint of hospitable zeal In the relief of this oppressed child Religiously provokes. Be pleased then To pay that duty which you truly owe To him that owes it, namely, this young prince; And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear, Save in aspect, hath all offence seal'd up; Our cannons' malice vainly shall be spent Against th' invulnerable clouds of heaven; And with a blessed and unvex'd retire, With unhack'd swords and helmets all unbruis'd, We will bear home that lusty blood again Which here we came to spout against your town, And leave your children, wives, and you, in peace. But if you fondly pass our proffer'd offer, 'Tis not the roundure of your old-fac'd walls Can hide you from our messengers of war, Though all these English and their discipline Were harbour'd in their rude circumference. Then tell us, shall your city call us lord In that behalf which we have challeng'd it; Or shall we give the signal to our rage, And stalk in blood to our possession? CITIZEN. In brief: we are the King of England's subjects; For him, and in his right, we hold this town. KING JOHN. Acknowledge then the King, and let me in. CITIZEN. That can we not; but he that proves the King, To him will we prove loyal. Till that time Have we ramm'd up our gates against the world. KING JOHN. Doth not the crown of England prove the King? And if not that, I bring you witnesses: Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England's breed- BASTARD. Bastards and else. KING JOHN. To verify our title with their lives. KING PHILIP. As many and as well-born bloods as those- BASTARD. Some bastards too. KING PHILIP. Stand in his face to contradict his claim. CITIZEN. Till you compound whose right is worthiest, We for the worthiest hold the right from both. KING JOHN. Then God forgive the sin of all those souls That to their everlasting residence, Before the dew of evening fall shall fleet In dreadful trial of our kingdom's king! KING PHILIP. Amen, Amen! Mount, chevaliers; to arms! BASTARD. Saint George, that swing'd the dragon, and e'er since Sits on's horse back at mine hostess' door, Teach us some fence! [To AUSTRIA] Sirrah, were I at home, At your den, sirrah, with your lioness, I would set an ox-head to your lion's hide, And make a monster of you. AUSTRIA. Peace! no more. BASTARD. O, tremble, for you hear the lion roar! KING JOHN. Up higher to the plain, where we'll set forth In best appointment all our regiments. BASTARD. Speed then to take advantage of the field. KING PHILIP. It shall be so; and at the other hill Command the rest to stand. God and our right! Exeunt Here, after excursions, enter the HERALD OF FRANCE, with trumpets, to the gates FRENCH HERALD. You men of Angiers, open wide your gates And let young Arthur, Duke of Britaine, in, Who by the hand of France this day hath made Much work for tears in many an English mother, Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground; Many a widow's husband grovelling lies, Coldly embracing the discoloured earth; And victory with little loss doth play Upon the dancing banners of the French, Who are at hand, triumphantly displayed, To enter conquerors, and to proclaim Arthur of Britaine England's King and yours. Enter ENGLISH HERALD, with trumpet
ENGLISH HERALD. Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells: King John, your king and England's, doth approach, Commander of this hot malicious day. Their armours that march'd hence so silver-bright Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood. There stuck no plume in any English crest That is removed by a staff of France; Our colours do return in those same hands That did display them when we first march'd forth; And like a jolly troop of huntsmen come Our lusty English, all with purpled hands, Dy'd in the dying slaughter of their foes. Open your gates and give the victors way. CITIZEN. Heralds, from off our tow'rs we might behold From first to last the onset and retire Of both your armies, whose equality By our best eyes cannot be censured. Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer'd blows; Strength match'd with strength, and power confronted power; Both are alike, and both alike we like. One must prove greatest. While they weigh so even, We hold our town for neither, yet for both. Enter the two KINGS, with their powers, at several doors
KING JOHN. France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away? Say, shall the current of our right run on? Whose passage, vex'd with thy impediment, Shall leave his native channel and o'erswell With course disturb'd even thy confining shores, Unless thou let his silver water keep A peaceful progress to the ocean. KING PHILIP. England, thou hast not sav'd one drop of blood In this hot trial more than we of France; Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear, That sways the earth this climate overlooks, Before we will lay down our just-borne arms, We'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear, Or add a royal number to the dead, Gracing the scroll that tells of this war's loss With slaughter coupled to the name of kings. BASTARD. Ha, majesty! how high thy glory tow'rs When the rich blood of kings is set on fire! O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel; The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs; And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men, In undetermin'd differences of kings. Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus? Cry 'havoc!' kings; back to the stained field, You equal potents, fiery kindled spirits! Then let confusion of one part confirm The other's peace. Till then, blows, blood, and death! KING JOHN. Whose party do the townsmen yet admit? KING PHILIP. Speak, citizens, for England; who's your king? CITIZEN. The King of England, when we know the King. KING PHILIP. Know him in us that here hold up his right. KING JOHN. In us that are our own great deputy And bear possession of our person here, Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you. CITIZEN. A greater pow'r than we denies all this; And till it be undoubted, we do lock Our former scruple in our strong-barr'd gates; King'd of our fears, until our fears, resolv'd, Be by some certain king purg'd and depos'd. BASTARD. By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you, kings, And stand securely on their battlements As in a theatre, whence they gape and point At your industrious scenes and acts of death. Your royal presences be rul'd by me: Do like the mutines of Jerusalem, Be friends awhile, and both conjointly bend Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town. By east and west let France and England mount Their battering cannon, charged to the mouths, Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl'd down The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city. I'd play incessantly upon these jades, Even till unfenced desolation Leave them as naked as the vulgar air. That done, dissever your united strengths And part your mingled colours once again, Turn face to face and bloody point to point; Then in a moment Fortune shall cull forth Out of one side her happy minion, To whom in favour she shall give the day, And kiss him with a glorious victory. How like you this wild counsel, mighty states? Smacks it not something of the policy? KING JOHN. Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads, I like it well. France, shall we knit our pow'rs And lay this Angiers even with the ground; Then after fight who shall be king of it? BASTARD. An if thou hast the mettle of a king, Being wrong'd as we are by this peevish town, Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery, As we will ours, against these saucy walls; And when that we have dash'd them to the ground, Why then defy each other, and pell-mell Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell. KING PHILIP. Let it be so. Say, where will you assault? KING JOHN. We from the west will send destruction Into this city's bosom. AUSTRIA. I from the north. KING PHILIP. Our thunder from the south Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town. BASTARD. [Aside] O prudent discipline! From north to south, Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth. I'll stir them to it.-Come, away, away! CITIZEN. Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay, And I shall show you peace and fair-fac'd league; Win you this city without stroke or wound; Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds That here come sacrifices for the field. Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings. KING JOHN. Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear. CITIZEN. That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch, Is niece to England; look upon the years Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid. If lusty love should go in quest of beauty, Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch? If zealous love should go in search of virtue, Where should he find it purer than in Blanch? If love ambitious sought a match of birth, Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch? Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth, Is the young Dauphin every way complete- If not complete of, say he is not she; And she again wants nothing, to name want, If want it be not that she is not he. He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. O, two such silver currents, when they join, Do glorify the banks that bound them in; And two such shores to two such streams made one, Two such controlling bounds, shall you be, Kings, To these two princes, if you marry them. This union shall do more than battery can To our fast-closed gates; for at this match With swifter spleen than powder can enforce, The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope And give you entrance; but without this match, The sea enraged is not half so deaf, Lions more confident, mountains and rocks More free from motion-no, not Death himself In mortal fury half so peremptory As we to keep this city. BASTARD. Here's a stay That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death Out of his rags! Here's a large mouth, indeed, That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas; Talks as familiarly of roaring lions As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs! What cannoneer begot this lusty blood? He speaks plain cannon-fire, and smoke and bounce; He gives the bastinado with his tongue; Our ears are cudgell'd; not a word of his But buffets better than a fist of France. Zounds! I was never so bethump'd with words Since I first call'd my brother's father dad. ELINOR. Son, list to this conjunction, make this match; Give with our niece a dowry large enough; For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie Thy now unsur'd assurance to the crown That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit. I see a yielding in the looks of France; Mark how they whisper. Urge them while their souls Are capable of this ambition, Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse, Cool and congeal again to what it was. CITIZEN. Why answer not the double majesties This friendly treaty of our threat'ned town? KING PHILIP. Speak England first, that hath been forward first To speak unto this city: what say you? KING JOHN. If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son, Can in this book of beauty read 'I love,' Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen; For Anjou, and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers, And all that we upon this side the sea- Except this city now by us besieg'd- Find liable to our crown and dignity, Shall gild her bridal bed, and make her rich In titles, honours, and promotions, As she in beauty, education, blood, Holds hand with any princess of the world. KING PHILIP. What say'st thou, boy? Look in the lady's face. LEWIS. I do, my lord, and in her eye I find A wonder, or a wondrous miracle, The shadow of myself form'd in her eye; Which, being but the shadow of your son, Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow. I do protest I never lov'd myself Till now infixed I beheld myself Drawn in the flattering table of her eye. [Whispers with BLANCH] BASTARD. [Aside] Drawn in the flattering table of her eye, Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow, And quarter'd in her heart-he doth espy Himself love's traitor. This is pity now, That hang'd and drawn and quarter'd there should be In such a love so vile a lout as he. BLANCH. My uncle's will in this respect is mine. If he see aught in you that makes him like, That anything he sees which moves his liking I can with ease translate it to my will; Or if you will, to speak more properly, I will enforce it eas'ly to my love. Further I will not flatter you, my lord, That all I see in you is worthy love, Than this: that nothing do I see in you- Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge- That I can find should merit any hate. KING JOHN. What say these young ones? What say you, my niece? BLANCH. That she is bound in honour still to do What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say. KING JOHN. Speak then, Prince Dauphin; can you love this lady? LEWIS. Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love; For I do love her most unfeignedly. KING JOHN. Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine, Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces, With her to thee; and this addition more, Full thirty thousand marks of English coin. Philip of France, if thou be pleas'd withal, Command thy son and daughter to join hands. KING PHILIP. It likes us well; young princes, close your hands. AUSTRIA. And your lips too; for I am well assur'd That I did so when I was first assur'd. KING PHILIP. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates, Let in that amity which you have made; For at Saint Mary's chapel presently The rites of marriage shall be solemniz'd. Is not the Lady Constance in this troop? I know she is not; for this match made up Her presence would have interrupted much. Where is she and her son? Tell me, who knows. LEWIS. She is sad and passionate at your Highness' tent. KING PHILIP. And, by my faith, this league that we have made Will give her sadness very little cure. Brother of England, how may we content This widow lady? In her right we came; Which we, God knows, have turn'd another way, To our own vantage. KING JOHN. We will heal up all, For we'll create young Arthur Duke of Britaine, And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance; Some speedy messenger bid her repair To our solemnity. I trust we shall, If not fill up the measure of her will, Yet in some measure satisfy her so That we shall stop her exclamation. Go we as well as haste will suffer us To this unlook'd-for, unprepared pomp. Exeunt all but the BASTARD BASTARD. Mad world! mad kings! mad composition! John, to stop Arthur's tide in the whole, Hath willingly departed with a part; And France, whose armour conscience buckled on, Whom zeal and charity brought to the field As God's own soldier, rounded in the ear With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil, That broker that still breaks the pate of faith, That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, Who having no external thing to lose But the word 'maid,' cheats the poor maid of that; That smooth-fac'd gentleman, tickling commodity, Commodity, the bias of the world- The world, who of itself is peised well, Made to run even upon even ground, Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, This sway of motion, this commodity, Makes it take head from all indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course, intent- And this same bias, this commodity, This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, Clapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France, Hath drawn him from his own determin'd aid, From a resolv'd and honourable war, To a most base and vile-concluded peace. And why rail I on this commodity? But for because he hath not woo'd me yet; Not that I have the power to clutch my hand When his fair angels would salute my palm, But for my hand, as unattempted yet, Like a poor beggar raileth on the rich. Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. Since kings break faith upon commodity, Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee. Exit ACT III. SCENE 1. France. The FRENCH KING'S camp
Enter CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and SALISBURY
CONSTANCE. Gone to be married! Gone to swear a peace! False blood to false blood join'd! Gone to be friends! Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces? It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard; Be well advis'd, tell o'er thy tale again. It cannot be; thou dost but say 'tis so; I trust I may not trust thee, for thy word Is but the vain breath of a common man: Believe me I do not believe thee, man; I have a king's oath to the contrary. Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me, For I am sick and capable of fears, Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears; A widow, husbandless, subject to fears; A woman, naturally born to fears; And though thou now confess thou didst but jest, With my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce, But they will quake and tremble all this day. What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head? Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? What means that hand upon that breast of thine? Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds? Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words? Then speak again-not all thy former tale, But this one word, whether thy tale be true. SALISBURY. As true as I believe you think them false That give you cause to prove my saying true. CONSTANCE. O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow, Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die; And let belief and life encounter so As doth the fury of two desperate men Which in the very meeting fall and die! Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou? France friend with England; what becomes of me? Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight; This news hath made thee a most ugly man. SALISBURY. What other harm have I, good lady, done But spoke the harm that is by others done? CONSTANCE. Which harm within itself so heinous is As it makes harmful all that speak of it. ARTHUR. I do beseech you, madam, be content. CONSTANCE. If thou that bid'st me be content wert grim, Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb, Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, Patch'd with foul moles and eye-offending marks, I would not care, I then would be content; For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown. But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great: Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose; but Fortune, O! She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee; Sh' adulterates hourly with thine uncle John, And with her golden hand hath pluck'd on France To tread down fair respect of sovereignty, And made his majesty the bawd to theirs. France is a bawd to Fortune and King John- That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John! Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn? Envenom him with words, or get thee gone And leave those woes alone which I alone Am bound to under-bear. SALISBURY. Pardon me, madam, I may not go without you to the kings. CONSTANCE. Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee; I will instruct my sorrows to be proud, For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop. To me, and to the state of my great grief, Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up. [Seats herself on the ground] Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. Enter KING JOHN, KING PHILIP, LEWIS, BLANCH, ELINOR, the BASTARD, AUSTRIA, and attendants KING PHILIP. 'Tis true, fair daughter, and this blessed day Ever in France shall be kept festival. To solemnize this day the glorious sun Stays in his course and plays the alchemist, Turning with splendour of his precious eye The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold. The yearly course that brings this day about Shall never see it but a holiday. CONSTANCE. [Rising] A wicked day, and not a holy day! What hath this day deserv'd? what hath it done That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar? Nay, rather turn this day out of the week, This day of shame, oppression, perjury; Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child Pray that their burdens may not fall this day, Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross'd; But on this day let seamen fear no wreck; No bargains break that are not this day made; This day, all things begun come to ill end, Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change! KING PHILIP. By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause To curse the fair proceedings of this day. Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty? CONSTANCE. You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit Resembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried, Proves valueless; you are forsworn, forsworn; You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood, But now in arms you strengthen it with yours. The grappling vigour and rough frown of war Is cold in amity and painted peace, And our oppression hath made up this league. Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur'd kings! A widow cries: Be husband to me, heavens! Let not the hours of this ungodly day Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset, Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd kings! Hear me, O, hear me! AUSTRIA. Lady Constance, peace! CONSTANCE. War! war! no peace! Peace is to me a war. O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame That bloody spoil. Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune's champion that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! Thou art perjur'd too, And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou, A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side, Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength, And dost thou now fall over to my foes? Thou wear a lion's hide! Doff it for shame, And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. O that a man should speak those words to me! BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. Thou dar'st not say so, villain, for thy life. BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. KING JOHN. We like not this: thou dost forget thyself. Enter PANDULPH
KING PHILIP. Here comes the holy legate of the Pope. PANDULPH. Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven! To thee, King John, my holy errand is. I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal, And from Pope Innocent the legate here, Do in his name religiously demand Why thou against the Church, our holy mother, So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce Keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop Of Canterbury, from that holy see? This, in our foresaid holy father's name, Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee. KING JOHN. What earthly name to interrogatories Can task the free breath of a sacred king? Thou canst not, Cardinal, devise a name So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous, To charge me to an answer, as the Pope. Tell him this tale, and from the mouth of England Add thus much more, that no Italian priest Shall tithe or toll in our dominions; But as we under heaven are supreme head, So, under Him that great supremacy, Where we do reign we will alone uphold, Without th' assistance of a mortal hand. So tell the Pope, all reverence set apart To him and his usurp'd authority. KING PHILIP. Brother of England, you blaspheme in this. KING JOHN. Though you and all the kings of Christendom Are led so grossly by this meddling priest, Dreading the curse that money may buy out, And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust, Purchase corrupted pardon of a man, Who in that sale sells pardon from himself- Though you and all the rest, so grossly led, This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish; Yet I alone, alone do me oppose Against the Pope, and count his friends my foes. PANDULPH. Then by the lawful power that I have Thou shalt stand curs'd and excommunicate; And blessed shall he be that doth revolt From his allegiance to an heretic; And meritorious shall that hand be call'd, Canonized, and worshipp'd as a saint, That takes away by any secret course Thy hateful life. CONSTANCE. O, lawful let it be That I have room with Rome to curse awhile! Good father Cardinal, cry thou 'amen' To my keen curses; for without my wrong There is no tongue hath power to curse him right. PANDULPH. There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse. CONSTANCE. And for mine too; when law can do no right, Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong; Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, For he that holds his kingdom holds the law; Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, How can the law forbid my tongue to curse? PANDULPH. Philip of France, on peril of a curse, Let go the hand of that arch-heretic, And raise the power of France upon his head, Unless he do submit himself to Rome. ELINOR. Look'st thou pale, France? Do not let go thy hand. CONSTANCE. Look to that, devil, lest that France repent And by disjoining hands hell lose a soul. AUSTRIA. King Philip, listen to the Cardinal. BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on his recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, Because- BASTARD. Your breeches best may carry them. KING JOHN. Philip, what say'st thou to the Cardinal? CONSTANCE. What should he say, but as the Cardinal? LEWIS. Bethink you, father; for the difference Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome Or the light loss of England for a friend. Forgo the easier. BLANCH. That's the curse of Rome. CONSTANCE. O Lewis, stand fast! The devil tempts thee here In likeness of a new untrimmed bride. BLANCH. The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith, But from her need. CONSTANCE. O, if thou grant my need, Which only lives but by the death of faith, That need must needs infer this principle- That faith would live again by death of need. O then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up: Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down! KING JOHN. The King is mov'd, and answers not to this. CONSTANCE. O be remov'd from him, and answer well! AUSTRIA. Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt. BASTARD. Hang nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout. KING PHILIP. I am perplex'd and know not what to say. PANDULPH. What canst thou say but will perplex thee more, If thou stand excommunicate and curs'd? KING PHILIP. Good reverend father, make my person yours, And tell me how you would bestow yourself. This royal hand and mine are newly knit, And the conjunction of our inward souls Married in league, coupled and link'd together With all religious strength of sacred vows; The latest breath that gave the sound of words Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love, Between our kingdoms and our royal selves; And even before this truce, but new before, No longer than we well could wash our hands, To clap this royal bargain up of peace, Heaven knows, they were besmear'd and overstain'd With slaughter's pencil, where revenge did paint The fearful difference of incensed kings. And shall these hands, so lately purg'd of blood, So newly join'd in love, so strong in both, Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet? Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven, Make such unconstant children of ourselves, As now again to snatch our palm from palm, Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed Of smiling peace to march a bloody host, And make a riot on the gentle brow Of true sincerity? O, holy sir, My reverend father, let it not be so! Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose, Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest To do your pleasure, and continue friends. PANDULPH. All form is formless, order orderless, Save what is opposite to England's love. Therefore, to arms! be champion of our church, Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse- A mother's curse-on her revolting son. France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue, A chafed lion by the mortal paw, A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold. KING PHILIP. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith. PANDULPH. So mak'st thou faith an enemy to faith; And like. a civil war set'st oath to oath. Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform'd, That is, to be the champion of our Church. What since thou swor'st is sworn against thyself And may not be performed by thyself, For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss Is not amiss when it is truly done; And being not done, where doing tends to ill, The truth is then most done not doing it; The better act of purposes mistook Is to mistake again; though indirect, Yet indirection thereby grows direct, And falsehood cures, as fire cools fire Within the scorched veins of one new-burn'd. It is religion that doth make vows kept; But thou hast sworn against religion By what thou swear'st against the thing thou swear'st, And mak'st an oath the surety for thy truth Against an oath; the truth thou art unsure To swear swears only not to be forsworn; Else what a mockery should it be to swear! But thou dost swear only to be forsworn; And most forsworn to keep what thou dost swear. Therefore thy later vows against thy first Is in thyself rebellion to thyself; And better conquest never canst thou make Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts Against these giddy loose suggestions; Upon which better part our pray'rs come in, If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know The peril of our curses fight on thee So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off, But in despair die under the black weight. AUSTRIA. Rebellion, flat rebellion! BASTARD. Will't not be? Will not a calf's-skin stop that mouth of thine? LEWIS. Father, to arms! BLANCH. Upon thy wedding-day? Against the blood that thou hast married? What, shall our feast be kept with slaughtered men? Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums, Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp? O husband, hear me! ay, alack, how new Is 'husband' in my mouth! even for that name, Which till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce, Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms Against mine uncle. CONSTANCE. O, upon my knee, Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee, Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom Forethought by heaven! BLANCH. Now shall I see thy love. What motive may Be stronger with thee than the name of wife? CONSTANCE. That which upholdeth him that thee upholds, His honour. O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour! LEWIS. I muse your Majesty doth seem so cold, When such profound respects do pull you on. PANDULPH. I will denounce a curse upon his head. KING PHILIP. Thou shalt not need. England, I will fall from thee. CONSTANCE. O fair return of banish'd majesty! ELINOR. O foul revolt of French inconstancy! KING JOHN. France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour. BASTARD. Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time, Is it as he will? Well then, France shall rue. BLANCH. The sun's o'ercast with blood. Fair day, adieu! Which is the side that I must go withal? I am with both: each army hath a hand; And in their rage, I having hold of both, They whirl asunder and dismember me. Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win; Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose; Father, I may not wish the fortune thine; Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive. Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose: Assured loss before the match be play'd. LEWIS. Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies. BLANCH. There where my fortune lives, there my life dies. KING JOHN. Cousin, go draw our puissance together. Exit BASTARD France, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath, A rage whose heat hath this condition That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest-valu'd blood, of France. KING PHILIP. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire. Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy. KING JOHN. No more than he that threats. To arms let's hie! Exeunt severally SCENE 2. France. Plains near Angiers
Alarums, excursions. Enter the BASTARD with AUSTRIA'S head
BASTARD. Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot; Some airy devil hovers in the sky And pours down mischief. Austria's head lie there, While Philip breathes. Enter KING JOHN, ARTHUR, and HUBERT
KING JOHN. Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, make up: My mother is assailed in our tent, And ta'en, I fear. BASTARD. My lord, I rescued her; Her Highness is in safety, fear you not; But on, my liege, for very little pains Will bring this labour to an happy end. Exeunt SCENE 3. France. Plains near Angiers
Alarums, excursions, retreat. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, ARTHUR, the BASTARD, HUBERT, and LORDS
KING JOHN. [To ELINOR] So shall it be; your Grace shall stay behind, So strongly guarded. [To ARTHUR] Cousin, look not sad; Thy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will As dear be to thee as thy father was. ARTHUR. O, this will make my mother die with grief! KING JOHN. [To the BASTARD] Cousin, away for England! haste before, And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags Of hoarding abbots; imprisoned angels Set at liberty; the fat ribs of peace Must by the hungry now be fed upon. Use our commission in his utmost force. BASTARD. Bell, book, and candle, shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on. I leave your Highness. Grandam, I will pray, If ever I remember to be holy, For your fair safety. So, I kiss your hand. ELINOR. Farewell, gentle cousin. KING JOHN. Coz, farewell. Exit BASTARD ELINOR. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word. KING JOHN. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert, We owe thee much! Within this wall of flesh There is a soul counts thee her creditor, And with advantage means to pay thy love; And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say- But I will fit it with some better time. By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd To say what good respect I have of thee. HUBERT. I am much bounden to your Majesty. KING JOHN. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet, But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow, Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. I had a thing to say-but let it go: The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasures of the world, Is all too wanton and too full of gawds To give me audience. If the midnight bell Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth Sound on into the drowsy race of night; If this same were a churchyard where we stand, And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs; Or if that surly spirit, melancholy, Had bak'd thy blood and made it heavy-thick, Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, A passion hateful to my purposes; Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, Hear me without thine cars, and make reply Without a tongue, using conceit alone, Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words- Then, in despite of brooded watchful day, I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts. But, ah, I will not! Yet I love thee well; And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well. HUBERT. So well that what you bid me undertake, Though that my death were adjunct to my act, By heaven, I would do it. KING JOHN. Do not I know thou wouldst? Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend, He is a very serpent in my way; And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, He lies before me. Dost thou understand me? Thou art his keeper. HUBERT. And I'll keep him so That he shall not offend your Majesty. KING JOHN. Death. HUBERT. My lord? KING JOHN. A grave. HUBERT. He shall not live. KING JOHN. Enough! I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee. Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee. Remember. Madam, fare you well; I'll send those powers o'er to your Majesty. ELINOR. My blessing go with thee! KING JOHN. [To ARTHUR] For England, cousin, go; Hubert shall be your man, attend on you With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho! Exeunt SCENE 4. France. The FRENCH KING's camp
Enter KING PHILIP, LEWIS, PANDULPH, and attendants
KING PHILIP. So by a roaring tempest on the flood A whole armado of convicted sail Is scattered and disjoin'd from fellowship. PANDULPH. Courage and comfort! All shall yet go well. KING PHILIP. What can go well, when we have run so ill. Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost? Arthur ta'en prisoner? Divers dear friends slain? And bloody England into England gone, O'erbearing interruption, spite of France? LEWIS. he hath won, that hath he fortified; So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd, Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, Doth want example; who hath read or heard Of any kindred action like to this? KING PHILIP. Well could I bear that England had this praise, So we could find some pattern of our shame. Enter CONSTANCE
Look who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding th' eternal spirit, against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath.
I prithee, lady, go away with me.
CONSTANCE. Lo now! now see the issue of your peace! KING PHILIP. Patience, good lady! Comfort, gentle Constance! CONSTANCE. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, But that which ends all counsel, true redress- Death, death; O amiable lovely death! Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness! Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, Thou hate and terror to prosperity, And I will kiss thy detestable bones, And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows, And ring these fingers with thy household worms, And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust, And be a carrion monster like thyself. Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st, And buss thee as thy wife. Misery's love, O, come to me! KING PHILIP. O fair affliction, peace! CONSTANCE. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry. O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation. PANDULPH. Lady, you utter madness and not sorrow. CONSTANCE. Thou art not holy to belie me so. I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine; My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife; Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost. I am not mad-I would to heaven I were! For then 'tis like I should forget myself. O, if I could, what grief should I forget! Preach some philosophy to make me mad, And thou shalt be canoniz'd, Cardinal; For, being not mad, but sensible of grief, My reasonable part produces reason How I may be deliver'd of these woes, And teaches me to kill or hang myself. If I were mad I should forget my son, Or madly think a babe of clouts were he. I am not mad; too well, too well I feel The different plague of each calamity. KING PHILIP. Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs! Where but by a chance a silver drop hath fall'n, Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends Do glue themselves in sociable grief, Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity. CONSTANCE. To England, if you will. KING PHILIP. Bind up your hairs. CONSTANCE. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it? I tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud 'O that these hands could so redeem my son, As they have given these hairs their liberty!' But now I envy at their liberty, And will again commit them to their bonds, Because my poor child is a prisoner. And, father Cardinal, I have heard you say That we shall see and know our friends in heaven; If that be true, I shall see my boy again; For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, To him that did but yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature born. But now will canker sorrow eat my bud And chase the native beauty from his cheek, And he will look as hollow as a ghost, As dim and meagre as an ague's fit; And so he'll die; and, rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven I shall not know him. Therefore never, never Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. PANDULPH. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. CONSTANCE. He talks to me that never had a son. KING PHILIP. You are as fond of grief as of your child. CONSTANCE. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then have I reason to be fond of grief. Fare you well; had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do. I will not keep this form upon my head, [Tearing her hair] When there is such disorder in my wit. O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure! Exit KING PHILIP. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. Exit LEWIS. There's nothing in this world can make me joy. Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste, That it yields nought but shame and bitterness. PANDULPH. Before the curing of a strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest; evils that take leave On their departure most of all show evil; What have you lost by losing of this day? LEWIS. All days of glory, joy, and happiness. PANDULPH. If you had won it, certainly you had. No, no; when Fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threat'ning eye. 'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost In this which he accounts so clearly won. Are not you griev'd that Arthur is his prisoner? LEWIS. As heartily as he is glad he hath him. PANDULPH. Your mind is all as youthful as your blood. Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit; For even the breath of what I mean to speak Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub, Out of the path which shall directly lead Thy foot to England's throne. And therefore mark: John hath seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins, The misplac'd John should entertain an hour, One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest. A sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand Must be boisterously maintain'd as gain'd, And he that stands upon a slipp'ry place Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up; That John may stand then, Arthur needs must fall; So be it, for it cannot be but so. LEWIS. But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall? PANDULPH. You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did. LEWIS. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did. PANDULPH. How green you are and fresh in this old world! John lays you plots; the times conspire with you; For he that steeps his safety in true blood Shall find but bloody safety and untrue. This act, so evilly borne, shall cool the hearts Of all his people and freeze up their zeal, That none so small advantage shall step forth To check his reign but they will cherish it; No natural exhalation in the sky, No scope of nature, no distemper'd day, No common wind, no customed event, But they will pluck away his natural cause And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs, Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven, Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John. LEWIS. May be he will not touch young Arthur's life, But hold himself safe in his prisonment. PANDULPH. O, Sir, when he shall hear of your approach, If that young Arthur be not gone already, Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts Of all his people shall revolt from him, And kiss the lips of unacquainted change, And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath Out of the bloody fingers' ends of john. Methinks I see this hurly all on foot; And, O, what better matter breeds for you Than I have nam'd! The bastard Faulconbridge Is now in England ransacking the Church, Offending charity; if but a dozen French Were there in arms, they would be as a can To train ten thousand English to their side; Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin, Go with me to the King. 'Tis wonderful What may be wrought out of their discontent, Now that their souls are topful of offence. For England go; I will whet on the King. LEWIS. Strong reasons makes strong actions. Let us go; If you say ay, the King will not say no. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 1. England. A castle
Enter HUBERT and EXECUTIONERS
HUBERT. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras. When I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth And bind the boy which you shall find with me Fast to the chair. Be heedful; hence, and watch. EXECUTIONER. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. HUBERT. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you. Look to't. Exeunt EXECUTIONERS Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter ARTHUR
ARTHUR. Good morrow, Hubert. HUBERT. Good morrow, little Prince. ARTHUR. As little prince, having so great a tide To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. HUBERT. Indeed I have been merrier. ARTHUR. Mercy on me! Methinks no body should be sad but I; Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my christendom, So I were out of prison and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long; And so I would be here but that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me; He is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son? No, indeed, ist not; and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. HUBERT. [Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead; Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch. ARTHUR. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day; In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might sit all night and watch with you. I warrant I love you more than you do me. HUBERT. [Aside] His words do take possession of my bosom.- Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper][Aside] How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.- Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ? ARTHUR. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? HUBERT. Young boy, I must. ARTHUR. And will you? HUBERT. And I will. ARTHUR. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows- The best I had, a princess wrought it me- And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head; And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time, Saying 'What lack you?' and 'Where lies your grief?' Or 'What good love may I perform for you?' Many a poor man's son would have lyen still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, And call it cunning. Do, an if you will. If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill, Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes, These eyes that never did nor never shall So much as frown on you? HUBERT. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out. ARTHUR. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes would drink my tears, And quench his fiery indignation Even in the matter of mine innocence; Nay, after that, consume away in rust But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron? An if an angel should have come to me And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believ'd him-no tongue but Hubert's. HUBERT. [Stamps] Come forth. Re-enter EXECUTIONERS, With cord, irons, etc.
Do as I bid you do.
ARTHUR. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. HUBERT. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. ARTHUR. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert! Drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angrily; Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to. HUBERT. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. EXECUTIONER. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed. Exeunt EXECUTIONERS ARTHUR. Alas, I then have chid away my friend! He hath a stern look but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. HUBERT. Come, boy, prepare yourself. ARTHUR. Is there no remedy? HUBERT. None, but to lose your eyes. ARTHUR. O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. HUBERT. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue. ARTHUR. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes. Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert; Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold And would not harm me. HUBERT. I can heat it, boy. ARTHUR. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be us'd In undeserved extremes. See else yourself: There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strew'd repentant ashes on his head. HUBERT. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. ARTHUR. An if you do, you will but make it blush And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert. Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes, And, like a dog that is compell'd to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office; only you do lack That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. HUBERT. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye For all the treasure that thine uncle owes. Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. ARTHUR. O, now you look like Hubert! All this while You were disguis'd. HUBERT. Peace; no more. Adieu. Your uncle must not know but you are dead: I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports; And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee. ARTHUR. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert. HUBERT. Silence; no more. Go closely in with me. Much danger do I undergo for thee. Exeunt SCENE 2. England. KING JOHN'S palace
Enter KING JOHN, PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and other LORDS
KING JOHN. Here once again we sit, once again crown'd, And look'd upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes. PEMBROKE. This once again, but that your Highness pleas'd, Was once superfluous: you were crown'd before, And that high royalty was ne'er pluck'd off, The faiths of men ne'er stained with revolt; Fresh expectation troubled not the land With any long'd-for change or better state. SALISBURY. Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. PEMBROKE. But that your royal pleasure must be done, This act is as an ancient tale new told And, in the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable. SALISBURY. In this the antique and well-noted face Of plain old form is much disfigured; And like a shifted wind unto a sail It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about, Startles and frights consideration, Makes sound opinion sick, and truth suspected, For putting on so new a fashion'd robe. PEMBROKE. When workmen strive to do better than well, They do confound their skill in covetousness; And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by th' excuse, As patches set upon a little breach Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch'd. SALISBURY. To this effect, before you were new-crown'd, We breath'd our counsel; but it pleas'd your Highness To overbear it; and we are all well pleas'd, Since all and every part of what we would Doth make a stand at what your Highness will. KING JOHN. Some reasons of this double coronation I have possess'd you with, and think them strong; And more, more strong, when lesser is my fear, I shall indue you with. Meantime but ask What you would have reform'd that is not well, And well shall you perceive how willingly I will both hear and grant you your requests. PEMBROKE. Then I, as one that am the tongue of these, To sound the purposes of all their hearts, Both for myself and them- but, chief of all, Your safety, for the which myself and them Bend their best studies, heartily request Th' enfranchisement of Arthur, whose restraint Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent To break into this dangerous argument: If what in rest you have in right you hold, Why then your fears-which, as they say, attend The steps of wrong-should move you to mew up Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth The rich advantage of good exercise? That the time's enemies may not have this To grace occasions, let it be our suit That you have bid us ask his liberty; Which for our goods we do no further ask Than whereupon our weal, on you depending, Counts it your weal he have his liberty. KING JOHN. Let it be so. I do commit his youth To your direction. Enter HUBERT
[Aside] Hubert, what news with you?
PEMBROKE. This is the man should do the bloody deed: He show'd his warrant to a friend of mine; The image of a wicked heinous fault Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his Doth show the mood of a much troubled breast, And I do fearfully believe 'tis done What we so fear'd he had a charge to do. SALISBURY. The colour of the King doth come and go Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set. His passion is so ripe it needs must break. PEMBROKE. And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence The foul corruption of a sweet child's death. KING JOHN. We cannot hold mortality's strong hand. Good lords, although my will to give is living, The suit which you demand is gone and dead: He tells us Arthur is deceas'd to-night. SALISBURY. Indeed, we fear'd his sickness was past cure. PEMBROKE. Indeed, we heard how near his death he was, Before the child himself felt he was sick. This must be answer'd either here or hence. KING JOHN. Why do you bend such solemn brows on me? Think you I bear the shears of destiny? Have I commandment on the pulse of life? SALISBURY. It is apparent foul-play; and 'tis shame That greatness should so grossly offer it. So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell. PEMBROKE. Stay yet, Lord Salisbury, I'll go with thee And find th' inheritance of this poor child, His little kingdom of a forced grave. That blood which ow'd the breadth of all this isle Three foot of it doth hold-bad world the while! This must not be thus borne: this will break out To all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt. Exeunt LORDS KING JOHN. They burn in indignation. I repent. There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achiev'd by others' death. Enter a MESSENGER
A fearful eye thou hast; where is that blood
That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks?
So foul a sky clears not without a storm.
Pour down thy weather-how goes all in France?
MESSENGER. From France to England. Never such a pow'r For any foreign preparation Was levied in the body of a land. The copy of your speed is learn'd by them, For when you should be told they do prepare, The tidings comes that they are all arriv'd. KING JOHN. O, where hath our intelligence been drunk? Where hath it slept? Where is my mother's care, That such an army could be drawn in France, And she not hear of it? MESSENGER. My liege, her ear Is stopp'd with dust: the first of April died Your noble mother; and as I hear, my lord, The Lady Constance in a frenzy died Three days before; but this from rumour's tongue I idly heard-if true or false I know not. KING JOHN. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion! O, make a league with me, till I have pleas'd My discontented peers! What! mother dead! How wildly then walks my estate in France! Under whose conduct came those pow'rs of France That thou for truth giv'st out are landed here? MESSENGER. Under the Dauphin. KING JOHN. Thou hast made me giddy With these in tidings. Enter the BASTARD and PETER OF POMFRET
Now! What says the world
To your proceedings? Do not seek to stuff
My head with more ill news, for it is full.
BASTARD. But if you be afear'd to hear the worst, Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your head. KING JOHN. Bear with me, cousin, for I was amaz'd Under the tide; but now I breathe again Aloft the flood, and can give audience To any tongue, speak it of what it will. BASTARD. How I have sped among the clergymen The sums I have collected shall express. But as I travell'd hither through the land, I find the people strangely fantasied; Possess'd with rumours, full of idle dreams. Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear; And here's a prophet that I brought with me From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found With many hundreds treading on his heels; To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes, That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon, Your Highness should deliver up your crown. KING JOHN. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so? PETER. Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so. KING JOHN. Hubert, away with him; imprison him; And on that day at noon whereon he says I shall yield up my crown let him be hang'd. Deliver him to safety; and return, For I must use thee. Exit HUBERT with PETER O my gentle cousin, Hear'st thou the news abroad, who are arriv'd? BASTARD. The French, my lord; men's mouths are full of it; Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury, With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire, And others more, going to seek the grave Of Arthur, whom they say is kill'd to-night On your suggestion. KING JOHN. Gentle kinsman, go And thrust thyself into their companies. I have a way to will their loves again; Bring them before me. BASTARD. I Will seek them out. KING JOHN. Nay, but make haste; the better foot before. O, let me have no subject enemies When adverse foreigners affright my towns With dreadful pomp of stout invasion! Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels, And fly like thought from them to me again. BASTARD. The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. KING JOHN. Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman. Exit BASTARD Go after him; for he perhaps shall need Some messenger betwixt me and the peers; And be thou he. MESSENGER. With all my heart, my liege. Exit KING JOHN. My mother dead! Re-enter HUBERT
HUBERT. My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night; Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about The other four in wondrous motion. KING JOHN. Five moons! HUBERT. Old men and beldams in the streets Do prophesy upon it dangerously; Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths; And when they talk of him, they shake their heads, And whisper one another in the ear; And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist, Whilst he that hears makes fearful action With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news; Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, Told of a many thousand warlike French That were embattailed and rank'd in Kent. Another lean unwash'd artificer Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death. KING JOHN. Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death? Thy hand hath murd'red him. I had a mighty cause To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him. HUBERT. No had, my lord! Why, did you not provoke me? KING JOHN. It is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves that take their humours for a warrant To break within the bloody house of life, And on the winking of authority To understand a law; to know the meaning Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns More upon humour than advis'd respect. HUBERT. Here is your hand and seal for what I did. KING JOHN. O, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal Witness against us to damnation! How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by, A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, Quoted and sign'd to do a deed of shame, This murder had not come into my mind; But, taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect, Finding thee fit for bloody villainy, Apt, liable to be employ'd in danger, I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death; And thou, to be endeared to a king, Made it no conscience to destroy a prince. HUBERT. My lord- KING JOHN. Hadst thou but shook thy head or made pause, When I spake darkly what I purposed, Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face, As bid me tell my tale in express words, Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me. But thou didst understand me by my signs, And didst in signs again parley with sin; Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, And consequently thy rude hand to act The deed which both our tongues held vile to name. Out of my sight, and never see me more! My nobles leave me; and my state is braved, Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign pow'rs; Nay, in the body of the fleshly land, This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, Hostility and civil tumult reigns Between my conscience and my cousin's death. HUBERT. Arm you against your other enemies, I'll make a peace between your soul and you. Young Arthur is alive. This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. Within this bosom never ent'red yet The dreadful motion of a murderous thought And you have slander'd nature in my form, Which, howsoever rude exteriorly, Is yet the cover of a fairer mind Than to be butcher of an innocent child. KING JOHN. Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the peers, Throw this report on their incensed rage And make them tame to their obedience! Forgive the comment that my passion made Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind, And foul imaginary eyes of blood Presented thee more hideous than thou art. O, answer not; but to my closet bring The angry lords with all expedient haste. I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast. Exeunt SCENE 3. England. Before the castle
Enter ARTHUR, on the walls
ARTHUR. The wall is high, and yet will I leap down. Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not! There's few or none do know me; if they did, This ship-boy's semblance hath disguis'd me quite. I am afraid; and yet I'll venture it. If I get down and do not break my limbs, I'll find a thousand shifts to get away. As good to die and go, as die and stay. [Leaps down] O me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones. Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones! [Dies] Enter PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and BIGOT
SALISBURY. Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury; It is our safety, and we must embrace This gentle offer of the perilous time. PEMBROKE. Who brought that letter from the Cardinal? SALISBURY. The Count Melun, a noble lord of France, Whose private with me of the Dauphin's love Is much more general than these lines import. BIGOT. To-morrow morning let us meet him then. SALISBURY. Or rather then set forward; for 'twill be Two long days' journey, lords, or ere we meet. Enter the BASTARD
BASTARD. Once more to-day well met, distemper'd lords! The King by me requests your presence straight. SALISBURY. The King hath dispossess'd himself of us. We will not line his thin bestained cloak With our pure honours, nor attend the foot That leaves the print of blood where'er it walks. Return and tell him so. We know the worst. BASTARD. Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best. SALISBURY. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now. BASTARD. But there is little reason in your grief; Therefore 'twere reason you had manners now. PEMBROKE. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege. BASTARD. 'Tis true-to hurt his master, no man else. SALISBURY. This is the prison. What is he lies here? PEMBROKE. O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty! The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. SALISBURY. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, Doth lay it open to urge on revenge. BIGOT. Or, when he doom'd this beauty to a grave, Found it too precious-princely for a grave. SALISBURY. Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld, Or have you read or heard, or could you think? Or do you almost think, although you see, That you do see? Could thought, without this object, Form such another? This is the very top, The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, Of murder's arms; this is the bloodiest shame, The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, That ever wall-ey'd wrath or staring rage Presented to the tears of soft remorse. PEMBROKE. All murders past do stand excus'd in this; And this, so sole and so unmatchable, Shall give a holiness, a purity, To the yet unbegotten sin of times, And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, Exampled by this heinous spectacle. BASTARD. It is a damned and a bloody work; The graceless action of a heavy hand, If that it be the work of any hand. SALISBURY. If that it be the work of any hand! We had a kind of light what would ensue. It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand; The practice and the purpose of the King; From whose obedience I forbid my soul Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, And breathing to his breathless excellence The incense of a vow, a holy vow, Never to taste the pleasures of the world, Never to be infected with delight, Nor conversant with ease and idleness, Till I have set a glory to this hand By giving it the worship of revenge. PEMBROKE. and BIGOT. Our souls religiously confirm thy words. Enter HUBERT
HUBERT. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you. Arthur doth live; the King hath sent for you. SALISBURY. O, he is bold, and blushes not at death! Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone! HUBERT. I am no villain. SALISBURY. Must I rob the law? [Drawing his sword] BASTARD. Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again. SALISBURY. Not till I sheathe it in a murderer's skin. HUBERT. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say; By heaven, I think my sword's as sharp as yours. I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence; Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatness and nobility. BIGOT. Out, dunghill! Dar'st thou brave a nobleman? HUBERT. Not for my life; but yet I dare defend My innocent life against an emperor. SALISBURY. Thou art a murderer. HUBERT. Do not prove me so. Yet I am none. Whose tongue soe'er speaks false, Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies. PEMBROKE. Cut him to pieces. BASTARD. Keep the peace, I say. SALISBURY. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge. BASTARD. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury. If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime; Or I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron That you shall think the devil is come from hell. BIGOT. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge? Second a villain and a murderer? HUBERT. Lord Bigot, I am none. BIGOT. Who kill'd this prince? HUBERT. 'Tis not an hour since I left him well. I honour'd him, I lov'd him, and will weep My date of life out for his sweet life's loss. SALISBURY. Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, For villainy is not without such rheum; And he, long traded in it, makes it seem Like rivers of remorse and innocency. Away with me, all you whose souls abhor Th' uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house; For I am stifled with this smell of sin. BIGOT. Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there! PEMBROKE. There tell the King he may inquire us out. Exeunt LORDS BASTARD. Here's a good world! Knew you of this fair work? Beyond the infinite and boundless reach Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, Art thou damn'd, Hubert. HUBERT. Do but hear me, sir. BASTARD. Ha! I'll tell thee what: Thou'rt damn'd as black-nay, nothing is so black- Thou art more deep damn'd than Prince Lucifer; There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. HUBERT. Upon my soul- BASTARD. If thou didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair; And if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread That ever spider twisted from her womb Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be a beam To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself, Put but a little water in a spoon And it shall be as all the ocean, Enough to stifle such a villain up I do suspect thee very grievously. HUBERT. If I in act, consent, or sin of thought, Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, Let hell want pains enough to torture me! I left him well. BASTARD. Go, bear him in thine arms. I am amaz'd, methinks, and lose my way Among the thorns and dangers of this world. How easy dost thou take all England up! From forth this morsel of dead royalty The life, the right, and truth of all this realm Is fled to heaven; and England now is left To tug and scamble, and to part by th' teeth The unowed interest of proud-swelling state. Now for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace; Now powers from home and discontents at home Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits, As doth a raven on a sick-fall'n beast, The imminent decay of wrested pomp. Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child, And follow me with speed. I'll to the King; A thousand businesses are brief in hand, And heaven itself doth frown upon the land. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 1. England. KING JOHN'S palace Enter KING JOHN, PANDULPH, and attendants
KING JOHN. Thus have I yielded up into your hand The circle of my glory. PANDULPH. [Gives back the crown] Take again From this my hand, as holding of the Pope, Your sovereign greatness and authority. KING JOHN. Now keep your holy word; go meet the French; And from his Holiness use all your power To stop their marches fore we are inflam'd. Our discontented counties do revolt; Our people quarrel with obedience, Swearing allegiance and the love of soul To stranger blood, to foreign royalty. This inundation of mistemp'red humour Rests by you only to be qualified. Then pause not; for the present time's so sick That present med'cine must be minist'red Or overthrow incurable ensues. PANDULPH. It was my breath that blew this tempest up, Upon your stubborn usage of the Pope; But since you are a gentle convertite, My tongue shall hush again this storm of war And make fair weather in your blust'ring land. On this Ascension-day, remember well, Upon your oath of service to the Pope, Go I to make the French lay down their arms. Exit KING JOHN. Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet Say that before Ascension-day at noon My crown I should give off? Even so I have. I did suppose it should be on constraint; But, heaven be thank'd, it is but voluntary. Enter the BASTARD
BASTARD. All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out But Dover Castle. London hath receiv'd, Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers. Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone To offer service to your enemy; And wild amazement hurries up and down The little number of your doubtful friends. KING JOHN. Would not my lords return to me again After they heard young Arthur was alive? BASTARD. They found him dead, and cast into the streets, An empty casket, where the jewel of life By some damn'd hand was robbed and ta'en away. KING JOHN. That villain Hubert told me he did live. BASTARD. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew. But wherefore do you droop? Why look you sad? Be great in act, as you have been in thought; Let not the world see fear and sad distrust Govern the motion of a kingly eye. Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow Of bragging horror; so shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviours from the great, Grow great by your example and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution. Away, and glister like the god of war When he intendeth to become the field; Show boldness and aspiring confidence. What, shall they seek the lion in his den, And fright him there, and make him tremble there? O, let it not be said! Forage, and run To meet displeasure farther from the doors And grapple with him ere he come so nigh. KING JOHN. The legate of the Pope hath been with me, And I have made a happy peace with him; And he hath promis'd to dismiss the powers Led by the Dauphin. BASTARD. O inglorious league! Shall we, upon the footing of our land, Send fair-play orders, and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truce, To arms invasive? Shall a beardless boy, A cock'red silken wanton, brave our fields And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil, Mocking the air with colours idly spread, And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms. Perchance the Cardinal cannot make your peace; Or, if he do, let it at least be said They saw we had a purpose of defence. KING JOHN. Have thou the ordering of this present time. BASTARD. Away, then, with good courage! Yet, I know Our party may well meet a prouder foe. Exeunt SCENE 2. England. The DAUPHIN'S camp at Saint Edmundsbury Enter, in arms, LEWIS, SALISBURY, MELUN, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and soldiers
LEWIS. My Lord Melun, let this be copied out And keep it safe for our remembrance; Return the precedent to these lords again, That, having our fair order written down, Both they and we, perusing o'er these notes, May know wherefore we took the sacrament, And keep our faiths firm and inviolable. SALISBURY. Upon our sides it never shall be broken. And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear A voluntary zeal and an unurg'd faith To your proceedings; yet, believe me, Prince, I am not glad that such a sore of time Should seek a plaster by contemn'd revolt, And heal the inveterate canker of one wound By making many. O, it grieves my soul That I must draw this metal from my side To be a widow-maker! O, and there Where honourable rescue and defence Cries out upon the name of Salisbury! But such is the infection of the time That, for the health and physic of our right, We cannot deal but with the very hand Of stern injustice and confused wrong. And is't not pity, O my grieved friends! That we, the sons and children of this isle, Were born to see so sad an hour as this; Wherein we step after a stranger-march Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up Her enemies' ranks-I must withdraw and weep Upon the spot of this enforced cause- To grace the gentry of a land remote And follow unacquainted colours here? What, here? O nation, that thou couldst remove! That Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about, Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself And grapple thee unto a pagan shore, Where these two Christian armies might combine The blood of malice in a vein of league, And not to spend it so unneighbourly! LEWIS. A noble temper dost thou show in this; And great affections wrestling in thy bosom Doth make an earthquake of nobility. O, what a noble combat hast thou fought Between compulsion and a brave respect! Let me wipe off this honourable dew That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks. My heart hath melted at a lady's tears, Being an ordinary inundation; But this effusion of such manly drops, This show'r, blown up by tempest of the soul, Startles mine eyes and makes me more amaz'd Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven Figur'd quite o'er with burning meteors. Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, And with a great heart heave away this storm; Commend these waters to those baby eyes That never saw the giant world enrag'd, Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping. Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep Into the purse of rich prosperity As Lewis himself. So, nobles, shall you all, That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. Enter PANDULPH
And even there, methinks, an angel spake:
Look where the holy legate comes apace,
To give us warrant from the hand of heaven
And on our actions set the name of right
With holy breath.
PANDULPH. Hail, noble prince of France! The next is this: King John hath reconcil'd Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in, That so stood out against the holy Church, The great metropolis and see of Rome. Therefore thy threat'ning colours now wind up And tame the savage spirit of wild war, That, like a lion fostered up at hand, It may lie gently at the foot of peace And be no further harmful than in show. LEWIS. Your Grace shall pardon me, I will not back: I am too high-born to be propertied, To be a secondary at control, Or useful serving-man and instrument To any sovereign state throughout the world. Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars Between this chastis'd kingdom and myself And brought in matter that should feed this fire; And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out With that same weak wind which enkindled it. You taught me how to know the face of right, Acquainted me with interest to this land, Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart; And come ye now to tell me John hath made His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me? I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, After young Arthur, claim this land for mine; And, now it is half-conquer'd, must I back Because that John hath made his peace with Rome? Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne, What men provided, what munition sent, To underprop this action? Is 't not I That undergo this charge? Who else but I, And such as to my claim are liable, Sweat in this business and maintain this war? Have I not heard these islanders shout out 'Vive le roi!' as I have bank'd their towns? Have I not here the best cards for the game To will this easy match, play'd for a crown? And shall I now give o'er the yielded set? No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said. PANDULPH. You look but on the outside of this work. LEWIS. Outside or inside, I will not return Till my attempt so much be glorified As to my ample hope was promised Before I drew this gallant head of war, And cull'd these fiery spirits from the world To outlook conquest, and to will renown Even in the jaws of danger and of death. [Trumpet sounds] What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us? Enter the BASTARD, attended
BASTARD. According to the fair play of the world, Let me have audience: I am sent to speak. My holy lord of Milan, from the King I come, to learn how you have dealt for him; And, as you answer, I do know the scope And warrant limited unto my tongue. PANDULPH. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite, And will not temporize with my entreaties; He flatly says he'll not lay down his arms. BASTARD. By all the blood that ever fury breath'd, The youth says well. Now hear our English King; For thus his royalty doth speak in me. He is prepar'd, and reason too he should. This apish and unmannerly approach, This harness'd masque and unadvised revel This unhair'd sauciness and boyish troops, The King doth smile at; and is well prepar'd To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms, From out the circle of his territories. That hand which had the strength, even at your door. To cudgel you and make you take the hatch, To dive like buckets in concealed wells, To crouch in litter of your stable planks, To lie like pawns lock'd up in chests and trunks, To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake Even at the crying of your nation's crow, Thinking this voice an armed Englishman- Shall that victorious hand be feebled here That in your chambers gave you chastisement? No. Know the gallant monarch is in arms And like an eagle o'er his aery tow'rs To souse annoyance that comes near his nest. And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts, You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb Of your dear mother England, blush for shame; For your own ladies and pale-visag'd maids, Like Amazons, come tripping after drums, Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination. LEWIS. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace; We grant thou canst outscold us. Fare thee well; We hold our time too precious to be spent With such a brabbler. PANDULPH. Give me leave to speak. BASTARD. No, I will speak. LEWIS. We will attend to neither. Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war, Plead for our interest and our being here. BASTARD. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out; And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start And echo with the clamour of thy drum, And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd That shall reverberate all as loud as thine: Sound but another, and another shall, As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder; for at hand- Not trusting to this halting legate here, Whom he hath us'd rather for sport than need- Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits A bare-ribb'd death, whose office is this day To feast upon whole thousands of the French. LEWIS. Strike up our drums to find this danger out. BASTARD. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt. Exeunt SCENE 3. England. The field of battle
Alarums. Enter KING JOHN and HUBERT
KING JOHN. How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert. HUBERT. Badly, I fear. How fares your Majesty? KING JOHN. This fever that hath troubled me so long Lies heavy on me. O, my heart is sick! Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge, Desires your Majesty to leave the field And send him word by me which way you go. KING JOHN. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there. MESSENGER. Be of good comfort; for the great supply That was expected by the Dauphin here Are wreck'd three nights ago on Goodwin Sands; This news was brought to Richard but even now. The French fight coldly, and retire themselves. KING JOHN. Ay me, this tyrant fever burns me up And will not let me welcome this good news. Set on toward Swinstead; to my litter straight; Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. Exeunt SCENE 4. England. Another part of the battlefield
Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, and BIGOT
SALISBURY. I did not think the King so stor'd with friends. PEMBROKE. Up once again; put spirit in the French; If they miscarry, we miscarry too. SALISBURY. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge, In spite of spite, alone upholds the day. PEMBROKE. They say King John, sore sick, hath left the field. Enter MELUN, wounded
MELUN. Lead me to the revolts of England here. SALISBURY. When we were happy we had other names. PEMBROKE. It is the Count Melun. SALISBURY. Wounded to death. MELUN. Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold; Unthread the rude eye of rebellion, And welcome home again discarded faith. Seek out King John, and fall before his feet; For if the French be lords of this loud day, He means to recompense the pains you take By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he sworn, And I with him, and many moe with me, Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury; Even on that altar where we swore to you Dear amity and everlasting love. SALISBURY. May this be possible? May this be true? MELUN. Have I not hideous death within my view, Retaining but a quantity of life, Which bleeds away even as a form of wax Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire? What in the world should make me now deceive, Since I must lose the use of all deceit? Why should I then be false, since it is true That I must die here, and live hence by truth? I say again, if Lewis do will the day, He is forsworn if e'er those eyes of yours Behold another day break in the east; But even this night, whose black contagious breath Already smokes about the burning crest Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun, Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire, Paying the fine of rated treachery Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives. If Lewis by your assistance win the day. Commend me to one Hubert, with your King; The love of him-and this respect besides, For that my grandsire was an Englishman- Awakes my conscience to confess all this. In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence From forth the noise and rumour of the field, Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts In peace, and part this body and my soul With contemplation and devout desires. SALISBURY. We do believe thee; and beshrew my soul But I do love the favour and the form Of this most fair occasion, by the which We will untread the steps of damned flight, And like a bated and retired flood, Leaving our rankness and irregular course, Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd, And calmly run on in obedience Even to our ocean, to great King John. My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence; For I do see the cruel pangs of death Right in thine eye. Away, my friends! New flight, And happy newness, that intends old right. Exeunt, leading off MELUN SCENE 5. England. The French camp
Enter LEWIS and his train
LEWIS. The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set, But stay'd and made the western welkin blush, When English measure backward their own ground In faint retire. O, bravely came we off, When with a volley of our needless shot, After such bloody toil, we bid good night; And wound our tott'ring colours clearly up, Last in the field and almost lords of it! Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. Where is my prince, the Dauphin? LEWIS. Here; what news? MESSENGER. The Count Melun is slain; the English lords By his persuasion are again fall'n off, And your supply, which you have wish'd so long, Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands. LEWIS. Ah, foul shrewd news! Beshrew thy very heart! I did not think to be so sad to-night As this hath made me. Who was he that said King John did fly an hour or two before The stumbling night did part our weary pow'rs? MESSENGER. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord. LEWIS. keep good quarter and good care to-night; The day shall not be up so soon as I To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. Exeunt SCENE 6. An open place wear Swinstead Abbey
Enter the BASTARD and HUBERT, severally
HUBERT. Who's there? Speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot. BASTARD. A friend. What art thou? HUBERT. Of the part of England. BASTARD. Whither dost thou go? HUBERT. What's that to thee? Why may I not demand Of thine affairs as well as thou of mine? BASTARD. Hubert, I think. HUBERT. Thou hast a perfect thought. I will upon all hazards well believe Thou art my friend that know'st my tongue so well. Who art thou? BASTARD. Who thou wilt. And if thou please, Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think I come one way of the Plantagenets. HUBERT. Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless night Have done me shame. Brave soldier, pardon me That any accent breaking from thy tongue Should scape the true acquaintance of mine ear. BASTARD. Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad? HUBERT. Why, here walk I in the black brow of night To find you out. BASTARD. Brief, then; and what's the news? HUBERT. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. BASTARD. Show me the very wound of this ill news; I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it. HUBERT. The King, I fear, is poison'd by a monk; I left him almost speechless and broke out To acquaint you with this evil, that you might The better arm you to the sudden time Than if you had at leisure known of this. BASTARD. How did he take it; who did taste to him? HUBERT. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst out. The King Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover. BASTARD. Who didst thou leave to tend his Majesty? HUBERT. Why, know you not? The lords are all come back, And brought Prince Henry in their company; At whose request the King hath pardon'd them, And they are all about his Majesty. BASTARD. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power! I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, Passing these flats, are taken by the tide- These Lincoln Washes have devoured them; Myself, well-mounted, hardly have escap'd. Away, before! conduct me to the King; I doubt he will be dead or ere I come. Exeunt SCENE 7. The orchard at Swinstead Abbey
Enter PRINCE HENRY, SALISBURY, and BIGOT
PRINCE HENRY. It is too late; the life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly, and his pure brain. Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house, Doth by the idle comments that it makes Foretell the ending of mortality. Enter PEMBROKE
PEMBROKE. His Highness yet doth speak, and holds belief That, being brought into the open air, It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him. PRINCE HENRY. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage? Exit BIGOT PEMBROKE. He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he sung. PRINCE HENRY. O vanity of sickness! Fierce extremes In their continuance will not feel themselves. Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts, Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies, Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing. I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest. SALISBURY. Be of good comfort, Prince; for you are born To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. Re-enter BIGOT and attendants, who bring in KING JOHN in a chair KING JOHN. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room; It would not out at windows nor at doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom That all my bowels crumble up to dust. I am a scribbled form drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up. PRINCE HENRY. How fares your Majesty? KING JOHN. Poison'd-ill-fare! Dead, forsook, cast off; And none of you will bid the winter come To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course Through my burn'd bosom, nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much; I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait And so ingrateful you deny me that. PRINCE HENRY. O that there were some virtue in my tears, That might relieve you! KING JOHN. The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is as a fiend confin'd to tyrannize On unreprievable condemned blood. Enter the BASTARD
BASTARD. O, I am scalded with my violent motion And spleen of speed to see your Majesty! KING JOHN. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye! The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burnt, And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail Are turned to one thread, one little hair; My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest is but a clod And module of confounded royalty. BASTARD. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where God He knows how we shall answer him; For in a night the best part of my pow'r, As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the Washes all unwarily Devoured by the unexpected flood. [The KING dies] SALISBURY. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear. My liege! my lord! But now a king-now thus. PRINCE HENRY. Even so must I run on, and even so stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a king, and now is clay? BASTARD. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind To do the office for thee of revenge, And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, As it on earth hath been thy servant still. Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres, Where be your pow'rs? Show now your mended faiths, And instantly return with me again To push destruction and perpetual shame Out of the weak door of our fainting land. Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought; The Dauphin rages at our very heels. SALISBURY. It seems you know not, then, so much as we: The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin, And brings from him such offers of our peace As we with honour and respect may take, With purpose presently to leave this war. BASTARD. He will the rather do it when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to our defence. SALISBURY. Nay, 'tis in a manner done already; For many carriages he hath dispatch'd To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel To the disposing of the Cardinal; With whom yourself, myself, and other lords, If you think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily. BASTARD. Let it be so. And you, my noble Prince, With other princes that may best be spar'd, Shall wait upon your father's funeral. PRINCE HENRY. At Worcester must his body be interr'd; For so he will'd it. BASTARD. Thither shall it, then; And happily may your sweet self put on The lineal state and glory of the land! To whom, with all submission, on my knee I do bequeath my faithful services And true subjection everlastingly. SALISBURY. And the like tender of our love we make, To rest without a spot for evermore. PRINCE HENRY. I have a kind soul that would give you thanks, And knows not how to do it but with tears. BASTARD. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs. This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true. Exeunt THE TRAGEDY OF JULIUS CAESAR Contents ACT I Scene I. Rome. A street. Scene II. The same. A public place. Scene III. The same. A street.
ACT II Scene I. Rome. Brutus’ orchard. Scene II. A room in Caesar’s palace. Scene III. A street near the Capitol. Scene IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus.
ACT III Scene I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting. Scene II. The same. The Forum. Scene III. The same. A street.
ACT IV Scene I. A room in Antony’s house. Scene II. Before Brutus’ tent, in the camp near Sardis. Scene III. Within the tent of Brutus.
ACT V Scene I. The plains of Philippi. Scene II. The same. The field of battle. Scene III. Another part of the field. Scene IV. Another part of the field. Scene V. Another part of the field.
Dramatis Personæ JULIUS CAESAR OCTAVIUS CAESAR, Triumvir after his death. MARCUS ANTONIUS, ” ” ” M. AEMILIUS LEPIDUS, ” ” ” CICERO, PUBLIUS, POPILIUS LENA, Senators. MARCUS BRUTUS, Conspirator against Caesar. CASSIUS, ” ” ” CASCA, ” ” ” TREBONIUS, ” ” ” LIGARIUS,” ” ” DECIUS BRUTUS, ” ” ” METELLUS CIMBER, ” ” ” CINNA, ” ” ” FLAVIUS, tribune MARULLUS, tribune ARTEMIDORUS, a Sophist of Cnidos. A Soothsayer CINNA, a poet. Another Poet. LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, MESSALA, young CATO, and VOLUMNIUS, Friends to Brutus and Cassius. VARRO, CLITUS, CLAUDIUS, STRATO, LUCIUS, DARDANIUS, Servants to Brutus PINDARUS, Servant to Cassius CALPHURNIA, wife to Caesar PORTIA, wife to Brutus
The Ghost of Caesar Senators, Citizens, Soldiers, Commoners, Messengers, and Servants.
SCENE: Rome, the conspirators’ camp near Sardis, and the plains of Philippi. ACT I SCENE I. Rome. A street. Enter Flavius, Marullus and a throng of Citizens.
FLAVIUS. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home. Is this a holiday? What, know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a labouring day without the sign Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?
CARPENTER. Why, sir, a carpenter.
MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on? You, sir, what trade are you?
COBBLER. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.
MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.
COBBLER. A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.
MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?
COBBLER. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.
MARULLUS. What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow!
COBBLER. Why, sir, cobble you.
FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
COBBLER. Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon my handiwork.
FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
COBBLER. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph.
MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude.
FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
[Exeunt Citizens.]
See whether their basest metal be not mov’d; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images, If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies.
MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck’d from Caesar’s wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The same. A public place. Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.
CAESAR. Calphurnia.
CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.
[Music ceases.]
CAESAR. Calphurnia.
CALPHURNIA. Here, my lord.
CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius’ way, When he doth run his course. Antonius.
ANTONY. Caesar, my lord?
CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse.
ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says “Do this,” it is perform’d.
CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out.
[Music.]
SOOTHSAYER. Caesar!
CAESAR. Ha! Who calls?
CASCA. Bid every noise be still; peace yet again!
[Music ceases.]
CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music, Cry “Caesar”! Speak. Caesar is turn’d to hear.
SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March.
CAESAR. What man is that?
BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March.
CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face.
CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.
CAESAR. What say’st thou to me now? Speak once again.
SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March.
CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass.
[Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius.]
CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course?
BRUTUS. Not I.
CASSIUS. I pray you, do.
BRUTUS. I am not gamesome: I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I’ll leave you.
CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have. You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you.
BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil’d my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved (Among which number, Cassius, be you one) Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.
CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?
BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing.
CASSIUS. ’Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome, (Except immortal Caesar) speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age’s yoke, Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes.
BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?
CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus: Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.
[Flourish and shout.]
BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king.
CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so.
BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well, But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other, And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honour more than I fear death.
CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favour. Well, honour is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you; We both have fed as well, and we can both Endure the winter’s cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, “Dar’st thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood, And swim to yonder point?” Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere we could arrive the point propos’d, Caesar cried, “Help me, Cassius, or I sink!” I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar. And this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake: ’tis true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their colour fly, And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his lustre. I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, “Give me some drink, Titinius,” As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone.
[Shout. Flourish.]
BRUTUS. Another general shout? I do believe that these applauses are For some new honours that are heap’d on Caesar.
CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. “Brutus” and “Caesar”: what should be in that “Caesar”? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em, “Brutus” will start a spirit as soon as “Caesar.” Now in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, That he is grown so great? Age, thou art sham’d! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood, But it was fam’d with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk’d of Rome, That her wide walls encompass’d but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say, There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d Th’ eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king!
BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter. For this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further mov’d. What you have said, I will consider; what you have to say I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us.
CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.
Enter Caesar and his Train.
BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning.
CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve, And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today.
BRUTUS. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar’s brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calphurnia’s cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross’d in conference by some senators.
CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is.
CAESAR. Antonius.
ANTONY. Caesar?
CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat, Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given.
CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much, He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music. Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit That could be mov’d to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart’s ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think’st of him.
[Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays.]
CASCA. You pull’d me by the cloak; would you speak with me?
BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanc’d today, That Caesar looks so sad.
CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not?
BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanc’d.
CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer’d him; and being offer’d him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting.
BRUTUS. What was the second noise for?
CASCA. Why, for that too.
CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for?
CASCA. Why, for that too.
BRUTUS. Was the crown offer’d him thrice?
CASCA. Ay, marry, was’t, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbours shouted.
CASSIUS. Who offer’d him the crown?
CASCA. Why, Antony.
BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca.
CASCA. I can as well be hang’d, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; yet ’twas not a crown neither, ’twas one of these coronets; and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refus’d it, the rabblement hooted, and clapp’d their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refus’d the crown, that it had, almost, choked Caesar, for he swooned, and fell down at it. And for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.
CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon?
CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam’d at mouth, and was speechless.
BRUTUS. ’Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness.
CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness.
CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man.
BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself?
CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck’d me ope his doublet, and offer’d them his throat to cut. And I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said anything amiss, he desir’d their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, “Alas, good soul!” and forgave him with all their hearts. But there’s no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb’d their mothers, they would have done no less.
BRUTUS. And, after that, he came thus sad away?
CASCA. Ay.
CASSIUS. Did Cicero say anything?
CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek.
CASSIUS. To what effect?
CASCA. Nay, and I tell you that, I’ll ne’er look you i’ the face again. But those that understood him smil’d at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar’s images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it.
CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca?
CASCA. No, I am promis’d forth.
CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow?
CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating.
CASSIUS. Good. I will expect you.
CASCA. Do so; farewell both.
[Exit Casca.]
BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school.
CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.
BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you.
CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world.
[Exit Brutus.]
Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet I see, Thy honourable metal may be wrought From that it is dispos’d: therefore ’tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduc’d? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus. If I were Brutus now, and he were Cassius, He should not humour me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings, all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar’s ambition shall be glanced at. And after this, let Caesar seat him sure, For we will shake him, or worse days endure.
[Exit.]
SCENE III. The same. A street. Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca with his sword drawn, and Cicero.
CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so?
CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have riv’d the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th’ ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction.
CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful?
CASCA. A common slave, you’d know him well by sight, Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join’d, and yet his hand, Not sensible of fire remain’d unscorch’d. Besides, I ha’ not since put up my sword, Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me. And there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit, Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say, “These are their reasons; they are natural”; For I believe, they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon.
CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow?
CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there tomorrow.
CICERO. Goodnight then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in.
CASCA. Farewell, Cicero.
[Exit Cicero.]
Enter Cassius.
CASSIUS. Who’s there?
CASCA. A Roman.
CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice.
CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this!
CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men.
CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so?
CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk’d about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bar’d my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem’d to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it.
CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us.
CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca; and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts, from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate, Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and pre-formed faculties, To monstrous quality; why, you shall find That Heaven hath infus’d them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man Most like this dreadful night, That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself, or me, In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are.
CASCA. ’Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius?
CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers’ minds are dead, And we are govern’d with our mothers’ spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.
CASCA. Indeed, they say the senators tomorrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place, save here in Italy.
CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat. Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure.
[Thunder still.]
CASCA. So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity.
CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws. What trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I, perhaps, speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm’d, And dangers are to me indifferent.
CASCA. You speak to Casca, and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs, And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest.
CASSIUS. There’s a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have mov’d already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honourable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey’s Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element In favour’s like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible.
Enter Cinna.
CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste.
CASSIUS. ’Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend. Cinna, where haste you so?
CINNA. To find out you. Who’s that? Metellus Cimber?
CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay’d for, Cinna?
CINNA. I am glad on’t. What a fearful night is this! There’s two or three of us have seen strange sights.
CASSIUS. Am I not stay’d for? tell me.
CINNA. Yes, you are. O Cassius, if you could But win the noble Brutus to our party—
CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor’s chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus’ statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey’s Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there?
CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he’s gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie, And so bestow these papers as you bade me.
CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre.
[Exit Cinna.]
Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already, and the man entire Upon the next encounter, yields him ours.
CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people’s hearts! And that which would appear offence in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness.
CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him.
[Exeunt.]
ACT II SCENE I. Rome. Brutus’ orchard. Enter Brutus.
BRUTUS. What, Lucius, ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day.—Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What, Lucius!
Enter Lucius.
LUCIUS. Call’d you, my lord?
BRUTUS. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: When it is lighted, come and call me here.
LUCIUS. I will, my lord.
[Exit.]
BRUTUS. It must be by his death: and for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown’d: How that might change his nature, there’s the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, And that craves wary walking. Crown him?—that; And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with. Th’ abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins Remorse from power; and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway’d More than his reason. But ’tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend. So Caesar may; Then lest he may, prevent. And since the quarrel Will bear no colour for the thing he is, Fashion it thus: that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities: And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg Which hatch’d, would, as his kind grow mischievous; And kill him in the shell.
Enter Lucius.
LUCIUS. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint, I found This paper, thus seal’d up, and I am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed.
[Gives him the letter.]
BRUTUS. Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March?
LUCIUS. I know not, sir.
BRUTUS. Look in the calendar, and bring me word.
LUCIUS. I will, sir.
[Exit.]
BRUTUS. The exhalations, whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them.
[Opens the letter and reads.]
Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake and see thyself. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress! “Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake!” Such instigations have been often dropp’d Where I have took them up. “Shall Rome, &c.” Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king. “Speak, strike, redress!” Am I entreated To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus.
Enter Lucius.
LUCIUS. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days.
[Knock within.]
BRUTUS. ’Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks.
[Exit Lucius.]
Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.
Enter Lucius.
LUCIUS. Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you.
BRUTUS. Is he alone?
LUCIUS. No, sir, there are moe with him.
BRUTUS. Do you know them?
LUCIUS. No, sir, their hats are pluck’d about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favour.
BRUTUS. Let ’em enter.
[Exit Lucius.]
They are the faction. O conspiracy, Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou path, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention.
Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber and Trebonius.
CASSIUS. I think we are too bold upon your rest: Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?
BRUTUS. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you?
CASSIUS. Yes, every man of them; and no man here But honours you; and everyone doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius.
BRUTUS. He is welcome hither.
CASSIUS. This Decius Brutus.
BRUTUS. He is welcome too.
CASSIUS. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber.
BRUTUS. They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night?
CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word?
[They whisper.]
DECIUS. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?
CASCA. No.
CINNA. O, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day.
CASCA. You shall confess that you are both deceiv’d. Here, as I point my sword, the Sun arises; Which is a great way growing on the South, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence, up higher toward the North He first presents his fire; and the high East Stands, as the Capitol, directly here.
BRUTUS. Give me your hands all over, one by one.
CASSIUS. And let us swear our resolution.
BRUTUS. No, not an oath. If not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse— If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed. So let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women; then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? what other bond Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word, And will not palter? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engag’d, That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests and cowards, and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor th’ insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy, If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass’d from him.
CASSIUS. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us.
CASCA. Let us not leave him out.
CINNA. No, by no means.
METELLUS. O, let us have him, for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds. It shall be said, his judgment rul’d our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity.
BRUTUS. O, name him not; let us not break with him; For he will never follow anything That other men begin.
CASSIUS. Then leave him out.
CASCA. Indeed, he is not fit.
DECIUS. Shall no man else be touch’d but only Caesar?
CASSIUS. Decius, well urg’d. I think it is not meet, Mark Antony, so well belov’d of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and you know, his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all; which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together.
BRUTUS. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar, And in the spirit of men there is no blood. O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit, And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds. And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide ’em. This shall mark Our purpose necessary, and not envious; Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar’s arm When Caesar’s head is off.
CASSIUS. Yet I fear him; For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar—
BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself; take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company.
TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter.
[Clock strikes.]
BRUTUS. Peace! count the clock.
CASSIUS. The clock hath stricken three.
TREBONIUS. ’Tis time to part.
CASSIUS. But it is doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no; For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The unaccustom’d terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers, May hold him from the Capitol today.
DECIUS. Never fear that: if he be so resolved, I can o’ersway him, for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers. But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humour the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol.
CASSIUS. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.
BRUTUS. By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?
CINNA. Be that the uttermost; and fail not then.
METELLUS. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey; I wonder none of you have thought of him.
BRUTUS. Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reason; Send him but hither, and I’ll fashion him.
CASSIUS. The morning comes upon’s. We’ll leave you, Brutus. And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.
BRUTUS. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy. And so, good morrow to you everyone.
[Exeunt all but Brutus.]
Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep’st so sound.
Enter Portia.
PORTIA. Brutus, my lord.
BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw cold morning.
PORTIA. Nor for yours neither. Y’ have ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed; and yesternight at supper, You suddenly arose, and walk’d about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across; And when I ask’d you what the matter was, You star’d upon me with ungentle looks. I urg’d you further; then you scratch’d your head, And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot; Yet I insisted, yet you answer’d not, But with an angry wafture of your hand Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did, Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem’d too much enkindled; and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep; And could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail’d on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.
BRUTUS. I am not well in health, and that is all.
PORTIA. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it.
BRUTUS. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed.
PORTIA. Is Brutus sick, and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: and, upon my knees, I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, your self, your half, Why you are heavy, and what men tonight Have had resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness.
BRUTUS. Kneel not, gentle Portia.
PORTIA. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I your self But, as it were, in sort or limitation, To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.
BRUTUS. You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.
PORTIA. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife; I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman well reputed, Cato’s daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father’d and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em. I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience And not my husband’s secrets?
BRUTUS. O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife!
[Knock.]
Hark, hark, one knocks. Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste.
[Exit Portia.]
Enter Lucius with Ligarius.
Lucius, who’s that knocks?
LUCIUS. Here is a sick man that would speak with you.
BRUTUS. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how?
LIGARIUS. Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue.
BRUTUS. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!
LIGARIUS. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour.
BRUTUS. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.
LIGARIUS. By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honourable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjur’d up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible, Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do?
BRUTUS. A piece of work that will make sick men whole.
LIGARIUS. But are not some whole that we must make sick?
BRUTUS. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going, To whom it must be done.
LIGARIUS. Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fir’d I follow you, To do I know not what; but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on.
[Thunder.]
BRUTUS. Follow me then.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. A room in Caesar’s palace. Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his nightgown.
CAESAR. Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight: Thrice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried out, “Help, ho! They murder Caesar!” Who’s within?
Enter a Servant.
SERVANT. My lord?
CAESAR. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice, And bring me their opinions of success.
SERVANT. I will, my lord.
[Exit.]
Enter Calphurnia.
CALPHURNIA. What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth? You shall not stir out of your house today.
CAESAR. Caesar shall forth. The things that threaten’d me Ne’er look’d but on my back; when they shall see The face of Caesar, they are vanished.
CALPHURNIA. Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies, Yet now they fright me. There is one within, Besides the things that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. A lioness hath whelped in the streets, And graves have yawn’d, and yielded up their dead; Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol; The noise of battle hurtled in the air, Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan, And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. O Caesar, these things are beyond all use, And I do fear them!
CAESAR. What can be avoided Whose end is purpos’d by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictions Are to the world in general as to Caesar.
CALPHURNIA. When beggars die, there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
CAESAR. Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear, Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.
Enter Servant.
What say the augurers?
SERVANT. They would not have you to stir forth today. Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, They could not find a heart within the beast.
CAESAR. The gods do this in shame of cowardice: Caesar should be a beast without a heart If he should stay at home today for fear. No, Caesar shall not. Danger knows full well That Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter’d in one day, And I the elder and more terrible, And Caesar shall go forth.
CALPHURNIA. Alas, my lord, Your wisdom is consum’d in confidence. Do not go forth today: call it my fear That keeps you in the house, and not your own. We’ll send Mark Antony to the Senate-house, And he shall say you are not well today. Let me upon my knee prevail in this.
CAESAR. Mark Antony shall say I am not well, And for thy humour, I will stay at home.
Enter Decius.
Here’s Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so.
DECIUS. Caesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar. I come to fetch you to the Senate-house.
CAESAR. And you are come in very happy time To bear my greeting to the Senators, And tell them that I will not come today. Cannot, is false; and that I dare not, falser: I will not come today. Tell them so, Decius.
CALPHURNIA. Say he is sick.
CAESAR. Shall Caesar send a lie? Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far, To be afeard to tell grey-beards the truth? Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come.
DECIUS. Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause, Lest I be laugh’d at when I tell them so.
CAESAR. The cause is in my will; I will not come. That is enough to satisfy the Senate. But for your private satisfaction, Because I love you, I will let you know: Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at home. She dreamt tonight she saw my statue, Which like a fountain with an hundred spouts Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it. And these does she apply for warnings and portents And evils imminent; and on her knee Hath begg’d that I will stay at home today.
DECIUS. This dream is all amiss interpreted: It was a vision fair and fortunate. Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, In which so many smiling Romans bath’d, Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood, and that great men shall press For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calphurnia’s dream is signified.
CAESAR. And this way have you well expounded it.
DECIUS. I have, when you have heard what I can say; And know it now. The Senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you will not come, Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock Apt to be render’d, for someone to say, “Break up the Senate till another time, When Caesar’s wife shall meet with better dreams.” If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper “Lo, Caesar is afraid”? Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love To your proceeding bids me tell you this, And reason to my love is liable.
CAESAR. How foolish do your fears seem now, Calphurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go.
Enter Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, Cinna and Publius.
And look where Publius is come to fetch me.
PUBLIUS. Good morrow, Caesar.
CAESAR. Welcome, Publius. What, Brutus, are you stirr’d so early too? Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius, Caesar was ne’er so much your enemy As that same ague which hath made you lean. What is’t o’clock?
BRUTUS. Caesar, ’tis strucken eight.
CAESAR. I thank you for your pains and courtesy.
Enter Antony.
See! Antony, that revels long a-nights, Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony.
ANTONY. So to most noble Caesar.
CAESAR. Bid them prepare within. I am to blame to be thus waited for. Now, Cinna; now, Metellus; what, Trebonius! I have an hour’s talk in store for you: Remember that you call on me today; Be near me, that I may remember you.
TREBONIUS. Caesar, I will. [Aside.] and so near will I be, That your best friends shall wish I had been further.
CAESAR. Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me; And we, like friends, will straightway go together.
BRUTUS. [Aside.] That every like is not the same, O Caesar, The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. A street near the Capitol. Enter Artemidorus, reading a paper.
ARTEMIDORUS. “Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wrong’d Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Caesar. If thou be’st not immortal, look about you: security gives way to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, Artemidorus.” Here will I stand till Caesar pass along, And as a suitor will I give him this. My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation. If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayest live; If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. [Exit.]
SCENE IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus. Enter Portia and Lucius.
PORTIA. I pr’ythee, boy, run to the Senate-house; Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. Why dost thou stay?
LUCIUS. To know my errand, madam.
PORTIA. I would have had thee there and here again, Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. [Aside.] O constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain ’tween my heart and tongue! I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel! Art thou here yet?
LUCIUS. Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? And so return to you, and nothing else?
PORTIA. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, For he went sickly forth: and take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. Hark, boy, what noise is that?
LUCIUS. I hear none, madam.
PORTIA. Pr’ythee, listen well. I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray, And the wind brings it from the Capitol.
LUCIUS. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing.
Enter the Soothsayer.
PORTIA. Come hither, fellow: Which way hast thou been?
SOOTHSAYER. At mine own house, good lady.
PORTIA. What is’t o’clock?
SOOTHSAYER. About the ninth hour, lady.
PORTIA. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol?
SOOTHSAYER. Madam, not yet. I go to take my stand, To see him pass on to the Capitol.
PORTIA. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not?
SOOTHSAYER. That I have, lady, if it will please Caesar To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself.
PORTIA. Why, know’st thou any harm’s intended towards him?
SOOTHSAYER. None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow. The throng that follows Caesar at the heels, Of Senators, of Praetors, common suitors, Will crowd a feeble man almost to death: I’ll get me to a place more void, and there Speak to great Caesar as he comes along.
[Exit.]
PORTIA. I must go in. [Aside.] Ay me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is! O Brutus, The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise! Sure, the boy heard me. Brutus hath a suit That Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint. Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord; Say I am merry; come to me again, And bring me word what he doth say to thee.
[Exeunt.]
ACT III SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting. A crowd of people in the street leading to the Capitol. Flourish. Enter Caesar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius, Cinna, Antony, Lepidus, Artemidorus, Publius, Popilius and the Soothsayer.
CAESAR. The Ides of March are come.
SOOTHSAYER. Ay, Caesar; but not gone.
ARTEMIDORUS. Hail, Caesar! Read this schedule.
DECIUS. Trebonius doth desire you to o’er-read, At your best leisure, this his humble suit.
ARTEMIDORUS. O Caesar, read mine first; for mine’s a suit That touches Caesar nearer. Read it, great Caesar.
CAESAR. What touches us ourself shall be last serv’d.
ARTEMIDORUS. Delay not, Caesar. Read it instantly.
CAESAR. What, is the fellow mad?
PUBLIUS. Sirrah, give place.
CASSIUS. What, urge you your petitions in the street? Come to the Capitol.
Caesar enters the Capitol, the rest following. All the Senators rise.
POPILIUS. I wish your enterprise today may thrive.
CASSIUS. What enterprise, Popilius?
POPILIUS. Fare you well. [Advances to Caesar.]
BRUTUS. What said Popilius Lena?
CASSIUS. He wish’d today our enterprise might thrive. I fear our purpose is discovered.
BRUTUS. Look how he makes to Caesar: mark him.
CASSIUS. Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention. Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known, Cassius or Caesar never shall turn back, For I will slay myself.
BRUTUS. Cassius, be constant: Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes; For look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change.
CASSIUS. Trebonius knows his time, for look you, Brutus, He draws Mark Antony out of the way.
[Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. Caesar and the Senators take their seats.]
DECIUS. Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go, And presently prefer his suit to Caesar.
BRUTUS. He is address’d; press near and second him.
CINNA. Casca, you are the first that rears your hand.
CAESAR. Are we all ready? What is now amiss That Caesar and his Senate must redress?
METELLUS. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar, Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat An humble heart.
[Kneeling.]
CAESAR. I must prevent thee, Cimber. These couchings and these lowly courtesies Might fire the blood of ordinary men, And turn pre-ordinance and first decree Into the law of children. Be not fond, To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood That will be thaw’d from the true quality With that which melteth fools; I mean sweet words, Low-crooked curtsies, and base spaniel fawning. Thy brother by decree is banished: If thou dost bend, and pray, and fawn for him, I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. Know, Caesar dost not wrong, nor without cause Will he be satisfied.
METELLUS. Is there no voice more worthy than my own, To sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s ear For the repealing of my banish’d brother?
BRUTUS. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar; Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may Have an immediate freedom of repeal.
CAESAR. What, Brutus?
CASSIUS. Pardon, Caesar; Caesar, pardon: As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall, To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber.
CAESAR. I could be well mov’d, if I were as you; If I could pray to move, prayers would move me: But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament. The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks, They are all fire, and every one doth shine; But there’s but one in all doth hold his place. So in the world; ’tis furnish’d well with men, And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive; Yet in the number I do know but one That unassailable holds on his rank, Unshak’d of motion: and that I am he, Let me a little show it, even in this, That I was constant Cimber should be banish’d, And constant do remain to keep him so.
CINNA. O Caesar,—
CAESAR. Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus?
DECIUS. Great Caesar,—
CAESAR. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?
CASCA. Speak, hands, for me!
[Casca stabs Caesar in the neck. Caesar catches hold of his arm. He is then stabbed by several other Conspirators, and at last by Marcus Brutus.]
CAESAR. Et tu, Brute?—Then fall, Caesar!
[Dies. The Senators and People retire in confusion.]
CINNA. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.
CASSIUS. Some to the common pulpits and cry out, “Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!”
BRUTUS. People and Senators, be not affrighted. Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid.
CASCA. Go to the pulpit, Brutus.
DECIUS. And Cassius too.
BRUTUS. Where’s Publius?
CINNA. Here, quite confounded with this mutiny.
METELLUS. Stand fast together, lest some friend of Caesar’s Should chance—
BRUTUS. Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer! There is no harm intended to your person, Nor to no Roman else. So tell them, Publius.
CASSIUS. And leave us, Publius; lest that the people Rushing on us, should do your age some mischief.
BRUTUS. Do so; and let no man abide this deed But we the doers.
Enter Trebonius.
CASSIUS. Where’s Antony?
TREBONIUS. Fled to his house amaz’d. Men, wives, and children stare, cry out, and run, As it were doomsday.
BRUTUS. Fates, we will know your pleasures. That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time And drawing days out, that men stand upon.
CASCA. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life Cuts off so many years of fearing death.
BRUTUS. Grant that, and then is death a benefit: So are we Caesar’s friends, that have abridg’d His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop, And let us bathe our hands in Caesar’s blood Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords: Then walk we forth, even to the market-place, And waving our red weapons o’er our heads, Let’s all cry, “Peace, freedom, and liberty!”
CASSIUS. Stoop then, and wash. How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In States unborn, and accents yet unknown!
BRUTUS. How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport, That now on Pompey’s basis lies along, No worthier than the dust!
CASSIUS. So oft as that shall be, So often shall the knot of us be call’d The men that gave their country liberty.
DECIUS. What, shall we forth?
CASSIUS. Ay, every man away. Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his heels With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome.
Enter a Servant.
BRUTUS. Soft, who comes here? A friend of Antony’s.
SERVANT. Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel; Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down; And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say: Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest; Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving; Say I love Brutus and I honour him; Say I fear’d Caesar, honour’d him, and lov’d him. If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony May safely come to him, and be resolv’d How Caesar hath deserv’d to lie in death, Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead So well as Brutus living; but will follow The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus Thorough the hazards of this untrod state, With all true faith. So says my master Antony.
BRUTUS. Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman; I never thought him worse. Tell him, so please him come unto this place, He shall be satisfied and, by my honour, Depart untouch’d.
SERVANT. I’ll fetch him presently.
[Exit.]
BRUTUS. I know that we shall have him well to friend.
CASSIUS. I wish we may: but yet have I a mind That fears him much; and my misgiving still Falls shrewdly to the purpose.
Enter Antony.
BRUTUS. But here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony.
ANTONY. O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well. I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who else must be let blood, who else is rank: If I myself, there is no hour so fit As Caesar’s death’s hour; nor no instrument Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die. No place will please me so, no means of death, As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, The choice and master spirits of this age.
BRUTUS. O Antony, beg not your death of us. Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, As by our hands and this our present act You see we do; yet see you but our hands And this the bleeding business they have done. Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful; And pity to the general wrong of Rome— As fire drives out fire, so pity pity— Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part, To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony; Our arms in strength of malice, and our hearts Of brothers’ temper, do receive you in With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence.
CASSIUS. Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s In the disposing of new dignities.
BRUTUS. Only be patient till we have appeas’d The multitude, beside themselves with fear, And then we will deliver you the cause Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him, Have thus proceeded.
ANTONY. I doubt not of your wisdom. Let each man render me his bloody hand. First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you; Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand. Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus; Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours; Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius. Gentlemen all—alas, what shall I say? My credit now stands on such slippery ground, That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, Either a coward or a flatterer. That I did love thee, Caesar, O, ’tis true: If then thy spirit look upon us now, Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death, To see thy Antony making his peace, Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, Most noble, in the presence of thy corse? Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, It would become me better than to close In terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay’d, brave hart; Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand, Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe. O world, thou wast the forest to this hart; And this indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer strucken by many princes, Dost thou here lie!
CASSIUS. Mark Antony,—
ANTONY. Pardon me, Caius Cassius: The enemies of Caesar shall say this; Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty.
CASSIUS. I blame you not for praising Caesar so; But what compact mean you to have with us? Will you be prick’d in number of our friends, Or shall we on, and not depend on you?
ANTONY. Therefore I took your hands; but was indeed Sway’d from the point, by looking down on Caesar. Friends am I with you all, and love you all, Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons Why, and wherein, Caesar was dangerous.
BRUTUS. Or else were this a savage spectacle. Our reasons are so full of good regard That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, You should be satisfied.
ANTONY. That’s all I seek, And am moreover suitor that I may Produce his body to the market-place; And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, Speak in the order of his funeral.
BRUTUS. You shall, Mark Antony.
CASSIUS. Brutus, a word with you. [Aside to Brutus.] You know not what you do. Do not consent That Antony speak in his funeral. Know you how much the people may be mov’d By that which he will utter?
BRUTUS. [Aside to Cassius.] By your pardon: I will myself into the pulpit first, And show the reason of our Caesar’s death. What Antony shall speak, I will protest He speaks by leave and by permission; And that we are contented Caesar shall Have all true rights and lawful ceremonies. It shall advantage more than do us wrong.
CASSIUS. [Aside to Brutus.] I know not what may fall; I like it not.
BRUTUS. Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar’s body. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, But speak all good you can devise of Caesar, And say you do’t by our permission; Else shall you not have any hand at all About his funeral. And you shall speak In the same pulpit whereto I am going, After my speech is ended.
ANTONY. Be it so; I do desire no more.
BRUTUS. Prepare the body, then, and follow us.
[Exeunt all but Antony.]
ANTONY. O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers. Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, Which, like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue, A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use, And dreadful objects so familiar, That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quartered with the hands of war; All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds: And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from Hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
Enter a Servant.
You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not?
SERVANT. I do, Mark Antony.
ANTONY. Caesar did write for him to come to Rome.
SERVANT. He did receive his letters, and is coming, And bid me say to you by word of mouth,— [Seeing the body.] O Caesar!
ANTONY. Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep. Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes, Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, Began to water. Is thy master coming?
SERVANT. He lies tonight within seven leagues of Rome.
ANTONY. Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanc’d. Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, No Rome of safety for Octavius yet. Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet stay awhile; Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse Into the market-place: there shall I try, In my oration, how the people take The cruel issue of these bloody men; According to the which thou shalt discourse To young Octavius of the state of things. Lend me your hand.
[Exeunt with Caesar’s body.]
SCENE II. The same. The Forum. Enter Brutus and goes into the pulpit, and Cassius, with a throng of Citizens.
CITIZENS. We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied.
BRUTUS. Then follow me, and give me audience, friends. Cassius, go you into the other street And part the numbers. Those that will hear me speak, let ’em stay here; Those that will follow Cassius, go with him; And public reasons shall be rendered Of Caesar’s death.
FIRST CITIZEN. I will hear Brutus speak.
SECOND CITIZEN. I will hear Cassius; and compare their reasons, When severally we hear them rendered.
[Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens. Brutus goes into the rostrum.]
THIRD CITIZEN. The noble Brutus is ascended: silence!
BRUTUS. Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears, for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; and death, for his ambition. Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.
CITIZENS. None, Brutus, none.
BRUTUS. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enroll’d in the Capitol, his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforc’d, for which he suffered death.
Enter Antony and others, with Caesar’s body.
Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart, that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.
CITIZENS. Live, Brutus! live, live!
FIRST CITIZEN. Bring him with triumph home unto his house.
SECOND CITIZEN. Give him a statue with his ancestors.
THIRD CITIZEN. Let him be Caesar.
FOURTH CITIZEN. Caesar’s better parts Shall be crown’d in Brutus.
FIRST CITIZEN. We’ll bring him to his house with shouts and clamours.
BRUTUS. My countrymen,—
SECOND CITIZEN. Peace! Silence! Brutus speaks.
FIRST CITIZEN. Peace, ho!
BRUTUS. Good countrymen, let me depart alone, And, for my sake, stay here with Antony. Do grace to Caesar’s corpse, and grace his speech Tending to Caesar’s glories, which Mark Antony, By our permission, is allow’d to make. I do entreat you, not a man depart, Save I alone, till Antony have spoke.
[Exit.]
FIRST CITIZEN. Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony.
THIRD CITIZEN. Let him go up into the public chair. We’ll hear him. Noble Antony, go up.
ANTONY. For Brutus’ sake, I am beholding to you.
[Goes up.]
FOURTH CITIZEN. What does he say of Brutus?
THIRD CITIZEN. He says, for Brutus’ sake He finds himself beholding to us all.
FOURTH CITIZEN. ’Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here!
FIRST CITIZEN. This Caesar was a tyrant.
THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, that’s certain. We are blest that Rome is rid of him.
SECOND CITIZEN. Peace! let us hear what Antony can say.
ANTONY. You gentle Romans,—
CITIZENS. Peace, ho! let us hear him.
ANTONY. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious. If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, For Brutus is an honourable man, So are they all, all honourable men, Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me; But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And sure he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause; What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me. My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me.
FIRST CITIZEN. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.
SECOND CITIZEN. If thou consider rightly of the matter, Caesar has had great wrong.
THIRD CITIZEN. Has he, masters? I fear there will a worse come in his place.
FOURTH CITIZEN. Mark’d ye his words? He would not take the crown; Therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious.
FIRST CITIZEN. If it be found so, some will dear abide it.
SECOND CITIZEN. Poor soul, his eyes are red as fire with weeping.
THIRD CITIZEN. There’s not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.
FOURTH CITIZEN. Now mark him; he begins again to speak.
ANTONY. But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters! If I were dispos’d to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honourable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honourable men. But here’s a parchment with the seal of Caesar, I found it in his closet; ’tis his will: Let but the commons hear this testament, Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read, And they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue.
FOURTH CITIZEN. We’ll hear the will. Read it, Mark Antony.
CITIZENS. The will, the will! We will hear Caesar’s will.
ANTONY. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it. It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad. ’Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; For if you should, O, what would come of it?
FOURTH CITIZEN. Read the will! We’ll hear it, Antony; You shall read us the will, Caesar’s will!
ANTONY. Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile? I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the honourable men Whose daggers have stabb’d Caesar; I do fear it.
FOURTH CITIZEN. They were traitors. Honourable men!
CITIZENS. The will! The testament!
SECOND CITIZEN. They were villains, murderers. The will! Read the will!
ANTONY. You will compel me then to read the will? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?
CITIZENS. Come down.
SECOND CITIZEN. Descend.
[He comes down.]
THIRD CITIZEN. You shall have leave.
FOURTH CITIZEN. A ring! Stand round.
FIRST CITIZEN. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body.
SECOND CITIZEN. Room for Antony, most noble Antony!
ANTONY. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.
CITIZENS. Stand back; room! bear back.
ANTONY. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle. I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; ’Twas on a Summer’s evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii. Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d; And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar follow’d it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel. Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov’d him. This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart; And in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey’s statue Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us. O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. Kind souls, what weep you when you but behold Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors.
FIRST CITIZEN. O piteous spectacle!
SECOND CITIZEN. O noble Caesar!
THIRD CITIZEN. O woeful day!
FOURTH CITIZEN. O traitors, villains!
FIRST CITIZEN. O most bloody sight!
SECOND CITIZEN. We will be revenged.
CITIZENS. Revenge,—about,—seek,—burn,—fire,—kill,—slay,—let not a traitor live!
ANTONY. Stay, countrymen.
FIRST CITIZEN. Peace there! Hear the noble Antony.
SECOND CITIZEN. We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with him.
ANTONY. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honourable. What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it. They’re wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men’s blood. I only speak right on. I tell you that which you yourselves do know, Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
CITIZENS. We’ll mutiny.
FIRST CITIZEN. We’ll burn the house of Brutus.
THIRD CITIZEN. Away, then! come, seek the conspirators.
ANTONY. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.
CITIZENS. Peace, ho! Hear Antony; most noble Antony.
ANTONY. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not; I must tell you then. You have forgot the will I told you of.
CITIZENS. Most true; the will!—let’s stay, and hear the will.
ANTONY. Here is the will, and under Caesar’s seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
SECOND CITIZEN. Most noble Caesar! We’ll revenge his death.
THIRD CITIZEN. O, royal Caesar!
ANTONY. Hear me with patience.
CITIZENS. Peace, ho!
ANTONY. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs forever; common pleasures, To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! when comes such another?
FIRST CITIZEN. Never, never. Come, away, away! We’ll burn his body in the holy place, And with the brands fire the traitors’ houses. Take up the body.
SECOND CITIZEN. Go, fetch fire.
THIRD CITIZEN. Pluck down benches.
FOURTH CITIZEN. Pluck down forms, windows, anything.
[Exeunt Citizens, with the body.]
ANTONY. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt!
Enter a Servant.
How now, fellow?
SERVANT. Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome.
ANTONY. Where is he?
SERVANT. He and Lepidus are at Caesar’s house.
ANTONY. And thither will I straight to visit him. He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us anything.
SERVANT. I heard him say Brutus and Cassius Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome.
ANTONY. Belike they had some notice of the people, How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. The same. A street. Enter Cinna, the poet, and after him the citizens.
CINNA. I dreamt tonight that I did feast with Caesar, And things unluckily charge my fantasy. I have no will to wander forth of doors, Yet something leads me forth.
FIRST CITIZEN. What is your name?
SECOND CITIZEN. Whither are you going?
THIRD CITIZEN. Where do you dwell?
FOURTH CITIZEN. Are you a married man or a bachelor?
SECOND CITIZEN. Answer every man directly.
FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, and briefly.
FOURTH CITIZEN. Ay, and wisely.
THIRD CITIZEN. Ay, and truly, you were best.
CINNA. What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a married man or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and briefly, wisely and truly. Wisely I say I am a bachelor.
SECOND CITIZEN. That’s as much as to say they are fools that marry; you’ll bear me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed, directly.
CINNA. Directly, I am going to Caesar’s funeral.
FIRST CITIZEN. As a friend, or an enemy?
CINNA. As a friend.
SECOND CITIZEN. That matter is answered directly.
FOURTH CITIZEN. For your dwelling, briefly.
CINNA. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol.
THIRD CITIZEN. Your name, sir, truly.
CINNA. Truly, my name is Cinna.
FIRST CITIZEN. Tear him to pieces! He’s a conspirator.
CINNA. I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet.
FOURTH CITIZEN. Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses.
CINNA. I am not Cinna the conspirator.
FOURTH CITIZEN. It is no matter, his name’s Cinna; pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going.
THIRD CITIZEN. Tear him, tear him! Come; brands, ho! firebrands. To Brutus’, to Cassius’; burn all. Some to Decius’ house, and some to Casca’s, some to Ligarius’. Away, go!
[Exeunt.]
ACT IV SCENE I. Rome. A room in Antony’s house. Enter Antony, Octavius and Lepidus, seated at a table.
ANTONY. These many then shall die; their names are prick’d.
OCTAVIUS. Your brother too must die; consent you, Lepidus?
LEPIDUS. I do consent,—
OCTAVIUS. Prick him down, Antony.
LEPIDUS. Upon condition Publius shall not live, Who is your sister’s son, Mark Antony.
ANTONY. He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him. But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar’s house; Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine How to cut off some charge in legacies.
LEPIDUS. What, shall I find you here?
OCTAVIUS. Or here, or at the Capitol.
[Exit Lepidus.]
ANTONY. This is a slight unmeritable man, Meet to be sent on errands. Is it fit, The three-fold world divided, he should stand One of the three to share it?
OCTAVIUS. So you thought him, And took his voice who should be prick’d to die In our black sentence and proscription.
ANTONY. Octavius, I have seen more days than you; And though we lay these honours on this man, To ease ourselves of divers sland’rous loads, He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, To groan and sweat under the business, Either led or driven, as we point the way; And having brought our treasure where we will, Then take we down his load, and turn him off, Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears, And graze in commons.
OCTAVIUS. You may do your will; But he’s a tried and valiant soldier.
ANTONY. So is my horse, Octavius; and for that I do appoint him store of provender. It is a creature that I teach to fight, To wind, to stop, to run directly on, His corporal motion govern’d by my spirit. And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so: He must be taught, and train’d, and bid go forth: A barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds On objects, arts, and imitations, Which, out of use and stal’d by other men, Begin his fashion. Do not talk of him But as a property. And now, Octavius, Listen great things. Brutus and Cassius Are levying powers; we must straight make head. Therefore let our alliance be combin’d, Our best friends made, our means stretch’d; And let us presently go sit in council, How covert matters may be best disclos’d, And open perils surest answered.
OCTAVIUS. Let us do so: for we are at the stake, And bay’d about with many enemies; And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, Millions of mischiefs.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Before Brutus’ tent, in the camp near Sardis. Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Titinius and Soldiers; Pindarus meeting them; Lucius at some distance.
BRUTUS. Stand, ho!
LUCILIUS. Give the word, ho! and stand.
BRUTUS. What now, Lucilius! is Cassius near?
LUCILIUS. He is at hand, and Pindarus is come To do you salutation from his master.
[Pindarus gives a letter to Brutus.]
BRUTUS. He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus, In his own change, or by ill officers, Hath given me some worthy cause to wish Things done, undone: but, if he be at hand, I shall be satisfied.
PINDARUS. I do not doubt But that my noble master will appear Such as he is, full of regard and honour.
BRUTUS. He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius; How he received you, let me be resolv’d.
LUCILIUS. With courtesy and with respect enough, But not with such familiar instances, Nor with such free and friendly conference, As he hath us’d of old.
BRUTUS. Thou hast describ’d A hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius, When love begins to sicken and decay It useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith; But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, Make gallant show and promise of their mettle; [Low march within.]
But when they should endure the bloody spur, They fall their crests, and like deceitful jades Sink in the trial. Comes his army on?
LUCILIUS. They meant this night in Sardis to be quarter’d; The greater part, the horse in general, Are come with Cassius.
Enter Cassius and Soldiers.
BRUTUS. Hark! he is arriv’d. March gently on to meet him.
CASSIUS. Stand, ho!
BRUTUS. Stand, ho! Speak the word along.
FIRST SOLDIER. Stand!
SECOND SOLDIER. Stand!
THIRD SOLDIER. Stand!
CASSIUS. Most noble brother, you have done me wrong.
BRUTUS. Judge me, you gods; wrong I mine enemies? And if not so, how should I wrong a brother?
CASSIUS. Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs; And when you do them—
BRUTUS. Cassius, be content. Speak your griefs softly, I do know you well. Before the eyes of both our armies here, Which should perceive nothing but love from us, Let us not wrangle. Bid them move away; Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, And I will give you audience.
CASSIUS. Pindarus, Bid our commanders lead their charges off A little from this ground.
BRUTUS. Lucilius, do you the like; and let no man Come to our tent till we have done our conference. Lucius and Titinius, guard our door.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Within the tent of Brutus. Enter Brutus and Cassius.
CASSIUS. That you have wrong’d me doth appear in this: You have condemn’d and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein my letters, praying on his side Because I knew the man, were slighted off.
BRUTUS. You wrong’d yourself to write in such a case.
CASSIUS. In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offence should bear his comment.
BRUTUS. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn’d to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers.
CASSIUS. I an itching palm! You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
BRUTUS. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.
CASSIUS. Chastisement!
BRUTUS. Remember March, the Ides of March remember: Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake? What villain touch’d his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What! Shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honours For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.
CASSIUS. Brutus, bait not me, I’ll not endure it. You forget yourself, To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions.
BRUTUS. Go to; you are not, Cassius.
CASSIUS. I am.
BRUTUS. I say you are not.
CASSIUS. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther.
BRUTUS. Away, slight man!
CASSIUS. Is’t possible?
BRUTUS. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
CASSIUS. O ye gods, ye gods! Must I endure all this?
BRUTUS. All this? ay, more: fret till your proud heart break; Go show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humour? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I’ll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish.
CASSIUS. Is it come to this?
BRUTUS. You say you are a better soldier: Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
CASSIUS. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus. I said, an elder soldier, not a better: Did I say better?
BRUTUS. If you did, I care not.
CASSIUS. When Caesar liv’d, he durst not thus have mov’d me.
BRUTUS. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.
CASSIUS. I durst not?
BRUTUS. No.
CASSIUS. What? durst not tempt him?
BRUTUS. For your life you durst not.
CASSIUS. Do not presume too much upon my love. I may do that I shall be sorry for.
BRUTUS. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, For I am arm’d so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; For I can raise no money by vile means: By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius? Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces!
CASSIUS. I denied you not.
BRUTUS. You did.
CASSIUS. I did not. He was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hath riv’d my heart. A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities; But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
BRUTUS. I do not, till you practise them on me.
CASSIUS. You love me not.
BRUTUS. I do not like your faults.
CASSIUS. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
BRUTUS. A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus.
CASSIUS. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is a-weary of the world: Hated by one he loves; brav’d by his brother; Check’d like a bondman; all his faults observ’d, Set in a note-book, learn’d and conn’d by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold: If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth. I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.
BRUTUS. Sheathe your dagger. Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger as the flint bears fire, Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again.
CASSIUS. Hath Cassius liv’d To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-temper’d vexeth him?
BRUTUS. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too.
CASSIUS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
BRUTUS. And my heart too.
CASSIUS. O Brutus!
BRUTUS. What’s the matter?
CASSIUS. Have not you love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?
BRUTUS. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius and Lucius.
POET. [Within.] Let me go in to see the generals, There is some grudge between ’em; ’tis not meet They be alone.
LUCILIUS. [Within.] You shall not come to them.
POET. [Within.] Nothing but death shall stay me.
CASSIUS. How now! What’s the matter?
POET. For shame, you generals! What do you mean? Love, and be friends, as two such men should be; For I have seen more years, I’m sure, than ye.
CASSIUS. Ha, ha! How vilely doth this cynic rhyme!
BRUTUS. Get you hence, sirrah. Saucy fellow, hence!
CASSIUS. Bear with him, Brutus; ’tis his fashion.
BRUTUS. I’ll know his humour when he knows his time. What should the wars do with these jigging fools? Companion, hence!
CASSIUS. Away, away, be gone!
[Exit Poet.]
BRUTUS. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders Prepare to lodge their companies tonight.
CASSIUS. And come yourselves and bring Messala with you Immediately to us.
[Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius.]
BRUTUS. Lucius, a bowl of wine.
[Exit Lucius.]
CASSIUS. I did not think you could have been so angry.
BRUTUS. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.
CASSIUS. Of your philosophy you make no use, If you give place to accidental evils.
BRUTUS. No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead.
CASSIUS. Ha? Portia?
BRUTUS. She is dead.
CASSIUS. How ’scap’d I killing, when I cross’d you so? O insupportable and touching loss! Upon what sickness?
BRUTUS. Impatient of my absence, And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony Have made themselves so strong; for with her death That tidings came. With this she fell distract, And, her attendants absent, swallow’d fire.
CASSIUS. And died so?
BRUTUS. Even so.
CASSIUS. O ye immortal gods!
Enter Lucius, with wine and a taper.
BRUTUS. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine. In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.
[Drinks.]
CASSIUS. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup. I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love.
[Drinks.]
[Exit Lucius.]
Enter Titinius and Messala.
BRUTUS. Come in, Titinius! Welcome, good Messala. Now sit we close about this taper here, And call in question our necessities.
CASSIUS. Portia, art thou gone?
BRUTUS. No more, I pray you. Messala, I have here received letters, That young Octavius and Mark Antony Come down upon us with a mighty power, Bending their expedition toward Philippi.
MESSALA. Myself have letters of the selfsame tenor.
BRUTUS. With what addition?
MESSALA. That by proscription and bills of outlawry Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus Have put to death an hundred Senators.
BRUTUS. Therein our letters do not well agree. Mine speak of seventy Senators that died By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.
CASSIUS. Cicero one!
MESSALA. Cicero is dead, And by that order of proscription. Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?
BRUTUS. No, Messala.
MESSALA. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?
BRUTUS. Nothing, Messala.
MESSALA. That, methinks, is strange.
BRUTUS. Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?
MESSALA. No, my lord.
BRUTUS. Now as you are a Roman, tell me true.
MESSALA. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell, For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.
BRUTUS. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala. With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now.
MESSALA. Even so great men great losses should endure.
CASSIUS. I have as much of this in art as you, But yet my nature could not bear it so.
BRUTUS. Well, to our work alive. What do you think Of marching to Philippi presently?
CASSIUS. I do not think it good.
BRUTUS. Your reason?
CASSIUS. This it is: ’Tis better that the enemy seek us; So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers, Doing himself offence, whilst we, lying still, Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness.
BRUTUS. Good reasons must of force give place to better. The people ’twixt Philippi and this ground Do stand but in a forced affection; For they have grudg’d us contribution. The enemy, marching along by them, By them shall make a fuller number up, Come on refresh’d, new-added, and encourag’d; From which advantage shall we cut him off If at Philippi we do face him there, These people at our back.
CASSIUS. Hear me, good brother.
BRUTUS. Under your pardon. You must note besides, That we have tried the utmost of our friends, Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe. The enemy increaseth every day; We, at the height, are ready to decline. There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat, And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures.
CASSIUS. Then, with your will, go on: We’ll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi.
BRUTUS. The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And nature must obey necessity, Which we will niggard with a little rest. There is no more to say?
CASSIUS. No more. Good night: Early tomorrow will we rise, and hence.
Enter Lucius.
BRUTUS. Lucius! My gown. [Exit Lucius.]
Farewell now, good Messala. Good night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius, Good night, and good repose.
CASSIUS. O my dear brother! This was an ill beginning of the night. Never come such division ’tween our souls! Let it not, Brutus.
Enter Lucius with the gown.
BRUTUS. Everything is well.
CASSIUS. Good night, my lord.
BRUTUS. Good night, good brother.
TITINIUS and MESSALA. Good night, Lord Brutus.
BRUTUS. Farewell, everyone.
[Exeunt Cassius, Titinius and Messala.]
Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument?
LUCIUS. Here in the tent.
BRUTUS. What, thou speak’st drowsily? Poor knave, I blame thee not, thou art o’er-watch’d. Call Claudius and some other of my men; I’ll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.
LUCIUS. Varro and Claudius!
Enter Varro and Claudius.
VARRO. Calls my lord?
BRUTUS. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep; It may be I shall raise you by-and-by On business to my brother Cassius.
VARRO. So please you, we will stand and watch your pleasure.
BRUTUS. I will not have it so; lie down, good sirs, It may be I shall otherwise bethink me. Look, Lucius, here’s the book I sought for so; I put it in the pocket of my gown.
[Servants lie down.]
LUCIUS. I was sure your lordship did not give it me.
BRUTUS. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful. Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, And touch thy instrument a strain or two?
LUCIUS. Ay, my lord, an’t please you.
BRUTUS. It does, my boy. I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.
LUCIUS. It is my duty, sir.
BRUTUS. I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest.
LUCIUS. I have slept, my lord, already.
BRUTUS. It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again; I will not hold thee long. If I do live, I will be good to thee.
[Lucius plays and sings till he falls asleep.]
This is a sleepy tune. O murd’rous slumber, Layest thou thy leaden mace upon my boy, That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good night; I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee. If thou dost nod, thou break’st thy instrument; I’ll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night. Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn’d down Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.
Enter the Ghost of Caesar.
How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou anything? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That mak’st my blood cold and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art.
GHOST. Thy evil spirit, Brutus.
BRUTUS. Why com’st thou?
GHOST. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.
BRUTUS. Well; then I shall see thee again?
GHOST. Ay, at Philippi.
BRUTUS. Why, I will see thee at Philippi then.
[Ghost vanishes.]
Now I have taken heart, thou vanishest. Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. Boy! Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake! Claudius! LUCIUS. The strings, my lord, are false.
BRUTUS. He thinks he still is at his instrument. Lucius, awake!
LUCIUS. My lord?
BRUTUS. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out?
LUCIUS. My lord, I do not know that I did cry.
BRUTUS. Yes, that thou didst. Didst thou see anything?
LUCIUS. Nothing, my lord.
BRUTUS. Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah Claudius! Fellow thou, awake!
VARRO. My lord?
CLAUDIUS. My lord?
BRUTUS. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep?
VARRO. CLAUDIUS. Did we, my lord?
BRUTUS. Ay. Saw you anything?
VARRO. No, my lord, I saw nothing.
CLAUDIUS. Nor I, my lord.
BRUTUS. Go and commend me to my brother Cassius; Bid him set on his powers betimes before, And we will follow.
VARRO. CLAUDIUS. It shall be done, my lord.
[Exeunt.]
ACT V SCENE I. The plains of Philippi. Enter Octavius, Antony and their Army.
OCTAVIUS. Now, Antony, our hopes are answered. You said the enemy would not come down, But keep the hills and upper regions. It proves not so; their battles are at hand, They mean to warn us at Philippi here, Answering before we do demand of them.
ANTONY. Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I know Wherefore they do it. They could be content To visit other places, and come down With fearful bravery, thinking by this face To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage; But ’tis not so.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. Prepare you, generals. The enemy comes on in gallant show; Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, And something to be done immediately.
ANTONY. Octavius, lead your battle softly on Upon the left hand of the even field.
OCTAVIUS. Upon the right hand I. Keep thou the left.
ANTONY. Why do you cross me in this exigent?
OCTAVIUS. I do not cross you; but I will do so.
[March.]
Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius and their Army; Lucilius, Titinius, Messala and others.
BRUTUS. They stand, and would have parley.
CASSIUS. Stand fast, Titinius; we must out and talk.
OCTAVIUS. Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle?
ANTONY. No, Caesar, we will answer on their charge. Make forth; the generals would have some words.
OCTAVIUS. Stir not until the signal.
BRUTUS. Words before blows: is it so, countrymen?
OCTAVIUS. Not that we love words better, as you do.
BRUTUS. Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius.
ANTONY. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words; Witness the hole you made in Caesar’s heart, Crying, “Long live! Hail, Caesar!”
CASSIUS. Antony, The posture of your blows are yet unknown; But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, And leave them honeyless.
ANTONY. Not stingless too.
BRUTUS. O yes, and soundless too, For you have stol’n their buzzing, Antony, And very wisely threat before you sting.
ANTONY. Villains, you did not so when your vile daggers Hack’d one another in the sides of Caesar: You show’d your teeth like apes, and fawn’d like hounds, And bow’d like bondmen, kissing Caesar’s feet; Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind Struck Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers!
CASSIUS. Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank yourself. This tongue had not offended so today, If Cassius might have rul’d.
OCTAVIUS. Come, come, the cause. If arguing makes us sweat, The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look, I draw a sword against conspirators. When think you that the sword goes up again? Never, till Caesar’s three and thirty wounds Be well aveng’d; or till another Caesar Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors.
BRUTUS. Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors’ hands, Unless thou bring’st them with thee.
OCTAVIUS. So I hope. I was not born to die on Brutus’ sword.
BRUTUS. O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable.
CASSIUS. A peevish school-boy, worthless of such honour, Join’d with a masker and a reveller.
ANTONY. Old Cassius still!
OCTAVIUS. Come, Antony; away! Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth. If you dare fight today, come to the field; If not, when you have stomachs.
[Exeunt Octavius, Antony and their Army.]
CASSIUS. Why now, blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.
BRUTUS. Ho, Lucilius! Hark, a word with you.
LUCILIUS. My lord?
[Brutus and Lucilius talk apart.]
CASSIUS. Messala.
MESSALA. What says my General?
CASSIUS. Messala, This is my birth-day; as this very day Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala: Be thou my witness that against my will As Pompey was, am I compell’d to set Upon one battle all our liberties. You know that I held Epicurus strong, And his opinion. Now I change my mind, And partly credit things that do presage. Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign Two mighty eagles fell, and there they perch’d, Gorging and feeding from our soldiers’ hands, Who to Philippi here consorted us. This morning are they fled away and gone, And in their steads do ravens, crows, and kites Fly o’er our heads, and downward look on us, As we were sickly prey: their shadows seem A canopy most fatal, under which Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost.
MESSALA. Believe not so.
CASSIUS. I but believe it partly, For I am fresh of spirit, and resolv’d To meet all perils very constantly.
BRUTUS. Even so, Lucilius.
CASSIUS. Now, most noble Brutus, The gods today stand friendly, that we may, Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age! But, since the affairs of men rest still incertain, Let’s reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose this battle, then is this The very last time we shall speak together: What are you then determined to do?
BRUTUS. Even by the rule of that philosophy By which I did blame Cato for the death Which he did give himself, I know not how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life, arming myself with patience To stay the providence of some high powers That govern us below.
CASSIUS. Then, if we lose this battle, You are contented to be led in triumph Thorough the streets of Rome?
BRUTUS. No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman, That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome; He bears too great a mind. But this same day Must end that work the Ides of March begun; And whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take. For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius. If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why then this parting was well made.
CASSIUS. For ever and for ever farewell, Brutus. If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed; If not, ’tis true this parting was well made.
BRUTUS. Why then, lead on. O, that a man might know The end of this day’s business ere it come! But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known. Come, ho! away!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The same. The field of battle. Alarum. Enter Brutus and Messala.
BRUTUS. Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills Unto the legions on the other side. [Loud alarum.]
Let them set on at once; for I perceive But cold demeanor in Octavius’ wing, And sudden push gives them the overthrow. Ride, ride, Messala; let them all come down.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter Cassius and Titinius.
CASSIUS. O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly! Myself have to mine own turn’d enemy: This ensign here of mine was turning back; I slew the coward, and did take it from him.
TITINIUS. O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early, Who, having some advantage on Octavius, Took it too eagerly: his soldiers fell to spoil, Whilst we by Antony are all enclos’d.
Enter Pindarus.
PINDARUS. Fly further off, my lord, fly further off; Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord. Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off.
CASSIUS. This hill is far enough. Look, look, Titinius; Are those my tents where I perceive the fire?
TITINIUS. They are, my lord.
CASSIUS. Titinius, if thou lovest me, Mount thou my horse and hide thy spurs in him, Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops And here again, that I may rest assur’d Whether yond troops are friend or enemy.
TITINIUS. I will be here again, even with a thought.
[Exit.]
CASSIUS. Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill, My sight was ever thick. Regard Titinius, And tell me what thou notest about the field.
[Pindarus goes up.]
This day I breathed first. Time is come round, And where I did begin, there shall I end. My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news?
PINDARUS. [Above.] O my lord!
CASSIUS. What news?
PINDARUS. [Above.] Titinius is enclosed round about With horsemen, that make to him on the spur, Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him. Now, Titinius! Now some light. O, he lights too. He’s ta’en!
[Shout.]
And, hark! they shout for joy.
CASSIUS. Come down; behold no more. O, coward that I am, to live so long, To see my best friend ta’en before my face!
[Pindarus descends.]
Come hither, sirrah. In Parthia did I take thee prisoner; And then I swore thee, saving of thy life, That whatsoever I did bid thee do, Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath. Now be a freeman; and with this good sword, That ran through Caesar’s bowels, search this bosom. Stand not to answer. Here, take thou the hilts; And when my face is cover’d, as ’tis now, Guide thou the sword.—Caesar, thou art reveng’d, Even with the sword that kill’d thee.
[Dies.]
PINDARUS. So, I am free, yet would not so have been, Durst I have done my will. O Cassius! Far from this country Pindarus shall run, Where never Roman shall take note of him.
[Exit.]
Enter Titinius with Messala.
MESSALA. It is but change, Titinius; for Octavius Is overthrown by noble Brutus’ power, As Cassius’ legions are by Antony.
TITINIUS. These tidings would well comfort Cassius.
MESSALA. Where did you leave him?
TITINIUS. All disconsolate, With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill.
MESSALA. Is not that he that lies upon the ground?
TITINIUS. He lies not like the living. O my heart!
MESSALA. Is not that he?
TITINIUS. No, this was he, Messala, But Cassius is no more. O setting sun, As in thy red rays thou dost sink to night, So in his red blood Cassius’ day is set. The sun of Rome is set. Our day is gone; Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done. Mistrust of my success hath done this deed.
MESSALA. Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. O hateful Error, Melancholy’s child! Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men The things that are not? O Error, soon conceiv’d, Thou never com’st unto a happy birth, But kill’st the mother that engender’d thee!
TITINIUS. What, Pindarus! where art thou, Pindarus?
MESSALA. Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet The noble Brutus, thrusting this report Into his ears. I may say thrusting it; For piercing steel and darts envenomed Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus As tidings of this sight.
TITINIUS. Hie you, Messala, And I will seek for Pindarus the while.
[Exit Messala.]
Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius? Did I not meet thy friends? And did not they Put on my brows this wreath of victory, And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts? Alas, thou hast misconstrued everything! But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow; Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace, And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. By your leave, gods. This is a Roman’s part. Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ heart.
[Dies.]
Alarum. Enter Brutus, Messala, young Cato, Strato, Volumnius and Lucilius.
BRUTUS. Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie?
MESSALA. Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it.
BRUTUS. Titinius’ face is upward.
CATO. He is slain.
BRUTUS. O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords In our own proper entrails.
[Low alarums.]
CATO. Brave Titinius! Look whether he have not crown’d dead Cassius!
BRUTUS. Are yet two Romans living such as these? The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! It is impossible that ever Rome Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears To this dead man than you shall see me pay. I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. Come therefore, and to Thassos send his body. His funerals shall not be in our camp, Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come; And come, young Cato; let us to the field. Labeo and Flavius, set our battles on. ’Tis three o’clock; and Romans, yet ere night We shall try fortune in a second fight.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter fighting soldiers of both armies; then Brutus, Messala, young Cato, Lucilius, Flavius and others.
BRUTUS. Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads!
CATO. What bastard doth not? Who will go with me? I will proclaim my name about the field. I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! A foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend. I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!
[Charges the enemy.]
LUCILIUS. And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I; Brutus, my country’s friend; know me for Brutus!
[Exit, charging the enemy. Cato is overpowered, and falls.]
LUCILIUS. O young and noble Cato, art thou down? Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius, And mayst be honour’d, being Cato’s son.
FIRST SOLDIER. Yield, or thou diest.
LUCILIUS. Only I yield to die: There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight; [Offering money]
Kill Brutus, and be honour’d in his death.
FIRST SOLDIER. We must not. A noble prisoner!
SECOND SOLDIER. Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta’en.
FIRST SOLDIER. I’ll tell the news. Here comes the General.
Enter Antony.
Brutus is ta’en, Brutus is ta’en, my lord.
ANTONY. Where is he?
LUCILIUS. Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough. I dare assure thee that no enemy Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus. The gods defend him from so great a shame! When you do find him, or alive or dead, He will be found like Brutus, like himself.
ANTONY. This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you, A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe, Give him all kindness. I had rather have Such men my friends than enemies. Go on, And see whether Brutus be alive or dead; And bring us word unto Octavius’ tent How everything is chanc’d.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Another part of the field. Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato and Volumnius.
BRUTUS. Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.
CLITUS. Statilius show’d the torch-light; but, my lord, He came not back: he is or ta’en or slain.
BRUTUS. Sit thee down, Clitus. Slaying is the word; It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus.
[Whispering.]
CLITUS. What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.
BRUTUS. Peace then, no words.
CLITUS. I’ll rather kill myself.
BRUTUS. Hark thee, Dardanius.
[Whispers him.]
DARDANIUS. Shall I do such a deed?
CLITUS. O Dardanius!
DARDANIUS. O Clitus!
CLITUS. What ill request did Brutus make to thee?
DARDANIUS. To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates.
CLITUS. Now is that noble vessel full of grief, That it runs over even at his eyes.
BRUTUS. Come hither, good Volumnius; list a word.
VOLUMNIUS. What says my lord?
BRUTUS. Why, this, Volumnius: The ghost of Caesar hath appear’d to me Two several times by night; at Sardis once, And this last night here in Philippi fields. I know my hour is come.
VOLUMNIUS. Not so, my lord.
BRUTUS. Nay I am sure it is, Volumnius. Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes; Our enemies have beat us to the pit.
[Low alarums.]
It is more worthy to leap in ourselves Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius, Thou know’st that we two went to school together; Even for that our love of old, I pr’ythee Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it.
VOLUMNIUS. That’s not an office for a friend, my lord.
[Alarums still.]
CLITUS. Fly, fly, my lord! there is no tarrying here.
BRUTUS. Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius. Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; Farewell to thee too, Strato.—Countrymen, My heart doth joy, that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory by this losing day More than Octavius and Mark Antony By this vile conquest shall attain unto. So fare you well at once; for Brutus’ tongue Hath almost ended his life’s history. Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest, That have but labour’d to attain this hour.
[Alarums. Cry within, “Fly, fly, fly!”.]
CLITUS. Fly, my lord, fly!
BRUTUS. Hence! I will follow.
[Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius and Volumnius.]
I pr’ythee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord. Thou art a fellow of a good respect; Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it. Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?
STRATO. Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord.
BRUTUS. Farewell, good Strato.—Caesar, now be still: I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.
[He runs on his sword, and dies.]
Alarum. Retreat. Enter Antony, Octavius, Messala, Lucilius and the Army.
OCTAVIUS. What man is that?
MESSALA. My master’s man. Strato, where is thy master?
STRATO. Free from the bondage you are in, Messala. The conquerors can but make a fire of him; For Brutus only overcame himself, And no man else hath honour by his death.
LUCILIUS. So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus, That thou hast prov’d Lucilius’ saying true.
OCTAVIUS. All that serv’d Brutus, I will entertain them. Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me?
STRATO. Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you.
OCTAVIUS. Do so, good Messala.
MESSALA. How died my master, Strato?
STRATO. I held the sword, and he did run on it.
MESSALA. Octavius, then take him to follow thee, That did the latest service to my master.
ANTONY. This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators save only he, Did that they did in envy of great Caesar; He only, in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, “This was a man!”
OCTAVIUS. According to his virtue let us use him With all respect and rites of burial. Within my tent his bones tonight shall lie, Most like a soldier, order’d honourably. So call the field to rest, and let’s away, To part the glories of this happy day.
[Exeunt.]
THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEAR Contents ACT I Scene I. A Room of State in King Lear’s Palace. Scene II. A Hall in the Earl of Gloucester’s Castle. Scene III. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace. Scene IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace. Scene V. Court before the Duke of Albany’s Palace.
ACT II Scene I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester. Scene II. Before Gloucester’s Castle. Scene III. The open Country. Scene IV. Before Gloucester’s Castle.
ACT III Scene I. A Heath. Scene II. Another part of the heath. Scene III. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle. Scene IV. A part of the Heath with a Hovel. Scene V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle. Scene VI. A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle. Scene VII. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle.
ACT IV Scene I. The heath. Scene II. Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace. Scene III. The French camp near Dover. Scene IV. The French camp. A Tent. Scene V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle. Scene VI. The country near Dover. Scene VII. A Tent in the French Camp.
ACT V Scene I. The Camp of the British Forces near Dover. Scene II. A field between the two Camps. Scene III. The British Camp near Dover.
Dramatis Personæ LEAR, King of Britain. GONERIL, eldest daughter to Lear. REGAN, second daughter to Lear. CORDELIA, youngest daughter to Lear. DUKE of ALBANY, married to Goneril. DUKE of CORNWALL, married to Regan. KING of FRANCE. DUKE of BURGUNDY. EARL of GLOUCESTER. EDGAR, elder son to Gloucester. EDMUND, younger bastard son to Gloucester. EARL of KENT. FOOL. OSWALD, steward to Goneril. CURAN, a Courtier. OLD MAN, Tenant to Gloucester. Physician. An Officer employed by Edmund. Gentleman, attendant on Cordelia. A Herald. Servants to Cornwall.
Knights attending on the King, Officers, Messengers, Soldiers and Attendants.
SCENE: Britain. ACT I SCENE I. A Room of State in King Lear’s Palace. Enter Kent, Gloucester and Edmund.
KENT. I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.
GLOUCESTER. It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most, for qualities are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety.
KENT. Is not this your son, my lord?
GLOUCESTER. His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: I have so often blush’d to acknowledge him that now I am braz’d to’t.
KENT. I cannot conceive you.
GLOUCESTER. Sir, this young fellow’s mother could; whereupon she grew round-wombed, and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?
KENT. I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.
GLOUCESTER. But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account: though this knave came something saucily to the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair; there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?
EDMUND. No, my lord.
GLOUCESTER. My Lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my honourable friend.
EDMUND. My services to your lordship.
KENT. I must love you, and sue to know you better.
EDMUND. Sir, I shall study deserving.
GLOUCESTER. He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. The King is coming.
[Sennet within.]
Enter Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia and Attendants.
LEAR. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.
GLOUCESTER. I shall, my lord.
[Exeunt Gloucester and Edmund.]
LEAR. Meantime we shall express our darker purpose. Give me the map there. Know that we have divided In three our kingdom: and ’tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age; Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburden’d crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less loving son of Albany, We have this hour a constant will to publish Our daughters’ several dowers, that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in our youngest daughter’s love, Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answer’d. Tell me, my daughters,— Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state,— Which of you shall we say doth love us most? That we our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge.—Goneril, Our eldest born, speak first.
GONERIL. Sir, I love you more than word can wield the matter; Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty; Beyond what can be valu’d, rich or rare; No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; As much as child e’er lov’d, or father found; A love that makes breath poor and speech unable; Beyond all manner of so much I love you.
CORDELIA. [Aside.] What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent.
LEAR. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d, With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, We make thee lady: to thine and Albany’s issue Be this perpetual.—What says our second daughter, Our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall? Speak.
REGAN. Sir, I am made of the self mettle as my sister, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love; Only she comes too short, that I profess Myself an enemy to all other joys Which the most precious square of sense possesses, And find I am alone felicitate In your dear highness’ love.
CORDELIA. [Aside.] Then poor Cordelia, And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love’s More ponderous than my tongue.
LEAR. To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom; No less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferr’d on Goneril.—Now, our joy, Although the last and least; to whose young love The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.
CORDELIA. Nothing, my lord.
LEAR. Nothing?
CORDELIA. Nothing.
LEAR. Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.
CORDELIA. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty According to my bond; no more nor less.
LEAR. How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes.
CORDELIA. Good my lord, You have begot me, bred me, lov’d me: I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. Why have my sisters husbands if they say They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty: Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all.
LEAR. But goes thy heart with this?
CORDELIA. Ay, my good lord.
LEAR. So young, and so untender?
CORDELIA. So young, my lord, and true.
LEAR. Let it be so, thy truth then be thy dower: For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate and the night; By all the operation of the orbs, From whom we do exist and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and reliev’d, As thou my sometime daughter.
KENT. Good my liege,—
LEAR. Peace, Kent! Come not between the dragon and his wrath. I lov’d her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery. [To Cordelia.] Hence and avoid my sight! So be my grave my peace, as here I give Her father’s heart from her! Call France. Who stirs? Call Burgundy! Cornwall and Albany, With my two daughters’ dowers digest this third: Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. I do invest you jointly with my power, Pre-eminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course, With reservation of an hundred knights, By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain The name, and all the addition to a king; the sway, Revenue, execution of the rest, Beloved sons, be yours; which to confirm, This coronet part between you.
[Giving the crown.]
KENT. Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honour’d as my king, Lov’d as my father, as my master follow’d, As my great patron thought on in my prayers.—
LEAR. The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft.
KENT. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man? Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak, When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s bound When majesty falls to folly. Reverse thy state; And in thy best consideration check This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgement, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least; Nor are those empty-hearted, whose low sounds Reverb no hollowness.
LEAR. Kent, on thy life, no more.
KENT. My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thine enemies; ne’er fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive.
LEAR. Out of my sight!
KENT. See better, Lear; and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye.
LEAR. Now, by Apollo,—
KENT. Now by Apollo, King, Thou swear’st thy gods in vain.
LEAR. O vassal! Miscreant!
[Laying his hand on his sword.]
ALBANY and CORNWALL. Dear sir, forbear!
KENT. Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift, Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I’ll tell thee thou dost evil.
LEAR. Hear me, recreant! on thine allegiance, hear me! Since thou hast sought to make us break our vows, Which we durst never yet, and with strain’d pride To come betwixt our sentences and our power, Which nor our nature, nor our place can bear, Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee for provision, To shield thee from disasters of the world; And on the sixth to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom: if, on the next day following, Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter, This shall not be revok’d.
KENT. Fare thee well, King: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. [To Cordelia.] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, That justly think’st and hast most rightly said! [To Goneril and Regan.] And your large speeches may your deeds approve, That good effects may spring from words of love. Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu; He’ll shape his old course in a country new.
[Exit.]
Flourish. Re-enter Gloucester, with France, Burgundy and Attendants.
CORDELIA. Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.
LEAR. My Lord of Burgundy, We first address toward you, who with this king Hath rivall’d for our daughter: what in the least Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love?
BURGUNDY. Most royal majesty, I crave no more than hath your highness offer’d, Nor will you tender less?
LEAR. Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did hold her so; But now her price is fall’n. Sir, there she stands: If aught within that little-seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure piec’d, And nothing more, may fitly like your grace, She’s there, and she is yours.
BURGUNDY. I know no answer.
LEAR. Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new adopted to our hate, Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our oath, Take her or leave her?
BURGUNDY. Pardon me, royal sir; Election makes not up in such conditions.
LEAR. Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me, I tell you all her wealth. [To France] For you, great king, I would not from your love make such a stray To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you T’avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a wretch whom nature is asham’d Almost t’acknowledge hers.
FRANCE. This is most strange, That she, who even but now was your best object, The argument of your praise, balm of your age, The best, the dearest, should in this trice of time Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle So many folds of favour. Sure her offence Must be of such unnatural degree That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection Fall into taint; which to believe of her Must be a faith that reason without miracle Should never plant in me.
CORDELIA. I yet beseech your majesty, If for I want that glib and oily art To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend, I’ll do’t before I speak,—that you make known It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, No unchaste action or dishonour’d step, That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favour; But even for want of that for which I am richer, A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking.
LEAR. Better thou hadst Not been born than not to have pleas’d me better.
FRANCE. Is it but this?—a tardiness in nature Which often leaves the history unspoke That it intends to do? My lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love’s not love When it is mingled with regards that stands Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry.
BURGUNDY. Royal King, Give but that portion which yourself propos’d, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy.
LEAR. Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.
BURGUNDY. I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father That you must lose a husband.
CORDELIA. Peace be with Burgundy! Since that respects of fortunes are his love, I shall not be his wife.
FRANCE. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice forsaken; and most lov’d, despis’d! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful, I take up what’s cast away. Gods, gods! ’Tis strange that from their cold’st neglect My love should kindle to inflam’d respect. Thy dowerless daughter, King, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Can buy this unpriz’d precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: Thou losest here, a better where to find.
LEAR. Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. Come, noble Burgundy.
[Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, Cornwall, Albany, Gloucester and Attendants.]
FRANCE. Bid farewell to your sisters.
CORDELIA. The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are; And like a sister am most loath to call Your faults as they are nam’d. Love well our father: To your professed bosoms I commit him: But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place. So farewell to you both.
REGAN. Prescribe not us our duties.
GONERIL. Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath receiv’d you At fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted, And well are worth the want that you have wanted.
CORDELIA. Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides: Who covers faults, at last shame derides. Well may you prosper.
FRANCE. Come, my fair Cordelia.
[Exeunt France and Cordelia.]
GONERIL. Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence tonight.
REGAN. That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us.
GONERIL. You see how full of changes his age is; the observation we have made of it hath not been little: he always loved our sister most; and with what poor judgement he hath now cast her off appears too grossly.
REGAN. ’Tis the infirmity of his age: yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.
GONERIL. The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then must we look from his age to receive not alone the imperfections of long-engrafted condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them.
REGAN. Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent’s banishment.
GONERIL. There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you let us hit together: if our father carry authority with such disposition as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us.
REGAN. We shall further think of it.
GONERIL. We must do something, and i’ th’ heat.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. A Hall in the Earl of Gloucester’s Castle. Enter Edmund with a letter.
EDMUND. Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law My services are bound. Wherefore should I Stand in the plague of custom, and permit The curiosity of nations to deprive me? For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines Lag of a brother? Why bastard? Wherefore base? When my dimensions are as well compact, My mind as generous, and my shape as true As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us With base? With baseness? bastardy? Base, base? Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take More composition and fierce quality Than doth within a dull stale tired bed Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops Got ’tween asleep and wake? Well then, Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land: Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund As to the legitimate: fine word: legitimate! Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed, And my invention thrive, Edmund the base Shall top the legitimate. I grow, I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards!
Enter Gloucester.
GLOUCESTER. Kent banish’d thus! and France in choler parted! And the King gone tonight! Prescrib’d his pow’r! Confin’d to exhibition! All this done Upon the gad!—Edmund, how now! What news?
EDMUND. So please your lordship, none.
[Putting up the letter.]
GLOUCESTER. Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter?
EDMUND. I know no news, my lord.
GLOUCESTER. What paper were you reading?
EDMUND. Nothing, my lord.
GLOUCESTER. No? What needed then that terrible dispatch of it into your pocket? The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. Let’s see. Come, if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles.
EDMUND. I beseech you, sir, pardon me. It is a letter from my brother that I have not all o’er-read; and for so much as I have perus’d, I find it not fit for your o’er-looking.
GLOUCESTER. Give me the letter, sir.
EDMUND. I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame.
GLOUCESTER. Let’s see, let’s see!
EDMUND. I hope, for my brother’s justification, he wrote this but as an essay, or taste of my virtue.
GLOUCESTER. [Reads.] ‘This policy and reverence of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny; who sways not as it hath power, but as it is suffered. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother EDGAR.’ Hum! Conspiracy? ‘Sleep till I wake him, you should enjoy half his revenue.’—My son Edgar! Had he a hand to write this? A heart and brain to breed it in? When came this to you? Who brought it?
EDMUND. It was not brought me, my lord, there’s the cunning of it. I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet.
GLOUCESTER. You know the character to be your brother’s?
EDMUND. If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his; but in respect of that, I would fain think it were not.
GLOUCESTER. It is his.
EDMUND. It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is not in the contents.
GLOUCESTER. Has he never before sounded you in this business?
EDMUND. Never, my lord. But I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit that, sons at perfect age, and fathers declined, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue.
GLOUCESTER. O villain, villain! His very opinion in the letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah, seek him; I’ll apprehend him. Abominable villain, Where is he?
EDMUND. I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you to suspend your indignation against my brother till you can derive from him better testimony of his intent, you should run a certain course; where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour, and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him, that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no other pretence of danger.
GLOUCESTER. Think you so?
EDMUND. If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an auricular assurance have your satisfaction, and that without any further delay than this very evening.
GLOUCESTER. He cannot be such a monster.
EDMUND. Nor is not, sure.
GLOUCESTER. To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out; wind me into him, I pray you: frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself to be in a due resolution.
EDMUND. I will seek him, sir, presently; convey the business as I shall find means, and acquaint you withal.
GLOUCESTER. These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us: though the wisdom of Nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide: in cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked ’twixt son and father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction; there’s son against father: the King falls from bias of nature; there’s father against child. We have seen the best of our time. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing; do it carefully.—And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished! his offence, honesty! ’Tis strange.
[Exit.]
EDMUND. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeits of our own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star. My father compounded with my mother under the dragon’s tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows I am rough and lecherous. Fut! I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.
Enter Edgar.
Pat! he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy: my cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o’Bedlam.—O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! Fa, sol, la, mi.
EDGAR. How now, brother Edmund, what serious contemplation are you in?
EDMUND. I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses.
EDGAR. Do you busy yourself with that?
EDMUND. I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily: as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against King and nobles; needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what.
EDGAR. How long have you been a sectary astronomical?
EDMUND. Come, come! when saw you my father last?
EDGAR. The night gone by.
EDMUND. Spake you with him?
EDGAR. Ay, two hours together.
EDMUND. Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him, by word nor countenance?
EDGAR. None at all.
EDMUND. Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him: and at my entreaty forbear his presence until some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure; which at this instant so rageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay.
EDGAR. Some villain hath done me wrong.
EDMUND. That’s my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak: pray ye, go; there’s my key. If you do stir abroad, go armed.
EDGAR. Armed, brother?
EDMUND. Brother, I advise you to the best; I am no honest man if there be any good meaning toward you: I have told you what I have seen and heard. But faintly; nothing like the image and horror of it: pray you, away!
EDGAR. Shall I hear from you anon?
EDMUND. I do serve you in this business.
[Exit Edgar.]
A credulous father! and a brother noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty My practices ride easy! I see the business. Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit; All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit.
[Exit.]
SCENE III. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace. Enter Goneril and Oswald.
GONERIL. Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?
OSWALD. Ay, madam.
GONERIL. By day and night, he wrongs me; every hour He flashes into one gross crime or other, That sets us all at odds; I’ll not endure it: His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us On every trifle. When he returns from hunting, I will not speak with him; say I am sick. If you come slack of former services, You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer.
[Horns within.]
OSWALD. He’s coming, madam; I hear him.
GONERIL. Put on what weary negligence you please, You and your fellows; I’d have it come to question: If he distaste it, let him to our sister, Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one, Not to be overruled. Idle old man, That still would manage those authorities That he hath given away! Now, by my life, Old fools are babes again; and must be us’d With checks as flatteries, when they are seen abus’d. Remember what I have said.
OSWALD. Very well, madam.
GONERIL. And let his knights have colder looks among you; What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so; I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall, That I may speak. I’ll write straight to my sister To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace. Enter Kent, disguised.
KENT. If but as well I other accents borrow, That can my speech defuse, my good intent May carry through itself to that full issue For which I rais’d my likeness. Now, banish’d Kent, If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d, So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov’st, Shall find thee full of labours.
Horns within. Enter King Lear, Knights and Attendants.
LEAR. Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready.
[Exit an Attendant.]
How now! what art thou?
KENT. A man, sir.
LEAR. What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us?
KENT. I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust; to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise and says little; to fear judgement; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.
LEAR. What art thou?
KENT. A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the King.
LEAR. If thou be’st as poor for a subject as he’s for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou?
KENT. Service.
LEAR. Who wouldst thou serve?
KENT. You.
LEAR. Dost thou know me, fellow?
KENT. No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.
LEAR. What’s that?
KENT. Authority.
LEAR. What services canst thou do?
KENT. I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it and deliver a plain message bluntly. That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best of me is diligence.
LEAR. How old art thou?
KENT. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing; nor so old to dote on her for anything: I have years on my back forty-eight.
LEAR. Follow me; thou shalt serve me. If I like thee no worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner! Where’s my knave? my fool? Go you and call my fool hither.
[Exit an Attendant.]
Enter Oswald.
You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter?
OSWALD. So please you,—
[Exit.]
LEAR. What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back.
[Exit a Knight.]
Where’s my fool? Ho, I think the world’s asleep.
Re-enter Knight.
How now! where’s that mongrel?
KNIGHT. He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.
LEAR. Why came not the slave back to me when I called him?
KNIGHT. Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not.
LEAR. He would not?
KNIGHT. My lord, I know not what the matter is; but to my judgement your highness is not entertained with that ceremonious affection as you were wont; there’s a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general dependants as in the Duke himself also, and your daughter.
LEAR. Ha! say’st thou so?
KNIGHT. I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent when I think your highness wronged.
LEAR. Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I have perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness: I will look further into’t. But where’s my fool? I have not seen him this two days.
KNIGHT. Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined away.
LEAR. No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with her.
[Exit Attendant.]
Go you, call hither my fool.
[Exit another Attendant.]
Re-enter Oswald.
O, you, sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I, sir?
OSWALD. My lady’s father.
LEAR. My lady’s father! my lord’s knave: you whoreson dog! you slave! you cur!
OSWALD. I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon.
LEAR. Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?
[Striking him.]
OSWALD. I’ll not be struck, my lord.
KENT. Nor tripp’d neither, you base football player.
[Tripping up his heels.]
LEAR. I thank thee, fellow. Thou serv’st me, and I’ll love thee.
KENT. Come, sir, arise, away! I’ll teach you differences: away, away! If you will measure your lubber’s length again, tarry; but away! go to; have you wisdom? So.
[Pushes Oswald out.]
LEAR. Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there’s earnest of thy service.
[Giving Kent money.]
Enter Fool.
FOOL. Let me hire him too; here’s my coxcomb.
[Giving Kent his cap.]
LEAR. How now, my pretty knave, how dost thou?
FOOL. Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.
KENT. Why, fool?
FOOL. Why, for taking one’s part that’s out of favour. Nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou’lt catch cold shortly: there, take my coxcomb: why, this fellow has banish’d two on’s daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will; if thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb. How now, nuncle! Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters!
LEAR. Why, my boy?
FOOL. If I gave them all my living, I’d keep my coxcombs myself. There’s mine; beg another of thy daughters.
LEAR. Take heed, sirrah, the whip.
FOOL. Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out, when the Lady Brach may stand by the fire and stink.
LEAR. A pestilent gall to me!
FOOL. Sirrah, I’ll teach thee a speech.
LEAR. Do.
FOOL. Mark it, nuncle: Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest, Ride more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than thou throwest; Leave thy drink and thy whore, And keep in-a-door, And thou shalt have more Than two tens to a score.
KENT. This is nothing, fool.
FOOL. Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer, you gave me nothing for’t. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?
LEAR. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.
FOOL. [to Kent.] Prythee tell him, so much the rent of his land comes to: he will not believe a fool.
LEAR. A bitter fool.
FOOL. Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet one?
LEAR. No, lad; teach me.
FOOL. That lord that counsell’d thee To give away thy land, Come place him here by me, Do thou for him stand. The sweet and bitter fool Will presently appear; The one in motley here, The other found out there.
LEAR. Dost thou call me fool, boy?
FOOL. All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born with.
KENT. This is not altogether fool, my lord.
FOOL. No, faith; lords and great men will not let me; if I had a monopoly out, they would have part on’t and ladies too, they will not let me have all the fool to myself; they’ll be snatching. Nuncle, give me an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns.
LEAR. What two crowns shall they be?
FOOL. Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’ the middle and gav’st away both parts, thou bor’st thine ass on thy back o’er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gav’st thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so. [Singing.] Fools had ne’er less grace in a year; For wise men are grown foppish, And know not how their wits to wear, Their manners are so apish.
LEAR. When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?
FOOL. I have used it, nuncle, e’er since thou mad’st thy daughters thy mothers; for when thou gav’st them the rod, and put’st down thine own breeches, [Singing.] Then they for sudden joy did weep, And I for sorrow sung, That such a king should play bo-peep, And go the fools among. Prythee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie; I would fain learn to lie.
LEAR. An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped.
FOOL. I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are: they’ll have me whipped for speaking true; thou’lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind o’thing than a fool: and yet I would not be thee, nuncle: thou hast pared thy wit o’both sides, and left nothing i’ the middle: here comes one o’ the parings.
Enter Goneril.
LEAR. How now, daughter? What makes that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much of late i’ the frown.
FOOL. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning. Now thou art an O without a figure: I am better than thou art now. I am a fool, thou art nothing. [To Goneril.] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So your face bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum, He that keeps nor crust nor crum, Weary of all, shall want some. [Pointing to Lear.] That’s a shealed peascod.
GONERIL. Not only, sir, this your all-licens’d fool, But other of your insolent retinue Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking forth In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir, I had thought, by making this well known unto you, To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful, By what yourself too late have spoke and done, That you protect this course, and put it on By your allowance; which if you should, the fault Would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal, Might in their working do you that offence Which else were shame, that then necessity Will call discreet proceeding.
FOOL. For you know, nuncle, The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long That it’s had it head bit off by it young. So out went the candle, and we were left darkling.
LEAR. Are you our daughter?
GONERIL. Come, sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom, Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away These dispositions, which of late transform you From what you rightly are.
FOOL. May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee!
LEAR. Doth any here know me? This is not Lear; Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either his notion weakens, his discernings Are lethargied. Ha! waking? ’Tis not so! Who is it that can tell me who I am?
FOOL. Lear’s shadow.
LEAR. I would learn that; for by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters.
FOOL. Which they will make an obedient father.
LEAR. Your name, fair gentlewoman?
GONERIL. This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you To understand my purposes aright: As you are old and reverend, you should be wise. Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires; Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d and bold That this our court, infected with their manners, Shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust Makes it more like a tavern or a brothel Than a grac’d palace. The shame itself doth speak For instant remedy. Be, then, desir’d By her that else will take the thing she begs A little to disquantity your train; And the remainder that shall still depend, To be such men as may besort your age, Which know themselves, and you.
LEAR. Darkness and devils! Saddle my horses; call my train together. Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee: Yet have I left a daughter.
GONERIL. You strike my people; and your disorder’d rabble Make servants of their betters.
Enter Albany.
LEAR. Woe that too late repents!— [To Albany.] O, sir, are you come? Is it your will? Speak, sir.—Prepare my horses. Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show’st thee in a child Than the sea-monster!
ALBANY. Pray, sir, be patient.
LEAR. [to Goneril.] Detested kite, thou liest. My train are men of choice and rarest parts, That all particulars of duty know; And in the most exact regard support The worships of their name. O most small fault, How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! Which, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature From the fix’d place; drew from my heart all love, And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! [Striking his head.] Beat at this gate that let thy folly in And thy dear judgement out! Go, go, my people.
ALBANY. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant Of what hath moved you.
LEAR. It may be so, my lord. Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful! Into her womb convey sterility! Dry up in her the organs of increase; And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her! If she must teem, Create her child of spleen, that it may live And be a thwart disnatur’d torment to her! Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth; With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks; Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits To laughter and contempt; that she may feel How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child! Away, away!
[Exit.]
ALBANY. Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?
GONERIL. Never afflict yourself to know more of it; But let his disposition have that scope That dotage gives it.
Re-enter Lear.
LEAR. What, fifty of my followers at a clap? Within a fortnight?
ALBANY. What’s the matter, sir?
LEAR. I’ll tell thee. [To Goneril.] Life and death! I am asham’d That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus; That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee! Th’untented woundings of a father’s curse Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again, I’ll pluck ye out, And cast you with the waters that you lose To temper clay. Ha! Let it be so. I have another daughter, Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable: When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails She’ll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find That I’ll resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off for ever.
[Exeunt Lear, Kent and Attendants.]
GONERIL. Do you mark that?
ALBANY. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you,—
GONERIL. Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho! [To the Fool.] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master.
FOOL. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and take the fool with thee. A fox when one has caught her, And such a daughter, Should sure to the slaughter, If my cap would buy a halter; So the fool follows after.
[Exit.]
GONERIL. This man hath had good counsel.—A hundred knights! ’Tis politic and safe to let him keep At point a hundred knights: yes, that on every dream, Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, He may enguard his dotage with their powers, And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say!
ALBANY. Well, you may fear too far.
GONERIL. Safer than trust too far: Let me still take away the harms I fear, Not fear still to be taken: I know his heart. What he hath utter’d I have writ my sister: If she sustain him and his hundred knights, When I have show’d th’unfitness,—
Re-enter Oswald.
How now, Oswald! What, have you writ that letter to my sister?
OSWALD. Ay, madam.
GONERIL. Take you some company, and away to horse: Inform her full of my particular fear; And thereto add such reasons of your own As may compact it more. Get you gone; And hasten your return.
[Exit Oswald.]
No, no, my lord! This milky gentleness and course of yours, Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon, You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom Than prais’d for harmful mildness.
ALBANY. How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell: Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
GONERIL. Nay then,—
ALBANY. Well, well; the event.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Court before the Duke of Albany’s Palace. Enter Lear, Kent and Fool.
LEAR. Go you before to Gloucester with these letters: acquaint my daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you.
KENT. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter.
[Exit.]
FOOL. If a man’s brains were in’s heels, were’t not in danger of kibes?
LEAR. Ay, boy.
FOOL. Then I prythee be merry; thy wit shall not go slipshod.
LEAR. Ha, ha, ha!
FOOL. Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly, for though she’s as like this as a crab’s like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell.
LEAR. What canst tell, boy?
FOOL. She’ll taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’the middle on’s face?
LEAR. No.
FOOL. Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.
LEAR. I did her wrong.
FOOL. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?
LEAR. No.
FOOL. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.
LEAR. Why?
FOOL. Why, to put’s head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case.
LEAR. I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready?
FOOL. Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.
LEAR. Because they are not eight?
FOOL. Yes indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.
LEAR. To tak’t again perforce!—Monster ingratitude!
FOOL. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’ld have thee beaten for being old before thy time.
LEAR. How’s that?
FOOL. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
LEAR. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
Enter Gentleman.
How now? are the horses ready?
GENTLEMAN. Ready, my lord.
LEAR. Come, boy.
FOOL. She that’s a maid now, and laughs at my departure, Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter.
[Exeunt.]
ACT II SCENE I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester. Enter Edmund and Curan, meeting.
EDMUND. Save thee, Curan.
CURAN. And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his Duchess will be here with him this night.
EDMUND. How comes that?
CURAN. Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad; I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments?
EDMUND. Not I: pray you, what are they?
CURAN. Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ’twixt the two dukes of Cornwall and Albany?
EDMUND. Not a word.
CURAN. You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir.
[Exit.]
EDMUND. The Duke be here tonight? The better! best! This weaves itself perforce into my business. My father hath set guard to take my brother; And I have one thing, of a queasy question, Which I must act. Briefness and fortune work! Brother, a word, descend, brother, I say!
Enter Edgar.
My father watches: O sir, fly this place; Intelligence is given where you are hid; You have now the good advantage of the night. Have you not spoken ’gainst the Duke of Cornwall? He’s coming hither; now, i’ the night, i’ the haste, And Regan with him: have you nothing said Upon his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany? Advise yourself.
EDGAR. I am sure on’t, not a word.
EDMUND. I hear my father coming:—pardon me; In cunning I must draw my sword upon you: Draw: seem to defend yourself: now quit you well. Yield: come before my father. Light, ho, here! Fly, brother. Torches, torches!—So farewell.
[Exit Edgar.]
Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion Of my more fierce endeavour: [Wounds his arm.] I have seen drunkards Do more than this in sport. Father, father! Stop, stop! No help?
Enter Gloucester and Servants with torches.
GLOUCESTER. Now, Edmund, where’s the villain?
EDMUND. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out, Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon To stand auspicious mistress.
GLOUCESTER. But where is he?
EDMUND. Look, sir, I bleed.
GLOUCESTER. Where is the villain, Edmund?
EDMUND. Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could,—
GLOUCESTER. Pursue him, ho! Go after.
[Exeunt Servants.]
—By no means what?
EDMUND. Persuade me to the murder of your lordship; But that I told him the revenging gods ’Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend; Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond The child was bound to the father; sir, in fine, Seeing how loathly opposite I stood To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion With his prepared sword, he charges home My unprovided body, latch’d mine arm; But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits, Bold in the quarrel’s right, rous’d to th’encounter, Or whether gasted by the noise I made, Full suddenly he fled.
GLOUCESTER. Let him fly far; Not in this land shall he remain uncaught; And found—dispatch’d. The noble Duke my master, My worthy arch and patron, comes tonight: By his authority I will proclaim it, That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks, Bringing the murderous coward to the stake; He that conceals him, death.
EDMUND. When I dissuaded him from his intent, And found him pight to do it, with curst speech I threaten’d to discover him: he replied, ‘Thou unpossessing bastard! dost thou think, If I would stand against thee, would the reposal Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee Make thy words faith’d? No: what I should deny As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce My very character, I’d turn it all To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice: And thou must make a dullard of the world, If they not thought the profits of my death Were very pregnant and potential spurs To make thee seek it.
GLOUCESTER. O strange and fast’ned villain! Would he deny his letter, said he? I never got him.
[Tucket within.]
Hark, the Duke’s trumpets! I know not why he comes. All ports I’ll bar; the villain shall not scape; The Duke must grant me that: besides, his picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom May have due note of him; and of my land, Loyal and natural boy, I’ll work the means To make thee capable.
Enter Cornwall, Regan and Attendants.
CORNWALL. How now, my noble friend! since I came hither, Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news.
REGAN. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which can pursue th’offender. How dost, my lord?
GLOUCESTER. O madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d!
REGAN. What, did my father’s godson seek your life? He whom my father nam’d? your Edgar?
GLOUCESTER. O lady, lady, shame would have it hid!
REGAN. Was he not companion with the riotous knights That tend upon my father?
GLOUCESTER. I know not, madam; ’tis too bad, too bad.
EDMUND. Yes, madam, he was of that consort.
REGAN. No marvel then though he were ill affected: ’Tis they have put him on the old man’s death, To have the expense and waste of his revenues. I have this present evening from my sister Been well inform’d of them; and with such cautions That if they come to sojourn at my house, I’ll not be there.
CORNWALL. Nor I, assure thee, Regan. Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father A childlike office.
EDMUND. It was my duty, sir.
GLOUCESTER. He did bewray his practice; and receiv’d This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.
CORNWALL. Is he pursued?
GLOUCESTER. Ay, my good lord.
CORNWALL. If he be taken, he shall never more Be fear’d of doing harm: make your own purpose, How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund, Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant So much commend itself, you shall be ours: Natures of such deep trust we shall much need; You we first seize on.
EDMUND. I shall serve you, sir, truly, however else.
GLOUCESTER. For him I thank your grace.
CORNWALL. You know not why we came to visit you?
REGAN. Thus out of season, threading dark-ey’d night: Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise, Wherein we must have use of your advice. Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister, Of differences, which I best thought it fit To answer from our home; the several messengers From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend, Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow Your needful counsel to our business, Which craves the instant use.
GLOUCESTER. I serve you, madam: Your graces are right welcome.
[Exeunt. Flourish.]
SCENE II. Before Gloucester’s Castle. Enter Kent and Oswald, severally.
OSWALD. Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?
KENT. Ay.
OSWALD. Where may we set our horses?
KENT. I’ the mire.
OSWALD. Prythee, if thou lov’st me, tell me.
KENT. I love thee not.
OSWALD. Why then, I care not for thee.
KENT. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.
OSWALD. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.
KENT. Fellow, I know thee.
OSWALD. What dost thou know me for?
KENT. A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue; one trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition.
OSWALD. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that’s neither known of thee nor knows thee?
KENT. What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels and beat thee before the King? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw!
[Drawing his sword.]
OSWALD. Away! I have nothing to do with thee.
KENT. Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the King; and take vanity the puppet’s part against the royalty of her father: draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks:—draw, you rascal; come your ways!
OSWALD. Help, ho! murder! help!
KENT. Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike!
[Beating him.]
OSWALD. Help, ho! murder! murder!
Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester and Servants.
EDMUND. How now! What’s the matter? Part!
KENT. With you, goodman boy, if you please: come, I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master.
GLOUCESTER. Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here?
CORNWALL. Keep peace, upon your lives, he dies that strikes again. What is the matter?
REGAN. The messengers from our sister and the King.
CORNWALL. What is your difference? Speak.
OSWALD. I am scarce in breath, my lord.
KENT. No marvel, you have so bestirr’d your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.
CORNWALL. Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man?
KENT. Ay, a tailor, sir: a stonecutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though he had been but two years at the trade.
CORNWALL. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?
OSWALD. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of his grey beard,—
KENT. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you’ll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar and daub the walls of a jakes with him. Spare my grey beard, you wagtail?
CORNWALL. Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence?
KENT. Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.
CORNWALL. Why art thou angry?
KENT. That such a slave as this should wear a sword, Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain Which are too intrince t’unloose; smooth every passion That in the natures of their lords rebel; Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods; Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gale and vary of their masters, Knowing naught, like dogs, but following. A plague upon your epileptic visage! Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool? Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain, I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
CORNWALL. What, art thou mad, old fellow?
GLOUCESTER. How fell you out? Say that.
KENT. No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave.
CORNWALL. Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?
KENT. His countenance likes me not.
CORNWALL. No more perchance does mine, or his, or hers.
KENT. Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain: I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.
CORNWALL. This is some fellow Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he, An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth! An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain. These kind of knaves I know which in this plainness Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends Than twenty silly-ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely.
KENT. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Under th’allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus’ front,—
CORNWALL. What mean’st by this?
KENT. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave; which, for my part, I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to’t.
CORNWALL. What was the offence you gave him?
OSWALD. I never gave him any: It pleas’d the King his master very late To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, compact, and flattering his displeasure, Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d And put upon him such a deal of man, That worthied him, got praises of the King For him attempting who was self-subdu’d; And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, Drew on me here again.
KENT. None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is their fool.
CORNWALL. Fetch forth the stocks! You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart, We’ll teach you.
KENT. Sir, I am too old to learn: Call not your stocks for me: I serve the King; On whose employment I was sent to you: You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Against the grace and person of my master, Stocking his messenger.
CORNWALL. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon.
REGAN. Till noon! Till night, my lord; and all night too!
KENT. Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog, You should not use me so.
REGAN. Sir, being his knave, I will.
[Stocks brought out.]
CORNWALL. This is a fellow of the selfsame colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!
GLOUCESTER. Let me beseech your grace not to do so: His fault is much, and the good King his master Will check him for’t: your purpos’d low correction Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches For pilferings and most common trespasses, Are punish’d with. The King must take it ill That he, so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrained.
CORNWALL. I’ll answer that.
REGAN. My sister may receive it much more worse, To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted, For following her affairs. Put in his legs.
[Kent is put in the stocks.]
CORNWALL. Come, my good lord, away.
[Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent.]
GLOUCESTER. I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the Duke’s pleasure, Whose disposition, all the world well knows, Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d; I’ll entreat for thee.
KENT. Pray do not, sir: I have watch’d, and travell’d hard; Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle. A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels: Give you good morrow!
GLOUCESTER. The Duke’s to blame in this: ’twill be ill taken.
[Exit.]
KENT. Good King, that must approve the common saw, Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st To the warm sun. Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, That by thy comfortable beams I may Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles But misery. I know ’tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been inform’d Of my obscured course. And shall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatch’d, Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night: smile once more, turn thy wheel!
[He sleeps.]
SCENE III. The open Country. Enter Edgar.
EDGAR. I heard myself proclaim’d, And by the happy hollow of a tree Escap’d the hunt. No port is free, no place That guard and most unusual vigilance Does not attend my taking. While I may scape I will preserve myself: and am bethought To take the basest and most poorest shape That ever penury in contempt of man, Brought near to beast: my face I’ll grime with filth, Blanket my loins; elf all my hair in knots, And with presented nakedness outface The winds and persecutions of the sky. The country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! poor Tom, That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am.
[Exit.]
SCENE IV. Before Gloucester’s Castle; Kent in the stocks. Enter Lear, Fool and Gentleman.
LEAR. ’Tis strange that they should so depart from home, And not send back my messenger.
GENTLEMAN. As I learn’d, The night before there was no purpose in them Of this remove.
KENT. Hail to thee, noble master!
LEAR. Ha! Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime?
KENT. No, my lord.
FOOL. Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the heads; dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a man is overlusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks.
LEAR. What’s he that hath so much thy place mistook To set thee here?
KENT. It is both he and she, Your son and daughter.
LEAR. No.
KENT. Yes.
LEAR. No, I say.
KENT. I say, yea.
LEAR. No, no; they would not.
KENT. Yes, they have.
LEAR. By Jupiter, I swear no.
KENT. By Juno, I swear ay.
LEAR. They durst not do’t. They could not, would not do’t; ’tis worse than murder, To do upon respect such violent outrage: Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way Thou mightst deserve or they impose this usage, Coming from us.
KENT. My lord, when at their home I did commend your highness’ letters to them, Ere I was risen from the place that show’d My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth From Goneril his mistress salutations; Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission, Which presently they read; on those contents, They summon’d up their meiny, straight took horse; Commanded me to follow and attend The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks: And meeting here the other messenger, Whose welcome I perceiv’d had poison’d mine, Being the very fellow which of late Display’d so saucily against your highness, Having more man than wit about me, drew; He rais’d the house with loud and coward cries. Your son and daughter found this trespass worth The shame which here it suffers.
FOOL. Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way. Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind, But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne’er turns the key to th’ poor. But for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year.
LEAR. O, how this mother swells up toward my heart! Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow, Thy element’s below! Where is this daughter?
KENT. With the earl, sir, here within.
LEAR. Follow me not; stay here.
[Exit.]
GENTLEMAN. Made you no more offence but what you speak of?
KENT. None. How chance the King comes with so small a number?
FOOL. An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it.
KENT. Why, fool?
FOOL. We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring i’the winter. All that follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind men; and there’s not a nose among twenty but can smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it; but the great one that goes upward, let him draw thee after. When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it. That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack when it begins to rain, And leave thee in the storm. But I will tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly: The knave turns fool that runs away; The fool no knave perdy.
KENT. Where learn’d you this, fool?
FOOL. Not i’ the stocks, fool.
Enter Lear and Gloucester.
LEAR. Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary? They have travell’d all the night? Mere fetches; The images of revolt and flying off. Fetch me a better answer.
GLOUCESTER. My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the Duke; How unremovable and fix’d he is In his own course.
LEAR. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! Fiery? What quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I’d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.
GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.
LEAR. Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man?
GLOUCESTER. Ay, my good lord.
LEAR. The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands, tends, service, Are they inform’d of this? My breath and blood! Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that— No, but not yet: maybe he is not well: Infirmity doth still neglect all office Whereto our health is bound: we are not ourselves When nature, being oppress’d, commands the mind To suffer with the body: I’ll forbear; And am fallen out with my more headier will, To take the indispos’d and sickly fit For the sound man. [Looking on Kent.] Death on my state! Wherefore Should he sit here? This act persuades me That this remotion of the Duke and her Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. Go tell the Duke and’s wife I’d speak with them, Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me, Or at their chamber door I’ll beat the drum Till it cry sleep to death.
GLOUCESTER. I would have all well betwixt you.
[Exit.]
LEAR. O me, my heart, my rising heart! But down!
FOOL. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she put ’em i’ the paste alive; she knapped ’em o’ the coxcombs with a stick and cried ‘Down, wantons, down!’ ’Twas her brother that, in pure kindness to his horse buttered his hay.
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester and Servants.
LEAR. Good morrow to you both.
CORNWALL. Hail to your grace!
[Kent here set at liberty.]
REGAN. I am glad to see your highness.
LEAR. Regan, I think you are; I know what reason I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb, Sepulchring an adultress. [To Kent] O, are you free? Some other time for that.—Beloved Regan, Thy sister’s naught: O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here.
[Points to his heart.]
I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe With how deprav’d a quality—O Regan!
REGAN. I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope You less know how to value her desert Than she to scant her duty.
LEAR. Say, how is that?
REGAN. I cannot think my sister in the least Would fail her obligation. If, sir, perchance She have restrain’d the riots of your followers, ’Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As clears her from all blame.
LEAR. My curses on her.
REGAN. O, sir, you are old; Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her confine: you should be rul’d and led By some discretion, that discerns your state Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you, That to our sister you do make return; Say you have wrong’d her, sir.
LEAR. Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house? ‘Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; [Kneeling.] Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’
REGAN. Good sir, no more! These are unsightly tricks: Return you to my sister.
LEAR. [Rising.] Never, Regan: She hath abated me of half my train; Look’d black upon me; struck me with her tongue, Most serpent-like, upon the very heart. All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, You taking airs, with lameness!
CORNWALL. Fie, sir, fie!
LEAR. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, To fall and blast her pride!
REGAN. O the blest gods! So will you wish on me when the rash mood is on.
LEAR. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse. Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give Thee o’er to harshness. Her eyes are fierce; but thine Do comfort, and not burn. ’Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt Against my coming in. Thou better know’st The offices of nature, bond of childhood, Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude; Thy half o’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow’d.
REGAN. Good sir, to the purpose.
LEAR. Who put my man i’ the stocks?
[Tucket within.]
CORNWALL. What trumpet’s that?
REGAN. I know’t, my sister’s: this approves her letter, That she would soon be here.
Enter Oswald.
Is your lady come?
LEAR. This is a slave, whose easy borrowed pride Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. Out, varlet, from my sight!
CORNWALL. What means your grace?
LEAR. Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on’t. Who comes here? O heavens!
Enter Goneril.
If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, Make it your cause; send down, and take my part! [To Goneril.] Art not asham’d to look upon this beard? O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?
GONERIL. Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended? All’s not offence that indiscretion finds And dotage terms so.
LEAR. O sides, you are too tough! Will you yet hold? How came my man i’ the stocks?
CORNWALL. I set him there, sir: but his own disorders Deserv’d much less advancement.
LEAR. You? Did you?
REGAN. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. If, till the expiration of your month, You will return and sojourn with my sister, Dismissing half your train, come then to me: I am now from home, and out of that provision Which shall be needful for your entertainment.
LEAR. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss’d? No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the enmity o’ the air; To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, Necessity’s sharp pinch! Return with her? Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took Our youngest born, I could as well be brought To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg To keep base life afoot. Return with her? Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter To this detested groom.
[Pointing to Oswald.]
GONERIL. At your choice, sir.
LEAR. I prythee, daughter, do not make me mad: I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell: We’ll no more meet, no more see one another. But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter; Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil, A plague sore, or embossed carbuncle In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee; Let shame come when it will, I do not call it: I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove: Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure: I can be patient; I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights.
REGAN. Not altogether so, I look’d not for you yet, nor am provided For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister; For those that mingle reason with your passion Must be content to think you old, and so— But she knows what she does.
LEAR. Is this well spoken?
REGAN. I dare avouch it, sir: what, fifty followers? Is it not well? What should you need of more? Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger Speak ’gainst so great a number? How in one house Should many people, under two commands, Hold amity? ’Tis hard; almost impossible.
GONERIL. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants, or from mine?
REGAN. Why not, my lord? If then they chanc’d to slack ye, We could control them. If you will come to me,— For now I spy a danger,—I entreat you To bring but five-and-twenty: to no more Will I give place or notice.
LEAR. I gave you all,—
REGAN. And in good time you gave it.
LEAR. Made you my guardians, my depositaries; But kept a reservation to be followed With such a number. What, must I come to you With five-and-twenty, Regan, said you so?
REGAN. And speak’t again my lord; no more with me.
LEAR. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour’d When others are more wicked; not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise. [To Goneril.] I’ll go with thee: Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, And thou art twice her love.
GONERIL. Hear me, my lord: What need you five-and-twenty? Ten? Or five? To follow in a house where twice so many Have a command to tend you?
REGAN. What need one?
LEAR. O, reason not the need: our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous: Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man’s life is cheap as beast’s. Thou art a lady; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need,— You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both! If it be you that stirs these daughters’ hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, And let not women’s weapons, water-drops, Stain my man’s cheeks! No, you unnatural hags, I will have such revenges on you both That all the world shall,—I will do such things,— What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep; No, I’ll not weep:— [Storm and tempest.] I have full cause of weeping; but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I’ll weep.—O fool, I shall go mad!
[Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent and Fool.]
CORNWALL. Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm.
REGAN. This house is little: the old man and his people Cannot be well bestow’d.
GONERIL. ’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly.
REGAN. For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly, But not one follower.
GONERIL. So am I purpos’d. Where is my lord of Gloucester?
Enter Gloucester.
CORNWALL. Followed the old man forth, he is return’d.
GLOUCESTER. The King is in high rage.
CORNWALL. Whither is he going?
GLOUCESTER. He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.
CORNWALL. ’Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.
GONERIL. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.
GLOUCESTER. Alack, the night comes on, and the high winds Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about There’s scarce a bush.
REGAN. O, sir, to wilful men The injuries that they themselves procure Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors. He is attended with a desperate train, And what they may incense him to, being apt To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear.
CORNWALL. Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild night. My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm.
[Exeunt.]
ACT III SCENE I. A Heath. A storm with thunder and lightning. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, severally.
KENT. Who’s there, besides foul weather?
GENTLEMAN. One minded like the weather, most unquietly.
KENT. I know you. Where’s the King?
GENTLEMAN. Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters ’bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all.
KENT. But who is with him?
GENTLEMAN. None but the fool, who labours to out-jest His heart-struck injuries.
KENT. Sir, I do know you; And dare, upon the warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There is division, Although as yet the face of it be cover’d With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall; Who have, as who have not, that their great stars Throne’d and set high; servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the Dukes; Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old kind King; or something deeper, Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings;— But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best ports, and are at point To show their open banner.—Now to you: If on my credit you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that will thank you making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The King hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding; And from some knowledge and assurance Offer this office to you.
GENTLEMAN. I will talk further with you.
KENT. No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia, As fear not but you shall, show her this ring; And she will tell you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! I will go seek the King.
GENTLEMAN. Give me your hand: have you no more to say?
KENT. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet: That, when we have found the King, in which your pain That way, I’ll this; he that first lights on him Holla the other.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Another part of the heath. Storm continues. Enter Lear and Fool.
LEAR. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once, That make ingrateful man!
FOOL. O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.
LEAR. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters; I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children; You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man: But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head So old and white as this! O! O! ’tis foul!
FOOL. He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece. The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
LEAR. No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
Enter Kent.
KENT. Who’s there?
FOOL. Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a fool.
KENT. Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never Remember to have heard. Man’s nature cannot carry Th’affliction, nor the fear.
LEAR. Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake That under covert and convenient seeming Hast practis’d on man’s life: close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn’d against than sinning.
KENT. Alack, bareheaded! Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest: Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house,— More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d; Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to come in,—return, and force Their scanted courtesy.
LEAR. My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That’s sorry yet for thee.
FOOL. [Singing.] He that has and a little tiny wit, With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day.
LEAR. True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.
[Exeunt Lear and Kent.]
FOOL. This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. I’ll speak a prophecy ere I go: When priests are more in word than matter; When brewers mar their malt with water; When nobles are their tailors’ tutors; No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors; When every case in law is right; No squire in debt, nor no poor knight; When slanders do not live in tongues; Nor cut-purses come not to throngs; When usurers tell their gold i’ the field; And bawds and whores do churches build, Then shall the realm of Albion Come to great confusion: Then comes the time, who lives to see’t, That going shall be us’d with feet. This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.
[Exit.]
SCENE III. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle. Enter Gloucester and Edmund.
GLOUCESTER. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me on pain of perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way sustain him.
EDMUND. Most savage and unnatural!
GLOUCESTER. Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the Dukes, and a worse matter than that: I have received a letter this night;—’tis dangerous to be spoken;—I have locked the letter in my closet: these injuries the King now bears will be revenged home; there’s part of a power already footed: we must incline to the King. I will look him, and privily relieve him: go you and maintain talk with the Duke, that my charity be not of him perceived: if he ask for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. If I die for it, as no less is threatened me, the King my old master must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund; pray you be careful.
[Exit.]
EDMUND. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke Instantly know; and of that letter too. This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses, no less than all: The younger rises when the old doth fall.
[Exit.]
SCENE IV. A part of the Heath with a Hovel. Storm continues. Enter Lear, Kent and Fool.
KENT. Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter: The tyranny of the open night’s too rough For nature to endure.
LEAR. Let me alone.
KENT. Good my lord, enter here.
LEAR. Wilt break my heart?
KENT. I had rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter.
LEAR. Thou think’st ’tis much that this contentious storm Invades us to the skin: so ’tis to thee, But where the greater malady is fix’d, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’dst shun a bear; But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, Thou’dst meet the bear i’ the mouth. When the mind’s free, The body’s delicate: the tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude! Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to’t? But I will punish home; No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure: In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all, O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.
KENT. Good my lord, enter here.
LEAR. Prythee go in thyself; seek thine own ease: This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But I’ll go in. [To the Fool.] In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty, Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep.
[Fool goes in.]
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just.
EDGAR. [Within.] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!
[The Fool runs out from the hovel.]
FOOL. Come not in here, nuncle, here’s a spirit. Help me, help me!
KENT. Give me thy hand. Who’s there?
FOOL. A spirit, a spirit: he says his name’s poor Tom.
KENT. What art thou that dost grumble there i’ the straw? Come forth.
Enter Edgar, disguised as a madman.
EDGAR. Away! the foul fiend follows me! Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Humh! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.
LEAR. Didst thou give all to thy two daughters? And art thou come to this?
EDGAR. Who gives anything to poor Tom? Whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o’er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom’s a-cold. O, do, de, do, de, do, de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now, and there,—and there again, and there.
[Storm continues.]
LEAR. What, have his daughters brought him to this pass? Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give ’em all?
FOOL. Nay, he reserv’d a blanket, else we had been all shamed.
LEAR. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air Hang fated o’er men’s faults light on thy daughters!
KENT. He hath no daughters, sir.
LEAR. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu’d nature To such a lowness but his unkind daughters. Is it the fashion that discarded fathers Should have thus little mercy on their flesh? Judicious punishment! ’twas this flesh begot Those pelican daughters.
EDGAR. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, Alow, alow, loo loo!
FOOL. This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
EDGAR. Take heed o’ th’ foul fiend: obey thy parents; keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man’s sworn spouse; set not thy sweet-heart on proud array. Tom’s a-cold.
LEAR. What hast thou been?
EDGAR. A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; that curled my hair; wore gloves in my cap; served the lust of my mistress’ heart, and did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven. One that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it. Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly; and in woman out-paramour’d the Turk. False of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender’s book, and defy the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind: says suum, mun, nonny. Dolphin my boy, boy, sessa! let him trot by.
[Storm still continues.]
LEAR. Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here’s three on’s are sophisticated! Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton here.
[Tears off his clothes.]
FOOL. Prythee, nuncle, be contented; ’tis a naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old lecher’s heart, a small spark, all the rest on’s body cold. Look, here comes a walking fire.
EDGAR. This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth. Swithold footed thrice the old; He met the nightmare, and her nine-fold; Bid her alight and her troth plight, And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!
KENT. How fares your grace?
Enter Gloucester with a torch.
LEAR. What’s he?
KENT. Who’s there? What is’t you seek?
GLOUCESTER. What are you there? Your names?
EDGAR. Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the todpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool; who is whipped from tithing to tithing, and stocked, punished, and imprisoned; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, Horse to ride, and weapon to wear. But mice and rats and such small deer, Have been Tom’s food for seven long year. Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin; peace, thou fiend!
GLOUCESTER. What, hath your grace no better company?
EDGAR. The prince of darkness is a gentleman: Modo he’s call’d, and Mahu.
GLOUCESTER. Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile That it doth hate what gets it.
EDGAR. Poor Tom’s a-cold.
GLOUCESTER. Go in with me: my duty cannot suffer T’obey in all your daughters’ hard commands; Though their injunction be to bar my doors, And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, Yet have I ventur’d to come seek you out, And bring you where both fire and food is ready.
LEAR. First let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder?
KENT. Good my lord, take his offer; go into the house.
LEAR. I’ll talk a word with this same learned Theban. What is your study?
EDGAR. How to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin.
LEAR. Let me ask you one word in private.
KENT. Importune him once more to go, my lord; His wits begin t’unsettle.
GLOUCESTER. Canst thou blame him? His daughters seek his death. Ah, that good Kent! He said it would be thus, poor banish’d man! Thou sayest the King grows mad; I’ll tell thee, friend, I am almost mad myself. I had a son, Now outlaw’d from my blood; he sought my life But lately, very late: I lov’d him, friend, No father his son dearer: true to tell thee,
[Storm continues.]
The grief hath craz’d my wits. What a night’s this! I do beseech your grace.
LEAR. O, cry you mercy, sir. Noble philosopher, your company.
EDGAR. Tom’s a-cold.
GLOUCESTER. In, fellow, there, into the hovel; keep thee warm.
LEAR. Come, let’s in all.
KENT. This way, my lord.
LEAR. With him; I will keep still with my philosopher.
KENT. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow.
GLOUCESTER. Take him you on.
KENT. Sirrah, come on; go along with us.
LEAR. Come, good Athenian.
GLOUCESTER. No words, no words, hush.
EDGAR. Child Rowland to the dark tower came, His word was still—Fie, foh, and fum, I smell the blood of a British man.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle. Enter Cornwall and Edmund.
CORNWALL. I will have my revenge ere I depart his house.
EDMUND. How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of.
CORNWALL. I now perceive it was not altogether your brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reproveable badness in himself.
EDMUND. How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to be just! This is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages of France. O heavens! that this treason were not; or not I the detector!
CORNWALL. Go with me to the Duchess.
EDMUND. If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand.
CORNWALL. True or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension.
EDMUND. [Aside.] If I find him comforting the King, it will stuff his suspicion more fully. I will persever in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood.
CORNWALL. I will lay trust upon thee; and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle. Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool and Edgar.
GLOUCESTER. Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully. I will piece out the comfort with what addition I can: I will not be long from you.
KENT. All the power of his wits have given way to his impatience:— the gods reward your kindness!
[Exit Gloucester.]
EDGAR. Frateretto calls me; and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend.
FOOL. Prythee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeoman.
LEAR. A king, a king!
FOOL. No, he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; for he’s a mad yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him.
LEAR. To have a thousand with red burning spits Come hissing in upon ’em.
EDGAR. The foul fiend bites my back.
FOOL. He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.
LEAR. It shall be done; I will arraign them straight. [To Edgar.] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer; [To the Fool.] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she-foxes!—
EDGAR. Look, where he stands and glares! Want’st thou eyes at trial, madam? Come o’er the bourn, Bessy, to me.
FOOL. Her boat hath a leak, And she must not speak Why she dares not come over to thee.
EDGAR. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale. Hoppedance cries in Tom’s belly for two white herring. Croak not, black angel; I have no food for thee.
KENT. How do you, sir? Stand you not so amaz’d; Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions?
LEAR. I’ll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence. [To Edgar.] Thou, robed man of justice, take thy place. [To the Fool.] And thou, his yokefellow of equity, Bench by his side. [To Kent.] You are o’ the commission, Sit you too.
EDGAR. Let us deal justly. Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd? Thy sheep be in the corn; And for one blast of thy minikin mouth Thy sheep shall take no harm. Purr! the cat is grey.
LEAR. Arraign her first; ’tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor King her father.
FOOL. Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?
LEAR. She cannot deny it.
FOOL. Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.
LEAR. And here’s another, whose warp’d looks proclaim What store her heart is made on. Stop her there! Arms, arms! sword! fire! Corruption in the place! False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape?
EDGAR. Bless thy five wits!
KENT. O pity! Sir, where is the patience now That you so oft have boasted to retain?
EDGAR. [Aside.] My tears begin to take his part so much They mar my counterfeiting.
LEAR. The little dogs and all, Trey, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me.
EDGAR. Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs! Be thy mouth or black or white, Tooth that poisons if it bite; Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, Hound or spaniel, brach or him, Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail, Tom will make them weep and wail; For, with throwing thus my head, Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled. Do, de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.
LEAR. Then let them anatomize Regan; see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? [To Edgar.] You, sir, I entertain you for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments. You’ll say they are Persian; but let them be changed.
KENT. Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile.
LEAR. Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains. So, so. We’ll go to supper i’ the morning.
FOOL. And I’ll go to bed at noon.
Enter Gloucester.
GLOUCESTER. Come hither, friend; Where is the King my master?
KENT. Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone.
GLOUCESTER. Good friend, I prythee, take him in thy arms; I have o’erheard a plot of death upon him; There is a litter ready; lay him in’t And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master; If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life, With thine, and all that offer to defend him, Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up; And follow me, that will to some provision Give thee quick conduct.
KENT. Oppressed nature sleeps. This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken sinews, Which, if convenience will not allow, Stand in hard cure. Come, help to bear thy master; [To the Fool.] Thou must not stay behind.
GLOUCESTER. Come, come, away!
[Exeunt Kent, Gloucester and the Fool bearing off Lear.]
EDGAR. When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes. Who alone suffers, suffers most i’ the mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind: But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. How light and portable my pain seems now, When that which makes me bend makes the King bow; He childed as I fathered! Tom, away! Mark the high noises; and thyself bewray, When false opinion, whose wrong thoughts defile thee, In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee. What will hap more tonight, safe ’scape the King! Lurk, lurk.
[Exit.]
SCENE VII. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle. Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund and Servants.
CORNWALL. Post speedily to my lord your husband, show him this letter: the army of France is landed. Seek out the traitor Gloucester.
[Exeunt some of the Servants.]
REGAN. Hang him instantly.
GONERIL. Pluck out his eyes.
CORNWALL. Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister company: the revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your beholding. Advise the Duke where you are going, to a most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister, farewell, my lord of Gloucester.
Enter Oswald.
How now! Where’s the King?
OSWALD. My lord of Gloucester hath convey’d him hence: Some five or six and thirty of his knights, Hot questrists after him, met him at gate; Who, with some other of the lord’s dependants, Are gone with him toward Dover: where they boast To have well-armed friends.
CORNWALL. Get horses for your mistress.
GONERIL. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister.
CORNWALL. Edmund, farewell.
[Exeunt Goneril, Edmund and Oswald.]
Go seek the traitor Gloucester, Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us.
[Exeunt other Servants.]
Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice, yet our power Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men May blame, but not control. Who’s there? The traitor?
Enter Gloucester and Servants.
REGAN. Ingrateful fox! ’tis he.
CORNWALL. Bind fast his corky arms.
GLOUCESTER. What mean your graces? Good my friends, consider you are my guests. Do me no foul play, friends.
CORNWALL. Bind him, I say.
[Servants bind him.]
REGAN. Hard, hard. O filthy traitor!
GLOUCESTER. Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none.
CORNWALL. To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find—
[Regan plucks his beard.]
GLOUCESTER. By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard.
REGAN. So white, and such a traitor!
GLOUCESTER. Naughty lady, These hairs which thou dost ravish from my chin Will quicken, and accuse thee. I am your host: With robber’s hands my hospitable favours You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?
CORNWALL. Come, sir, what letters had you late from France?
REGAN. Be simple answer’d, for we know the truth.
CORNWALL. And what confederacy have you with the traitors, Late footed in the kingdom?
REGAN. To whose hands have you sent the lunatic King? Speak.
GLOUCESTER. I have a letter guessingly set down, Which came from one that’s of a neutral heart, And not from one oppos’d.
CORNWALL. Cunning.
REGAN. And false.
CORNWALL. Where hast thou sent the King?
GLOUCESTER. To Dover.
REGAN. Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg’d at peril,—
CORNWALL. Wherefore to Dover? Let him first answer that.
GLOUCESTER. I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.
REGAN. Wherefore to Dover, sir?
GLOUCESTER. Because I would not see thy cruel nails Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. The sea, with such a storm as his bare head In hell-black night endur’d, would have buoy’d up, And quench’d the stelled fires; Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. If wolves had at thy gate howl’d that stern time, Thou shouldst have said, ‘Good porter, turn the key.’ All cruels else subscrib’d: but I shall see The winged vengeance overtake such children.
CORNWALL. See’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair. Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot.
[Gloucester is held down in his chair, while Cornwall plucks out one of his eyes and sets his foot on it.]
GLOUCESTER. He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help!—O cruel! O you gods!
REGAN. One side will mock another; the other too!
CORNWALL. If you see vengeance—
FIRST SERVANT. Hold your hand, my lord: I have serv’d you ever since I was a child; But better service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold.
REGAN. How now, you dog!
FIRST SERVANT. If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean?
CORNWALL. My villain?
[Draws, and runs at him.]
FIRST SERVANT. Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger.
[Draws. They fight. Cornwall is wounded.]
REGAN. [To another servant.] Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus?
[Snatches a sword, comes behind, and stabs him.]
FIRST SERVANT. O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O!
[Dies.]
CORNWALL. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now?
[Tears out Gloucester’s other eye and throws it on the ground.]
GLOUCESTER. All dark and comfortless. Where’s my son Edmund? Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature To quit this horrid act.
REGAN. Out, treacherous villain! Thou call’st on him that hates thee: it was he That made the overture of thy treasons to us; Who is too good to pity thee.
GLOUCESTER. O my follies! Then Edgar was abus’d. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him!
REGAN. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. How is’t, my lord? How look you?
CORNWALL. I have receiv’d a hurt: follow me, lady. Turn out that eyeless villain. Throw this slave Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace: Untimely comes this hurt: give me your arm.
[Exit Cornwall, led by Regan; Servants unbind Gloucester and lead him out.]
SECOND SERVANT. I’ll never care what wickedness I do, If this man come to good.
THIRD SERVANT. If she live long, And in the end meet the old course of death, Women will all turn monsters.
SECOND SERVANT. Let’s follow the old Earl, and get the bedlam To lead him where he would: his roguish madness Allows itself to anything.
THIRD SERVANT. Go thou: I’ll fetch some flax and whites of eggs To apply to his bleeding face. Now heaven help him!
[Exeunt.]
ACT IV SCENE I. The heath. Enter Edgar.
EDGAR. Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d, Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst, The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune, Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear: The lamentable change is from the best; The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace; The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts.
Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man.
But who comes here? My father, poorly led? World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age.
OLD MAN. O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant these fourscore years.
GLOUCESTER. Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone. Thy comforts can do me no good at all; Thee they may hurt.
OLD MAN. You cannot see your way.
GLOUCESTER. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father’s wrath! Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I’d say I had eyes again!
OLD MAN. How now! Who’s there?
EDGAR. [Aside.] O gods! Who is’t can say ‘I am at the worst’? I am worse than e’er I was.
OLD MAN. ’Tis poor mad Tom.
EDGAR. [Aside.] And worse I may be yet. The worst is not So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’
OLD MAN. Fellow, where goest?
GLOUCESTER. Is it a beggar-man?
OLD MAN. Madman, and beggar too.
GLOUCESTER. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw; Which made me think a man a worm. My son Came then into my mind, and yet my mind Was then scarce friends with him. I have heard more since. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, They kill us for their sport.
EDGAR. [Aside.] How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Angering itself and others. Bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER. Is that the naked fellow?
OLD MAN. Ay, my lord.
GLOUCESTER. Then prythee get thee away. If for my sake Thou wilt o’ertake us hence a mile or twain, I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love, And bring some covering for this naked soul, Which I’ll entreat to lead me.
OLD MAN. Alack, sir, he is mad.
GLOUCESTER. ’Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind. Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure; Above the rest, be gone.
OLD MAN. I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have, Come on’t what will.
[Exit.]
GLOUCESTER. Sirrah naked fellow.
EDGAR. Poor Tom’s a-cold. [Aside.] I cannot daub it further.
GLOUCESTER. Come hither, fellow.
EDGAR. [Aside.] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.
GLOUCESTER. Know’st thou the way to Dover?
EDGAR. Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of darkness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So, bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s plagues Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier. Heavens deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover?
EDGAR. Ay, master.
GLOUCESTER. There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep: Bring me but to the very brim of it, And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear With something rich about me: from that place I shall no leading need.
EDGAR. Give me thy arm: Poor Tom shall lead thee.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace. Enter Goneril, Edmund; Oswald meeting them.
GONERIL. Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. Now, where’s your master?
OSWALD. Madam, within; but never man so chang’d. I told him of the army that was landed; He smil’d at it: I told him you were coming; His answer was, ‘The worse.’ Of Gloucester’s treachery And of the loyal service of his son When I inform’d him, then he call’d me sot, And told me I had turn’d the wrong side out. What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him; What like, offensive.
GONERIL. [To Edmund.] Then shall you go no further. It is the cowish terror of his spirit, That dares not undertake. He’ll not feel wrongs Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother; Hasten his musters and conduct his powers. I must change names at home, and give the distaff Into my husband’s hands. This trusty servant Shall pass between us. Ere long you are like to hear, If you dare venture in your own behalf, A mistress’s command. [Giving a favour.] Wear this; spare speech; Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. Conceive, and fare thee well.
EDMUND. Yours in the ranks of death.
[Exit Edmund.]
GONERIL. My most dear Gloucester. O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman’s services are due; My fool usurps my body.
OSWALD. Madam, here comes my lord.
[Exit.]
Enter Albany.
GONERIL. I have been worth the whistle.
ALBANY. O Goneril! You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face! I fear your disposition; That nature which contemns its origin Cannot be bordered certain in itself. She that herself will sliver and disbranch From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use.
GONERIL. No more; the text is foolish.
ALBANY. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d? A father, and a gracious aged man, Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear would lick, Most barbarous, most degenerate, have you madded. Could my good brother suffer you to do it? A man, a prince, by him so benefitted! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come, Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep.
GONERIL. Milk-liver’d man! That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know’st Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum? France spreads his banners in our noiseless land; With plumed helm thy state begins to threat, Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt’st still, and criest ‘Alack, why does he so?’
ALBANY. See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.
GONERIL. O vain fool!
ALBANY. Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame! Be-monster not thy feature! Were’t my fitness To let these hands obey my blood. They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones. Howe’er thou art a fiend, A woman’s shape doth shield thee.
GONERIL. Marry, your manhood, mew!
Enter a Messenger.
ALBANY. What news?
MESSENGER. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead; Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester.
ALBANY. Gloucester’s eyes!
MESSENGER. A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse, Oppos’d against the act, bending his sword To his great master; who, thereat enrag’d, Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead; But not without that harmful stroke which since Hath pluck’d him after.
ALBANY. This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester! Lost he his other eye?
MESSENGER. Both, both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer; ’Tis from your sister.
GONERIL. [Aside.] One way I like this well; But being widow, and my Gloucester with her, May all the building in my fancy pluck Upon my hateful life. Another way The news is not so tart. I’ll read, and answer.
[Exit.]
ALBANY. Where was his son when they did take his eyes?
MESSENGER. Come with my lady hither.
ALBANY. He is not here.
MESSENGER. No, my good lord; I met him back again.
ALBANY. Knows he the wickedness?
MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. ’Twas he inform’d against him; And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course.
ALBANY. Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the King, And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend, Tell me what more thou know’st.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. The French camp near Dover. Enter Kent and a Gentleman.
KENT. Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back, know you no reason?
GENTLEMAN. Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of, which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger that his personal return was most required and necessary.
KENT. Who hath he left behind him general?
GENTLEMAN. The Mareschal of France, Monsieur La Far.
KENT. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?
GENTLEMAN. Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence; And now and then an ample tear trill’d down Her delicate cheek. It seem’d she was a queen Over her passion; who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o’er her.
KENT. O, then it mov’d her.
GENTLEMAN. Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like a better day. Those happy smilets That play’d on her ripe lip seem’d not to know What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov’d, If all could so become it.
KENT. Made she no verbal question?
GENTLEMAN. Faith, once or twice she heav’d the name of ‘father’ Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart; Cried ‘Sisters, sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters! Kent! father! sisters! What, i’ the storm? i’ the night? Let pity not be believ’d!’ There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamour master’d her: then away she started To deal with grief alone.
KENT. It is the stars, The stars above us govern our conditions; Else one self mate and make could not beget Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?
GENTLEMAN. No.
KENT. Was this before the King return’d?
GENTLEMAN. No, since.
KENT. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear’s i’ the town; Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers What we are come about, and by no means Will yield to see his daughter.
GENTLEMAN. Why, good sir?
KENT. A sovereign shame so elbows him. His own unkindness, That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d her To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights To his dog-hearted daughters, these things sting His mind so venomously that burning shame Detains him from Cordelia.
GENTLEMAN. Alack, poor gentleman!
KENT. Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?
GENTLEMAN. ’Tis so; they are afoot.
KENT. Well, sir, I’ll bring you to our master Lear And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause Will in concealment wrap me up awhile; When I am known aright, you shall not grieve Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go along with me.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. The French camp. A Tent. Enter with drum and colours, Cordelia, Physician and Soldiers.
CORDELIA. Alack, ’tis he: why, he was met even now As mad as the vex’d sea; singing aloud; Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn. A century send forth; Search every acre in the high-grown field, And bring him to our eye.
[Exit an Officer.]
What can man’s wisdom In the restoring his bereaved sense, He that helps him take all my outward worth.
PHYSICIAN. There is means, madam: Our foster nurse of nature is repose, The which he lacks; that to provoke in him Are many simples operative, whose power Will close the eye of anguish.
CORDELIA. All bless’d secrets, All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth, Spring with my tears! Be aidant and remediate In the good man’s distress! Seek, seek for him; Lest his ungovern’d rage dissolve the life That wants the means to lead it.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. News, madam; The British powers are marching hitherward.
CORDELIA. ’Tis known before. Our preparation stands In expectation of them. O dear father, It is thy business that I go about; Therefore great France My mourning and important tears hath pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite, But love, dear love, and our ag’d father’s right: Soon may I hear and see him!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle. Enter Regan and Oswald.
REGAN. But are my brother’s powers set forth?
OSWALD. Ay, madam.
REGAN. Himself in person there?
OSWALD. Madam, with much ado. Your sister is the better soldier.
REGAN. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home?
OSWALD. No, madam.
REGAN. What might import my sister’s letter to him?
OSWALD. I know not, lady.
REGAN. Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being out, To let him live. Where he arrives he moves All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life; moreover to descry The strength o’ th’enemy.
OSWALD. I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.
REGAN. Our troops set forth tomorrow; stay with us; The ways are dangerous.
OSWALD. I may not, madam: My lady charg’d my duty in this business.
REGAN. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you Transport her purposes by word? Belike, Somethings, I know not what, I’ll love thee much. Let me unseal the letter.
OSWALD. Madam, I had rather—
REGAN. I know your lady does not love her husband; I am sure of that; and at her late being here She gave strange oeillades and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.
OSWALD. I, madam?
REGAN. I speak in understanding; y’are, I know’t: Therefore I do advise you take this note: My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk’d, And more convenient is he for my hand Than for your lady’s. You may gather more. If you do find him, pray you give him this; And when your mistress hears thus much from you, I pray desire her call her wisdom to her. So, fare you well. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.
OSWALD. Would I could meet him, madam! I should show What party I do follow.
REGAN. Fare thee well.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. The country near Dover. Enter Gloucester, and Edgar dressed like a peasant.
GLOUCESTER. When shall I come to the top of that same hill?
EDGAR. You do climb up it now. Look how we labour.
GLOUCESTER. Methinks the ground is even.
EDGAR. Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea?
GLOUCESTER. No, truly.
EDGAR. Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect By your eyes’ anguish.
GLOUCESTER. So may it be indeed. Methinks thy voice is alter’d; and thou speak’st In better phrase and matter than thou didst.
EDGAR. Y’are much deceiv’d: in nothing am I chang’d But in my garments.
GLOUCESTER. Methinks you’re better spoken.
EDGAR. Come on, sir; here’s the place. Stand still. How fearful And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark, Diminish’d to her cock; her cock a buoy Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge That on th’unnumber’d idle pebble chafes Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.
GLOUCESTER. Set me where you stand.
EDGAR. Give me your hand. You are now within a foot of th’extreme verge. For all beneath the moon would I not leap upright.
GLOUCESTER. Let go my hand. Here, friend, ’s another purse; in it a jewel Well worth a poor man’s taking. Fairies and gods Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off; Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.
EDGAR. Now fare ye well, good sir.
[Seems to go.]
GLOUCESTER. With all my heart.
EDGAR. [Aside.] Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it.
GLOUCESTER. O you mighty gods! This world I do renounce, and in your sights, Shake patiently my great affliction off: If I could bear it longer, and not fall To quarrel with your great opposeless wills, My snuff and loathed part of nature should Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him! Now, fellow, fare thee well.
EDGAR. Gone, sir, farewell.
[Gloucester leaps, and falls along]
And yet I know not how conceit may rob The treasury of life when life itself Yields to the theft. Had he been where he thought, By this had thought been past. Alive or dead? Ho you, sir! friend! Hear you, sir? speak! Thus might he pass indeed: yet he revives. What are you, sir?
GLOUCESTER. Away, and let me die.
EDGAR. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, So many fathom down precipitating, Thou’dst shiver’d like an egg: but thou dost breathe; Hast heavy substance; bleed’st not; speak’st; art sound. Ten masts at each make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life is a miracle. Speak yet again.
GLOUCESTER. But have I fall’n, or no?
EDGAR. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn. Look up a-height, the shrill-gorg’d lark so far Cannot be seen or heard. Do but look up.
GLOUCESTER. Alack, I have no eyes. Is wretchedness depriv’d that benefit To end itself by death? ’Twas yet some comfort When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage And frustrate his proud will.
EDGAR. Give me your arm. Up, so. How is’t? Feel you your legs? You stand.
GLOUCESTER. Too well, too well.
EDGAR. This is above all strangeness. Upon the crown o’ the cliff what thing was that Which parted from you?
GLOUCESTER. A poor unfortunate beggar.
EDGAR. As I stood here below, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, Horns whelk’d and waved like the enraged sea. It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of men’s impossibilities, have preserv’d thee.
GLOUCESTER. I do remember now: henceforth I’ll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself ‘Enough, enough,’ and die. That thing you speak of, I took it for a man; often ’twould say, ‘The fiend, the fiend’; he led me to that place.
EDGAR. Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here?
Enter Lear, fantastically dressed up with flowers.
The safer sense will ne’er accommodate His master thus.
LEAR. No, they cannot touch me for coining. I am the King himself.
EDGAR. O thou side-piercing sight!
LEAR. Nature’s above art in that respect. There’s your press money. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper: draw me a clothier’s yard. Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace, this piece of toasted cheese will do’t. There’s my gauntlet; I’ll prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown, bird! i’ the clout, i’ the clout. Hewgh! Give the word.
EDGAR. Sweet marjoram.
LEAR. Pass.
GLOUCESTER. I know that voice.
LEAR. Ha! Goneril with a white beard! They flattered me like a dog; and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to everything I said ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding; there I found ’em, there I smelt ’em out. Go to, they are not men o’ their words: they told me I was everything; ’tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.
GLOUCESTER. The trick of that voice I do well remember: Is’t not the King?
LEAR. Ay, every inch a king. When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man’s life. What was thy cause? Adultery? Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No: The wren goes to’t, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive; For Gloucester’s bastard son was kinder to his father Than my daughters got ’tween the lawful sheets. To’t, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. Behold yond simp’ring dame, Whose face between her forks presages snow; That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure’s name. The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to’t with a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are centaurs, though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods inherit, beneath is all the fiend’s; there’s hell, there’s darkness, there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination. There’s money for thee.
GLOUCESTER. O, let me kiss that hand!
LEAR. Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.
GLOUCESTER. O ruin’d piece of nature, this great world Shall so wear out to naught. Dost thou know me?
LEAR. I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid; I’ll not love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it.
GLOUCESTER. Were all the letters suns, I could not see one.
EDGAR. I would not take this from report, It is, and my heart breaks at it.
LEAR. Read.
GLOUCESTER. What, with the case of eyes?
LEAR. O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world goes.
GLOUCESTER. I see it feelingly.
LEAR. What, art mad? A man may see how the world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears. See how yon justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer’s dog bark at a beggar?
GLOUCESTER. Ay, sir.
LEAR. And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority: a dog’s obeyed in office. Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back; Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. Through tatter’d clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pygmy’s straw does pierce it. None does offend, none, I say none; I’ll able ’em; Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal the accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes, And like a scurvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now: Pull off my boots: harder, harder, so.
EDGAR. O, matter and impertinency mix’d! Reason in madness!
LEAR. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough, thy name is Gloucester. Thou must be patient; we came crying hither: Thou know’st the first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark.
GLOUCESTER. Alack, alack the day!
LEAR. When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of fools. This a good block: It were a delicate stratagem to shoe A troop of horse with felt. I’ll put’t in proof And when I have stol’n upon these son-in-laws, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!
Enter a Gentleman with Attendants.
GENTLEMAN. O, here he is: lay hand upon him. Sir, Your most dear daughter—
LEAR. No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even The natural fool of fortune. Use me well; You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons; I am cut to the brains.
GENTLEMAN. You shall have anything.
LEAR. No seconds? All myself? Why, this would make a man a man of salt, To use his eyes for garden water-pots, Ay, and for laying autumn’s dust.
GENTLEMAN. Good sir.
LEAR. I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom. What! I will be jovial. Come, come, I am a king, my masters, know you that.
GENTLEMAN. You are a royal one, and we obey you.
LEAR. Then there’s life in’t. Come, and you get it, You shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa!
[Exit running. Attendants follow.]
GENTLEMAN. A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter Who redeems nature from the general curse Which twain have brought her to.
EDGAR. Hail, gentle sir.
GENTLEMAN. Sir, speed you. What’s your will?
EDGAR. Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward?
GENTLEMAN. Most sure and vulgar. Everyone hears that, which can distinguish sound.
EDGAR. But, by your favour, How near’s the other army?
GENTLEMAN. Near and on speedy foot; the main descry Stands on the hourly thought.
EDGAR. I thank you sir, that’s all.
GENTLEMAN. Though that the queen on special cause is here, Her army is mov’d on.
EDGAR. I thank you, sir.
[Exit Gentleman.]
GLOUCESTER. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please.
EDGAR. Well pray you, father.
GLOUCESTER. Now, good sir, what are you?
EDGAR. A most poor man, made tame to fortune’s blows; Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand, I’ll lead you to some biding.
GLOUCESTER. Hearty thanks: The bounty and the benison of heaven To boot, and boot.
Enter Oswald.
OSWALD. A proclaim’d prize! Most happy! That eyeless head of thine was first fram’d flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, Briefly thyself remember. The sword is out That must destroy thee.
GLOUCESTER. Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough to’t.
[Edgar interposes.]
OSWALD. Wherefore, bold peasant, Dar’st thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence; Lest that th’infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.
EDGAR. Chill not let go, zir, without vurther ’casion.
OSWALD. Let go, slave, or thou diest!
EDGAR. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volke pass. An chud ha’ bin zwaggered out of my life, ’twould not ha’ bin zo long as ’tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th’old man; keep out, che vor ye, or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder: chill be plain with you.
OSWALD. Out, dunghill!
EDGAR. Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come! No matter vor your foins.
[They fight, and Edgar knocks him down.]
OSWALD. Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse. If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body; And give the letters which thou find’st about me To Edmund, Earl of Gloucester. Seek him out Upon the British party. O, untimely death!
[Dies.]
EDGAR. I know thee well. A serviceable villain, As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire.
GLOUCESTER. What, is he dead?
EDGAR. Sit you down, father; rest you. Let’s see these pockets; the letters that he speaks of May be my friends. He’s dead; I am only sorry He had no other deathsman. Let us see: Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not. To know our enemies’ minds, we rip their hearts, Their papers is more lawful. [Reads.] ‘Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done if he return the conqueror: then am I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour. ‘Your (wife, so I would say) affectionate servant, ‘Goneril.’ O indistinguish’d space of woman’s will! A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life, And the exchange my brother! Here in the sands Thee I’ll rake up, the post unsanctified Of murderous lechers: and in the mature time, With this ungracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practis’d Duke: for him ’tis well That of thy death and business I can tell.
[Exit Edgar, dragging out the body.]
GLOUCESTER. The King is mad: how stiff is my vile sense, That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract: So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs, And woes by wrong imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves.
[A drum afar off.]
EDGAR. Give me your hand. Far off methinks I hear the beaten drum. Come, father, I’ll bestow you with a friend.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VII. A Tent in the French Camp. Lear on a bed, asleep, soft music playing; Physician, Gentleman and others attending.
Enter Cordelia and Kent.
CORDELIA. O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work To match thy goodness? My life will be too short, And every measure fail me.
KENT. To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’erpaid. All my reports go with the modest truth; Nor more, nor clipp’d, but so.
CORDELIA. Be better suited, These weeds are memories of those worser hours: I prythee put them off.
KENT. Pardon, dear madam; Yet to be known shortens my made intent. My boon I make it that you know me not Till time and I think meet.
CORDELIA. Then be’t so, my good lord. [To the Physician.] How, does the King?
PHYSICIAN. Madam, sleeps still.
CORDELIA. O you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abused nature! The untun’d and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father.
PHYSICIAN. So please your majesty That we may wake the King: he hath slept long.
CORDELIA. Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d?
PHYSICIAN. Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep We put fresh garments on him. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him; I doubt not of his temperance.
CORDELIA. Very well.
PHYSICIAN. Please you draw near. Louder the music there!
CORDELIA. O my dear father! Restoration hang Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made!
KENT. Kind and dear princess!
CORDELIA. Had you not been their father, these white flakes Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face To be oppos’d against the warring winds? To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder? In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick cross lightning? to watch, poor perdu! With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn In short and musty straw? Alack, alack! ’Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him.
PHYSICIAN. Madam, do you; ’tis fittest.
CORDELIA. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?
LEAR. You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave. Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.
CORDELIA. Sir, do you know me?
LEAR. You are a spirit, I know: when did you die?
CORDELIA. Still, still, far wide!
PHYSICIAN. He’s scarce awake: let him alone awhile.
LEAR. Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight? I am mightily abus’d. I should e’en die with pity, To see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands: let’s see; I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur’d Of my condition!
CORDELIA. O, look upon me, sir, And hold your hands in benediction o’er me. No, sir, you must not kneel.
LEAR. Pray, do not mock me: I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less; And to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For, as I am a man, I think this lady To be my child Cordelia.
CORDELIA. And so I am. I am.
LEAR. Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not: If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have not.
CORDELIA. No cause, no cause.
LEAR. Am I in France?
KENT. In your own kingdom, sir.
LEAR. Do not abuse me.
PHYSICIAN. Be comforted, good madam, the great rage, You see, is kill’d in him: and yet it is danger To make him even o’er the time he has lost. Desire him to go in; trouble him no more Till further settling.
CORDELIA. Will’t please your highness walk?
LEAR. You must bear with me: Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish.
[Exeunt Lear, Cordelia, Physician and Attendants.]
GENTLEMAN. Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?
KENT. Most certain, sir.
GENTLEMAN. Who is conductor of his people?
KENT. As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.
GENTLEMAN. They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl of Kent in Germany.
KENT. Report is changeable. ’Tis time to look about; the powers of the kingdom approach apace.
GENTLEMAN. The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you well, sir.
[Exit.]
KENT. My point and period will be throughly wrought, Or well or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought.
[Exit.]
ACT V SCENE I. The Camp of the British Forces near Dover. Enter, with drum and colours Edmund, Regan, Officers, Soldiers and others.
EDMUND. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold, Or whether since he is advis’d by aught To change the course, he’s full of alteration And self-reproving, bring his constant pleasure.
[To an Officer, who goes out.]
REGAN. Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried.
EDMUND. ’Tis to be doubted, madam.
REGAN. Now, sweet lord, You know the goodness I intend upon you: Tell me but truly, but then speak the truth, Do you not love my sister?
EDMUND. In honour’d love.
REGAN. But have you never found my brother’s way To the forfended place?
EDMUND. That thought abuses you.
REGAN. I am doubtful that you have been conjunct And bosom’d with her, as far as we call hers.
EDMUND. No, by mine honour, madam.
REGAN. I never shall endure her, dear my lord, Be not familiar with her.
EDMUND. Fear not, She and the Duke her husband!
Enter with drum and colours Albany, Goneril and Soldiers.
GONERIL. [Aside.] I had rather lose the battle than that sister Should loosen him and me.
ALBANY. Our very loving sister, well be-met. Sir, this I heard: the King is come to his daughter, With others whom the rigour of our state Forc’d to cry out. Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant. For this business, It toucheth us as France invades our land, Not bolds the King, with others whom I fear Most just and heavy causes make oppose.
EDMUND. Sir, you speak nobly.
REGAN. Why is this reason’d?
GONERIL. Combine together ’gainst the enemy; For these domestic and particular broils Are not the question here.
ALBANY. Let’s, then, determine with the ancient of war On our proceeding.
EDMUND. I shall attend you presently at your tent.
REGAN. Sister, you’ll go with us?
GONERIL. No.
REGAN. ’Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us.
GONERIL. [Aside.] O, ho, I know the riddle. I will go.
[Exeunt Edmund, Regan, Goneril, Officers, Soldiers and Attendants.]
As they are going out, enter Edgar disguised.
EDGAR. If e’er your grace had speech with man so poor, Hear me one word.
ALBANY. I’ll overtake you. Speak.
EDGAR. Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. If you have victory, let the trumpet sound For him that brought it: wretched though I seem, I can produce a champion that will prove What is avouched there. If you miscarry, Your business of the world hath so an end, And machination ceases. Fortune love you!
ALBANY. Stay till I have read the letter.
EDGAR. I was forbid it. When time shall serve, let but the herald cry, And I’ll appear again.
ALBANY. Why, fare thee well. I will o’erlook thy paper.
[Exit Edgar.]
Enter Edmund.
EDMUND. The enemy’s in view; draw up your powers. Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent discovery; but your haste Is now urg’d on you.
ALBANY. We will greet the time.
[Exit.]
EDMUND. To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enjoy’d, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now, then, we’ll use His countenance for the battle; which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia, The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon: for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. A field between the two Camps. Alarum within. Enter with drum and colours, Lear, Cordelia and their Forces, and exeunt.
Enter Edgar and Gloucester.
EDGAR. Here, father, take the shadow of this tree For your good host; pray that the right may thrive: If ever I return to you again, I’ll bring you comfort.
GLOUCESTER. Grace go with you, sir!
[Exit Edgar.]
Alarum and retreat within. Enter Edgar.
EDGAR. Away, old man, give me thy hand, away! King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en: Give me thy hand; come on!
GLOUCESTER. No further, sir; a man may rot even here.
EDGAR. What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all. Come on.
GLOUCESTER. And that’s true too.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. The British Camp near Dover. Enter in conquest with drum and colours, Edmund, Lear and Cordelia as prisoners; Officers, Soldiers, &c.
EDMUND. Some officers take them away: good guard Until their greater pleasures first be known That are to censure them.
CORDELIA. We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurr’d the worst. For thee, oppressed King, I am cast down; Myself could else out-frown false fortune’s frown. Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?
LEAR. No, no, no, no. Come, let’s away to prison: We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage: When thou dost ask me blessing I’ll kneel down And ask of thee forgiveness. So we’ll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too, Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who’s out; And take upon’s the mystery of things, As if we were God’s spies. And we’ll wear out, In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by the moon.
EDMUND. Take them away.
LEAR. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven, And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes; The good years shall devour them, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep! We’ll see ’em starve first: come.
[Exeunt Lear and Cordelia, guarded.]
EDMUND. Come hither, captain, hark. Take thou this note [giving a paper]; go follow them to prison. One step I have advanc’d thee; if thou dost As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To noble fortunes: know thou this, that men Are as the time is; to be tender-minded Does not become a sword. Thy great employment Will not bear question; either say thou’lt do’t, Or thrive by other means.
CAPTAIN. I’ll do’t, my lord.
EDMUND. About it; and write happy when thou hast done. Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so As I have set it down.
CAPTAIN. I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats; If it be man’s work, I’ll do’t.
[Exit.]
Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, Officers and Attendants.
ALBANY. Sir, you have show’d today your valiant strain, And fortune led you well: you have the captives Who were the opposites of this day’s strife: I do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their merits and our safety May equally determine.
EDMUND. Sir, I thought it fit To send the old and miserable King To some retention and appointed guard; Whose age has charms in it, whose title more, To pluck the common bosom on his side, And turn our impress’d lances in our eyes Which do command them. With him I sent the queen; My reason all the same; and they are ready Tomorrow, or at further space, to appear Where you shall hold your session. At this time We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend; And the best quarrels in the heat are curs’d By those that feel their sharpness. The question of Cordelia and her father Requires a fitter place.
ALBANY. Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subject of this war, Not as a brother.
REGAN. That’s as we list to grace him. Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers; Bore the commission of my place and person; The which immediacy may well stand up And call itself your brother.
GONERIL. Not so hot: In his own grace he doth exalt himself, More than in your addition.
REGAN. In my rights, By me invested, he compeers the best.
ALBANY. That were the most, if he should husband you.
REGAN. Jesters do oft prove prophets.
GONERIL. Holla, holla! That eye that told you so look’d but asquint.
REGAN. Lady, I am not well; else I should answer From a full-flowing stomach. General, Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony; Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine: Witness the world that I create thee here My lord and master.
GONERIL. Mean you to enjoy him?
ALBANY. The let-alone lies not in your good will.
EDMUND. Nor in thine, lord.
ALBANY. Half-blooded fellow, yes.
REGAN. [To Edmund.] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.
ALBANY. Stay yet; hear reason: Edmund, I arrest thee On capital treason; and, in thine arrest, This gilded serpent. [pointing to Goneril.] For your claim, fair sister, I bar it in the interest of my wife; ’Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord, And I her husband contradict your bans. If you will marry, make your loves to me, My lady is bespoke.
GONERIL. An interlude!
ALBANY. Thou art arm’d, Gloucester. Let the trumpet sound: If none appear to prove upon thy person Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons, There is my pledge. [Throwing down a glove.] I’ll make it on thy heart, Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less Than I have here proclaim’d thee.
REGAN. Sick, O, sick!
GONERIL. [Aside.] If not, I’ll ne’er trust medicine.
EDMUND. There’s my exchange. [Throwing down a glove.] What in the world he is That names me traitor, villain-like he lies. Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach, On him, on you, who not? I will maintain My truth and honour firmly.
ALBANY. A herald, ho!
Enter a Herald.
Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, All levied in my name, have in my name Took their discharge.
REGAN. My sickness grows upon me.
ALBANY. She is not well. Convey her to my tent.
[Exit Regan, led.]
Come hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound And read out this.
OFFICER. Sound, trumpet!
[A trumpet sounds.]
HERALD. [Reads.] ‘If any man of quality or degree within the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the trumpet. He is bold in his defence.’
EDMUND. Sound!
[First trumpet.]
HERALD. Again!
[Second trumpet.]
HERALD. Again!
Third trumpet. Trumpet answers within. Enter Edgar, armed, preceded by a trumpet.
ALBANY. Ask him his purposes, why he appears Upon this call o’ the trumpet.
HERALD. What are you? Your name, your quality? and why you answer This present summons?
EDGAR. Know my name is lost; By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit. Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope.
ALBANY. Which is that adversary?
EDGAR. What’s he that speaks for Edmund, Earl of Gloucester?
EDMUND. Himself, what say’st thou to him?
EDGAR. Draw thy sword, That if my speech offend a noble heart, Thy arm may do thee justice: here is mine. Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours, My oath, and my profession: I protest, Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence, Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune, Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor; False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father; Conspirant ’gainst this high illustrious prince; And, from the extremest upward of thy head To the descent and dust beneath thy foot, A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou ‘No,’ This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, Thou liest.
EDMUND. In wisdom I should ask thy name; But since thy outside looks so fair and warlike, And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes, What safe and nicely I might well delay By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn. Back do I toss those treasons to thy head, With the hell-hated lie o’erwhelm thy heart; Which for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise, This sword of mine shall give them instant way, Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak!
[Alarums. They fight. Edmund falls.]
ALBANY. Save him, save him!
GONERIL. This is mere practice, Gloucester: By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish’d, But cozen’d and beguil’d.
ALBANY. Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it. Hold, sir; Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil. No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it.
[Gives the letter to Edmund.]
GONERIL. Say if I do, the laws are mine, not thine: Who can arraign me for’t?
[Exit.]
ALBANY. Most monstrous! O! Know’st thou this paper?
EDMUND. Ask me not what I know.
ALBANY. [To an Officer, who goes out.] Go after her; she’s desperate; govern her.
EDMUND. What you have charg’d me with, that have I done; And more, much more; the time will bring it out. ’Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou That hast this fortune on me? If thou’rt noble, I do forgive thee.
EDGAR. Let’s exchange charity. I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more, the more thou hast wrong’d me. My name is Edgar and thy father’s son. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us: The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes.
EDMUND. Thou hast spoken right, ’tis true; The wheel is come full circle; I am here.
ALBANY. Methought thy very gait did prophesy A royal nobleness. I must embrace thee. Let sorrow split my heart if ever I Did hate thee or thy father.
EDGAR. Worthy prince, I know’t.
ALBANY. Where have you hid yourself? How have you known the miseries of your father?
EDGAR. By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale; And when ’tis told, O that my heart would burst! The bloody proclamation to escape That follow’d me so near,—O, our lives’ sweetness! That with the pain of death we’d hourly die Rather than die at once!—taught me to shift Into a madman’s rags; t’assume a semblance That very dogs disdain’d; and in this habit Met I my father with his bleeding rings, Their precious stones new lost; became his guide, Led him, begg’d for him, sav’d him from despair; Never,—O fault!—reveal’d myself unto him Until some half hour past, when I was arm’d; Not sure, though hoping of this good success, I ask’d his blessing, and from first to last Told him my pilgrimage. But his flaw’d heart, Alack, too weak the conflict to support! ’Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst smilingly.
EDMUND. This speech of yours hath mov’d me, And shall perchance do good, but speak you on; You look as you had something more to say.
ALBANY. If there be more, more woeful, hold it in; For I am almost ready to dissolve, Hearing of this.
EDGAR. This would have seem’d a period To such as love not sorrow; but another, To amplify too much, would make much more, And top extremity. Whilst I was big in clamour, came there a man Who, having seen me in my worst estate, Shunn’d my abhorr’d society; but then finding Who ’twas that so endur’d, with his strong arms He fastened on my neck, and bellow’d out As he’d burst heaven; threw him on my father; Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him That ever ear receiv’d, which in recounting His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life Began to crack. Twice then the trumpets sounded, And there I left him tranc’d.
ALBANY. But who was this?
EDGAR. Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent; who in disguise Follow’d his enemy king and did him service Improper for a slave.
Enter a Gentleman hastily, with a bloody knife.
GENTLEMAN. Help, help! O, help!
EDGAR. What kind of help?
ALBANY. Speak, man.
EDGAR. What means this bloody knife?
GENTLEMAN. ’Tis hot, it smokes; It came even from the heart of—O! she’s dead!
ALBANY. Who dead? Speak, man.
GENTLEMAN. Your lady, sir, your lady; and her sister By her is poisoned; she hath confesses it.
EDMUND. I was contracted to them both, all three Now marry in an instant.
EDGAR. Here comes Kent.
Enter Kent.
ALBANY. Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead. This judgement of the heavens that makes us tremble Touches us not with pity. O, is this he? The time will not allow the compliment Which very manners urges.
KENT. I am come To bid my King and master aye good night: Is he not here?
ALBANY. Great thing of us forgot! Speak, Edmund, where’s the King? and where’s Cordelia?
The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in.
Seest thou this object, Kent?
KENT. Alack, why thus?
EDMUND. Yet Edmund was belov’d. The one the other poisoned for my sake, And after slew herself.
ALBANY. Even so. Cover their faces.
EDMUND. I pant for life. Some good I mean to do, Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send, Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia; Nay, send in time.
ALBANY. Run, run, O, run!
EDGAR. To who, my lord? Who has the office? Send Thy token of reprieve.
EDMUND. Well thought on: take my sword, Give it the captain.
EDGAR. Haste thee for thy life.
[Exit Edgar.]
EDMUND. He hath commission from thy wife and me To hang Cordelia in the prison, and To lay the blame upon her own despair, That she fordid herself.
ALBANY. The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile.
[Edmund is borne off.]
Enter Lear with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar, Officer and others following.
LEAR. Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stone. Had I your tongues and eyes, I’ld use them so That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone for ever! I know when one is dead, and when one lives; She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking glass; If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, Why, then she lives.
KENT. Is this the promis’d end?
EDGAR. Or image of that horror?
ALBANY. Fall, and cease!
LEAR. This feather stirs; she lives! If it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt.
KENT. O, my good master! [Kneeling.]
LEAR. Prythee, away!
EDGAR. ’Tis noble Kent, your friend.
LEAR. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! I might have sav’d her; now she’s gone for ever! Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is’t thou say’st? Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. I kill’d the slave that was a-hanging thee.
OFFICER. ’Tis true, my lords, he did.
LEAR. Did I not, fellow? I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I would have made them skip. I am old now, And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you? Mine eyes are not o’ the best, I’ll tell you straight.
KENT. If Fortune brag of two she lov’d and hated, One of them we behold.
LEAR. This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?
KENT. The same, Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius?
LEAR. He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that; He’ll strike, and quickly too:. He’s dead and rotten.
KENT. No, my good lord; I am the very man.
LEAR. I’ll see that straight.
KENT. That from your first of difference and decay Have follow’d your sad steps.
LEAR. You are welcome hither.
KENT. Nor no man else. All’s cheerless, dark and deadly. Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves, And desperately are dead.
LEAR. Ay, so I think.
ALBANY. He knows not what he says; and vain is it That we present us to him.
EDGAR. Very bootless.
Enter an Officer.
OFFICER. Edmund is dead, my lord.
ALBANY. That’s but a trifle here. You lords and noble friends, know our intent. What comfort to this great decay may come Shall be applied For us, we will resign, During the life of this old majesty, To him our absolute power; [to Edgar and Kent] you to your rights; With boot and such addition as your honours Have more than merited. All friends shall taste The wages of their virtue and all foes The cup of their deservings. O, see, see!
LEAR. And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her: look, her lips, Look there, look there!
[He dies.]
EDGAR. He faints! My lord, my lord!
KENT. Break, heart; I prythee break!
EDGAR. Look up, my lord.
KENT. Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! He hates him That would upon the rack of this rough world Stretch him out longer.
EDGAR. He is gone indeed.
KENT. The wonder is, he hath endur’d so long: He but usurp’d his life.
ALBANY. Bear them from hence. Our present business Is general woe. [To Edgar and Kent.] Friends of my soul, you twain, Rule in this realm and the gor’d state sustain.
KENT. I have a journey, sir, shortly to go; My master calls me, I must not say no.
EDGAR. The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most; we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
[Exeunt with a dead march.]
LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST Dramatis Personae.
FERDINAND, King of Navarre BEROWNE, lord attending on the King LONGAVILLE, " " " " " DUMAIN, " " " " " BOYET, lord attending on the Princess of France MARCADE, " " " " " " " DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO, fantastical Spaniard SIR NATHANIEL, a curate HOLOFERNES, a schoolmaster DULL, a constable COSTARD, a clown MOTH, page to Armado A FORESTER THE PRINCESS OF FRANCE ROSALINE, lady attending on the Princess MARIA, " " " " " KATHARINE, lady attending on the Princess JAQUENETTA, a country wench Lords, Attendants, etc.
SCENE: Navarre ACT I. SCENE I. Navarre. The King's park Enter the King, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN
KING. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live regist'red upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death; When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, Th' endeavour of this present breath may buy That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge, And make us heirs of all eternity. Therefore, brave conquerors- for so you are That war against your own affections And the huge army of the world's desires- Our late edict shall strongly stand in force: Navarre shall be the wonder of the world; Our court shall be a little Academe, Still and contemplative in living art. You three, Berowne, Dumain, and Longaville, Have sworn for three years' term to live with me My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedule here. Your oaths are pass'd; and now subscribe your names, That his own hand may strike his honour down That violates the smallest branch herein. If you are arm'd to do as sworn to do, Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too. LONGAVILLE. I am resolv'd; 'tis but a three years' fast. The mind shall banquet, though the body pine. Fat paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits. DUMAIN. My loving lord, Dumain is mortified. The grosser manner of these world's delights He throws upon the gross world's baser slaves; To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die, With all these living in philosophy. BEROWNE. I can but say their protestation over; So much, dear liege, I have already sworn, That is, to live and study here three years. But there are other strict observances, As: not to see a woman in that term, Which I hope well is not enrolled there; And one day in a week to touch no food, And but one meal on every day beside, The which I hope is not enrolled there; And then to sleep but three hours in the night And not be seen to wink of all the day- When I was wont to think no harm all night, And make a dark night too of half the day- Which I hope well is not enrolled there. O, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep! KING. Your oath is pass'd to pass away from these. BEROWNE. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please: I only swore to study with your Grace, And stay here in your court for three years' space. LONGAVILLE. You swore to that, Berowne, and to the rest. BEROWNE. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest. What is the end of study, let me know. KING. Why, that to know which else we should not know. BEROWNE. Things hid and barr'd, you mean, from common sense? KING. Ay, that is study's god-like recompense. BEROWNE. Come on, then; I will swear to study so, To know the thing I am forbid to know, As thus: to study where I well may dine, When I to feast expressly am forbid; Or study where to meet some mistress fine, When mistresses from common sense are hid; Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath, Study to break it, and not break my troth. If study's gain be thus, and this be so, Study knows that which yet it doth not know. Swear me to this, and I will ne'er say no. KING. These be the stops that hinder study quite, And train our intellects to vain delight. BEROWNE. Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain, As painfully to pore upon a book To seek the light of truth; while truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look. Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile; So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. Study me how to please the eye indeed, By fixing it upon a fairer eye; Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed, And give him light that it was blinded by. Study is like the heaven's glorious sun, That will not be deep-search'd with saucy looks; Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from others' books. These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights That give a name to every fixed star Have no more profit of their shining nights Than those that walk and wot not what they are. Too much to know is to know nought but fame; And every godfather can give a name. KING. How well he's read, to reason against reading! DUMAIN. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding! LONGAVILLE. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding. BEROWNE. The spring is near, when green geese are a-breeding. DUMAIN. How follows that? BEROWNE. Fit in his place and time. DUMAIN. In reason nothing. BEROWNE. Something then in rhyme. LONGAVILLE. Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost That bites the first-born infants of the spring. BEROWNE. Well, say I am; why should proud summer boast Before the birds have any cause to sing? Why should I joy in any abortive birth? At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows; But like of each thing that in season grows; So you, to study now it is too late, Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate. KING. Well, sit out; go home, Berowne; adieu. BEROWNE. No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you; And though I have for barbarism spoke more Than for that angel knowledge you can say, Yet confident I'll keep what I have swore, And bide the penance of each three years' day. Give me the paper; let me read the same; And to the strictest decrees I'll write my name. KING. How well this yielding rescues thee from shame! BEROWNE. [Reads] 'Item. That no woman shall come within a mile of my court'- Hath this been proclaimed? LONGAVILLE. Four days ago. BEROWNE. Let's see the penalty. [Reads] '-on pain of losing her tongue.' Who devis'd this penalty? LONGAVILLE. Marry, that did I. BEROWNE. Sweet lord, and why? LONGAVILLE. To fright them hence with that dread penalty. BEROWNE. A dangerous law against gentility. [Reads] 'Item. If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.' This article, my liege, yourself must break; For well you know here comes in embassy The French king's daughter, with yourself to speak- A mild of grace and complete majesty- About surrender up of Aquitaine To her decrepit, sick, and bedrid father; Therefore this article is made in vain, Or vainly comes th' admired princess hither. KING. What say you, lords? Why, this was quite forgot. BEROWNE. So study evermore is over-shot. While it doth study to have what it would, It doth forget to do the thing it should; And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, 'Tis won as towns with fire- so won, so lost. KING. We must of force dispense with this decree; She must lie here on mere necessity. BEROWNE. Necessity will make us all forsworn Three thousand times within this three years' space; For every man with his affects is born, Not by might mast'red, but by special grace. If I break faith, this word shall speak for me: I am forsworn on mere necessity. So to the laws at large I write my name; [Subscribes] And he that breaks them in the least degree Stands in attainder of eternal shame. Suggestions are to other as to me; But I believe, although I seem so loath, I am the last that will last keep his oath. But is there no quick recreation granted? KING. Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain, A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain; One who the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony; A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny. This child of fancy, that Armado hight, For interim to our studies shall relate, In high-born words, the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain lost in the world's debate. How you delight, my lords, I know not, I; But I protest I love to hear him lie, And I will use him for my minstrelsy. BEROWNE. Armado is a most illustrious wight, A man of fire-new words, fashion's own knight. LONGAVILLE. Costard the swain and he shall be our sport; And so to study three years is but short. Enter DULL, a constable, with a letter, and COSTARD
DULL. Which is the Duke's own person? BEROWNE. This, fellow. What wouldst? DULL. I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace's farborough; but I would see his own person in flesh and blood. BEROWNE. This is he. DULL. Signior Arme- Arme- commends you. There's villainy abroad; this letter will tell you more. COSTARD. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me. KING. A letter from the magnificent Armado. BEROWNE. How low soever the matter, I hope in God for high words. LONGAVILLE. A high hope for a low heaven. God grant us patience! BEROWNE. To hear, or forbear hearing? LONGAVILLE. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or, to forbear both. BEROWNE. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness. COSTARD. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner. BEROWNE. In what manner? COSTARD. In manner and form following, sir; all those three: I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park; which, put together, is in manner and form following. Now, sir, for the manner- it is the manner of a man to speak to a woman. For the form- in some form. BEROWNE. For the following, sir? COSTARD. As it shall follow in my correction; and God defend the right! KING. Will you hear this letter with attention? BEROWNE. As we would hear an oracle. COSTARD. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh. KING. [Reads] 'Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's god and body's fost'ring patron'- COSTARD. Not a word of Costard yet. KING. [Reads] 'So it is'- COSTARD. It may be so; but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so. KING. Peace! COSTARD. Be to me, and every man that dares not fight! KING. No words! COSTARD. Of other men's secrets, I beseech you. KING. [Reads] 'So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time When? About the sixth hour; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper. So much for the time When. Now for the ground Which? which, I mean, I upon; it is ycleped thy park. Then for the place Where? where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most prepost'rous event that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place Where? It standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden. There did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth,' COSTARD. Me? KING. 'that unlettered small-knowing soul,' COSTARD. Me? KING. 'that shallow vassal,' COSTARD. Still me? KING. 'which, as I remember, hight Costard,' COSTARD. O, me! KING. 'sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon; which, with, O, with- but with this I passion to say wherewith-' COSTARD. With a wench. King. 'with a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. Him I, as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on, have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet Grace's officer, Antony Dull, a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.' DULL. Me, an't shall please you; I am Antony Dull. KING. 'For Jaquenetta- so is the weaker vessel called, which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain- I keep her as a vessel of thy law's fury; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty, DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.' BEROWNE. This is not so well as I look'd for, but the best that ever I heard. KING. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this? COSTARD. Sir, I confess the wench. KING. Did you hear the proclamation? COSTARD. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it. KING. It was proclaimed a year's imprisonment to be taken with a wench. COSTARD. I was taken with none, sir; I was taken with a damsel. KING. Well, it was proclaimed damsel. COSTARD. This was no damsel neither, sir; she was a virgin. KING. It is so varied too, for it was proclaimed virgin. COSTARD. If it were, I deny her virginity; I was taken with a maid. KING. This 'maid' not serve your turn, sir. COSTARD. This maid will serve my turn, sir. KING. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast a week with bran and water. COSTARD. I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge. KING. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. My Lord Berowne, see him delivered o'er; And go we, lords, to put in practice that Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. Exeunt KING, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN BEROWNE. I'll lay my head to any good man's hat These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. Sirrah, come on. COSTARD. I suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sorrow. Exeunt SCENE II. The park Enter ARMADO and MOTH, his page
ARMADO. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy? MOTH. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad. ARMADO. Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp. MOTH. No, no; O Lord, sir, no! ARMADO. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal? MOTH. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough signior. ARMADO. Why tough signior? Why tough signior? MOTH. Why tender juvenal? Why tender juvenal? ARMADO. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender. MOTH. And I, tough signior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough. ARMADO. Pretty and apt. MOTH. How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or I apt, and my saying pretty? ARMADO. Thou pretty, because little. MOTH. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt? ARMADO. And therefore apt, because quick. MOTH. Speak you this in my praise, master? ARMADO. In thy condign praise. MOTH. I will praise an eel with the same praise. ARMADO. that an eel is ingenious? MOTH. That an eel is quick. ARMADO. I do say thou art quick in answers; thou heat'st my blood. MOTH. I am answer'd, sir. ARMADO. I love not to be cross'd. MOTH. [Aside] He speaks the mere contrary: crosses love not him. ARMADO. I have promised to study three years with the Duke. MOTH. You may do it in an hour, sir. ARMADO. Impossible. MOTH. How many is one thrice told? ARMADO. I am ill at reck'ning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster. MOTH. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir. ARMADO. I confess both; they are both the varnish of a complete man. MOTH. Then I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. ARMADO. It doth amount to one more than two. MOTH. Which the base vulgar do call three. ARMADO. True. MOTH. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here is three studied ere ye'll thrice wink; and how easy it is to put 'years' to the word 'three,' and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you. ARMADO. A most fine figure! MOTH. [Aside] To prove you a cipher. ARMADO. I will hereupon confess I am in love. And as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devis'd curtsy. I think scorn to sigh; methinks I should out-swear Cupid. Comfort me, boy; what great men have been in love? MOTH. Hercules, master. ARMADO. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. MOTH. Samson, master; he was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town gates on his back like a porter; and he was in love. ARMADO. O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth? MOTH. A woman, master. ARMADO. Of what complexion? MOTH. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four. ARMADO. Tell me precisely of what complexion. MOTH. Of the sea-water green, sir. ARMADO. Is that one of the four complexions? MOTH. As I have read, sir; and the best of them too. ARMADO. Green, indeed, is the colour of lovers; but to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit. MOTH. It was so, sir; for she had a green wit. ARMADO. My love is most immaculate white and red. MOTH. Most maculate thoughts, master, are mask'd under such colours. ARMADO. Define, define, well-educated infant. MOTH. My father's wit my mother's tongue assist me! ARMADO. Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty, and pathetical! MOTH. If she be made of white and red, Her faults will ne'er be known; For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, And fears by pale white shown. Then if she fear, or be to blame, By this you shall not know; For still her cheeks possess the same Which native she doth owe. A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red. ARMADO. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar? MOTH. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but I think now 'tis not to be found; or if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune. ARMADO. I will have that subject newly writ o'er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard; she deserves well. MOTH. [Aside] To be whipt; and yet a better love than my master. ARMADO. Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love. MOTH. And that's great marvel, loving a light wench. ARMADO. I say, sing. MOTH. Forbear till this company be past. Enter DULL, COSTARD, and JAQUENETTA
DULL. Sir, the Duke's pleasure is that you keep Costard safe; and you must suffer him to take no delight nor no penance; but 'a must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park; she is allow'd for the day-woman. Fare you well. ARMADO. I do betray myself with blushing. Maid! JAQUENETTA. Man! ARMADO. I will visit thee at the lodge. JAQUENETTA. That's hereby. ARMADO. I know where it is situate. JAQUENETTA. Lord, how wise you are! ARMADO. I will tell thee wonders. JAQUENETTA. With that face? ARMADO. I love thee. JAQUENETTA. So I heard you say. ARMADO. And so, farewell. JAQUENETTA. Fair weather after you! DULL. Come, Jaquenetta, away. Exit with JAQUENETTA ARMADO. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned. COSTARD. Well, sir, I hope when I do it I shall do it on a full stomach. ARMADO. Thou shalt be heavily punished. COSTARD. I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded. ARMADO. Take away this villain; shut him up. MOTH. Come, you transgressing slave, away. COSTARD. Let me not be pent up, sir; I will fast, being loose. MOTH. No, sir; that were fast, and loose. Thou shalt to prison. COSTARD. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shall see. MOTH. What shall some see? COSTARD. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words, and therefore I will say nothing. I thank God I have as little patience as another man, and therefore I can be quiet. Exeunt MOTH and COSTARD ARMADO. I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn- which is a great argument of falsehood- if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules' club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not; his disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour; rust, rapier; be still, drum; for your manager is in love; yea, he loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of rhyme, for I am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio. Exit ACT II. SCENE II. The park Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, with three attending ladies, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, and two other LORDS BOYET. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits. Consider who the King your father sends, To whom he sends, and what's his embassy: Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem, To parley with the sole inheritor Of all perfections that a man may owe, Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. Be now as prodigal of all dear grace As Nature was in making graces dear, When she did starve the general world beside And prodigally gave them all to you. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean, Needs not the painted flourish of your praise. Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, Not utt'red by base sale of chapmen's tongues; I am less proud to hear you tell my worth Than you much willing to be counted wise In spending your wit in the praise of mine. But now to task the tasker: good Boyet, You are not ignorant all-telling fame Doth noise abroad Navarre hath made a vow, Till painful study shall outwear three years, No woman may approach his silent court. Therefore to's seemeth it a needful course, Before we enter his forbidden gates, To know his pleasure; and in that behalf, Bold of your worthiness, we single you As our best-moving fair solicitor. Tell him the daughter of the King of France, On serious business, craving quick dispatch, Importunes personal conference with his Grace. Haste, signify so much; while we attend, Like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will. BOYET. Proud of employment, willingly I go. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so. Exit BOYET Who are the votaries, my loving lords, That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke? FIRST LORD. Lord Longaville is one. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Know you the man? MARIA. I know him, madam; at a marriage feast, Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized In Normandy, saw I this Longaville. A man of sovereign parts, peerless esteem'd, Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms; Nothing becomes him ill that he would well. The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss, If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil, Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will, Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills It should none spare that come within his power. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so? MARIA. They say so most that most his humours know. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow. Who are the rest? KATHARINE. The young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth, Of all that virtue love for virtue loved; Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill, For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, And shape to win grace though he had no wit. I saw him at the Duke Alencon's once; And much too little of that good I saw Is my report to his great worthiness. ROSALINE. Another of these students at that time Was there with him, if I have heard a truth. Berowne they call him; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal. His eye begets occasion for his wit, For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor, Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished; So sweet and voluble is his discourse. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. God bless my ladies! Are they all in love, That every one her own hath garnished With such bedecking ornaments of praise? FIRST LORD. Here comes Boyet. Re-enter BOYET
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Now, what admittance, lord? BOYET. Navarre had notice of your fair approach, And he and his competitors in oath Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady, Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt: He rather means to lodge you in the field, Like one that comes here to besiege his court, Than seek a dispensation for his oath, To let you enter his unpeopled house. [The LADIES-IN-WAITING mask] Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAIN, BEROWNE, and ATTENDANTS Here comes Navarre. KING. Fair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have not yet. The roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine. KING. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I will be welcome then; conduct me thither. KING. Hear me, dear lady: I have sworn an oath- PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Our Lady help my lord! He'll be forsworn. KING. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else. KING. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. I hear your Grace hath sworn out house-keeping. 'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, And sin to break it. But pardon me, I am too sudden bold; To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, And suddenly resolve me in my suit. [Giving a paper] KING. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. YOU Will the sooner that I were away, For you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay. BEROWNE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? KATHARINE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? BEROWNE. I know you did. KATHARINE. How needless was it then to ask the question! BEROWNE. You must not be so quick. KATHARINE. 'Tis long of you, that spur me with such questions. BEROWNE. Your wit 's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire. KATHARINE. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. BEROWNE. What time o' day? KATHARINE. The hour that fools should ask. BEROWNE. Now fair befall your mask! KATHARINE. Fair fall the face it covers! BEROWNE. And send you many lovers! KATHARINE. Amen, so you be none. BEROWNE. Nay, then will I be gone. KING. Madam, your father here doth intimate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns; Being but the one half of an entire sum Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say that he or we, as neither have, Receiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more, in surety of the which, One part of Aquitaine is bound to us, Although not valued to the money's worth. If then the King your father will restore But that one half which is unsatisfied, We will give up our right in Aquitaine, And hold fair friendship with his Majesty. But that, it seems, he little purposeth, For here he doth demand to have repaid A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands, On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, To have his title live in Aquitaine; Which we much rather had depart withal, And have the money by our father lent, Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is. Dear Princess, were not his requests so far From reason's yielding, your fair self should make A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast, And go well satisfied to France again. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. You do the King my father too much wrong, And wrong the reputation of your name, In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. KING. I do protest I never heard of it; And, if you prove it, I'll repay it back Or yield up Aquitaine. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We arrest your word. Boyet, you can produce acquittances For such a sum from special officers Of Charles his father. KING. Satisfy me so. BOYET. So please your Grace, the packet is not come, Where that and other specialties are bound; To-morrow you shall have a sight of them. KING. It shall suffice me; at which interview All liberal reason I will yield unto. Meantime receive such welcome at my hand As honour, without breach of honour, may Make tender of to thy true worthiness. You may not come, fair Princess, within my gates; But here without you shall be so receiv'd As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart, Though so denied fair harbour in my house. Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell. To-morrow shall we visit you again. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace! KING. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place. Exit with attendants BEROWNE. Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart. ROSALINE. Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it. BEROWNE. I would you heard it groan. ROSALINE. Is the fool sick? BEROWNE. Sick at the heart. ROSALINE. Alack, let it blood. BEROWNE. Would that do it good? ROSALINE. My physic says 'ay.' BEROWNE. Will YOU prick't with your eye? ROSALINE. No point, with my knife. BEROWNE. Now, God save thy life! ROSALINE. And yours from long living! BEROWNE. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring] DUMAIN. Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same? BOYET. The heir of Alencon, Katharine her name. DUMAIN. A gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you well. Exit LONGAVILLE. I beseech you a word: what is she in the white? BOYET. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light. LONGAVILLE. Perchance light in the light. I desire her name. BOYET. She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame. LONGAVILLE. Pray you, sir, whose daughter? BOYET. Her mother's, I have heard. LONGAVILLE. God's blessing on your beard! BOYET. Good sir, be not offended; She is an heir of Falconbridge. LONGAVILLE. Nay, my choler is ended. She is a most sweet lady. BOYET. Not unlike, sir; that may be. Exit LONGAVILLE BEROWNE. What's her name in the cap? BOYET. Rosaline, by good hap. BEROWNE. Is she wedded or no? BOYET. To her will, sir, or so. BEROWNE. You are welcome, sir; adieu! BOYET. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you. Exit BEROWNE. LADIES Unmask MARIA. That last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord; Not a word with him but a jest. BOYET. And every jest but a word. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. It was well done of you to take him at his word. BOYET. I was as willing to grapple as he was to board. KATHARINE. Two hot sheeps, marry! BOYET. And wherefore not ships? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. KATHARINE. You sheep and I pasture- shall that finish the jest? BOYET. So you grant pasture for me. [Offering to kiss her] KATHARINE. Not so, gentle beast; My lips are no common, though several they be. BOYET. Belonging to whom? KATHARINE. To my fortunes and me. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree; This civil war of wits were much better used On Navarre and his book-men, for here 'tis abused. BOYET. If my observation, which very seldom lies, By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. With what? BOYET. With that which we lovers entitle 'affected.' PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Your reason? BOYET. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire. His heart, like an agate, with your print impressed, Proud with his form, in his eye pride expressed; His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see, Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be; All senses to that sense did make their repair, To feel only looking on fairest of fair. Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; Who, tend'ring their own worth from where they were glass'd, Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd. His face's own margent did quote such amazes That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. I'll give you Aquitaine and all that is his, An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Come, to our pavilion. Boyet is dispos'd. BOYET. But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos'd; I only have made a mouth of his eye, By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. MARIA. Thou art an old love-monger, and speakest skilfully. KATHARINE. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him. ROSALINE. Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim. BOYET. Do you hear, my mad wenches? MARIA. No. BOYET. What, then; do you see? MARIA. Ay, our way to be gone. BOYET. You are too hard for me. Exeunt ACT III. SCENE I. The park Enter ARMADO and MOTH
ARMADO. Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing. [MOTH sings Concolinel] ARMADO. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years, take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither; I must employ him in a letter to my love. MOTH. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl? ARMADO. How meanest thou? Brawling in French? MOTH. No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuff'd up love by smelling love, with your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop of your eyes, with your arms cross'd on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbit on a spit, or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are complements, these are humours; these betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note- do you note me?- that most are affected to these. ARMADO. How hast thou purchased this experience? MOTH. By my penny of observation. ARMADO. But O- but O- MOTH. The hobby-horse is forgot. ARMADO. Call'st thou my love 'hobby-horse'? MOTH. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love? ARMADO. Almost I had. MOTH. Negligent student! learn her by heart. ARMADO. By heart and in heart, boy. MOTH. And out of heart, master; all those three I will prove. ARMADO. What wilt thou prove? MOTH. A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant. By heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. ARMADO. I am all these three. MOTH. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all. ARMADO. Fetch hither the swain; he must carry me a letter. MOTH. A message well sympathiz'd- a horse to be ambassador for an ass. ARMADO. Ha, ha, what sayest thou? MOTH. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go. ARMADO. The way is but short; away. MOTH. As swift as lead, sir. ARMADO. The meaning, pretty ingenious? Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow? MOTH. Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no. ARMADO. I say lead is slow. MOTH. You are too swift, sir, to say so: Is that lead slow which is fir'd from a gun? ARMADO. Sweet smoke of rhetoric! He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he; I shoot thee at the swain. MOTH. Thump, then, and I flee. Exit ARMADO. A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace! By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face; Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. My herald is return'd. Re-enter MOTH with COSTARD
MOTH. A wonder, master! here's a costard broken in a shin. ARMADO. Some enigma, some riddle; come, thy l'envoy; begin. COSTARD. No egma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the mail, sir. O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain; no l'envoy, no l'envoy; no salve, sir, but a plantain! ARMADO. By virtue thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling. O, pardon me, my stars! Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l'envoy, and the word 'l'envoy' for a salve? MOTH. Do the wise think them other? Is not l'envoy a salve? ARMADO. No, page; it is an epilogue or discourse to make plain Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. I will example it: The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. There's the moral. Now the l'envoy. MOTH. I will add the l'envoy. Say the moral again. ARMADO. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. MOTH. Until the goose came out of door, And stay'd the odds by adding four. Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my l'envoy. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. ARMADO. Until the goose came out of door, Staying the odds by adding four. MOTH. A good l'envoy, ending in the goose; would you desire more? COSTARD. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's flat. Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat. To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose; Let me see: a fat l'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose. ARMADO. Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin? MOTH. By saying that a costard was broken in a shin. Then call'd you for the l'envoy. COSTARD. True, and I for a plantain. Thus came your argument in; Then the boy's fat l'envoy, the goose that you bought; And he ended the market. ARMADO. But tell me: how was there a costard broken in a shin? MOTH. I will tell you sensibly. COSTARD. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth; I will speak that l'envoy. I, Costard, running out, that was safely within, Fell over the threshold and broke my shin. ARMADO. We will talk no more of this matter. COSTARD. Till there be more matter in the shin. ARMADO. Sirrah Costard. I will enfranchise thee. COSTARD. O, Marry me to one Frances! I smell some l'envoy, some goose, in this. ARMADO. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person; thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound. COSTARD. True, true; and now you will be my purgation, and let me loose. ARMADO. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this: bear this significant [giving a letter] to the country maid Jaquenetta; there is remuneration, for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow. Exit MOTH. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. COSTARD. My sweet ounce of man's flesh, my incony Jew! Exit MOTH Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O, that's the Latin word for three farthings. Three farthings- remuneration. 'What's the price of this inkle?'- 'One penny.'- 'No, I'll give you a remuneration.' Why, it carries it. Remuneration! Why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word. Enter BEROWNE
BEROWNE. My good knave Costard, exceedingly well met! COSTARD. Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration? BEROWNE. What is a remuneration? COSTARD. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. BEROWNE. Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk. COSTARD. I thank your worship. God be wi' you! BEROWNE. Stay, slave; I must employ thee. As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave, Do one thing for me that I shall entreat. COSTARD. When would you have it done, sir? BEROWNE. This afternoon. COSTARD. Well, I will do it, sir; fare you well. BEROWNE. Thou knowest not what it is. COSTARD. I shall know, sir, when I have done it. BEROWNE. Why, villain, thou must know first. COSTARD. I will come to your worship to-morrow morning. BEROWNE. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this: The Princess comes to hunt here in the park, And in her train there is a gentle lady; When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name, And Rosaline they call her. Ask for her, And to her white hand see thou do commend This seal'd-up counsel. There's thy guerdon; go. [Giving him a shilling] COSTARD. Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a 'leven-pence farthing better; most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print. Gardon- remuneration! Exit BEROWNE. And I, forsooth, in love; I, that have been love's whip; A very beadle to a humorous sigh; A critic, nay, a night-watch constable; A domineering pedant o'er the boy, Than whom no mortal so magnificent! This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid; Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, Th' anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents, Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces, Sole imperator, and great general Of trotting paritors. O my little heart! And I to be a corporal of his field, And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop! What! I love, I sue, I seek a wife- A woman, that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright, being a watch, But being watch'd that it may still go right! Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all; And, among three, to love the worst of all, A whitely wanton with a velvet brow, With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes; Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed, Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard. And I to sigh for her! to watch for her! To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague That Cupid will impose for my neglect Of his almighty dreadful little might. Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan: Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. Exit ACT IV. SCENE I. The park Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, ATTENDANTS, and a FORESTER
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Was that the King that spurr'd his horse so hard Against the steep uprising of the hill? BOYET. I know not; but I think it was not he. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Whoe'er 'a was, 'a show'd a mounting mind. Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch; On Saturday we will return to France. Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush That we must stand and play the murderer in? FORESTER. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice; A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I thank my beauty I am fair that shoot, And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot. FORESTER. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. What, what? First praise me, and again say no? O short-liv'd pride! Not fair? Alack for woe! FORESTER. Yes, madam, fair. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Nay, never paint me now; Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass, take this for telling true: [ Giving him money] Fair payment for foul words is more than due. FORESTER. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. See, see, my beauty will be sav'd by merit. O heresy in fair, fit for these days! A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. But come, the bow. Now mercy goes to kill, And shooting well is then accounted ill; Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: Not wounding, pity would not let me do't; If wounding, then it was to show my skill, That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. And, out of question, so it is sometimes: Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part, We bend to that the working of the heart; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer's blood that my heart means no ill. BOYET. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty Only for praise sake, when they strive to be Lords o'er their lords? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Only for praise; and praise we may afford To any lady that subdues a lord. Enter COSTARD
BOYET. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. COSTARD. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. COSTARD. Which is the greatest lady, the highest? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. The thickest and the tallest. COSTARD. The thickest and the tallest! It is so; truth is truth. An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit. Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. What's your will, sir? What's your will? COSTARD. I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. O, thy letter, thy letter! He's a good friend of mine. Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve. Break up this capon. BOYET. I am bound to serve. This letter is mistook; it importeth none here. It is writ to Jaquenetta. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We will read it, I swear. Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear. BOYET. [Reads] 'By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; true that thou art beauteous; truth itself that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal. The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon; and he it was that might rightly say, 'Veni, vidi, vici'; which to annothanize in the vulgar,- O base and obscure vulgar!- videlicet, He came, saw, and overcame. He came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came?- the king. Why did he come?- to see. Why did he see?-to overcome. To whom came he?- to the beggar. What saw he?- the beggar. Who overcame he?- the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose side?- the king's. The captive is enrich'd; on whose side?- the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial; on whose side?- the king's. No, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce thy love? I could. Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags?- robes, for tittles?- titles, for thyself? -me. Thus expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine in the dearest design of industry, DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO. 'Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar 'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey; Submissive fall his princely feet before, And he from forage will incline to play. But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then? Food for his rage, repasture for his den.' PRINCESS OF FRANCE. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter? What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better? BOYET. I am much deceived but I remember the style. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile. BOYET. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court; A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the Prince and his book-mates. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thou fellow, a word. Who gave thee this letter? COSTARD. I told you: my lord. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. To whom shouldst thou give it? COSTARD. From my lord to my lady. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. From which lord to which lady? COSTARD. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. [To ROSALINE] Here, sweet, put up this; 'twill be thine another day. Exeunt PRINCESS and TRAIN BOYET. Who is the shooter? who is the shooter? ROSALINE. Shall I teach you to know? BOYET. Ay, my continent of beauty. ROSALINE. Why, she that bears the bow. Finely put off! BOYET. My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry, Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry. Finely put on! ROSALINE. Well then, I am the shooter. BOYET. And who is your deer? ROSALINE. If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near. Finely put on indeed! MARIA. You Still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. BOYET. But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now? ROSALINE. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it? BOYET. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. ROSALINE. [Singing] Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it, my good man. BOYET. An I cannot, cannot, cannot, An I cannot, another can. Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE COSTARD. By my troth, most pleasant! How both did fit it! MARIA. A mark marvellous well shot; for they both did hit it. BOYET. A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady! Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be. MARIA. Wide o' the bow-hand! I' faith, your hand is out. COSTARD. Indeed, 'a must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout. BOYET. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. COSTARD. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. MARIA. Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul. COSTARD. She's too hard for you at pricks, sir; challenge her to bowl. BOYET. I fear too much rubbing; good-night, my good owl. Exeunt BOYET and MARIA COSTARD. By my soul, a swain, a most simple clown! Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down! O' my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit! When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit. Armado a th' t'one side- O, a most dainty man! To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan! To see him kiss his hand, and how most sweetly 'a will swear! And his page a t' other side, that handful of wit! Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit! Sola, sola! Exit COSTARD SCENE II. The park From the shooting within, enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL
NATHANIEL. Very reverent sport, truly; and done in the testimony of a good conscience. HOLOFERNES. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth. NATHANIEL. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least; but, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first head. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. DULL. 'Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination, after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather unlettered, or ratherest unconfirmed fashion, to insert again my haud credo for a deer. DULL. I Said the deer was not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Twice-sod simplicity, bis coctus! O thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look! NATHANIEL. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book; He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts; And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be- Which we of taste and feeling are- for those parts that do fructify in us more than he. For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool, So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school. But, omne bene, say I, being of an old father's mind: Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. DULL. You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit What was a month old at Cain's birth that's not five weeks old as yet? HOLOFERNES. Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull. DULL. What is Dictynna? NATHANIEL. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon. HOLOFERNES. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more, And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score. Th' allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. 'Tis true, indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange. HOLOFERNES. God comfort thy capacity! I say th' allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. And I say the polusion holds in the exchange; for the moon is never but a month old; and I say, beside, that 'twas a pricket that the Princess kill'd. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, call the deer the Princess kill'd a pricket. NATHANIEL. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge, so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility. HOLOFERNES. I Will something affect the letter, for it argues facility. The preyful Princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket. Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting. The dogs did yell; put el to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket- Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting. If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores o' sorel. Of one sore I an hundred make by adding but one more L. NATHANIEL. A rare talent! DULL. [Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. HOLOFERNES. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions. These are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourish'd in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. NATHANIEL. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutor'd by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you. You are a good member of the commonwealth. HOLOFERNES. Mehercle, if their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them; but, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us. Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD
JAQUENETTA. God give you good morrow, Master Person. HOLOFERNES. Master Person, quasi pers-one. And if one should be pierc'd which is the one? COSTARD. Marry, Master Schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. HOLOFERNES. Piercing a hogshead! A good lustre of conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis pretty; it is well. JAQUENETTA. Good Master Parson, be so good as read me this letter; it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado. I beseech you read it. HOLOFERNES. Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat- and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan! I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice: Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia. Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not- Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather as Horace says in his- What, my soul, verses? NATHANIEL. Ay, sir, and very learned. HOLOFERNES. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine. NATHANIEL. [Reads] 'If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire. Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O, pardon love this wrong, That singes heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.' HOLOFERNES. You find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man. And why, indeed, 'Naso' but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you? JAQUENETTA. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen's lords. HOLOFERNES. I will overglance the superscript: 'To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.' I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: 'Your Ladyship's in all desired employment, Berowne.' Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the King; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's which accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the King; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty. Adieu. JAQUENETTA. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life! COSTARD. Have with thee, my girl. Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA NATHANIEL. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain father saith- HOLOFERNES. Sir, tell not me of the father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel? NATHANIEL. Marvellous well for the pen. HOLOFERNES. I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society. NATHANIEL. And thank you too; for society, saith the text, is the happiness of life. HOLOFERNES. And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. [To DULL] Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away; the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. Exeunt SCENE III. The park Enter BEROWNE, with a paper his band, alone
BEROWNE. The King he is hunting the deer: I am coursing myself. They have pitch'd a toil: I am tolling in a pitch- pitch that defiles. Defile! a foul word. Well, 'set thee down, sorrow!' for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I am the fool. Well proved, wit. By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it kills sheep; it kills me- I a sheep. Well proved again o' my side. I will not love; if I do, hang me. I' faith, I will not. O, but her eye! By this light, but for her eye, I would not love her- yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love; and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my sonnets already; the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper; God give him grace to groan! [Climbs into a tree]
Enter the KING, with a paper
KING. Ay me! BEROWNE. Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid; thou hast thump'd him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets! KING. [Reads] 'So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows; Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright Through the transparent bosom of the deep, As doth thy face through tears of mine give light. Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep; No drop but as a coach doth carry thee; So ridest thou triumphing in my woe. Do but behold the tears that swell in me, And they thy glory through my grief will show. But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel No thought can think nor tongue of mortal tell.' How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper- Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here? [Steps aside] Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper
What, Longaville, and reading! Listen, car.
BEROWNE. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear! LONGAVILLE. Ay me, I am forsworn! BEROWNE. Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers. KING. In love, I hope; sweet fellowship in shame! BEROWNE. One drunkard loves another of the name. LONGAVILLE. Am I the first that have been perjur'd so? BEROWNE. I could put thee in comfort: not by two that I know; Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society, The shape of Love's Tyburn that hangs up simplicity. LONGAVILLE. I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move. O sweet Maria, empress of my love! These numbers will I tear, and write in prose. BEROWNE. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose: Disfigure not his slop. LONGAVILLE. This same shall go. [He reads the sonnet] 'Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore; but I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love; Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me. Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is; Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine, Exhal'st this vapour-vow; in thee it is. If broken, then it is no fault of mine; If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To lose an oath to win a paradise?' BEROWNE. This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity, A green goose a goddess- pure, pure idolatry. God amend us, God amend! We are much out o' th' way. Enter DUMAIN, with a paper
LONGAVILLE. By whom shall I send this?- Company! Stay. [Steps aside] BEROWNE. 'All hid, all hid'- an old infant play. Like a demigod here sit I in the sky, And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'er-eye. More sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have my wish! Dumain transformed! Four woodcocks in a dish! DUMAIN. O most divine Kate! BEROWNE. O most profane coxcomb! DUMAIN. By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye! BEROWNE. By earth, she is not, corporal: there you lie. DUMAIN. Her amber hairs for foul hath amber quoted. BEROWNE. An amber-colour'd raven was well noted. DUMAIN. As upright as the cedar. BEROWNE. Stoop, I say; Her shoulder is with child. DUMAIN. As fair as day. BEROWNE. Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine. DUMAIN. O that I had my wish! LONGAVILLE. And I had mine! KING. And I mine too,.good Lord! BEROWNE. Amen, so I had mine! Is not that a good word? DUMAIN. I would forget her; but a fever she Reigns in my blood, and will rememb'red be. BEROWNE. A fever in your blood? Why, then incision Would let her out in saucers. Sweet misprision! DUMAIN. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ. BEROWNE. Once more I'll mark how love can vary wit. DUMAIN. [Reads] 'On a day-alack the day!- Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air. Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. "Air," quoth he "thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn; Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee; Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love."' This will I send; and something else more plain That shall express my true love's fasting pain. O, would the King, Berowne and Longaville, Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill, Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd note; For none offend where all alike do dote. LONGAVILLE. [Advancing] Dumain, thy love is far from charity, That in love's grief desir'st society; You may look pale, but I should blush, I know, To be o'erheard and taken napping so. KING. [Advancing] Come, sir, you blush; as his, your case is such. You chide at him, offending twice as much: You do not love Maria! Longaville Did never sonnet for her sake compile; Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart His loving bosom, to keep down his heart. I have been closely shrouded in this bush, And mark'd you both, and for you both did blush. I heard your guilty rhymes, observ'd your fashion, Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion. 'Ay me!' says one. 'O Jove!' the other cries. One, her hairs were gold; crystal the other's eyes. [To LONGAVILLE] You would for paradise break faith and troth; [To Dumain] And Jove for your love would infringe an oath. What will Berowne say when that he shall hear Faith infringed which such zeal did swear? How will he scorn, how will he spend his wit! How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it! For all the wealth that ever I did see, I would not have him know so much by me. BEROWNE. [Descending] Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy, Ah, good my liege, I pray thee pardon me. Good heart, what grace hast thou thus to reprove These worms for loving, that art most in love? Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears There is no certain princess that appears; You'll not be perjur'd; 'tis a hateful thing; Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting. But are you not ashamed? Nay, are you not, All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot? You found his mote; the King your mote did see; But I a beam do find in each of three. O, what a scene of fool'ry have I seen, Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen! O, me, with what strict patience have I sat, To see a king transformed to a gnat! To see great Hercules whipping a gig, And profound Solomon to tune a jig, And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys, And critic Timon laugh at idle toys! Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumain? And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain? And where my liege's? All about the breast. A caudle, ho! KING. Too bitter is thy jest. Are we betrayed thus to thy over-view? BEROWNE. Not you by me, but I betrayed to you. I that am honest, I that hold it sin To break the vow I am engaged in; I am betrayed by keeping company With men like you, men of inconstancy. When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme? Or groan for Joan? or spend a minute's time In pruning me? When shall you hear that I Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, A leg, a limb- KING. Soft! whither away so fast? A true man or a thief that gallops so? BEROWNE. I post from love; good lover, let me go. Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD
JAQUENETTA. God bless the King! KING. What present hast thou there? COSTARD. Some certain treason. KING. What makes treason here? COSTARD. Nay, it makes nothing, sir. KING. If it mar nothing neither, The treason and you go in peace away together. JAQUENETTA. I beseech your Grace, let this letter be read; Our person misdoubts it: 'twas treason, he said. KING. Berowne, read it over. [BEROWNE reads the letter] Where hadst thou it? JAQUENETTA. Of Costard. KING. Where hadst thou it? COSTARD. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio. [BEROWNE tears the letter] KING. How now! What is in you? Why dost thou tear it? BEROWNE. A toy, my liege, a toy! Your Grace needs not fear it. LONGAVILLE. It did move him to passion, and therefore let's hear it. DUMAIN. It is Berowne's writing, and here is his name. [Gathering up the pieces] BEROWNE. [ To COSTARD] Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, you were born to do me shame. Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess. KING. What? BEROWNE. That you three fools lack'd me fool to make up the mess; He, he, and you- and you, my liege!- and I Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die. O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more. DUMAIN. Now the number is even. BEROWNE. True, true, we are four. Will these turtles be gone? KING. Hence, sirs, away. COSTARD. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay. Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA BEROWNE. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace! As true we are as flesh and blood can be. The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; Young blood doth not obey an old decree. We cannot cross the cause why we were born, Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. KING. What, did these rent lines show some love of thine? BEROWNE. 'Did they?' quoth you. Who sees the heavenly Rosaline That, like a rude and savage man of Inde At the first op'ning of the gorgeous east, Bows not his vassal head and, strucken blind, Kisses the base ground with obedient breast? What peremptory eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow That is not blinded by her majesty? KING. What zeal, what fury hath inspir'd thee now? My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon; She, an attending star, scarce seen a light. BEROWNE. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne. O, but for my love, day would turn to night! Of all complexions the cull'd sovereignty Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek, Where several worthies make one dignity, Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues- Fie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not! To things of sale a seller's praise belongs: She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot. A wither'd hermit, five-score winters worn, Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye. Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born, And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy. O, 'tis the sun that maketh all things shine! KING. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony. BEROWNE. Is ebony like her? O wood divine! A wife of such wood were felicity. O, who can give an oath? Where is a book? That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack, If that she learn not of her eye to look. No face is fair that is not full so black. KING. O paradox! Black is the badge of hell, The hue of dungeons, and the school of night; And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well. BEROWNE. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light. O, if in black my lady's brows be deckt, It mourns that painting and usurping hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect; And therefore is she born to make black fair. Her favour turns the fashion of the days; For native blood is counted painting now; And therefore red that would avoid dispraise Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. DUMAIN. To look like her are chimney-sweepers black. LONGAVILLE. And since her time are colliers counted bright. KING. And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion crack. DUMAIN. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light. BEROWNE. Your mistresses dare never come in rain For fear their colours should be wash'd away. KING. 'Twere good yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain, I'll find a fairer face not wash'd to-day. BEROWNE. I'll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here. KING. No devil will fright thee then so much as she. DUMAIN. I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear. LONGAVILLE. Look, here's thy love: my foot and her face see. [Showing his shoe] BEROWNE. O, if the streets were paved with thine eyes, Her feet were much too dainty for such tread! DUMAIN. O vile! Then, as she goes, what upward lies The street should see as she walk'd overhead. KING. But what of this? Are we not all in love? BEROWNE. Nothing so sure; and thereby all forsworn. KING. Then leave this chat; and, good Berowne, now prove Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn. DUMAIN. Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil. LONGAVILLE. O, some authority how to proceed; Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil! DUMAIN. Some salve for perjury. BEROWNE. 'Tis more than need. Have at you, then, affection's men-at-arms. Consider what you first did swear unto: To fast, to study, and to see no woman- Flat treason 'gainst the kingly state of youth. Say, can you fast? Your stomachs are too young, And abstinence engenders maladies. And, where that you you have vow'd to study, lords, In that each of you have forsworn his book, Can you still dream, and pore, and thereon look? For when would you, my lord, or you, or you, Have found the ground of study's excellence Without the beauty of a woman's face? From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They are the ground, the books, the academes, From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire. Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigour of the traveller. Now, for not looking on a woman's face, You have in that forsworn the use of eyes, And study too, the causer of your vow; For where is author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye? Learning is but an adjunct to ourself, And where we are our learning likewise is; Then when ourselves we see in ladies' eyes, With ourselves. Do we not likewise see our learning there? O, we have made a vow to study, lords, And in that vow we have forsworn our books. For when would you, my liege, or you, or you, In leaden contemplation have found out Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes Of beauty's tutors have enrich'd you with? Other slow arts entirely keep the brain; And therefore, finding barren practisers, Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil; But love, first learned in a lady's eyes, Lives not alone immured in the brain, But with the motion of all elements Courses as swift as thought in every power, And gives to every power a double power, Above their functions and their offices. It adds a precious seeing to the eye: A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind. A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound, When the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd. Love's feeling is more soft and sensible Than are the tender horns of cockled snails: Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste. For valour, is not Love a Hercules, Still climbing trees in the Hesperides? Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair. And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods Make heaven drowsy with the harmony. Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temp'red with Love's sighs; O, then his lines would ravish savage ears, And plant in tyrants mild humility. From women's eyes this doctrine I derive. They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish, all the world, Else none at all in aught proves excellent. Then fools you were these women to forswear; Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools. For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love; Or for Love's sake, a word that loves all men; Or for men's sake, the authors of these women; Or women's sake, by whom we men are men- Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves, Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths. It is religion to be thus forsworn; For charity itself fulfils the law, And who can sever love from charity? KING. Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to the field! BEROWNE. Advance your standards, and upon them, lords; Pell-mell, down with them! be first advis'd, In conflict, that you get the sun of them. LONGAVILLE. Now to plain-dealing; lay these glozes by. Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France? KING. And win them too; therefore let us devise Some entertainment for them in their tents. BEROWNE. First, from the park let us conduct them thither; Then homeward every man attach the hand Of his fair mistress. In the afternoon We will with some strange pastime solace them, Such as the shortness of the time can shape; For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours, Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers. KING. Away, away! No time shall be omitted That will betime, and may by us be fitted. BEROWNE. Allons! allons! Sow'd cockle reap'd no corn, And justice always whirls in equal measure. Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn; If so, our copper buys no better treasure. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE I. The park Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL
HOLOFERNES. Satis quod sufficit. NATHANIEL. I praise God for you, sir. Your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the King's who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. HOLOFERNES. Novi hominem tanquam te. His humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. NATHANIEL. A most singular and choice epithet. [Draws out his table-book] HOLOFERNES. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-devise companions; such rackers of orthography, as to speak 'dout' fine, when he should say 'doubt'; 'det' when he should pronounce 'debt'- d, e, b, t, not d, e, t. He clepeth a calf 'cauf,' half 'hauf'; neighbour vocatur 'nebour'; 'neigh' abbreviated 'ne.' This is abhominable- which he would call 'abbominable.' It insinuateth me of insanie: ne intelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic. NATHANIEL. Laus Deo, bone intelligo. HOLOFERNES. 'Bone'?- 'bone' for 'bene.' Priscian a little scratch'd; 'twill serve. Enter ARMADO, MOTH, and COSTARD
NATHANIEL. Videsne quis venit? HOLOFERNES. Video, et gaudeo. ARMADO. [To MOTH] Chirrah! HOLOFERNES. Quare 'chirrah,' not 'sirrah'? ARMADO. Men of peace, well encount'red. HOLOFERNES. Most military sir, salutation. MOTH. [Aside to COSTARD] They have been at a great feast of languages and stol'n the scraps. COSTARD. O, they have liv'd long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word, for thou are not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus; thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. MOTH. Peace! the peal begins. ARMADO. [To HOLOFERNES] Monsieur, are you not lett'red? MOTH. Yes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a, b, spelt backward with the horn on his head? HOLOFERNES. Ba, pueritia, with a horn added. MOTH. Ba, most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning. HOLOFERNES. Quis, quis, thou consonant? MOTH. The third of the five vowels, if You repeat them; or the fifth, if I. HOLOFERNES. I will repeat them: a, e, I- MOTH. The sheep; the other two concludes it: o, U. ARMADO. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit- snip, snap, quick and home. It rejoiceth my intellect. True wit! MOTH. Offer'd by a child to an old man; which is wit-old. HOLOFERNES. What is the figure? What is the figure? MOTH. Horns. HOLOFERNES. Thou disputes like an infant; go whip thy gig. MOTH. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy circum circa- a gig of a cuckold's horn. COSTARD. An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy ginger-bread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O, an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me! Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say. HOLOFERNES. O, I smell false Latin; 'dunghill' for unguem. ARMADO. Arts-man, preambulate; we will be singuled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain? HOLOFERNES. Or mons, the hill. ARMADO. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain. HOLOFERNES. I do, sans question. ARMADO. Sir, it is the King's most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the Princess at her pavilion, in the posteriors of this day; which the rude multitude call the afternoon. HOLOFERNES. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable, for the afternoon. The word is well cull'd, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do assure. ARMADO. Sir, the King is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend. For what is inward between us, let it pass. I do beseech thee, remember thy courtesy. I beseech thee, apparel thy head. And among other importunate and most serious designs, and of great import indeed, too- but let that pass; for I must tell thee it will please his Grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger thus dally with my excrement, with my mustachio; but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world; but let that pass. The very all of all is- but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy- that the King would have me present the Princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antic, or firework. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden breaking-out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance. HOLOFERNES. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rend'red by our assistance, the King's command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the Princess- I say none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. NATHANIEL. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them? HOLOFERNES. Joshua, yourself; myself, Alexander; this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabaeus; this swain, because of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules. ARMADO. Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy's thumb; he is not so big as the end of his club. HOLOFERNES. Shall I have audience? He shall present Hercules in minority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose. MOTH. An excellent device! So, if any of the audience hiss, you may cry 'Well done, Hercules; now thou crushest the snake!' That is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it. ARMADO. For the rest of the Worthies? HOLOFERNES. I will play three myself. MOTH. Thrice-worthy gentleman! ARMADO. Shall I tell you a thing? HOLOFERNES. We attend. ARMADO. We will have, if this fadge not, an antic. I beseech you, follow. HOLOFERNES. Via, goodman Dull! Thou has spoken no word all this while. DULL. Nor understood none neither, sir. HOLOFERNES. Allons! we will employ thee. DULL. I'll make one in a dance, or so, or I will play On the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay. HOLOFERNES. Most dull, honest Dull! To our sport, away. Exeunt SCENE II. The park Enter the PRINCESS, MARIA, KATHARINE, and ROSALINE
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart, If fairings come thus plentifully in. A lady wall'd about with diamonds! Look you what I have from the loving King. ROSALINE. Madam, came nothing else along with that? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Nothing but this! Yes, as much love in rhyme As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper Writ o' both sides the leaf, margent and all, That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name. ROSALINE. That was the way to make his godhead wax; For he hath been five thousand year a boy. KATHARINE. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too. ROSALINE. You'll ne'er be friends with him: 'a kill'd your sister. KATHARINE. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; And so she died. Had she been light, like you, Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, She might 'a been a grandam ere she died. And so may you; for a light heart lives long. ROSALINE. What's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word? KATHARINE. A light condition in a beauty dark. ROSALINE. We need more light to find your meaning out. KATHARINE. You'll mar the light by taking it in snuff; Therefore I'll darkly end the argument. ROSALINE. Look what you do, you do it still i' th' dark. KATHARINE. So do not you; for you are a light wench. ROSALINE. Indeed, I weigh not you; and therefore light. KATHARINE. You weigh me not? O, that's you care not for me. ROSALINE. Great reason; for 'past cure is still past care.' PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Well bandied both; a set of wit well play'd. But, Rosaline, you have a favour too? Who sent it? and what is it? ROSALINE. I would you knew. An if my face were but as fair as yours, My favour were as great: be witness this. Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne; The numbers true, and, were the numb'ring too, I were the fairest goddess on the ground. I am compar'd to twenty thousand fairs. O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Anything like? ROSALINE. Much in the letters; nothing in the praise. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Beauteous as ink- a good conclusion. KATHARINE. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. ROSALINE. Ware pencils, ho! Let me not die your debtor, My red dominical, my golden letter: O that your face were not so full of O's! KATHARINE. A pox of that jest! and I beshrew all shrows! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumain? KATHARINE. Madam, this glove. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Did he not send you twain? KATHARINE. Yes, madam; and, moreover, Some thousand verses of a faithful lover; A huge translation of hypocrisy, Vilely compil'd, profound simplicity. MARIA. This, and these pearl, to me sent Longaville; The letter is too long by half a mile. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart The chain were longer and the letter short? MARIA. Ay, or I would these hands might never part. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. ROSALINE. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so. That same Berowne I'll torture ere I go. O that I knew he were but in by th' week! How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek, And wait the season, and observe the times, And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes, And shape his service wholly to my hests, And make him proud to make me proud that jests! So pertaunt-like would I o'ersway his state That he should be my fool, and I his fate. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. None are so surely caught, when they are catch'd, As wit turn'd fool; folly, in wisdom hatch'd, Hath wisdom's warrant and the help of school, And wit's own grace to grace a learned fool. ROSALINE. The blood of youth burns not with such excess As gravity's revolt to wantonness. MARIA. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note As fool'ry in the wise when wit doth dote, Since all the power thereof it doth apply To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity. Enter BOYET
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face. BOYET. O, I am stabb'd with laughter! Where's her Grace? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thy news, Boyet? BOYET. Prepare, madam, prepare! Arm, wenches, arm! Encounters mounted are Against your peace. Love doth approach disguis'd, Armed in arguments; you'll be surpris'd. Muster your wits; stand in your own defence; Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Saint Dennis to Saint Cupid! What are they That charge their breath against us? Say, scout, say. BOYET. Under the cool shade of a sycamore I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour; When, lo, to interrupt my purpos'd rest, Toward that shade I might behold addrest The King and his companions; warily I stole into a neighbour thicket by, And overheard what you shall overhear- That, by and by, disguis'd they will be here. Their herald is a pretty knavish page, That well by heart hath conn'd his embassage. Action and accent did they teach him there: 'Thus must thou speak' and 'thus thy body bear,' And ever and anon they made a doubt Presence majestical would put him out; 'For' quoth the King 'an angel shalt thou see; Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.' The boy replied 'An angel is not evil; I should have fear'd her had she been a devil.' With that all laugh'd, and clapp'd him on the shoulder, Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. One rubb'd his elbow, thus, and fleer'd, and swore A better speech was never spoke before. Another with his finger and his thumb Cried 'Via! we will do't, come what will come.' The third he caper'd, and cried 'All goes well.' The fourth turn'd on the toe, and down he fell. With that they all did tumble on the ground, With such a zealous laughter, so profound, That in this spleen ridiculous appears, To check their folly, passion's solemn tears. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. But what, but what, come they to visit us? BOYET. They do, they do, and are apparell'd thus, Like Muscovites or Russians, as I guess. Their purpose is to parley, court, and dance; And every one his love-feat will advance Unto his several mistress; which they'll know By favours several which they did bestow. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. And will they so? The gallants shall be task'd, For, ladies, we will every one be mask'd; And not a man of them shall have the grace, Despite of suit, to see a lady's face. Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear, And then the King will court thee for his dear; Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine, So shall Berowne take me for Rosaline. And change you favours too; so shall your loves Woo contrary, deceiv'd by these removes. ROSALINE. Come on, then, wear the favours most in sight. KATHARINE. But, in this changing, what is your intent? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. The effect of my intent is to cross theirs. They do it but in mocking merriment, And mock for mock is only my intent. Their several counsels they unbosom shall To loves mistook, and so be mock'd withal Upon the next occasion that we meet With visages display'd to talk and greet. ROSALINE. But shall we dance, if they desire us to't? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. No, to the death, we will not move a foot, Nor to their penn'd speech render we no grace; But while 'tis spoke each turn away her face. BOYET. Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's heart, And quite divorce his memory from his part. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt The rest will ne'er come in, if he be out. There's no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown, To make theirs ours, and ours none but our own; So shall we stay, mocking intended game, And they well mock'd depart away with shame. [Trumpet sounds within] BOYET. The trumpet sounds; be mask'd; the maskers come. [The LADIES mask] Enter BLACKAMOORS music, MOTH as Prologue, the KING and his LORDS as maskers, in the guise of Russians MOTH. All hail, the richest heauties on the earth! BOYET. Beauties no richer than rich taffeta. MOTH. A holy parcel of the fairest dames [The LADIES turn their backs to him] That ever turn'd their- backs- to mortal views! BEROWNE. Their eyes, villain, their eyes. MOTH. That ever turn'd their eyes to mortal views! Out- BOYET. True; out indeed. MOTH. Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe Not to behold- BEROWNE. Once to behold, rogue. MOTH. Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes- with your sun-beamed eyes- BOYET. They will not answer to that epithet; You were best call it 'daughter-beamed eyes.' MOTH. They do not mark me, and that brings me out. BEROWNE. Is this your perfectness? Be gone, you rogue. Exit MOTH ROSALINE. What would these strangers? Know their minds, Boyet. If they do speak our language, 'tis our will That some plain man recount their purposes. Know what they would. BOYET. What would you with the Princess? BEROWNE. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. ROSALINE. What would they, say they? BOYET. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. ROSALINE. Why, that they have; and bid them so be gone. BOYET. She says you have it, and you may be gone. KING. Say to her we have measur'd many miles To tread a measure with her on this grass. BOYET. They say that they have measur'd many a mile To tread a measure with you on this grass. ROSALINE. It is not so. Ask them how many inches Is in one mile? If they have measured many, The measure, then, of one is eas'ly told. BOYET. If to come hither you have measur'd miles, And many miles, the Princess bids you tell How many inches doth fill up one mile. BEROWNE. Tell her we measure them by weary steps. BOYET. She hears herself. ROSALINE. How many weary steps Of many weary miles you have o'ergone Are numb'red in the travel of one mile? BEROWNE. We number nothing that we spend for you; Our duty is so rich, so infinite, That we may do it still without accompt. Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face, That we, like savages, may worship it. ROSALINE. My face is but a moon, and clouded too. KING. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do. Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine, Those clouds removed, upon our watery eyne. ROSALINE. O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter; Thou now requests but moonshine in the water. KING. Then in our measure do but vouchsafe one change. Thou bid'st me beg; this begging is not strange. ROSALINE. Play, music, then. Nay, you must do it soon. Not yet? No dance! Thus change I like the moon. KING. Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged? ROSALINE. You took the moon at full; but now she's changed. KING. Yet still she is the Moon, and I the Man. The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it. ROSALINE. Our ears vouchsafe it. KING. But your legs should do it. ROSALINE. Since you are strangers, and come here by chance, We'll not be nice; take hands. We will not dance. KING. Why take we hands then? ROSALINE. Only to part friends. Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends. KING. More measure of this measure; be not nice. ROSALINE. We can afford no more at such a price. KING. Price you yourselves. What buys your company? ROSALINE. Your absence only. KING. That can never be. ROSALINE. Then cannot we be bought; and so adieu- Twice to your visor and half once to you. KING. If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat. ROSALINE. In private then. KING. I am best pleas'd with that. [They converse apart] BEROWNE. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three. BEROWNE. Nay, then, two treys, an if you grow so nice, Metheglin, wort, and malmsey; well run dice! There's half a dozen sweets. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Seventh sweet, adieu! Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you. BEROWNE. One word in secret. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Let it not be sweet. BEROWNE. Thou grievest my gall. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Gall! bitter. BEROWNE. Therefore meet. [They converse apart] DUMAIN. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word? MARIA. Name it. DUMAIN. Fair lady- MARIA. Say you so? Fair lord- Take that for your fair lady. DUMAIN. Please it you, As much in private, and I'll bid adieu. [They converse apart] KATHARINE. What, was your vizard made without a tongue? LONGAVILLE. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. KATHARINE. O for your reason! Quickly, sir; I long. LONGAVILLE. You have a double tongue within your mask, And would afford my speechless vizard half. KATHARINE. 'Veal' quoth the Dutchman. Is not 'veal' a calf? LONGAVILLE. A calf, fair lady! KATHARINE. No, a fair lord calf. LONGAVILLE. Let's part the word. KATHARINE. No, I'll not be your half. Take all and wean it; it may prove an ox. LONGAVILLE. Look how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks! Will you give horns, chaste lady? Do not so. KATHARINE. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow. LONGAVILLE. One word in private with you ere I die. KATHARINE. Bleat softly, then; the butcher hears you cry. [They converse apart] BOYET. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor's edge invisible, Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen, Above the sense of sense; so sensible Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings, Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things. ROSALINE. Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off. BEROWNE. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! KING. Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits. Exeunt KING, LORDS, and BLACKAMOORS PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits. Are these the breed of wits so wondered at? BOYET. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff'd out. ROSALINE. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night? Or ever but in vizards show their faces? This pert Berowne was out of count'nance quite. ROSALINE. They were all in lamentable cases! The King was weeping-ripe for a good word. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Berowne did swear himself out of all suit. MARIA. Dumain was at my service, and his sword. 'No point' quoth I; my servant straight was mute. KATHARINE. Lord Longaville said I came o'er his heart; And trow you what he call'd me? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Qualm, perhaps. KATHARINE. Yes, in good faith. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Go, sickness as thou art! ROSALINE. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps. But will you hear? The King is my love sworn. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me. KATHARINE. And Longaville was for my service born. MARIA. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree. BOYET. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear: Immediately they will again be here In their own shapes; for it can never be They will digest this harsh indignity. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Will they return? BOYET. They will, they will, God knows, And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows; Therefore, change favours; and, when they repair, Blow like sweet roses in this summer air. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. How blow? how blow? Speak to be understood. BOYET. Fair ladies mask'd are roses in their bud: Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do If they return in their own shapes to woo? ROSALINE. Good madam, if by me you'll be advis'd, Let's mock them still, as well known as disguis'd. Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear; And wonder what they were, and to what end Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn'd, And their rough carriage so ridiculous, Should be presented at our tent to us. BOYET. Ladies, withdraw; the gallants are at hand. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Whip to our tents, as roes run o'er land. Exeunt PRINCESS, ROSALINE, KATHARINE, and MARIA Re-enter the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN, in their proper habits KING. Fair sir, God save you! Where's the Princess? BOYET. Gone to her tent. Please it your Majesty Command me any service to her thither? KING. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word. BOYET. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord. Exit BEROWNE. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease, And utters it again when God doth please. He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares At wakes, and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs; And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with such show. This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve; Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve. 'A can carve too, and lisp; why this is he That kiss'd his hand away in courtesy; This is the ape of form, Monsieur the Nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms; nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and in ushering, Mend him who can. The ladies call him sweet; The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. This is the flow'r that smiles on every one, To show his teeth as white as whales-bone; And consciences that will not die in debt Pay him the due of 'honey-tongued Boyet.' KING. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart, That put Armado's page out of his part! Re-enter the PRINCESS, ushered by BOYET; ROSALINE, MARIA, and KATHARINE BEROWNE. See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou Till this man show'd thee? And what art thou now? KING. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 'Fair' in 'all hail' is foul, as I conceive. KING. Construe my speeches better, if you may. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Then wish me better; I will give you leave. KING. We came to visit you, and purpose now To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow: Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur'd men. KING. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke. The virtue of your eye must break my oath. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. You nickname virtue: vice you should have spoke; For virtue's office never breaks men's troth. Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure As the unsullied lily, I protest, A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be your house's guest; So much I hate a breaking cause to be Of heavenly oaths, vowed with integrity. KING. O, you have liv'd in desolation here, Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear; We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game; A mess of Russians left us but of late. KING. How, madam! Russians! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Ay, in truth, my lord; Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. ROSALINE. Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord. My lady, to the manner of the days, In courtesy gives undeserving praise. We four indeed confronted were with four In Russian habit; here they stayed an hour And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord, They did not bless us with one happy word. I dare not call them fools; but this I think, When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink. BEROWNE. This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet, Your wit makes wise things foolish; when we greet, With eyes best seeing, heaven's fiery eye, By light we lose light; your capacity Is of that nature that to your huge store Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor. ROSALINE. This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye- BEROWNE. I am a fool, and full of poverty. ROSALINE. But that you take what doth to you belong, It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. BEROWNE. O, I am yours, and all that I possess. ROSALINE. All the fool mine? BEROWNE. I cannot give you less. ROSALINE. Which of the vizards was it that you wore? BEROWNE. Where? when? what vizard? Why demand you this? ROSALINE. There, then, that vizard; that superfluous case That hid the worse and show'd the better face. KING. We were descried; they'll mock us now downright. DUMAIN. Let us confess, and turn it to a jest. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Amaz'd, my lord? Why looks your Highness sad? ROSALINE. Help, hold his brows! he'll swoon! Why look you pale? Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy. BEROWNE. Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury. Can any face of brass hold longer out? Here stand I, lady- dart thy skill at me, Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout, Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance, Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit; And I will wish thee never more to dance, Nor never more in Russian habit wait. O, never will I trust to speeches penn'd, Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue, Nor never come in vizard to my friend, Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper's song. Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-pil'd hyperboles, spruce affectation, Figures pedantical- these summer-flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation. I do forswear them; and I here protest, By this white glove- how white the hand, God knows!- Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd In russet yeas, and honest kersey noes. And, to begin, wench- so God help me, law!- My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. ROSALINE. Sans 'sans,' I pray you. BEROWNE. Yet I have a trick Of the old rage; bear with me, I am sick; I'll leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see- Write 'Lord have mercy on us' on those three; They are infected; in their hearts it lies; They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes. These lords are visited; you are not free, For the Lord's tokens on you do I see. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. No, they are free that gave these tokens to us. BEROWNE. Our states are forfeit; seek not to undo us. ROSALINE. It is not so; for how can this be true, That you stand forfeit, being those that sue? BEROWNE. Peace; for I will not have to do with you. ROSALINE. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend. BEROWNE. Speak for yourselves; my wit is at an end. KING. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression Some fair excuse. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. The fairest is confession. Were not you here but even now, disguis'd? KING. Madam, I was. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. And were you well advis'd? KING. I was, fair madam. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. When you then were here, What did you whisper in your lady's ear? KING. That more than all the world I did respect her. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. When she shall challenge this, you will reject her. KING. Upon mine honour, no. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Peace, peace, forbear; Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear. KING. Despise me when I break this oath of mine. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline, What did the Russian whisper in your ear? ROSALINE. Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight, and did value me Above this world; adding thereto, moreover, That he would wed me, or else die my lover. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. God give thee joy of him! The noble lord Most honourably doth uphold his word. KING. What mean you, madam? By my life, my troth, I never swore this lady such an oath. ROSALINE. By heaven, you did; and, to confirm it plain, You gave me this; but take it, sir, again. KING. My faith and this the Princess I did give; I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear; And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear. What, will you have me, or your pearl again? BEROWNE. Neither of either; I remit both twain. I see the trick on't: here was a consent, Knowing aforehand of our merriment, To dash it like a Christmas comedy. Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick, That smiles his cheek in years and knows the trick To make my lady laugh when she's dispos'd, Told our intents before; which once disclos'd, The ladies did change favours; and then we, Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she. Now, to our perjury to add more terror, We are again forsworn in will and error. Much upon this it is; [To BOYET] and might not you Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue? Do not you know my lady's foot by th' squier, And laugh upon the apple of her eye? And stand between her back, sir, and the fire, Holding a trencher, jesting merrily? You put our page out. Go, you are allow'd; Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud. You leer upon me, do you? There's an eye Wounds like a leaden sword. BOYET. Full merrily Hath this brave manage, this career, been run. BEROWNE. Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace; I have done. Enter COSTARD
Welcome, pure wit! Thou part'st a fair fray.
COSTARD. O Lord, sir, they would know Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no? BEROWNE. What, are there but three? COSTARD. No, sir; but it is vara fine, For every one pursents three. BEROWNE. And three times thrice is nine. COSTARD. Not so, sir; under correction, sir, I hope it is not so. You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know; I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir- BEROWNE. Is not nine. COSTARD. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount. BEROWNE. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine. COSTARD. O Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living by reck'ning, sir. BEROWNE. How much is it? COSTARD. O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount. For mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man in one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir. BEROWNE. Art thou one of the Worthies? COSTARD. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompey the Great; for mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy; but I am to stand for him. BEROWNE. Go, bid them prepare. COSTARD. We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care. Exit COSTARD KING. Berowne, they will shame us; let them not approach. BEROWNE. We are shame-proof, my lord, and 'tis some policy To have one show worse than the King's and his company. KING. I say they shall not come. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now. That sport best pleases that doth least know how; Where zeal strives to content, and the contents Dies in the zeal of that which it presents. Their form confounded makes most form in mirth, When great things labouring perish in their birth. BEROWNE. A right description of our sport, my lord. Enter ARMADO
ARMADO. Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words. [Converses apart with the KING, and delivers a paper] PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Doth this man serve God? BEROWNE. Why ask you? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 'A speaks not like a man of God his making. ARMADO. That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too too vain, too too vain; but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement! Exit ARMADO KING. Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander; Arinado's page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabaeus. And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive, These four will change habits and present the other five. BEROWNE. There is five in the first show. KING. You are deceived, 'tis not so. BEROWNE. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool, and the boy: Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein. KING. The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain. Enter COSTARD, armed for POMPEY
COSTARD. I Pompey am- BEROWNE. You lie, you are not he. COSTARD. I Pompey am- BOYET. With libbard's head on knee. BEROWNE. Well said, old mocker; I must needs be friends with thee. COSTARD. I Pompey am, Pompey surnam'd the Big- DUMAIN. The Great. COSTARD. It is Great, sir. Pompey surnam'd the Great, That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat; And travelling along this coast, I bere am come by chance, And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France. If your ladyship would say 'Thanks, Pompey,' I had done. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Great thanks, great Pompey. COSTARD. 'Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in Great. BEROWNE. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy. Enter SIR NATHANIEL, for ALEXANDER
NATHANIEL. When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander; By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might. My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander- BOYET. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands to right. BEROWNE. Your nose smells 'no' in this, most tender-smelling knight. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. The conqueror is dismay'd. Proceed, good Alexander. NATHANIEL. When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander- BOYET. Most true, 'tis right, you were so, Alisander. BEROWNE. Pompey the Great! COSTARD. Your servant, and Costard. BEROWNE. Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander. COSTARD. [To Sir Nathaniel] O, Sir, you have overthrown Alisander the conqueror! You will be scrap'd out of the painted cloth for this. Your lion, that holds his poleaxe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax. He will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror and afeard to speak! Run away for shame, Alisander. [Sir Nathaniel retires] There, an't shall please you, a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dash'd. He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but for Alisander- alas! you see how 'tis- a little o'erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Stand aside, good Pompey. Enter HOLOFERNES, for JUDAS; and MOTH, for HERCULES
HOLOFERNES. Great Hercules is presented by this imp, Whose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed canus; And when be was a babe, a child, a shrimp, Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus. Quoniam he seemeth in minority, Ergo I come with this apology. Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish. [MOTH retires] Judas I am- DUMAIN. A Judas! HOLOFERNES. Not Iscariot, sir. Judas I am, ycliped Maccabaeus. DUMAIN. Judas Maccabaeus clipt is plain Judas. BEROWNE. A kissing traitor. How art thou prov'd Judas? HOLOFERNES. Judas I am- DUMAIN. The more shame for you, Judas! HOLOFERNES. What mean you, sir? BOYET. To make Judas hang himself. HOLOFERNES. Begin, sir; you are my elder. BEROWNE. Well followed: Judas was hanged on an elder. HOLOFERNES. I will not be put out of countenance. BEROWNE. Because thou hast no face. HOLOFERNES. What is this? BOYET. A cittern-head. DUMAIN. The head of a bodkin. BEROWNE. A death's face in a ring. LONGAVILLE. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen. BOYET. The pommel of Coesar's falchion. DUMAIN. The carv'd-bone face on a flask. BEROWNE. Saint George's half-cheek in a brooch. DUMAIN. Ay, and in a brooch of lead. BEROWNE. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer. And now, forward; for we have put thee in countenance. HOLOFERNES. You have put me out of countenance. BEROWNE. False: we have given thee faces. HOLOFERNES. But you have outfac'd them all. BEROWNE. An thou wert a lion we would do so. BOYET. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. And so adieu, sweet Jude! Nay, why dost thou stay? DUMAIN. For the latter end of his name. BEROWNE. For the ass to the Jude; give it him- Jud-as, away. HOLOFERNES. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble. BOYET. A light for Monsieur Judas! It grows dark, he may stumble. [HOLOFERNES retires] PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited! Enter ARMADO, for HECTOR
BEROWNE. Hide thy head, Achilles; here comes Hector in arms. DUMAIN. Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry. KING. Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this. BOYET. But is this Hector? DUMAIN. I think Hector was not so clean-timber'd. LONGAVILLE. His leg is too big for Hector's. DUMAIN. More calf, certain. BOYET. No; he is best indued in the small. BEROWNE. This cannot be Hector. DUMAIN. He's a god or a painter, for he makes faces. ARMADO. The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift- DUMAIN. A gilt nutmeg. BEROWNE. A lemon. LONGAVILLE. Stuck with cloves. DUMAIN. No, cloven. ARMADO. Peace! The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion; A man so breathed that certain he would fight ye, From morn till night out of his pavilion. I am that flower- DUMAIN. That mint. LONGAVILLE. That columbine. ARMADO. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. LONGAVILLE. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector. DUMAIN. Ay, and Hector's a greyhound. ARMADO. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried; when he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [To the PRINCESS] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing. [BEROWNE steps forth, and speaks to COSTARD]
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted. ARMADO. I do adore thy sweet Grace's slipper. BOYET. [Aside to DUMAIN] Loves her by the foot. DUMAIN. [Aside to BOYET] He may not by the yard. ARMADO. This Hector far surmounted Hannibal- COSTARD. The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way. ARMADO. What meanest thou? COSTARD. Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor wench is cast away. She's quick; the child brags in her belly already; 'tis yours. ARMADO. Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die. COSTARD. Then shall Hector be whipt for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hang'd for Pompey that is dead by him. DUMAIN. Most rare Pompey! BOYET. Renowned Pompey! BEROWNE. Greater than Great! Great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge! DUMAIN. Hector trembles. BEROWNE. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on! stir them on! DUMAIN. Hector will challenge him. BEROWNE. Ay, if 'a have no more man's blood in his belly than will sup a flea. ARMADO. By the North Pole, I do challenge thee. COSTARD. I will not fight with a pole, like a Northern man; I'll slash; I'll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again. DUMAIN. Room for the incensed Worthies! COSTARD. I'll do it in my shirt. DUMAIN. Most resolute Pompey! MOTH. Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation. ARMADO. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt. DUMAIN. You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge. ARMADO. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. BEROWNE. What reason have you for 't? ARMADO. The naked truth of it is: I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance. BOYET. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I'll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta's, and that 'a wears next his heart for a favour. Enter as messenger, MONSIEUR MARCADE
MARCADE. God save you, madam! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Welcome, Marcade; But that thou interruptest our merriment. MARCADE. I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father- PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Dead, for my life! MARCADE. Even so; my tale is told. BEROWNE. WOrthies away; the scene begins to cloud. ARMADO. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. Exeunt WORTHIES KING. How fares your Majesty? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night. KING. Madam, not so; I do beseech you stay. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours, and entreat, Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide The liberal opposition of our spirits, If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath- your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord. A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue. Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtain'd. KING. The extreme parts of time extremely forms All causes to the purpose of his speed; And often at his very loose decides That which long process could not arbitrate. And though the mourning brow of progeny Forbid the smiling courtesy of love The holy suit which fain it would convince, Yet, since love's argument was first on foot, Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it From what it purpos'd; since to wail friends lost Is not by much so wholesome-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I understand you not; my griefs are double. BEROWNE. Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief; And by these badges understand the King. For your fair sakes have we neglected time, Play'd foul play with our oaths; your beauty, ladies, Hath much deformed us, fashioning our humours Even to the opposed end of our intents; And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous, As love is full of unbefitting strains, All wanton as a child, skipping and vain; Form'd by the eye and therefore, like the eye, Full of strange shapes, of habits, and of forms, Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll To every varied object in his glance; Which parti-coated presence of loose love Put on by us, if in your heavenly eyes Have misbecom'd our oaths and gravities, Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, Our love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours. We to ourselves prove false, By being once false for ever to be true To those that make us both- fair ladies, you; And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We have receiv'd your letters, full of love; Your favours, the ambassadors of love; And, in our maiden council, rated them At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, As bombast and as lining to the time; But more devout than this in our respects Have we not been; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion, like a merriment. DUMAIN. Our letters, madam, show'd much more than jest. LONGAVILLE. So did our looks. ROSALINE. We did not quote them so. KING. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur'd much, Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this, If for my love, as there is no such cause, You will do aught- this shall you do for me: Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed To some forlorn and naked hermitage, Remote from all the pleasures of the world; There stay until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about the annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life Change not your offer made in heat of blood, If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds, Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, But that it bear this trial, and last love, Then, at the expiration of the year, Come, challenge me, challenge me by these deserts; And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut My woeful self up in a mournful house, Raining the tears of lamentation For the remembrance of my father's death. If this thou do deny, let our hands part, Neither intitled in the other's heart. KING. If this, or more than this, I would deny, To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, The sudden hand of death close up mine eye! Hence hermit then, my heart is in thy breast. BEROWNE. And what to me, my love? and what to me? ROSALINE. You must he purged too, your sins are rack'd; You are attaint with faults and perjury; Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, But seek the weary beds of people sick. DUMAIN. But what to me, my love? but what to me? A wife? KATHARINE. A beard, fair health, and honesty; With threefold love I wish you all these three. DUMAIN. O, shall I say I thank you, gentle wife? KATHARINE. No so, my lord; a twelvemonth and a day I'll mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say. Come when the King doth to my lady come; Then, if I have much love, I'll give you some. DUMAIN. I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then. KATHARINE. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again. LONGAVILLE. What says Maria? MARIA. At the twelvemonth's end I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend. LONGAVILLE. I'll stay with patience; but the time is long. MARIA. The liker you; few taller are so young. BEROWNE. Studies my lady? Mistress, look on me; Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, What humble suit attends thy answer there. Impose some service on me for thy love. ROSALINE. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne, Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks, Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, Which you on all estates will execute That lie within the mercy of your wit. To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, And therewithal to win me, if you please, Without the which I am not to be won, You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit, To enforce the pained impotent to smile. BEROWNE. To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be; it is impossible; Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. ROSALINE. Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit, Whose influence is begot of that loose grace Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools. A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it; then, if sickly ears, Deaf'd with the clamours of their own dear groans, Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, And I will have you and that fault withal. But if they will not, throw away that spirit, And I shall find you empty of that fault, Right joyful of your reformation. BEROWNE. A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall, I'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. [ To the King] Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave. KING. No, madam; we will bring you on your way. BEROWNE. Our wooing doth not end like an old play: Jack hath not Jill. These ladies' courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy. KING. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth an' a day, And then 'twill end. BEROWNE. That's too long for a play. Re-enter ARMADO
ARMADO. Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me- PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Was not that not Hector? DUMAIN. The worthy knight of Troy. ARMADO. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary: I have vow'd to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three year. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the Owl and the Cuckoo? It should have followed in the end of our show. KING. Call them forth quickly; we will do so. ARMADO. Holla! approach. Enter All
This side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the Spring- the one
maintained by the Owl, th' other by the Cuckoo. Ver, begin.
SPRING
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then on every tree
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
'Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo'- O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks;
When turtles tread, and rooks and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks;
The cuckoo then on every tree
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
'Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo'- O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
WINTER When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl: 'Tu-who; Tu-whit, Tu-who'- A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl: 'Tu-who; Tu-whit, To-who'- A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. ARMADO. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You that way: we this way. Exeunt MACBETH Contents ACT I Scene I. An open Place. Scene II. A Camp near Forres. Scene III. A heath. Scene IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Scene V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth’s Castle. Scene VI. The same. Before the Castle. Scene VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle.
ACT II Scene I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. Scene II. The same. Scene III. The same. Scene IV. The same. Without the Castle.
ACT III Scene I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Scene II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. Scene III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. Scene IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. Scene V. The heath. Scene VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace.
ACT IV Scene I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Cauldron Boiling. Scene II. Fife. A Room in Macduff’s Castle. Scene III. England. Before the King’s Palace.
ACT V Scene I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Scene II. The Country near Dunsinane. Scene III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Scene IV. Country near Dunsinane: a Wood in view. Scene V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. Scene VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. Scene VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. Scene VIII. The same. Another part of the field.
Dramatis Personæ DUNCAN, King of Scotland. MALCOLM, his Son. DONALBAIN, his Son. MACBETH, General in the King’s Army. BANQUO, General in the King’s Army. MACDUFF, Nobleman of Scotland. LENNOX, Nobleman of Scotland. ROSS, Nobleman of Scotland. MENTEITH, Nobleman of Scotland. ANGUS, Nobleman of Scotland. CAITHNESS, Nobleman of Scotland. FLEANCE, Son to Banquo. SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland, General of the English Forces. YOUNG SIWARD, his Son. SEYTON, an Officer attending on Macbeth. BOY, Son to Macduff. An English Doctor. A Scottish Doctor. A Soldier. A Porter. An Old Man.
LADY MACBETH. LADY MACDUFF. Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth. HECATE, and three Witches.
Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, Attendants and Messengers.
The Ghost of Banquo and several other Apparitions.
SCENE: In the end of the Fourth Act, in England; through the rest of the Play, in Scotland; and chiefly at Macbeth’s Castle. ACT I SCENE I. An open Place. Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won.
THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun.
FIRST WITCH. Where the place?
SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath.
THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth.
FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin!
SECOND WITCH. Paddock calls.
THIRD WITCH. Anon.
ALL. Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. A Camp near Forres. Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Captain.
DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state.
MALCOLM. This is the sergeant Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought ’Gainst my captivity.—Hail, brave friend! Say to the King the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it.
SOLDIER. Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald (Worthy to be a rebel, for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him) from the Western Isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show’d like a rebel’s whore. But all’s too weak; For brave Macbeth (well he deserves that name), Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish’d steel, Which smok’d with bloody execution, Like Valour’s minion, carv’d out his passage, Till he fac’d the slave; Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chops, And fix’d his head upon our battlements.
DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman!
SOLDIER. As whence the sun ’gins his reflection Shipwracking storms and direful thunders break, So from that spring, whence comfort seem’d to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valour arm’d, Compell’d these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish’d arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault.
DUNCAN. Dismay’d not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?
SOLDIER. Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg’d with double cracks; So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell— But I am faint, my gashes cry for help.
DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds: They smack of honour both.—Go, get him surgeons.
[Exit Captain, attended.]
Enter Ross and Angus.
Who comes here?
MALCOLM. The worthy Thane of Ross.
LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange.
ROSS. God save the King!
DUNCAN. Whence cam’st thou, worthy thane?
ROSS. From Fife, great King, Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor, The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point, rebellious arm ’gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us.
DUNCAN. Great happiness!
ROSS. That now Sweno, the Norways’ king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed at Saint Colme’s Inch Ten thousand dollars to our general use.
DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth.
ROSS. I’ll see it done.
DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. A heath. Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister?
SECOND WITCH. Killing swine.
THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou?
FIRST WITCH. A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch’d, and mounch’d, and mounch’d. “Give me,” quoth I. “Aroint thee, witch!” the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ th’ Tiger: But in a sieve I’ll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.
SECOND WITCH. I’ll give thee a wind.
FIRST WITCH. Th’art kind.
THIRD WITCH. And I another.
FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other, And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I’ the shipman’s card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid. Weary sev’n-nights nine times nine, Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look what I have.
SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me.
FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot’s thumb, Wrack’d as homeward he did come.
[Drum within.]
THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come.
ALL. The Weird Sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine. Peace!—the charm’s wound up.
Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
BANQUO. How far is’t call’d to Forres?—What are these, So wither’d, and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o’ th’ earth, And yet are on’t?—Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her skinny lips. You should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so.
MACBETH. Speak, if you can;—what are you?
FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!
SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!
THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter!
BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?—I’ th’ name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal. To me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate.
FIRST WITCH. Hail!
SECOND WITCH. Hail!
THIRD WITCH. Hail!
FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier.
THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!
FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!
MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. By Sinel’s death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?—Speak, I charge you.
[Witches vanish.]
BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d?
MACBETH. Into the air; and what seem’d corporal, Melted as breath into the wind. Would they had stay’d!
BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner?
MACBETH. Your children shall be kings.
BANQUO. You shall be king.
MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so?
BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who’s here?
Enter Ross and Angus.
ROSS. The King hath happily receiv’d, Macbeth, The news of thy success, and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels’ fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc’d with that, In viewing o’er the rest o’ th’ selfsame day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as tale Came post with post; and everyone did bear Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence, And pour’d them down before him.
ANGUS. We are sent To give thee from our royal master thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee.
ROSS. And, for an earnest of a greater honour, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine.
BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true?
MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow’d robes?
ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet, But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin’d With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour’d in his country’s wrack, I know not; But treasons capital, confess’d and prov’d, Have overthrown him.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind. [To Ross and Angus.] Thanks for your pains. [To Banquo.] Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis’d no less to them?
BANQUO. That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But ’tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s In deepest consequence.— Cousins, a word, I pray you.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.—I thank you, gentlemen.— [Aside.] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good. If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smother’d in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
BANQUO. Look, how our partner’s rapt.
MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir.
BANQUO. New honours come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.
MACBETH. Give me your favour. My dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register’d where every day I turn The leaf to read them.—Let us toward the King.— Think upon what hath chanc’d; and at more time, The interim having weigh’d it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other.
BANQUO. Very gladly.
MACBETH. Till then, enough.—Come, friends.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox and Attendants.
DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return’d?
MALCOLM. My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die, who did report, That very frankly he confess’d his treasons, Implor’d your Highness’ pardon, and set forth A deep repentance. Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d As ’twere a careless trifle.
DUNCAN. There’s no art To find the mind’s construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.
Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross and Angus.
O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv’d; That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay.
MACBETH. The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honour.
DUNCAN. Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labour To make thee full of growing.—Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv’d, nor must be known No less to have done so, let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart.
BANQUO. There if I grow, The harvest is your own.
DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.—Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland: which honour must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers.—From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you.
MACBETH. The rest is labour, which is not us’d for you: I’ll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave.
DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor!
MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland!—That is a step On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
[Exit.]
DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo! He is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed. It is a banquet to me. Let’s after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: It is a peerless kinsman.
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth’s Castle. Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.
LADY MACBETH. “They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfect’st report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the King, who all-hailed me, ‘Thane of Cawdor’; by which title, before, these Weird Sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with ‘Hail, king that shalt be!’ This have I thought good to deliver thee (my dearest partner of greatness) that thou might’st not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promis’d thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.”
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou’dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, “Thus thou must do,” if thou have it; And that which rather thou dost fear to do, Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, And chastise with the valour of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown’d withal.
Enter a Messenger.
What is your tidings?
MESSENGER. The King comes here tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Thou’rt mad to say it. Is not thy master with him? who, were’t so, Would have inform’d for preparation.
MESSENGER. So please you, it is true. Our thane is coming. One of my fellows had the speed of him, Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message.
LADY MACBETH. Give him tending. He brings great news.
[Exit Messenger.]
The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murd’ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, “Hold, hold!”
Enter Macbeth.
Great Glamis, worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant.
MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight.
LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence?
MACBETH. Tomorrow, as he purposes.
LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t. He that’s coming Must be provided for; and you shall put This night’s great business into my dispatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.
MACBETH. We will speak further.
LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favour ever is to fear. Leave all the rest to me.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle. Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending.
Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus and Attendants.
DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat. The air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses.
BANQUO. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d The air is delicate.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
DUNCAN. See, see, our honour’d hostess!— The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God ’ild us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble.
LADY MACBETH. All our service, In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honours deep and broad wherewith Your Majesty loads our house: for those of old, And the late dignities heap’d up to them, We rest your hermits.
DUNCAN. Where’s the Thane of Cawdor? We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor: but he rides well; And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your Highness’ pleasure, Still to return your own.
DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle. Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well It were done quickly. If th’ assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch With his surcease success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all—here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We’d jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague th’ inventor. This even-handed justice Commends th’ ingredience of our poison’d chalice To our own lips. He’s here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubin, hors’d Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.—I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself And falls on th’ other—
Enter Lady Macbeth.
How now! what news?
LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp’d. Why have you left the chamber?
MACBETH. Hath he ask’d for me?
LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has?
MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honour’d me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon.
LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress’d yourself? Hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would,” Like the poor cat i’ th’ adage?
MACBETH. Pr’ythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none.
LADY MACBETH. What beast was’t, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.
MACBETH. If we should fail?
LADY MACBETH. We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we’ll not fail. When Duncan is asleep (Whereto the rather shall his day’s hard journey Soundly invite him), his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbeck only: when in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon Th’ unguarded Duncan? what not put upon His spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell?
MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only; For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv’d, When we have mark’d with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us’d their very daggers, That they have done’t?
LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar Upon his death?
MACBETH. I am settled, and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
[Exeunt.]
ACT II SCENE I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. Enter Banquo and Fleance with a torch before him.
BANQUO. How goes the night, boy?
FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.
BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve.
FLEANCE. I take’t, ’tis later, sir.
BANQUO. Hold, take my sword.—There’s husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out. Take thee that too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose! Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch.
Give me my sword.—Who’s there?
MACBETH. A friend.
BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The King’s abed: He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your offices. This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess, and shut up In measureless content.
MACBETH. Being unprepar’d, Our will became the servant to defect, Which else should free have wrought.
BANQUO. All’s well. I dreamt last night of the three Weird Sisters: To you they have show’d some truth.
MACBETH. I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time.
BANQUO. At your kind’st leisure.
MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent, when ’tis, It shall make honour for you.
BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis’d, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell’d.
MACBETH. Good repose the while!
BANQUO. Thanks, sir: the like to you.
[Exeunt Banquo and Fleance.]
MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.
[Exit Servant.]
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:— I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood, Which was not so before.—There’s no such thing. It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.—Now o’er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain’d sleep. Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate’s off’rings; and wither’d murder, Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.—Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat, he lives. Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
[A bell rings.]
I go, and it is done. The bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. The same. Enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench’d them hath given me fire.—Hark!—Peace! It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern’st good night. He is about it. The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg’d their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die.
MACBETH. [Within.] Who’s there?—what, ho!
LADY MACBETH. Alack! I am afraid they have awak’d, And ’tis not done. Th’ attempt and not the deed Confounds us.—Hark!—I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss ’em.—Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done’t.—My husband!
Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. I have done the deed.—Didst thou not hear a noise?
LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak?
MACBETH. When?
LADY MACBETH. Now.
MACBETH. As I descended?
LADY MACBETH. Ay.
MACBETH. Hark!—Who lies i’ th’ second chamber?
LADY MACBETH. Donalbain.
MACBETH. This is a sorry sight.
[Looking on his hands.]
LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
MACBETH. There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and one cried, “Murder!” That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them. But they did say their prayers, and address’d them Again to sleep.
LADY MACBETH. There are two lodg’d together.
MACBETH. One cried, “God bless us!” and, “Amen,” the other, As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands. List’ning their fear, I could not say “Amen,” When they did say, “God bless us.”
LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply.
MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce “Amen”? I had most need of blessing, and “Amen” Stuck in my throat.
LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
MACBETH. Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
LADY MACBETH. What do you mean?
MACBETH. Still it cried, “Sleep no more!” to all the house: “Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more!”
LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength to think So brainsickly of things. Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.— Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them, and smear The sleepy grooms with blood.
MACBETH. I’ll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on’t again I dare not.
LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures. ’Tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt.
[Exit. Knocking within.]
MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is’t with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking At the south entry:—retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.—[Knocking within.] Hark, more knocking. Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers. Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts.
MACBETH. To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself. [Knocking within.] Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. The same. Enter a Porter. Knocking within.
PORTER. Here’s a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who’s there, i’ th’ name of Belzebub? Here’s a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you’ll sweat for’t. [Knocking.] Knock, knock! Who’s there, i’ th’ other devil’s name? Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there? Faith, here’s an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose. [Knocking.] Knock, knock. Never at quiet! What are you?—But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to th’ everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter.
[Opens the gate.]
Enter Macduff and Lennox.
MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late?
PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.
MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke?
PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him.
MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.
PORTER. That it did, sir, i’ the very throat on me; but I requited him for his lie; and (I think) being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him.
MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring? Enter Macbeth.
Our knocking has awak’d him; here he comes.
LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir!
MACBETH. Good morrow, both!
MACDUFF. Is the King stirring, worthy thane?
MACBETH. Not yet.
MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him. I have almost slipp’d the hour.
MACBETH. I’ll bring you to him.
MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet ’tis one.
MACBETH. The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door.
MACDUFF. I’ll make so bold to call. For ’tis my limited service.
[Exit Macduff.]
LENNOX. Goes the King hence today?
MACBETH. He does. He did appoint so.
LENNOX. The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down and, as they say, Lamentings heard i’ th’ air, strange screams of death, And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus’d events, New hatch’d to the woeful time. The obscure bird Clamour’d the live-long night. Some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake.
MACBETH. ’Twas a rough night.
LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it.
Enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee!
MACBETH, LENNOX. What’s the matter?
MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence The life o’ th’ building.
MACBETH. What is’t you say? the life?
LENNOX. Mean you his majesty?
MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak. See, and then speak yourselves.
[Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.]
Awake, awake!— Ring the alarum bell.—Murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit, And look on death itself! Up, up, and see The great doom’s image. Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror!
[Alarum-bell rings.]
Enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. What’s the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak!
MACDUFF. O gentle lady, ’Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman’s ear, Would murder as it fell.
Enter Banquo.
O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master’s murder’d!
LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house?
BANQUO. Too cruel anywhere.— Dear Duff, I pr’ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so.
Enter Macbeth and Lennox with Ross.
MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv’d a blessed time; for, from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.
Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.
DONALBAIN. What is amiss?
MACBETH. You are, and do not know’t: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d.
MACDUFF. Your royal father’s murder’d.
MALCOLM. O, by whom?
LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had done’t: Their hands and faces were all badg’d with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip’d, we found Upon their pillows. They star’d, and were distracted; No man’s life was to be trusted with them.
MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them.
MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so?
MACBETH. Who can be wise, amaz’d, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: Th’ expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac’d with his golden blood; And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in nature For ruin’s wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep’d in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech’d with gore. Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make’s love known?
LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho!
MACDUFF. Look to the lady.
MALCOLM. Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours?
DONALBAIN. What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let’s away. Our tears are not yet brew’d.
MALCOLM. Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion.
BANQUO. Look to the lady:—
[Lady Macbeth is carried out.]
And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence Against the undivulg’d pretence I fight Of treasonous malice.
MACDUFF. And so do I.
ALL. So all.
MACBETH. Let’s briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i’ th’ hall together.
ALL. Well contented.
[Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.]
MALCOLM. What will you do? Let’s not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I’ll to England.
DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I. Our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are, There’s daggers in men’s smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody.
MALCOLM. This murderous shaft that’s shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away. There’s warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. The same. Without the Castle. Enter Ross and an Old Man.
OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well, Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night Hath trifled former knowings.
ROSS. Ha, good father, Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man’s act, Threatens his bloody stage: by the clock ’tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp. Is’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it?
OLD MAN. ’Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.
ROSS. And Duncan’s horses (a thing most strange and certain) Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind.
OLD MAN. ’Tis said they eat each other.
ROSS. They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, That look’d upon’t. Here comes the good Macduff.
Enter Macduff.
How goes the world, sir, now?
MACDUFF. Why, see you not?
ROSS. Is’t known who did this more than bloody deed?
MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain.
ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend?
MACDUFF. They were suborn’d. Malcolm and Donalbain, the King’s two sons, Are stol’n away and fled; which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed.
ROSS. ’Gainst nature still: Thriftless ambition, that will ravin up Thine own life’s means!—Then ’tis most like The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth.
MACDUFF. He is already nam’d; and gone to Scone To be invested.
ROSS. Where is Duncan’s body?
MACDUFF. Carried to Colmekill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones.
ROSS. Will you to Scone?
MACDUFF. No, cousin, I’ll to Fife.
ROSS. Well, I will thither.
MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there. Adieu! Lest our old robes sit easier than our new!
ROSS. Farewell, father.
OLD MAN. God’s benison go with you; and with those That would make good of bad, and friends of foes!
[Exeunt.]
ACT III SCENE I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Enter Banquo.
BANQUO. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the Weird Women promis’d; and, I fear, Thou play’dst most foully for’t; yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity; But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them (As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine) Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope? But hush; no more.
Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen; Lennox, Ross, Lords, and Attendants.
MACBETH. Here’s our chief guest.
LADY MACBETH. If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast, And all-thing unbecoming.
MACBETH. Tonight we hold a solemn supper, sir, And I’ll request your presence.
BANQUO. Let your Highness Command upon me, to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie For ever knit.
MACBETH. Ride you this afternoon?
BANQUO. Ay, my good lord.
MACBETH. We should have else desir’d your good advice (Which still hath been both grave and prosperous) In this day’s council; but we’ll take tomorrow. Is’t far you ride?
BANQUO. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time ’Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night, For a dark hour or twain.
MACBETH. Fail not our feast.
BANQUO. My lord, I will not.
MACBETH. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow’d In England and in Ireland; not confessing Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers With strange invention. But of that tomorrow, When therewithal we shall have cause of state Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu, Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you?
BANQUO. Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon’s.
MACBETH. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot; And so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell.—
[Exit Banquo.]
Let every man be master of his time Till seven at night; to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper time alone: while then, God be with you.
[Exeunt Lady Macbeth, Lords, &c.]
Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men Our pleasure?
SERVANT. They are, my lord, without the palace gate.
MACBETH. Bring them before us.
[Exit Servant.]
To be thus is nothing, But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear’d: ’tis much he dares; And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear: and under him My genius is rebuk’d; as, it is said, Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. He chid the sisters When first they put the name of king upon me, And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like, They hail’d him father to a line of kings: Upon my head they plac’d a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench’d with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If’t be so, For Banquo’s issue have I fil’d my mind; For them the gracious Duncan have I murder’d; Put rancours in the vessel of my peace Only for them; and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, And champion me to th’ utterance!—Who’s there?—
Enter Servant with two Murderers.
Now go to the door, and stay there till we call.
[Exit Servant.]
Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
FIRST MURDERER. It was, so please your Highness.
MACBETH. Well then, now Have you consider’d of my speeches? Know That it was he, in the times past, which held you So under fortune, which you thought had been Our innocent self? This I made good to you In our last conference, pass’d in probation with you How you were borne in hand, how cross’d, the instruments, Who wrought with them, and all things else that might To half a soul and to a notion craz’d Say, “Thus did Banquo.”
FIRST MURDERER. You made it known to us.
MACBETH. I did so; and went further, which is now Our point of second meeting. Do you find Your patience so predominant in your nature, That you can let this go? Are you so gospell’d, To pray for this good man and for his issue, Whose heavy hand hath bow’d you to the grave, And beggar’d yours forever?
FIRST MURDERER. We are men, my liege.
MACBETH. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name of dogs: the valu’d file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The housekeeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him clos’d; whereby he does receive Particular addition, from the bill That writes them all alike: and so of men. Now, if you have a station in the file, Not i’ th’ worst rank of manhood, say’t; And I will put that business in your bosoms, Whose execution takes your enemy off, Grapples you to the heart and love of us, Who wear our health but sickly in his life, Which in his death were perfect.
SECOND MURDERER. I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Hath so incens’d that I am reckless what I do to spite the world.
FIRST MURDERER. And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend it or be rid on’t.
MACBETH. Both of you Know Banquo was your enemy.
BOTH MURDERERS. True, my lord.
MACBETH. So is he mine; and in such bloody distance, That every minute of his being thrusts Against my near’st of life; and though I could With barefac’d power sweep him from my sight, And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine, Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall Who I myself struck down: and thence it is That I to your assistance do make love, Masking the business from the common eye For sundry weighty reasons.
SECOND MURDERER. We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us.
FIRST MURDERER. Though our lives—
MACBETH. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most, I will advise you where to plant yourselves, Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ th’ time, The moment on’t; for’t must be done tonight And something from the palace; always thought That I require a clearness. And with him (To leave no rubs nor botches in the work) Fleance his son, that keeps him company, Whose absence is no less material to me Than is his father’s, must embrace the fate Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart. I’ll come to you anon.
BOTH MURDERERS. We are resolv’d, my lord.
MACBETH. I’ll call upon you straight: abide within.
[Exeunt Murderers.]
It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul’s flight, If it find heaven, must find it out tonight.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.
LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court?
SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Say to the King, I would attend his leisure For a few words.
SERVANT. Madam, I will.
[Exit.]
LADY MACBETH. Naught’s had, all’s spent, Where our desire is got without content: ’Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
Enter Macbeth.
How now, my lord, why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making, Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things without all remedy Should be without regard: what’s done is done.
MACBETH. We have scorch’d the snake, not kill’d it. She’ll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, Both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing Can touch him further.
LADY MACBETH. Come on, Gently my lord, sleek o’er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial among your guests tonight.
MACBETH. So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you. Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honours in these flattering streams, And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are.
LADY MACBETH. You must leave this.
MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know’st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives.
LADY MACBETH. But in them nature’s copy’s not eterne.
MACBETH. There’s comfort yet; they are assailable. Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown His cloister’d flight, ere to black Hecate’s summons The shard-born beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath rung night’s yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note.
LADY MACBETH. What’s to be done?
MACBETH. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale!—Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to th’ rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse. Thou marvell’st at my words: but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. So, pr’ythee, go with me.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. Enter three Murderers.
FIRST MURDERER. But who did bid thee join with us?
THIRD MURDERER. Macbeth.
SECOND MURDERER. He needs not our mistrust; since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just.
FIRST MURDERER. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day. Now spurs the lated traveller apace, To gain the timely inn; and near approaches The subject of our watch.
THIRD MURDERER. Hark! I hear horses.
BANQUO. [Within.] Give us a light there, ho!
SECOND MURDERER. Then ’tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i’ th’ court.
FIRST MURDERER. His horses go about.
THIRD MURDERER. Almost a mile; but he does usually, So all men do, from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk.
Enter Banquo and Fleance with a torch.
SECOND MURDERER. A light, a light!
THIRD MURDERER. ’Tis he.
FIRST MURDERER. Stand to’t.
BANQUO. It will be rain tonight.
FIRST MURDERER. Let it come down.
[Assaults Banquo.]
BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge—O slave!
[Dies. Fleance escapes.]
THIRD MURDERER. Who did strike out the light?
FIRST MURDERER. Was’t not the way?
THIRD MURDERER. There’s but one down: the son is fled.
SECOND MURDERER. We have lost best half of our affair.
FIRST MURDERER. Well, let’s away, and say how much is done.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. A banquet prepared. Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords and Attendants.
MACBETH. You know your own degrees, sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome.
LORDS. Thanks to your Majesty.
MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society, And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time, We will require her welcome.
LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends; For my heart speaks they are welcome.
Enter first Murderer to the door.
MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts’ thanks. Both sides are even: here I’ll sit i’ th’ midst.
Be large in mirth; anon we’ll drink a measure The table round. There’s blood upon thy face.
MURDERER. ’Tis Banquo’s then.
MACBETH. ’Tis better thee without than he within. Is he dispatch’d?
MURDERER. My lord, his throat is cut. That I did for him.
MACBETH. Thou art the best o’ th’ cut-throats; Yet he’s good that did the like for Fleance: If thou didst it, thou art the nonpareil.
MURDERER. Most royal sir, Fleance is ’scap’d.
MACBETH. Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, As broad and general as the casing air: But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo’s safe?
MURDERER. Ay, my good lord. Safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head; The least a death to nature.
MACBETH. Thanks for that. There the grown serpent lies; the worm that’s fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for th’ present.—Get thee gone; tomorrow We’ll hear, ourselves, again.
[Exit Murderer.]
LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold That is not often vouch’d, while ’tis a-making, ’Tis given with welcome. To feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it.
The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth’s place.
MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!— Now, good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both!
LENNOX. May’t please your Highness sit.
MACBETH. Here had we now our country’s honour roof’d, Were the grac’d person of our Banquo present; Who may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance!
ROSS. His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please’t your Highness To grace us with your royal company?
MACBETH. The table’s full.
LENNOX. Here is a place reserv’d, sir.
MACBETH. Where?
LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is’t that moves your Highness?
MACBETH. Which of you have done this?
LORDS. What, my good lord?
MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it. Never shake Thy gory locks at me.
ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is not well.
LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends. My lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well. If much you note him, You shall offend him, and extend his passion. Feed, and regard him not.—Are you a man?
MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which might appal the devil.
LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear: This is the air-drawn dagger which you said, Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts (Impostors to true fear), would well become A woman’s story at a winter’s fire, Authoris’d by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all’s done, You look but on a stool.
MACBETH. Pr’ythee, see there! Behold! look! lo! how say you? Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.— If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites.
[Ghost disappears.]
LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann’d in folly?
MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him.
LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame!
MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ th’ olden time, Ere humane statute purg’d the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform’d Too terrible for the ear: the time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools. This is more strange Than such a murder is.
LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you.
MACBETH. I do forget.— Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends. I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; Then I’ll sit down.—Give me some wine, fill full.— I drink to the general joy o’ th’ whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: Would he were here.
Ghost rises again.
To all, and him, we thirst, And all to all.
LORDS. Our duties, and the pledge.
MACBETH. Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with!
LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom: ’tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.
MACBETH. What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm’d rhinoceros, or th’ Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble: or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mock’ry, hence!
[Ghost disappears.]
Why, so;—being gone, I am a man again.—Pray you, sit still.
LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting With most admir’d disorder.
MACBETH. Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer’s cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such sights, And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, When mine are blanch’d with fear.
ROSS. What sights, my lord?
LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him. At once, good night:— Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once.
LENNOX. Good night; and better health Attend his Majesty!
LADY MACBETH. A kind good night to all!
[Exeunt all Lords and Atendants.]
MACBETH. It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret’st man of blood.—What is the night?
LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which.
MACBETH. How say’st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding?
LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir?
MACBETH. I hear it by the way; but I will send. There’s not a one of them but in his house I keep a servant fee’d. I will tomorrow (And betimes I will) to the Weird Sisters: More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er. Strange things I have in head, that will to hand, Which must be acted ere they may be scann’d.
LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
MACBETH. Come, we’ll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use. We are yet but young in deed.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. The heath. Thunder. Enter the three Witches meeting Hecate.
FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly.
HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call’d to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now: get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i’ th’ morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms, and everything beside. I am for th’ air; this night I’ll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon. Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vap’rous drop profound; I’ll catch it ere it come to ground: And that, distill’d by magic sleights, Shall raise such artificial sprites, As, by the strength of their illusion, Shall draw him on to his confusion. He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace, and fear. And you all know, security Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.
[Music and song within, “Come away, come away” &c.]
Hark! I am call’d; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me.
[Exit.]
FIRST WITCH. Come, let’s make haste; she’ll soon be back again.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Enter Lennox and another Lord.
LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret farther: only, I say, Thing’s have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth:—marry, he was dead:— And the right valiant Banquo walk’d too late; Whom, you may say, if’t please you, Fleance kill’d, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? damned fact! How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; For ’twould have anger’d any heart alive, To hear the men deny’t. So that, I say, He has borne all things well: and I do think, That had he Duncan’s sons under his key (As, and’t please heaven, he shall not) they should find What ’twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace!—for from broad words, and ’cause he fail’d His presence at the tyrant’s feast, I hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself?
LORD. The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is receiv’d Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward That, by the help of these (with Him above To ratify the work), we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, Do faithful homage, and receive free honours, All which we pine for now. And this report Hath so exasperate the King that he Prepares for some attempt of war.
LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff?
LORD. He did: and with an absolute “Sir, not I,” The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say, “You’ll rue the time That clogs me with this answer.”
LENNOX. And that well might Advise him to a caution, t’ hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England, and unfold His message ere he come, that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accurs’d!
LORD. I’ll send my prayers with him.
[Exeunt.]
ACT IV SCENE I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Cauldron Boiling. Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.
SECOND WITCH. Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whin’d.
THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries:—’Tis time, ’tis time.
FIRST WITCH. Round about the cauldron go; In the poison’d entrails throw.— Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter’d venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i’ th’ charmed pot!
ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble.
SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble.
THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch’s mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg’d i’ th’ dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse, Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips, Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-deliver’d by a drab, Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron, For th’ ingredients of our cauldron.
ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble.
SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon’s blood. Then the charm is firm and good.
Enter Hecate.
HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains, And everyone shall share i’ th’ gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in.
[Music and a song: “Black Spirits,” &c.]
[Exit Hecate.]
SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes. Open, locks, Whoever knocks!
Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is’t you do?
ALL. A deed without a name.
MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess, (Howe’er you come to know it) answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodg’d, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders’ heads; Though palaces and pyramids do slope Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure Of nature’s germens tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken, answer me To what I ask you.
FIRST WITCH. Speak.
SECOND WITCH. Demand.
THIRD WITCH. We’ll answer.
FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou’dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters?
MACBETH. Call ’em, let me see ’em.
FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow’s blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that’s sweaten From the murderer’s gibbet throw Into the flame.
ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show!
[Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises.]
MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power,—
FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou naught.
APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff; Beware the Thane of Fife.—Dismiss me.—Enough.
[Descends.]
MACBETH. Whate’er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp’d my fear aright.—But one word more.
FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded. Here’s another, More potent than the first.
[Thunder. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises.]
APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!
MACBETH. Had I three ears, I’d hear thee.
APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute. Laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth.
[Descends.]
MACBETH. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee? But yet I’ll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate. Thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder.
[Thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.]
What is this, That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty?
ALL. Listen, but speak not to’t.
APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him.
[Descends.]
MACBETH. That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! Rebellious head, rise never till the wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac’d Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom.—Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if your art Can tell so much, shall Banquo’s issue ever Reign in this kingdom?
ALL. Seek to know no more.
MACBETH. I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know. Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this?
[Hautboys.]
FIRST WITCH. Show!
SECOND WITCH. Show!
THIRD WITCH. Show!
ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart!
[A show of eight kings appear, and pass over in order, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo following.]
MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo. Down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:—and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first. A third is like the former.—Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?—A fourth!—Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to th’ crack of doom? Another yet!—A seventh!—I’ll see no more:— And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry. Horrible sight!—Now I see ’tis true; For the blood-bolter’d Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.—What! is this so?
FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so:—but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?— Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights. I’ll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay.
[Music. The Witches dance, and vanish.]
MACBETH. Where are they? Gone?—Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!— Come in, without there!
Enter Lennox.
LENNOX. What’s your Grace’s will?
MACBETH. Saw you the Weird Sisters?
LENNOX. No, my lord.
MACBETH. Came they not by you?
LENNOX. No, indeed, my lord.
MACBETH. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn’d all those that trust them!—I did hear The galloping of horse: who was’t came by?
LENNOX. ’Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England.
MACBETH. Fled to England!
LENNOX. Ay, my good lord.
MACBETH. Time, thou anticipat’st my dread exploits: The flighty purpose never is o’ertook Unless the deed go with it. From this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to th’ edge o’ th’ sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I’ll do before this purpose cool: But no more sights!—Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff’s Castle. Enter Lady Macduff her Son and Ross.
LADY MACDUFF. What had he done, to make him fly the land?
ROSS. You must have patience, madam.
LADY MACDUFF. He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors.
ROSS. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear.
LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not: He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear, and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason.
ROSS. My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband, He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows The fits o’ th’ season. I dare not speak much further: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and move—I take my leave of you: Shall not be long but I’ll be here again. Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before.—My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you!
LADY MACDUFF. Father’d he is, and yet he’s fatherless.
ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: I take my leave at once.
[Exit.]
LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father’s dead. And what will you do now? How will you live?
SON. As birds do, mother.
LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies?
SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they.
LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! thou’dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall nor the gin.
SON. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying.
LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for a father?
SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband?
LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market.
SON. Then you’ll buy ’em to sell again.
LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak’st with all thy wit; And yet, i’ faith, with wit enough for thee.
SON. Was my father a traitor, mother?
LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was.
SON. What is a traitor?
LADY MACDUFF. Why, one that swears and lies.
SON. And be all traitors that do so?
LADY MACDUFF. Every one that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged.
SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?
LADY MACDUFF. Every one.
SON. Who must hang them?
LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men.
SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them.
LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father?
SON. If he were dead, you’ld weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.
LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk’st!
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honour I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: If you will take a homely man’s advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer.
[Exit.]
LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable; to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm? What are these faces?
Enter Murderers.
FIRST MURDERER. Where is your husband?
LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him.
FIRST MURDERER. He’s a traitor.
SON. Thou liest, thou shag-ear’d villain!
FIRST MURDERER. What, you egg!
[Stabbing him.]
Young fry of treachery!
SON. He has kill’d me, mother: Run away, I pray you!
[Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying “Murder!” and pursued by the Murderers.]
SCENE III. England. Before the King’s Palace. Enter Malcolm and Macduff.
MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty.
MACDUFF. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom. Each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell’d out Like syllable of dolour.
MALCOLM. What I believe, I’ll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well; He hath not touch’d you yet. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry god.
MACDUFF. I am not treacherous.
MALCOLM. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon. That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so.
MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes.
MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking?—I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think.
MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs; The title is affeer’d.—Fare thee well, lord: I would not be the villain that thou think’st For the whole space that’s in the tyrant’s grasp And the rich East to boot.
MALCOLM. Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think, withal, There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here, from gracious England, have I offer Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant’s head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before, More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed.
MACDUFF. What should he be?
MALCOLM. It is myself I mean; in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be open’d, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compar’d With my confineless harms.
MACDUFF. Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d In evils to top Macbeth.
MALCOLM. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: but there’s no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up The cistern of my lust; and my desire All continent impediments would o’erbear, That did oppose my will: better Macbeth Than such an one to reign.
MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been Th’ untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings. But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours: you may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold—the time you may so hoodwink. We have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you, to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclin’d.
MALCOLM. With this there grows In my most ill-compos’d affection such A staunchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands; Desire his jewels, and this other’s house: And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more; that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth.
MACDUFF. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will, Of your mere own. All these are portable, With other graces weigh’d.
MALCOLM. But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temp’rance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them; but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth.
MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland!
MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken.
MACDUFF. Fit to govern? No, not to live.—O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter’d, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accus’d, And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father Was a most sainted king. The queen that bore thee, Oft’ner upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself Have banish’d me from Scotland.—O my breast, Thy hope ends here!
MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconcil’d my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me! for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; Scarcely have coveted what was mine own; At no time broke my faith; would not betray The devil to his fellow; and delight No less in truth than life: my first false speaking Was this upon myself. What I am truly, Is thine and my poor country’s to command: Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, Already at a point, was setting forth. Now we’ll together, and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel. Why are you silent?
MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once ’Tis hard to reconcile.
Enter a Doctor.
MALCOLM. Well; more anon.—Comes the King forth, I pray you?
DOCTOR. Ay, sir. There are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend.
MALCOLM. I thank you, doctor.
[Exit Doctor.]
MACDUFF. What’s the disease he means?
MALCOLM. ’Tis call’d the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows, but strangely-visited people, All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures; Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and ’tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace.
Enter Ross.
MACDUFF. See, who comes here?
MALCOLM. My countryman; but yet I know him not.
MACDUFF. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.
MALCOLM. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers!
ROSS. Sir, amen.
MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did?
ROSS. Alas, poor country, Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call’d our mother, but our grave, where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rent the air, Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy. The dead man’s knell Is there scarce ask’d for who; and good men’s lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Dying or ere they sicken.
MACDUFF. O, relation Too nice, and yet too true!
MALCOLM. What’s the newest grief?
ROSS. That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one.
MACDUFF. How does my wife?
ROSS. Why, well.
MACDUFF. And all my children?
ROSS. Well too.
MACDUFF. The tyrant has not batter’d at their peace?
ROSS. No; they were well at peace when I did leave ’em.
MACDUFF. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes’t?
ROSS. When I came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out; Which was to my belief witness’d the rather, For that I saw the tyrant’s power afoot. Now is the time of help. Your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses.
MALCOLM. Be’t their comfort We are coming thither. Gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; An older and a better soldier none That Christendom gives out.
ROSS. Would I could answer This comfort with the like! But I have words That would be howl’d out in the desert air, Where hearing should not latch them.
MACDUFF. What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief Due to some single breast?
ROSS. No mind that’s honest But in it shares some woe, though the main part Pertains to you alone.
MACDUFF. If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
ROSS. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard.
MACDUFF. Humh! I guess at it.
ROSS. Your castle is surpris’d; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter’d. To relate the manner Were, on the quarry of these murder’d deer, To add the death of you.
MALCOLM. Merciful heaven!— What, man! ne’er pull your hat upon your brows. Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
MACDUFF. My children too?
ROSS. Wife, children, servants, all That could be found.
MACDUFF. And I must be from thence! My wife kill’d too?
ROSS. I have said.
MALCOLM. Be comforted: Let’s make us med’cines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief.
MACDUFF. He has no children.—All my pretty ones? Did you say all?—O hell-kite!—All? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop?
MALCOLM. Dispute it like a man.
MACDUFF. I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man: I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.—Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls: heaven rest them now!
MALCOLM. Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
MACDUFF. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, And braggart with my tongue!—But, gentle heavens, Cut short all intermission; front to front, Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword’s length set him; if he ’scape, Heaven forgive him too!
MALCOLM. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the King. Our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may; The night is long that never finds the day.
[Exeunt.]
ACT V SCENE I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.
DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?
GENTLEWOMAN. Since his Majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon’t, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.
DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?
GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her.
DOCTOR. You may to me; and ’tis most meet you should.
GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor anyone; having no witness to confirm my speech.
Enter Lady Macbeth with a taper.
Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.
DOCTOR. How came she by that light?
GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; ’tis her command.
DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open.
GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense are shut.
DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.
GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.
LADY MACBETH. Yet here’s a spot.
DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.
LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! out, I say! One; two. Why, then ’tis time to do’t. Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?
DOCTOR. Do you mark that?
LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife. Where is she now?—What, will these hands ne’er be clean? No more o’ that, my lord, no more o’ that: you mar all with this starting.
DOCTOR. Go to, go to. You have known what you should not.
GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known.
LADY MACBETH. Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!
DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.
GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body.
DOCTOR. Well, well, well.
GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir.
DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.
LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out on’s grave.
DOCTOR. Even so?
LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.
[Exit.]
DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed?
GENTLEWOMAN. Directly.
DOCTOR. Foul whisp’rings are abroad. Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician.— God, God, forgive us all! Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night: My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight. I think, but dare not speak.
GENTLEWOMAN. Good night, good doctor.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane. Enter, with drum and colours Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox and Soldiers.
MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man.
ANGUS. Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them. That way are they coming.
CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?
LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not. I have a file Of all the gentry: there is Siward’s son And many unrough youths, that even now Protest their first of manhood.
MENTEITH. What does the tyrant?
CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies. Some say he’s mad; others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain, He cannot buckle his distemper’d cause Within the belt of rule.
ANGUS. Now does he feel His secret murders sticking on his hands; Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love: now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe Upon a dwarfish thief.
MENTEITH. Who, then, shall blame His pester’d senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there?
CAITHNESS. Well, march we on, To give obedience where ’tis truly ow’d: Meet we the med’cine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country’s purge, Each drop of us.
LENNOX. Or so much as it needs To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam.
[Exeunt, marching.]
SCENE III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Enter Macbeth, Doctor and Attendants.
MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What’s the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounc’d me thus: “Fear not, Macbeth; no man that’s born of woman Shall e’er have power upon thee.”—Then fly, false thanes, And mingle with the English epicures: The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.
Enter a Servant.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d loon! Where gott’st thou that goose look?
SERVANT. There is ten thousand—
MACBETH. Geese, villain?
SERVANT. Soldiers, sir.
MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver’d boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
SERVANT. The English force, so please you.
MACBETH. Take thy face hence.
[Exit Servant.]
Seyton!—I am sick at heart, When I behold—Seyton, I say!—This push Will cheer me ever or disseat me now. I have liv’d long enough: my way of life Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!—
Enter Seyton.
SEYTON. What’s your gracious pleasure?
MACBETH. What news more?
SEYTON. All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported.
MACBETH. I’ll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack’d. Give me my armour.
SEYTON. ’Tis not needed yet.
MACBETH. I’ll put it on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.— How does your patient, doctor?
DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest.
MACBETH. Cure her of that: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart?
DOCTOR. Therein the patient Must minister to himself.
MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs, I’ll none of it. Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff: Seyton, send out.—Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.— Come, sir, despatch.—If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.—Pull’t off, I say.— What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear’st thou of them?
DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord. Your royal preparation Makes us hear something.
MACBETH. Bring it after me.— I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.
[Exeunt all except Doctor.]
DOCTOR. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here.
[Exit.]
SCENE IV. Country near Dunsinane: a Wood in view. Enter, with drum and colours Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross and Soldiers, marching.
MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe.
MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing.
SIWARD. What wood is this before us?
MENTEITH. The wood of Birnam.
MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear’t before him. Thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us.
SOLDIERS. It shall be done.
SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure Our setting down before’t.
MALCOLM. ’Tis his main hope; For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt, And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too.
MACDUFF. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership.
SIWARD. The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate, But certain issue strokes must arbitrate; Towards which advance the war.
[Exeunt, marching.]
SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. Enter with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton and Soldiers.
MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, “They come!” Our castle’s strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up. Were they not forc’d with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home.
[A cry of women within.]
What is that noise?
SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord.
[Exit.]
MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears. The time has been, my senses would have cool’d To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in’t. I have supp’d full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me.
Enter Seyton.
Wherefore was that cry?
SEYTON. The Queen, my lord, is dead.
MACBETH. She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
Enter a Messenger.
Thou com’st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.
MESSENGER. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do’t.
MACBETH. Well, say, sir.
MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move.
MACBETH. Liar, and slave!
MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if’t be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove.
MACBETH. If thou speak’st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.— I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt th’ equivocation of the fiend, That lies like truth. “Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane;” and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.—Arm, arm, and out!— If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I ’gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone.— Ring the alarum bell!—Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff and their Army, with boughs.
MALCOLM. Now near enough. Your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are.—You, worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right noble son, Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon’s what else remains to do, According to our order.
SIWARD. Fare you well.— Do we but find the tyrant’s power tonight, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight.
MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. Alarums. Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake. I cannot fly, But, bear-like I must fight the course.—What’s he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none.
Enter young Siward.
YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name?
MACBETH. Thou’lt be afraid to hear it.
YOUNG SIWARD. No; though thou call’st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell.
MACBETH. My name’s Macbeth.
YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear.
MACBETH. No, nor more fearful.
YOUNG SIWARD. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant. With my sword I’ll prove the lie thou speak’st.
[They fight, and young Siward is slain.]
MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman. But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born.
[Exit.]
Alarums. Enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. That way the noise is.—Tyrant, show thy face! If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves. Either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter’d edge, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune! And more I beg not.
[Exit. Alarums.]
Enter Malcolm and old Siward.
SIWARD. This way, my lord;—the castle’s gently render’d: The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war, The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do.
MALCOLM. We have met with foes That strike beside us.
SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle.
[Exeunt. Alarums.]
SCENE VIII. The same. Another part of the field. Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.
Enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. Turn, hell-hound, turn!
MACBETH. Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back; my soul is too much charg’d With blood of thine already.
MACDUFF. I have no words; My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out!
[They fight.]
MACBETH. Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.
MACDUFF. Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast serv’d Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb Untimely ripp’d.
MACBETH. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow’d my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believ’d, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope!—I’ll not fight with thee.
MACDUFF. Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o’ th’ time. We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, “Here may you see the tyrant.”
MACBETH. I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, And to be baited with the rabble’s curse. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou oppos’d, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”
[Exeunt fighting. Alarums.]
Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, Thanes and Soldiers.
MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv’d.
SIWARD. Some must go off; and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
MALCOLM. Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
ROSS. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s debt: He only liv’d but till he was a man; The which no sooner had his prowess confirm’d In the unshrinking station where he fought, But like a man he died.
SIWARD. Then he is dead?
FLEANCE. Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow Must not be measur’d by his worth, for then It hath no end.
SIWARD. Had he his hurts before?
ROSS. Ay, on the front.
SIWARD. Why then, God’s soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death: And so his knell is knoll’d.
MALCOLM. He’s worth more sorrow, And that I’ll spend for him.
SIWARD. He’s worth no more. They say he parted well and paid his score: And so, God be with him!—Here comes newer comfort.
Enter Macduff with Macbeth’s head.
MACDUFF. Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold, where stands Th’ usurper’s cursed head: the time is free. I see thee compass’d with thy kingdom’s pearl, That speak my salutation in their minds; Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,— Hail, King of Scotland!
ALL. Hail, King of Scotland!
[Flourish.]
MALCOLM. We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves, And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland In such an honour nam’d. What’s more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time,— As calling home our exil’d friends abroad, That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; Producing forth the cruel ministers Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen, Who, as ’tis thought, by self and violent hands Took off her life;—this, and what needful else That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, We will perform in measure, time, and place. So thanks to all at once, and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown’d at Scone.
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
MEASURE FOR MEASURE DRAMATIS PERSONAE VINCENTIO, the Duke ANGELO, the Deputy ESCALUS, an ancient Lord CLAUDIO, a young gentleman LUCIO, a fantastic Two other like Gentlemen VARRIUS, a gentleman, servant to the Duke PROVOST THOMAS, friar PETER, friar A JUSTICE ELBOW, a simple constable FROTH, a foolish gentleman POMPEY, a clown and servant to Mistress Overdone ABHORSON, an executioner BARNARDINE, a dissolute prisoner ISABELLA, sister to Claudio MARIANA, betrothed to Angelo JULIET, beloved of Claudio FRANCISCA, a nun MISTRESS OVERDONE, a bawd Lords, Officers, Citizens, Boy, and Attendants
SCENE: Vienna ACT I. SCENE I. The DUKE'S palace Enter DUKE, ESCALUS, LORDS, and ATTENDANTS
DUKE. Escalus! ESCALUS. My lord. DUKE. Of government the properties to unfold Would seem in me t' affect speech and discourse, Since I am put to know that your own science Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice My strength can give you; then no more remains But that to your sufficiency- as your worth is able- And let them work. The nature of our people, Our city's institutions, and the terms For common justice, y'are as pregnant in As art and practice hath enriched any That we remember. There is our commission, From which we would not have you warp. Call hither, I say, bid come before us, Angelo. Exit an ATTENDANT What figure of us think you he will bear? For you must know we have with special soul Elected him our absence to supply; Lent him our terror, dress'd him with our love, And given his deputation all the organs Of our own power. What think you of it? ESCALUS. If any in Vienna be of worth To undergo such ample grace and honour, It is Lord Angelo. Enter ANGELO
DUKE. Look where he comes. ANGELO. Always obedient to your Grace's will, I come to know your pleasure. DUKE. Angelo, There is a kind of character in thy life That to th' observer doth thy history Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings Are not thine own so proper as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd But to fine issues; nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines Herself the glory of a creditor, Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech To one that can my part in him advertise. Hold, therefore, Angelo- In our remove be thou at full ourself; Mortality and mercy in Vienna Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus, Though first in question, is thy secondary. Take thy commission. ANGELO. Now, good my lord, Let there be some more test made of my metal, Before so noble and so great a figure Be stamp'd upon it. DUKE. No more evasion! We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours. Our haste from hence is of so quick condition That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion'd Matters of needful value. We shall write to you, As time and our concernings shall importune, How it goes with us, and do look to know What doth befall you here. So, fare you well. To th' hopeful execution do I leave you Of your commissions. ANGELO. Yet give leave, my lord, That we may bring you something on the way. DUKE. My haste may not admit it; Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do With any scruple: your scope is as mine own, So to enforce or qualify the laws As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand; I'll privily away. I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes; Though it do well, I do not relish well Their loud applause and Aves vehement; Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. ANGELO. The heavens give safety to your purposes! ESCALUS. Lead forth and bring you back in happiness! DUKE. I thank you. Fare you well. Exit ESCALUS. I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave To have free speech with you; and it concerns me To look into the bottom of my place: A pow'r I have, but of what strength and nature I am not yet instructed. ANGELO. 'Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together, And we may soon our satisfaction have Touching that point. ESCALUS. I'll wait upon your honour. Exeunt SCENE II. A street Enter Lucio and two other GENTLEMEN
LUCIO. If the Duke, with the other dukes, come not to composition with the King of Hungary, why then all the dukes fall upon the King. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King of Hungary's! SECOND GENTLEMAN. Amen. LUCIO. Thou conclud'st like the sanctimonious pirate that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scrap'd one out of the table. SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Thou shalt not steal'? LUCIO. Ay, that he raz'd. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Why, 'twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions: they put forth to steal. There's not a soldier of us all that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition well that prays for peace. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I never heard any soldier dislike it. LUCIO. I believe thee; for I think thou never wast where grace was said. SECOND GENTLEMAN. No? A dozen times at least. FIRST GENTLEMAN. What, in metre? LUCIO. In any proportion or in any language. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I think, or in any religion. LUCIO. Ay, why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy; as, for example, thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all grace. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Well, there went but a pair of shears between us. LUCIO. I grant; as there may between the lists and the velvet. Thou art the list. FIRST GENTLEMAN. And thou the velvet; thou art good velvet; thou'rt a three-pil'd piece, I warrant thee. I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be pil'd, as thou art pil'd, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now? LUCIO. I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech. I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I think I have done myself wrong, have I not? SECOND GENTLEMAN. Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free. Enter MISTRESS OVERDONE
LUCIO. Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchas'd as many diseases under her roof as come to- SECOND GENTLEMAN. To what, I pray? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Judge. SECOND GENTLEMAN. To three thousand dolours a year. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, and more. LUCIO. A French crown more. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Thou art always figuring diseases in me, but thou art full of error; I am sound. LUCIO. Nay, not, as one would say, healthy; but so sound as things that are hollow: thy bones are hollow; impiety has made a feast of thee. FIRST GENTLEMAN. How now! which of your hips has the most profound sciatica? MRS. OVERDONE. Well, well! there's one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you all. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Who's that, I pray thee? MRS. OVERDONE. Marry, sir, that's Claudio, Signior Claudio. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Claudio to prison? 'Tis not so. MRS. OVERDONE. Nay, but I know 'tis so: I saw him arrested; saw him carried away; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopp'd off. LUCIO. But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of this? MRS. OVERDONE. I am too sure of it; and it is for getting Madam Julietta with child. LUCIO. Believe me, this may be; he promis'd to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose. FIRST GENTLEMAN. But most of all agreeing with the proclamation. LUCIO. Away; let's go learn the truth of it. Exeunt Lucio and GENTLEMEN MRS. OVERDONE. Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows, and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk. Enter POMPEY
How now! what's the news with you?
POMPEY. Yonder man is carried to prison. MRS. OVERDONE. Well, what has he done? POMPEY. A woman. MRS. OVERDONE. But what's his offence? POMPEY. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. MRS. OVERDONE. What! is there a maid with child by him? POMPEY. No; but there's a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you? MRS. OVERDONE. What proclamation, man? POMPEY. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be pluck'd down. MRS. OVERDONE. And what shall become of those in the city? POMPEY. They shall stand for seed; they had gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them. MRS. OVERDONE. But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pull'd down? POMPEY. To the ground, mistress. MRS. OVERDONE. Why, here's a change indeed in the commonwealth! What shall become of me? POMPEY. Come, fear not you: good counsellors lack no clients. Though you change your place you need not change your trade; I'll be your tapster still. Courage, there will be pity taken on you; you that have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you will be considered. MRS. OVERDONE. What's to do here, Thomas Tapster? Let's withdraw. POMPEY. Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison; and there's Madam Juliet. Exeunt Enter PROVOST, CLAUDIO, JULIET, and OFFICERS; LUCIO following CLAUDIO. Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to th' world? Bear me to prison, where I am committed. PROVOST. I do it not in evil disposition, But from Lord Angelo by special charge. CLAUDIO. Thus can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offence by weight The words of heaven: on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still 'tis just. LUCIO. Why, how now, Claudio, whence comes this restraint? CLAUDIO. From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty; As surfeit is the father of much fast, So every scope by the immoderate use Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, A thirsty evil; and when we drink we die. LUCIO. If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors; and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What's thy offence, Claudio? CLAUDIO. What but to speak of would offend again. LUCIO. What, is't murder? CLAUDIO. No. LUCIO. Lechery? CLAUDIO. Call it so. PROVOST. Away, sir; you must go. CLAUDIO. One word, good friend. Lucio, a word with you. LUCIO. A hundred, if they'll do you any good. Is lechery so look'd after? CLAUDIO. Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract I got possession of Julietta's bed. You know the lady; she is fast my wife, Save that we do the denunciation lack Of outward order; this we came not to, Only for propagation of a dow'r Remaining in the coffer of her friends. From whom we thought it meet to hide our love Till time had made them for us. But it chances The stealth of our most mutual entertainment, With character too gross, is writ on Juliet. LUCIO. With child, perhaps? CLAUDIO. Unhappily, even so. And the new deputy now for the Duke- Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, Or whether that the body public be A horse whereon the governor doth ride, Who, newly in the seat, that it may know He can command, lets it straight feel the spur; Whether the tyranny be in his place, Or in his eminence that fills it up, I stagger in. But this new governor Awakes me all the enrolled penalties Which have, like unscour'd armour, hung by th' wall So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round And none of them been worn; and, for a name, Now puts the drowsy and neglected act Freshly on me. 'Tis surely for a name. LUCIO. I warrant it is; and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the Duke, and appeal to him. CLAUDIO. I have done so, but he's not to be found. I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service: This day my sister should the cloister enter, And there receive her approbation; Acquaint her with the danger of my state; Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him. I have great hope in that; for in her youth There is a prone and speechless dialect Such as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art When she will play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade. LUCIO. I pray she may; as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I'll to her. CLAUDIO. I thank you, good friend Lucio. LUCIO. Within two hours. CLAUDIO. Come, officer, away. Exeunt SCENE III. A monastery Enter DUKE and FRIAR THOMAS
DUKE. No, holy father; throw away that thought; Believe not that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee To give me secret harbour hath a purpose More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends Of burning youth. FRIAR. May your Grace speak of it? DUKE. My holy sir, none better knows than you How I have ever lov'd the life removed, And held in idle price to haunt assemblies Where youth, and cost, a witless bravery keeps. I have deliver'd to Lord Angelo, A man of stricture and firm abstinence, My absolute power and place here in Vienna, And he supposes me travell'd to Poland; For so I have strew'd it in the common ear, And so it is received. Now, pious sir, You will demand of me why I do this. FRIAR. Gladly, my lord. DUKE. We have strict statutes and most biting laws, The needful bits and curbs to headstrong steeds, Which for this fourteen years we have let slip; Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave, That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers, Having bound up the threat'ning twigs of birch, Only to stick it in their children's sight For terror, not to use, in time the rod Becomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees, Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead; And liberty plucks justice by the nose; The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart Goes all decorum. FRIAR. It rested in your Grace To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleas'd; And it in you more dreadful would have seem'd Than in Lord Angelo. DUKE. I do fear, too dreadful. Sith 'twas my fault to give the people scope, 'Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them For what I bid them do; for we bid this be done, When evil deeds have their permissive pass And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father, I have on Angelo impos'd the office; Who may, in th' ambush of my name, strike home, And yet my nature never in the fight To do in slander. And to behold his sway, I will, as 'twere a brother of your order, Visit both prince and people. Therefore, I prit