diff --git a/week-4/apfel.txt b/week-4/apfel.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..70247fa --- /dev/null +++ b/week-4/apfel.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +Das ist ein Haus. +Das ist ein Hund +Das könnte sein. \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/week-4/benutzerliste.txt b/week-4/benutzerliste.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33cab82 --- /dev/null +++ b/week-4/benutzerliste.txt @@ -0,0 +1,29 @@ +BENUTZERLISTE + +1. PRIMÄRE NUTZER (Main Target Group) +- Alltags-Organisierer + Nutzen die App täglich oder fast täglich, brauchen schnelle Erfassung und verlässliche Erinnerungen. +- Strukturierte Listen-Nutzer + Arbeiten gern mit einfachen Listen und Kategorien, möchten Übersicht ohne Komplexität. +- Deadline-/Reminder-Nutzer + Nutzen die App vor allem für „Erinnere mich rechtzeitig“, weniger für grosse Strukturen. + +2. SEKUNDÄRE NUTZER (gelegentliche Nutzer) +- Gelegenheits-Planer + Öffnen die App nur ein paar Mal pro Woche, nutzen Basisfunktionen. +- Kalender-Fokus-Nutzer + Denken zeitbasiert, nutzen die App als Ergänzung zum Kalender. +- Projekt-orientierte Nutzer + Nutzen die App temporär für grössere Schul-/Arbeitsprojekte. + +3. SONSTIGE (nicht Hauptzielgruppe, aber real vorhanden) +- Interessierte Test-Nutzer + Installieren → testen → eventuell behalten. +- Minimalisten + Nutzen selten ToDos, brauchen aber manchmal schnelle Erinnerungen oder kurze Notizen. + +4. NICHT-NUTZER +- Bewusste Nicht-Nutzer + Organisieren alles im Kopf oder auf Papier, wollen keine App. +- Technische Pflichtrollen + Devs, Support, Admins – gehören nicht zur echten Produktzielgruppe. diff --git a/week-4/index.html b/week-4/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8a0bb68 --- /dev/null +++ b/week-4/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,18 @@ + + + + + + + Sketch + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/week-4/l-system.js b/week-4/l-system.js new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8ebec1e --- /dev/null +++ b/week-4/l-system.js @@ -0,0 +1,68 @@ +let angle; +let axiom = "F"; +let sentence = axiom; +let len = 100; +let rules = []; +rules[0] = { + a: "F", + // b: "FF-[-F-F-F]+[+F+F+F]", + c: "FF*[*F/F/F]/[/F*F*F]", +}; + +function generate() { + len *= 0.5; + let nextSentence = ""; + for (let i = 0; i < sentence.length; i++) { + let current = sentence.charAt(i); + let found = false; + for (let j = 0; j < rules.length; j++) { + if (current == rules[j].a) { + found = true; + nextSentence += rules[j].b; + break; + } + } + if (!found) { + nextSentence += current; + } + } + sentence = nextSentence; + createP(sentence); + turtle(); +} + +function turtle() { + background(51); + resetMatrix(); + translate(width / 2, height); + stroke(255, 100); + for (let i = 0; i < sentence.length; i++) { + let current = sentence.charAt(i); + if (current == "F") { + line(0, 0, 0, -len); + translate(0, -len); + } else if (current == "+") { + rotate(angle); + } else if (current == "-") { + rotate(-angle); + } else if (current == "*") { + rotate(angle * 2); + } else if (current == "/") { + rotate(angle / 2); + } else if (current == "[") { + push(); + } else if (current == "]") { + pop(); + } + } +} + +function setup() { + createCanvas(400, 400); + angle = radians(10); + background(51); + createP(axiom); + turtle(); + let button = createButton("generate"); + button.mousePressed(generate); +} diff --git a/week-4/markov-chain.js b/week-4/markov-chain.js new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca7189d --- /dev/null +++ b/week-4/markov-chain.js @@ -0,0 +1,67 @@ +let myData; +const amountOfWords = 100; +let uniqueArray = []; +let sentenceArray = []; +let exist = false; + +function preload() { + myData = loadStrings("apfel.txt"); +} + +function setup() { + createCanvas(400, 300); + console.log(myData); + background(200); + + const myDataSplit = myData.flatMap((str) => str.split(" ")).filter(Boolean); + //console.log(myDataSplit); + + for (let i = 0; i < myDataSplit.length; i++) { + for (let j = 0; j < uniqueArray.length; j++) { + if (myDataSplit[i] === uniqueArray[j]) { + exist = true; + } + } + if (!exist) { + uniqueArray.push(myDataSplit[i]); + } + exist = false; + } + console.log(uniqueArray); + + let map = new Map(); + let nextWords = []; + for (let i = 0; i < uniqueArray.length; i++) { + nextWords = []; + for (let j = 0; j < myDataSplit.length; j++) { + if (uniqueArray[i] === myDataSplit[j]) { + nextWords.push(myDataSplit[j + 1]); + } + } + map.set(uniqueArray[i], nextWords); + // map.set("nextWords", uniqueArray[i + 1]); + } + + map.set("abc", ["a", "b", "g"]); + + console.log(map); + + // Select a random line from the text. + /*let phrase = ""; + for (let i = 0; i < amountOfWords; i++) { + let phrasePart = random(myDataSplit); + phrase = phrase + " " + phrasePart; + } + console.log(phrase); */ + + textAlign(LEFT, CENTER); + textFont("Courier New"); + textSize(12); + + // text(phrase, 20, 100, 300); + + // describe(`${phrase}`); + text("- William Shakespeare", 20, 250); +} + +function generateWords() {} diff --git a/week-4/markovtest.js b/week-4/markovtest.js new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f37c491 --- /dev/null +++ b/week-4/markovtest.js @@ -0,0 +1,36 @@ +// An array of lines from a text file +let lines; +// The Markov Generator object +let markov; +// An output element +let output; + +// Preload some seed data +function preload() { + lines = loadStrings("shakespere.txt"); +} + +function setup() { + // Join everything together in one long string + // Keep carriage returns so these will show up in the markov generator + let text = lines.join("\n"); + + // N-gram length and maximum length + markov = new MarkovGenerator(8, 400); + markov.feed(text); + //console.log(markov); + + // Make the button + let button = createButton("generate"); + button.mousePressed(generate); + + noCanvas(); +} + +function generate() { + // Generate some text + let result = markov.generate(); + // Put in HTML line breaks wherever there was a carriage return + result = result.replace("\n", "

"); + createP(result); +} diff --git a/week-4/shakespeare.txt b/week-4/shakespeare.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c7fa73b --- /dev/null +++ b/week-4/shakespeare.txt @@ -0,0 +1,121753 @@ +1609 + +THE SONNETS + +by William Shakespeare + + + + 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 deserved 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 vade, by 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 over-plus, + 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 + + + +1603 + +ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL + +by William Shakespeare + + +Dramatis Personae + + KING OF FRANCE + THE DUKE OF FLORENCE + BERTRAM, Count of Rousillon + LAFEU, an old lord + PAROLLES, a follower of Bertram + TWO FRENCH LORDS, serving with Bertram + + STEWARD, Servant to the Countess of Rousillon + LAVACHE, a clown and Servant to the Countess of Rousillon + A PAGE, Servant to the Countess of Rousillon + + COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON, mother to Bertram + HELENA, a gentlewoman protected by the Countess + A WIDOW OF FLORENCE. + DIANA, daughter to the Widow + + + VIOLENTA, neighbour and friend to the Widow + MARIANA, neighbour and friend to the Widow + + Lords, Officers, Soldiers, etc., French and Florentine + + + + +SCENE: +Rousillon; Paris; Florence; Marseilles + + +ACT I. SCENE 1. +Rousillon. The COUNT'S palace + +Enter BERTRAM, the COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON, HELENA, and LAFEU, 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. + LAFEU. 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? + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. How call'd 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. + LAFEU. 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? + LAFEU. A fistula, my lord. + BERTRAM. I heard not of it before. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. He cannot want the best + That shall attend his love. + COUNTESS. Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram. Exit + 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. + LAFEU. Farewell, pretty lady; you must hold the credit of your + father. Exeunt BERTRAM and LAFEU + 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 + + [Aside] 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't. + 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 ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly + increase; and the principal itself not much the worse. Away + with't. + 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 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 Man? + 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 + + + + +ACT I. SCENE 2. +Paris. The KING'S palace + +Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING OF FRANCE, with letters, +and divers ATTENDANTS + + 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, LAFEU, and PAROLLES + + FIRST LORD. It is the Count Rousillon, 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 + To-day 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 loved, 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] + + + + +ACT I. SCENE 3. +Rousillon. The COUNT'S 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 damn'd; 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 o' + my body; for they say bames 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 o' 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 aweary 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' th' 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' th' + 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! An we might have a good woman born before every blazing + star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a man + may draw his heart out ere 'a 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 + tott'ring 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 Rousillon 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 myst'ry 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, th' one to th' other; and thine eyes + See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours + That in their kind they speak it; only sin + And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, + That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so? + If it 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 intenible sieve + I still pour in the waters of my love, + And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like, + Religious in mine error, I adore + The sun that looks upon his worshipper + But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, + Let not your hate encounter with my love, + For loving where you do; but if yourself, + Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, + Did ever in so true a flame of liking + Wish chastely and 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 and 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 to-morrow; and be sure of this, + What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. Exeunt + + + + +ACT II. SCENE 1. +Paris. The KING'S palace + +Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING with divers young LORDS taking leave +for the Florentine war; BERTRAM and PAROLLES; ATTENDANTS + + KING. Farewell, young lords; these war-like 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 aloud. 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. [To ATTENDANTS] Come hither to me. + The KING retires attended + 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 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? + + Re-enter the KING + + 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 LAFEU + + LAFEU. [Kneeling] Pardon, my lord, for me and for my tidings. + KING. I'll fee thee to stand up. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. Good faith, across! + But, my good lord, 'tis thus: will you be cur'd + Of your infirmity? + KING. No. + LAFEU. O, will you eat + No grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will + My noble grapes, an 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 spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch + Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay, + To give great Charlemain a pen in's hand + And write to her a love-line. + KING. What her is this? + LAFEU. 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 Lafeu, + Bring in the admiration, that we with the + May spend our wonder too, or take off thine + By wond'ring how thou took'st it. + LAFEU. Nay, I'll fit you, + And not be all day neither. Exit LAFEU + KING. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues. + + Re-enter LAFEU with HELENA + + LAFEU. Nay, come your ways. + KING. This haste hath wings indeed. + LAFEU. 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's bed of death + Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, + Which, as the dearest issue of his practice, + And of his old experience th' 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 greatest 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 his 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 vilest 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 blest. + Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed + As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed. + [Flourish. Exeunt] + + + + +ACT II. SCENE 2. +Rousillon. The COUNT'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 Mayday, + 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 + thing's 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 + + + + +ACT II. SCENE 3. +Paris. The KING'S palace + +Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES + + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. To be relinquish'd of the artists- + PAROLLES. So I say-both of Galen and Paracelsus. + LAFEU. Of all the learned and authentic fellows- + PAROLLES. Right; so I say. + LAFEU. That gave him out incurable- + PAROLLES. Why, there 'tis; so say I too. + LAFEU. Not to be help'd- + PAROLLES. Right; as 'twere a man assur'd of a- + LAFEU. Uncertain life and sure death. + PAROLLES. Just; you say well; so would I have said. + LAFEU. 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-ye-call't here. + LAFEU. [Reading the ballad title] 'A Showing of a Heavenly + Effect in an Earthly Actor.' + PAROLLES. That's it; I would have said the very same. + LAFEU. 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- + LAFEU. Very hand of heaven. + PAROLLES. Ay; so I say. + LAFEU. 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- + LAFEU. Generally thankful. + + Enter KING, HELENA, and ATTENDANTS + + PAROLLES. I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the King. + LAFEU. Lustig, 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. Mort du vinaigre! Is not this Helen? + LAFEU. '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 three or four 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! + LAFEU. 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. + 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. Sir, will you hear my suit? + FIRST LORD. And grant it. + HELENA. Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute. + LAFEU. I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my + life. + HELENA. 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. + LAFEU. Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine I'd have + them whipt; or I would send them to th' Turk to make eunuchs of. + HELENA. 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! + LAFEU. 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. 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. + LAFEU. There's one grape yet; I am sure thy father drunk wine-but + if thou be'st 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 stand 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'm 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 to-night. 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 all but LAFEU and PAROLLES who stay behind, + commenting of this wedding + LAFEU. Do you hear, monsieur? A word with you. + PAROLLES. Your pleasure, sir? + LAFEU. Your lord and master did well to make his recantation. + PAROLLES. Recantation! My Lord! my master! + LAFEU. Ay; is it not a language I speak? + PAROLLES. A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody + succeeding. My master! + LAFEU. Are you companion to the Count Rousillon? + PAROLLES. To any count; to all counts; to what is man. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. 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'rt scarce + worth. + PAROLLES. Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee- + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it. + PAROLLES. I have not, my lord, deserv'd it. + LAFEU. Yes, good faith, ev'ry dram of it; and I will not bate thee + a scruple. + PAROLLES. Well, I shall be wiser. + LAFEU. Ev'n as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack + o' th' contrary. If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and + beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I + have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my + knowledge, that I may say in the default 'He is a man I know.' + PAROLLES. My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation. + LAFEU. 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. + + Re-enter LAFEU + + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. Who? God? + PAROLLES. Ay, sir. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. 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 th' 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 capriccio hold in thee, art sure? + BERTRAM. Go with me to my chamber and advise me. + I'll send her straight away. To-morrow + 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 + + + + +ACT II. SCENE 4. +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' th' 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 + fortunes. + 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! th'art a knave. + CLOWN. You should have said, sir, 'Before a knave th'art a knave'; + that's 'Before me th'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 to-night: + A very serious business calls on him. + The great prerogative and rite 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 else? + PAROLLES. That you will take your instant leave o' th' King, + And make this haste as your own good proceeding, + Strength'ned 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. Exit PAROLLES + Come, sirrah. Exeunt + + + + +ACT II. SCENE 5. +Paris. The KING'S palace + +Enter LAFEU and BERTRAM + + LAFEU. But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier. + BERTRAM. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof. + LAFEU. You have it from his own deliverance. + BERTRAM. And by other warranted testimony. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. I have then sinn'd against his experience and transgress'd + 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. + LAFEU. Pray you, sir, who's his tailor? + PAROLLES. Sir! + LAFEU. O, I know him well. Ay, sir; he, sir, 's a good workman, a + very good tailor. + BERTRAM. [Aside to PAROLLES] Is she gone to the King? + PAROLLES. She is. + BERTRAM. Will she away to-night? + PAROLLES. As you'll have her. + BERTRAM. I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure, + Given order for our horses; and to-night, + When I should take possession of the bride, + End ere I do begin. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. And shall do so ever, though I took him at's prayers. + Fare you well, my lord; and believe this of me: there can be no + 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. Prepar'd 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. + BERTRAM. Where are my other men, monsieur? + Farewell! Exit HELENA + 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 1. +Florence. The DUKE's palace + + Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, attended; two + FRENCH LORDS, with a TROOP OF SOLDIERS + + DUKE. So that, from point to point, now have you hear + 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. + To-morrow to th' field. Flourish. Exeunt + + + + +ACT III. SCENE 2. +Rousillon. The COUNT'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 ling + 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. + + Re-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 FRENCH GENTLEMEN + + SECOND GENTLEMAN. Save you, good madam. + HELENA. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone. + FIRST 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? + FIRST GENTLEMAN. Madam, he's gone to serve the Duke of Florence. + We met him thitherward; for thence we came, + And, after some dispatch 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 prithee, 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? + FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, madam. + COUNTESS. And to be a soldier? + FIRST 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? + SECOND 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. + SECOND 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? + SECOND GENTLEMAN. A servant only, and a gentleman + Which I have sometime known. + COUNTESS. Parolles, was it not? + SECOND 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. + SECOND 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. + FIRST 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, Rousillon, none in France + Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is't + That chase thee from thy country, and expose + Those tender limbs of thine to the event + Of the non-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-piecing 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, Rousillon, + 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 + + + + +ACT III. SCENE 3. +Florence. Before the DUKE's palace + +Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, BERTRAM, PAROLLES, SOLDIERS, +drum and trumpets + + 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 + + + + +ACT III. SCENE 4. +Rousillon. The COUNT'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 dogs 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! + Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much + As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her, + I could have well diverted her intents, + Which thus she hath prevented. + STEWARD. Pardon me, madam; + If I had given you this at over-night, + She might have been o'er ta'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, Rinaldo, + 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 + + + + +ACT III. SCENE 5. + +Without the walls of Florence +A tucket afar off. Enter an old WIDOW OF FLORENCE, her daughter DIANA, +VIOLENTA, and MARIANA, with 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. [Tucket] + 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 + threatens 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 Rousillon. Know you such a one? + HELENA. But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him; + His face I know not. + DIANA. What some'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. I sweet, 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? + May be 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 drum and colours, BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and the + whole ARMY + + 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' th' 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, and ARMY + 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 to-night; the charge and thanking + Shall be for me, and, to requite you further, + I will bestow some precepts of this virgin, + Worthy the note. + BOTH. We'll take your offer kindly. Exeunt + + + + +ACT III. SCENE 6. +Camp before Florence + +Enter BERTRAM, and the two FRENCH LORDS + + SECOND LORD. Nay, good my lord, put him to't; let him have his way. + FIRST LORD. If your lordship find him not a hiding, hold me no more + in your respect. + SECOND LORD. On my life, my lord, a bubble. + BERTRAM. Do you think I am so far deceived in him? + SECOND 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. + FIRST 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. + FIRST LORD. None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which + you hear him so confidently undertake to do. + SECOND 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. + FIRST 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 + + SECOND 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. + FIRST 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! + FIRST 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 our 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 of thy soldiership, + will subscribe for thee. Farewell. + PAROLLES. I love not many words. Exit + SECOND 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. + FIRST 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? + SECOND LORD. None in the world; but return with an invention, and + clap upon you two or three probable lies. But we have almost + emboss'd him. You shall see his fall to-night; for indeed he is + not for your lordship's respect. + FIRST LORD. We'll make you some sport with the fox ere we case him. + He was first smok'd by the old Lord Lafeu. When his disguise and + he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall find him; which you + shall see this very night. + SECOND LORD. I must go look my twigs; he shall be caught. + BERTRAM. Your brother, he shall go along with me. + SECOND 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. + FIRST 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' th' 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? + FIRST LORD. With all my heart, my lord. Exeunt + + + + +ACT III. SCENE 7. +Florence. 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 nought 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 this, + 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 to-night + 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 1. +Without the Florentine camp + +Enter SECOND FRENCH LORD with five or six other SOLDIERS in ambush + + SECOND 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 some one among us, whom we + must produce for an interpreter. + FIRST SOLDIER. Good captain, let me be th' interpreter. + SECOND LORD. Art not acquainted with him? Knows he not thy voice? + FIRST SOLDIER. No, sir, I warrant you. + SECOND LORD. But what linsey-woolsey has thou to speak to us again? + FIRST SOLDIER. E'en such as you speak to me. + SECOND LORD. He must think us some band of strangers i' th' + 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 to 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. + SECOND LORD. 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 butterwoman's mouth, and buy myself another of + Bajazet's mule, if you prattle me into these perils. + SECOND LORD. 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. + SECOND LORD. We cannot afford you so. + PAROLLES. Or the baring of my beard; and to say it was in + stratagem. + SECOND LORD. 'Twould not do. + PAROLLES. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripp'd. + SECOND LORD. Hardly serve. + PAROLLES. Though I swore I leap'd from the window of the citadel- + SECOND LORD. How deep? + PAROLLES. Thirty fathom. + SECOND LORD. 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. + SECOND LORD. You shall hear one anon. [Alarum within] + PAROLLES. A drum now of the enemy's! + SECOND LORD. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo. + ALL. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo. + PAROLLES. O, ransom, ransom! Do not hide mine eyes. + [They blindfold him] + 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. Kerely-bonto, sir, betake thee to thy faith, for + seventeen poniards are at thy bosom. + PAROLLES. O! + FIRST SOLDIER. O, pray, pray, pray! Manka revania dulche. + SECOND 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, PAROLLES guarded. A short alarum within + SECOND LORD. Go, tell the Count Rousillon and my brother + We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled + Till we do hear from them. + SECOND SOLDIER. Captain, I will. + SECOND LORD. 'A will betray us all unto ourselves- + Inform on that. + SECOND SOLDIER. So I will, sir. + SECOND LORD. Till then I'll keep him dark and safely lock'd. + Exeunt + + + + +ACT IV. SCENE 2. +Florence. The WIDOW'S house + +Enter BERTRAM and DIANA + + BERTRAM. They told me that your name was Fontibell. + 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 o'that! + I prithee do not strive against my vows. + I was compell'd to her; but I love the + 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 High'st 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 ropes in such a scarre + 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' th' 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' th' 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 + + + + +ACT IV. SCENE 3. +The Florentine camp + +Enter the two FRENCH LORDS, and two or three SOLDIERS + + SECOND LORD. You have not given him his mother's letter? + FIRST 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. + SECOND LORD. He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off + so good a wife and so sweet a lady. + FIRST 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. + SECOND LORD. When you have spoken it, 'tis dead, and I am the grave + of it. + FIRST 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. + SECOND LORD. Now, God delay our rebellion! As we are ourselves, + what things are we! + FIRST 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. + SECOND LORD. Is it not meant damnable in us to be trumpeters of our + unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company to-night? + FIRST LORD. Not till after midnight; for he is dieted to his hour. + SECOND LORD. That approaches apace. I would gladly have him see his + company anatomiz'd, that he might take a measure of his own + judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit. + FIRST LORD. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his + presence must be the whip of the other. + SECOND LORD. In the meantime, what hear you of these wars? + FIRST LORD. I hear there is an overture of peace. + SECOND LORD. Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded. + FIRST LORD. What will Count Rousillon do then? Will he travel + higher, or return again into France? + SECOND LORD. I perceive, by this demand, you are not altogether + of his counsel. + FIRST LORD. Let it be forbid, sir! So should I be a great deal + of his act. + SECOND LORD. Sir, his wife, some two months since, fled from his + house. Her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; + which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she + accomplish'd; and, there residing, the tenderness of her nature + became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last + breath, and now she sings in heaven. + FIRST LORD. How is this justified? + SECOND 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. + FIRST LORD. Hath the Count all this intelligence? + SECOND LORD. Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from + point, to the full arming of the verity. + FIRST LORD. I am heartily sorry that he'll be glad of this. + SECOND LORD. How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our + losses! + FIRST LORD. And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in + tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquir'd for + him shall at home be encount'red with a shame as ample. + SECOND LORD. The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill + together. Our virtues would be proud if our faults whipt 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? + SERVANT. 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. + FIRST LORD. They cannot be too sweet for the King's tartness. + Here's his lordship now. + + Enter BERTRAM + + How now, my lord, is't not after midnight? + BERTRAM. I have to-night dispatch'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; entertain'd my + convoy; and between these main parcels of dispatch 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' th' + 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? + SECOND 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 confess'd 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' th' + stocks. And what think you he hath confess'd? + BERTRAM. Nothing of me, has 'a? + 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 PAROLLES guarded, and + FIRST SOLDIER as interpreter + + BERTRAM. A plague upon him! muffled! He can say nothing of me. + SECOND LORD. Hush, hush! 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. + SECOND 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! + SECOND LORD. Y'are deceiv'd, 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. + FIRST 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. + SECOND 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? + SECOND 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 Dumain be i' th' camp, a Frenchman; what his + reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honesty, 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 Dumain? + PAROLLES. I know him: 'a was a botcher's prentice in Paris, from + whence he was whipt for getting the shrieve's fool with child-a + dumb innocent that could not say him nay. + 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. + SECOND 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' th' 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. + SECOND 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 Rousillon, 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 whipt through the army with this rhyme in's + forehead. + FIRST LORD. This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold + linguist, and the amnipotent 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' th' + 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 Dumain: 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 'em he is stronger than Hercules. He will lie, + sir, with such volubility that you would think truth were a fool. + Drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk; and + in his sleep he does little harm, save to his 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. + SECOND 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 soldier-ship + 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. + SECOND 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 cardecue he will sell the fee-simple of his + salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut th' entail from all + remainders and a perpetual succession for it perpetually. + FIRST SOLDIER. What's his brother, the other Captain Dumain? + FIRST LORD. Why does he ask him of me? + FIRST SOLDIER. What's he? + PAROLLES. E'en a crow o' th' 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 Rousillon. + 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 discover'd the + secrets of your army, and made such pestiferous reports of men + very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore + you must die. Come, headsman, of 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. + FIRST LORD. God bless you, Captain Parolles. + SECOND LORD. God save you, noble Captain. + FIRST LORD. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? I am + for France. + SECOND LORD. Good Captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet + you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon? An I were not + a very coward I'd compel it of you; but fare you well. + Exeunt BERTRAM and LORDS + FIRST SOLDIER. You are undone, Captain, all but your scarf; that + has a knot on 't yet. + PAROLLES. Who cannot be crush'd 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. Exit with SOLDIERS + 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 fool'ry thrive. + There's place and means for every man alive. + I'll after them. Exit + + + + +ACT IV SCENE 4. +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 + + + + +ACT IV SCENE 5. +Rousillon. The COUNT'S palace + +Enter COUNTESS, LAFEU, and CLOWN + + LAFEU. No, no, no, son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow + there, whose villainous 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. + LAFEU. 'Twas a good lady, 'twas a good lady. We may pick a thousand + sallets ere we light on such another herb. + CLOWN. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet-marjoram of the sallet, or, + rather, the herb of grace. + LAFEU. They are not sallet-herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs. + CLOWN. I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in + grass. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. Your distinction? + CLOWN. I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his service. + LAFEU. So you were a knave at his service, indeed. + CLOWN. And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service. + LAFEU. I will subscribe for thee; thou art both knave and fool. + CLOWN. At your service. + LAFEU. No, no, no. + CLOWN. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a + prince as you are. + LAFEU. Who's that? A Frenchman? + CLOWN. Faith, sir, 'a has an English name; but his fisnomy is more + hotter in France than there. + LAFEU. What prince is that? + CLOWN. The Black Prince, sir; alias, the Prince of Darkness; alias, + the devil. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary 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 + LAFEU. A shrewd knave, and an unhappy. + COUNTESS. So 'a is. My lord that's gone made himself much sport + out of him. By his authority he remains here, which he thinks is + a patent for his sauciness; and indeed he has no pace, but runs + where he will. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. His Highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as + when he number'd thirty; 'a will be here to-morrow, or I am + deceiv'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldom fail'd. + COUNTESS. It rejoices me that I hope I shall see him ere I die. + I have letters that my son will be here to-night. I shall beseech + your lordship to remain with me tal they meet together. + LAFEU. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be + admitted. + COUNTESS. You need but plead your honourable privilege. + LAFEU. Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but, I thank my + God, it holds yet. + + Re-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. + LAFEU. A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good liv'ry of + honour; so belike is that. + CLOWN. But it is your carbonado'd face. + LAFEU. 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 1. +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. + + Enter a GENTLEMAN + + In happy time! + 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 fall'n + 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 Rousillon; + 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 + + + + +ACT V SCENE 2. +Rousillon. The inner court of the COUNT'S palace + +Enter CLOWN and PAROLLES + + PAROLLES. Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu 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 butt'ring. Prithee, 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. Prithee, get thee further. + PAROLLES. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper. + CLOWN. Foh! prithee stand away. A paper from Fortune's close-stool + to give to a nobleman! Look here he comes himself. + + Enter LAFEU + + Here is a pur of Fortune's, sir, or of Fortune's cat, but not + a musk-cat, that has fall'n 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. + LAFEU. 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 cardecue 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. + LAFEU. You beg a single penny more; come, you shall ha't; save your + word. + PAROLLES. My name, my good lord, is Parolles. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. 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. + LAFEU. 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 + + + + +ACT V SCENE 3. +Rousillon. The COUNT'S palace + +Flourish. Enter KING, COUNTESS, LAFEU, the two FRENCH LORDS, with ATTENDANTS + + 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' th' 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. + LAFEU. 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? + LAFEU. 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 + + LAFEU. 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 stol'n, + 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! + LAFEU. 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] + 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't. + 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. + LAFEU. 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 med'cine, + 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 the letter] 'Upon his many protestations to marry me + when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the + Count Rousillon 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.' + LAFEU. 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, Lafeu, + To bring forth this discov'ry. Seek these suitors. + Go speedily, and bring again the Count. + Exeunt 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, sith wives are monsters to you. + And that you fly them as you swear them lordship, + Yet you desire to marry. + Enter WIDOW and DIANA + What woman's that? + 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. + LAFEU. [To BERTRAM] Your reputation comes too short for + my daughter; you are no husband for her. + BERTRAM. My lord, this is a fond and desp'rate 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' th' 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 ow'd 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. + LAFEU. I saw the man to-day, 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' th' 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' th' 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 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 th' 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. + LAFEU. He's a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator. + DIANA. Do you know he promis'd 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 talk'd of Satan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know + not what. Yet I was in that credit with them at that time that I + knew of their going to bed; and of other motions, as promising + her marriage, and 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. + LAFEU. This woman's an easy glove, my lord; she goes of and on at + pleasure. + KING. This ring was mine, I gave it his first wife. + DIANA. It might be yours or hers, for aught 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 LAFEU] + 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. + + Re-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 are by me with child,' etc. 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? + LAFEU. 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 curtsies 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 + EPILOGUE. + + KING. 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 + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + +1607 + +THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA + +by William Shakespeare + + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + MARK ANTONY, Triumvirs + OCTAVIUS CAESAR, " + M. AEMILIUS LEPIDUS, " + SEXTUS POMPEIUS, " + DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS, friend to Antony + VENTIDIUS, " " " + EROS, " " " + SCARUS, " " " + DERCETAS, " " " + DEMETRIUS, " " " + PHILO, " " " + MAECENAS, friend to Caesar + AGRIPPA, " " " + DOLABELLA, " " " + PROCULEIUS, " " " + THYREUS, " " " + GALLUS, " " " + MENAS, friend to Pompey + MENECRATES, " " " + VARRIUS, " " " + 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, " " " + SELEUCUS, " " " + DIOMEDES, " " " + A SOOTHSAYER + A CLOWN + + CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt + OCTAVIA, sister to Caesar and wife to Antony + CHARMIAN, lady attending on Cleopatra + IRAS, " " " " + + + + Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants + + + + + + + + +SCENE: +The Roman Empire + +ACT I. SCENE I. +Alexandria. 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 glow'd 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, 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 reckon'd. + CLEOPATRA. I'll set a bourn how far to be belov'd. + 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 pow'rful 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-tongu'd Fulvia scolds. The messengers! + ANTONY. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch + Of the rang'd 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 [emhracing], 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 stirr'd 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 to-night? + 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 admir'd. + No messenger but thine, and all alone + To-night 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 priz'd 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 to-morrow. Rest you happy! Exeunt + + + + +SCENE II. +Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace + +Enter CHARMIAN, IRAS, ALEXAS, and a SOOTHSAYER + + CHARMIAN. Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost + most absolute Alexas, where's the soothsayer that you prais'd 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. + + Enter ENOBARBUS + + 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 prov'd 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, to-night, 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 worky-day 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-wiv'd, 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'ld 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 dispos'd 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 and attendants + + CLEOPATRA. We will not look upon him. Go with us. + Exeunt CLEOPATRA, ENOBARBUS, and the rest + 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 flatter'd. + 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 call'd 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 + ANTONY. From Sicyon, ho, the news! Speak there! + FIRST ATTENDANT. The man from Sicyon- is there such an one? + SECOND ATTENDANT. He stays upon your will. + ANTONY. Let him appear. + These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, + Or lose myself in dotage. + + Enter another MESSENGER with a letter + + What are you? + SECOND MESSENGER. Fulvia thy wife is dead. + ANTONY. Where died she? + SECOND MESSENGER. In Sicyon. + Her length of sickness, with what else more serious + Importeth thee to know, this bears. [Gives the letter] + ANTONY. Forbear me. Exit 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 low'ring, does become + The opposite of itself. She's good, being gone; + The hand could pluck her back that shov'd 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! + + Re-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 show'r 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 crown'd 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 broach'd 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 to + 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 link'd 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. CLEOPATRA'S palace + +Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS + + 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. + + Enter ANTONY + + But here comes 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 betray'd! 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 turn'd 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 condemn'd 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 awak'd. 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 receiv'd shall be. + ANTONY. Quarrel no more, but be prepar'd 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 lov'd- 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 strew'd 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. CAESAR'S house + +Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, reading a letter; 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 + Vouchsaf'd 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 enow to darken all his goodness. + His faults, in him, seem as the spots of heaven, + More fiery by night's blackness; hereditary + Rather than purchas'd; 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 fill'd + 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 belov'd of those + That only have fear'd Caesar. To the ports + The discontents repair, and men's reports + Give him much wrong'd. + CAESAR. I should have known no less. + It hath been taught us from the primal state + That he which is was wish'd until he were; + And the ebb'd man, ne'er lov'd till ne'er worth love, + Comes dear'd by being lack'd. This common body, + Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, + Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide, + To rot itself with motion. + 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 brows'd. 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 lank'd 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. To-morrow, Caesar, + I shall be furnish'd 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. CLEOPATRA'S 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 unseminar'd, 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 Phoebus' 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 med'cine hath + With his tinct gilded thee. + How goes it with my brave Mark Antony? + ALEXAS. Last thing he did, dear Queen, + He kiss'd- 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 neigh'd so high that what I would have spoke + Was beastly dumb'd 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 seem'd 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 chok'd 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. 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 pow'rs + 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 flatter'd; 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 wan'd 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 donn'd 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 warr'd upon him; although, I think, + Not mov'd 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. 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 to-day. + 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 combin'd 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 arinies, and to fight, + I should do thus. [Flourish] + CAESAR. Welcome to Rome. + ANTONY. Thank you. + CAESAR. Sit. + ANTONY. Sit, sir. + CAESAR. Nay, then. [They sit] + ANTONY. I learn you take things ill which are not so, + Or being, concern you not. + CAESAR. I must be laugh'd at + If, or for nothing or a little, + Should say myself offended, and with you + Chiefly i' the world; more laugh'd at that I should + Once name you derogately when to sound your name + It not concern'd 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- practis'd? + CAESAR. You may be pleas'd 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 patch'd 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 ask'd 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 lack'd it. But on, Caesar: + The article of my oath- + CAESAR. To lend me arms and aid when I requir'd 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 diff'ring in their acts. Yet if I knew + What hoop should hold us stanch, 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, + Admir'd Octavia. Great Mark Antony + Is now a widower. + CAESAR. Say not so, Agrippa. + If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof + Were well deserv'd 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 touch'd + 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 is 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 Misenum. + 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 talk'd 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 but ENOBARBUS, AGRIPPA, 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 stay'd 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 purs'd up his heart, + upon the river of Cydnus. + AGRIPPA. There she appear'd indeed! Or my reporter devis'd well for + her. + ENOBARBUS. I will tell you. + The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, + Burn'd 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 beggar'd all description. She did lie + In her pavilion, cloth-of-gold, of tissue, + O'erpicturing that Venus where we see + The fancy out-work nature. On each side her + Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, + With divers-colour'd 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, + Enthron'd 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 barber'd 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 cropp'd. + 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, pow'r breathe 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. 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 daemon, that thy spirit which keeps thee, is + Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable, + Where Caesar's is not; but near him thy angel + Becomes a fear, as being o'erpow'r'd. 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 nought, and his quails ever + Beat mine, inhoop'd, 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 th' 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. CLEOPATRA'S palace + +Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and 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 play'd + As with a woman. Come, you'll play with me, sir? + MARDIAN. As well as I can, madam. + CLEOPATRA. And when good will is show'd, though't come too short, + The actor may plead pardon. I'll none now. + Give me mine angle- we'll to th' river. There, + My music playing far off, I will betray + Tawny-finn'd 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! Y'are caught.' + CHARMIAN. 'Twas merry when + You wager'd 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 laugh'd 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 a 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 lipp'd, and trembled kissing. + MESSENGER. First, madam, he is 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- why so tart a favour + To trumpet such good tidings? If not well, + Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown'd 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? Hence, [Strikes him] + 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 whipp'd with wire and stew'd 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 liv'd 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 afear'd to come. + CLEOPATRA. I will not hurt him. + These hands do lack nobility, that they strike + A meaner than myself; since I myself + Have given myself the cause. + + Enter the MESSENGER again + + 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 submerg'd and made + A cistern for scal'd 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 th'art 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 disprais'd 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, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, 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 mov'd pale Cassius to conspire? and what + Made the all-honour'd honest Roman, Brutus, + With the arm'd 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 anger'd 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'er-count thee. + POMPEY. At land, indeed, + Thou dost o'er-count me of my father's house. + But since the cuckoo builds not for himself, + Remain in't as thou mayst. + LEPIDUS. Be pleas'd 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 embrac'd. + 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 unhack'd edges and bear back + Our targes undinted. + ALL. That's our offer. + POMPEY. Know, then, + I came before you here a man prepar'd + 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 call'd 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 seal'd 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 lov'd you much; but I ha' prais'd ye + When you have well deserv'd 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? + ALL. 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 turn'd to a drinking. + Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune. + ENOBARBUS. If he do, sure he cannot weep't back again. + MENAS. Y'have said, sir. We look'd not for Mark Antony here. Pray + you, is he married to Cleopatra? + ENOBARBUS. Caesar' sister is call'd Octavia. + MENAS. True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Marcellus. + ENOBARBUS. But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius. + MENAS. Pray ye, 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 us'd our throats in Egypt. + MENAS. Come, let's away. Exeunt + +ACT_2|SC_7 + SCENE VII. + On board POMPEY'S galley, off Misenum + + Music plays. 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-colour'd. + 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 partizan I could not heave. + FIRST SERVANT. To be call'd 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, LEPIDUS, + POMPEY, 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. Y'have 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. [Aside to POMPEY] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee, + Captain, + And hear me speak a word. + POMPEY. [ Whispers in's ear ] Forbear me till anon- + This wine for Lepidus! + LEPIDUS. What manner o' thing is your crocodile? + ANTONY. It is shap'd, 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 it 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 call'd 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 th'art mad. [Rises and walks + aside] The matter? + MENAS. I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes. + POMPEY. Thou hast serv'd 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 say'st 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 ha'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 there 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 pall'd fortunes more. + Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd, + 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; see'st 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's 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' th' 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 steep'd 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 bear 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 fats our cares be drown'd, + With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd. + 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 + Antick'd 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 all but ENOBARBUS and MENAS + 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 hang'd, sound out! + [Sound a flourish, with drums] + ENOBARBUS. Hoo! says 'a. There's my cap. + MENAS. Hoo! Noble Captain, come. Exeunt +ACT_3|SC_1 + 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 + Pleas'd 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 achiev'd 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 + +ACT_3|SC_2 + SCENE II. Rome. CAESAR'S house + + Enter AGRIPPA at one door, ENOBARBUS at another + + AGRIPPA. What, are the brothers parted? + ENOBARBUS. They have dispatch'd 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 green sickness. + 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 band + 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 lov'd without this mean, if on both parts + This be not cherish'd. + 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 wail'd, + Believe't- till I weep too. + CAESAR. No, sweet Octavia, + You shall hear from me still; the time shall not + Out-go 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 + +ACT_3|SC_3 + SCENE III. + Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace + + Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS + + CLEOPATRA. Where is the fellow? + ALEXAS. Half afeard to come. + CLEOPATRA. Go to, go to. + + Enter the MESSENGER as before + + Come hither, sir. + ALEXAS. Good Majesty, + Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you + But when you are well pleas'd. + 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 look'd 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-tongu'd or low? + MESSENGER. Madam, I heard her speak: she is low-voic'd. + 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 prepar'd. Exeunt 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 + +ACT_3|SC_4 + SCENE IV. + Athens. 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 wag'd + New wars 'gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it + To public ear; + Spoke scandy 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 mid-way + '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 + +ACT_3|SC_5 + SCENE V. + Athens. 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 murd'red Pompey. + ENOBARBUS. Our great navy's rigg'd. + 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 + +ACT_3|SC_6 + SCENE VI. + Rome. CAESAR'S house + + Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, and MAECENAS + + 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 silver'd, + Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold + Were publicly enthron'd; 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 show-place, where they exercise. + His sons he there proclaim'd the kings of kings: + Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia, + He gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assign'd + Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia. She + In th' habiliments of the goddess Isis + That day appear'd; and oft before gave audience, + As 'tis reported, so. + MAECENAS. Let Rome be thus + Inform'd. + AGRIPPA. Who, queasy with his insolence + Already, will their good thoughts call from him. + CAESAR. The people knows it, and have now receiv'd + His accusations. + AGRIPPA. Who does he accuse? + CAESAR. Caesar; and that, having in Sicily + Sextus Pompeius spoil'd, we had not rated him + His part o' th' isle. Then does he say he lent me + Some shipping, unrestor'd. Lastly, he frets + That Lepidus of the triumvirate + Should be depos'd; and, being, that we detain + All his revenue. + AGRIPPA. Sir, this should be answer'd. + CAESAR. 'Tis done already, and messenger gone. + I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel, + That he his high authority abus'd, + And did deserve his change. For what I have conquer'd + I grant him part; but then, in his Armenia + And other of his conquer'd kingdoms, + 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 cast-away! + OCTAVIA. You have not call'd me so, nor have you cause. + CAESAR. Why have you stol'n 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, + Rais'd 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 unlov'd. 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 constrain'd, but did it + On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony, + Hearing that you prepar'd for war, acquainted + My grieved ear withal; whereon I begg'd + His pardon for return. + CAESAR. Which soon he granted, + Being an obstruct '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 + 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 perceiv'd 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 determin'd things to destiny + Hold unbewail'd their way. Welcome to Rome; + Nothing more dear to me. You are abus'd + 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 + +ACT_3|SC_7 + SCENE VII. + ANTONY'S camp near Actium + + Enter CLEOPATRA and ENOBARBUS + + CLEOPATRA. I will be even with thee, doubt it not. + ENOBARBUS. But 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 denounc'd against us? Why should not we + Be there in person? + ENOBARBUS. [Aside] 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 spar'd. He is already + Traduc'd 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 admir'd + Than by the negligent. + ANTONY. A good rebuke, + Which might have well becom'd 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 dar'd 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 mann'd; + Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people + Ingross'd 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 prepar'd 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-mark'd 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-mann'd, 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 us'd 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 + Beguil'd 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 + +ACT_3|SC_8 + SCENE VIII. + A plain near Actium + + Enter CAESAR, with his army, 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 + +ACT_3|SC_9 + 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 + +ACT_3|SC_10 + SCENE X. + Another part of the plain + + CANIDIUS marcheth with his land army one way + over the stage, and TAURUS, the Lieutenant of + CAESAR, 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 kiss'd away + Kingdoms and provinces. + ENOBARBUS. How appears the fight? + SCARUS. On our side like the token'd 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 appear'd, + Both as the same, or rather ours the elder- + The breese 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 loof'd, + 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 + +ACT_3|SC_11 + SCENE XI. + Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace + + Enter ANTONY With attendants + + ANTONY. Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon't; + It is asham'd 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 resolv'd upon a course + Which has no need of you; be gone. + My treasure's in the harbour, take it. O, + I follow'd 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 straight way. + 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 and IRAS, + EROS following + + 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 declin'd, 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 + 'Stroy'd 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 play'd as I pleas'd, + 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 'a 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 + +ACT_3|SC_12 + SCENE XII. + CAESAR'S camp in Egypt + + Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, THYREUS, with others + + CAESAR. Let him appear that's come from Antony. + Know you him? + DOLABELLA. Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster: + An argument that he is pluck'd, when hither + He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, + Which had superfluous kings for messengers + Not many moons gone by. + + Enter EUPHRONIUS, Ambassador from ANTONY + + CAESAR. Approach, and speak. + EUPHRONIUS. 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. + EUPHRONIUS. 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. + EUPHRONIUS. Fortune pursue thee! + CAESAR. Bring him through the bands. Exit EUPHRONIUS + [To THYREUS] 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, Thyreus; + Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we + Will answer as a law. + THYREUS. Caesar, I go. + CAESAR. Observe how Antony becomes his flaw, + And what thou think'st his very action speaks + In every power that moves. + THYREUS. Caesar, I shall. Exeunt + +ACT_3|SC_13 + SCENE XIII. + Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S 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 nick'd his captainship, at such a point, + When half to half the world oppos'd, 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 EUPHRONIUS, the Ambassador; with ANTONY + + ANTONY. Is that his answer? + EUPHRONIUS. Ay, my lord. + ANTONY. The Queen shall then have courtesy, so she + Will yield us up. + EUPHRONIUS. 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 declin'd, sword against sword, + Ourselves alone. I'll write it. Follow me. + Exeunt ANTONY and EUPHRONIUS + EUPHRONIUS. [Aside] Yes, like enough high-battled Caesar will + Unstate his happiness, and be stag'd 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 subdu'd + 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 kneel'd 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 fall'n lord + Does conquer him that did his master conquer, + And earns a place i' th' story. + + Enter THYREUS + + CLEOPATRA. Caesar's will? + THYREUS. Hear it apart. + CLEOPATRA. None but friends: say boldly. + THYREUS. 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. + THYREUS. So. + Thus then, thou most renown'd: Caesar entreats + Not to consider in what case thou stand'st + Further than he is Caesar. + CLEOPATRA. Go on. Right royal! + THYREUS. He knows that you embrace not Antony + As you did love, but as you fear'd him. + CLEOPATRA. O! + THYREUS. The scars upon your honour, therefore, he + Does pity, as constrained blemishes, + Not as deserv'd. + CLEOPATRA. He is a god, and knows + What is most right. Mine honour was not yielded, + But conquer'd 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 + THYREUS. Shall I say to Caesar + What you require of him? For he partly begs + To be desir'd 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? + THYREUS. My name is Thyreus. + CLEOPATRA. Most kind messenger, + Say to great Caesar this: in deputation + I kiss his conquring 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. + THYREUS. '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 mus'd of taking kingdoms in, + Bestow'd his lips on that unworthy place, + As it rain'd kisses. + + Re-enter ANTONY and ENOBARBUS + + ANTONY. Favours, by Jove that thunders! + What art thou, fellow? + THYREUS. One that but performs + The bidding of the fullest man, and worthiest + To have command obey'd. + ENOBARBUS. [Aside] You will be whipt. + 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. + THYMUS. Mark Antony- + ANTONY. Tug him away. Being whipt, + Bring him again: the Jack of Caesar's shall + Bear us an errand to him. Exeunt servants with THYREUS + You were half blasted ere I knew you. Ha! + Have I my pillow left unpress'd in Rome, + Forborne the getting of a lawful race, + And by a gem of women, to be abus'd + 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 seel 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 Cneius Pompey's, besides what hotter hours, + Unregist'red 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 halter'd neck which does the hangman thank + For being yare about him. + + Re-enter a SERVANT with THYREUS + + Is he whipt? + SERVANT. Soundly, my lord. + ANTONY. Cried he? and begg'd 'a 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 whipt 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 THYREUS + CLEOPATRA. Have you done yet? + ANTONY. Alack, our terrene moon + Is now eclips'd, 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 sever'd navy to + 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-sinew'd, hearted, breath'd, + 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 to-night 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_4|SC_1 + ACT IV. SCENE I. + CAESAR'S camp before 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 whipt 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 to-morrow the last of many battles + We mean to fight. Within our files there are + Of those that serv'd 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 earn'd the waste. Poor Antony! Exeunt + +ACT_4|SC_2 + SCENE II. + Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's 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. To-morrow, 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 to-night + Be bounteous at our meal. + + Enter three or four servitors + + Give me thy hand, + Thou has been rightly honest. So hast thou; + Thou, and thou, and thou. You have serv'd 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 clapp'd up together in + An Antony, that I might do you service + So good as you have done. + SERVANT. The gods forbid! + ANTONY. Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night. + Scant not my cups, and make as much of me + As when mine empire was your fellow too, + And suffer'd my command. + CLEOPATRA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] What does he mean? + ENOBARBUS. [Aside to CLEOPATRA] To make his followers weep. + ANTONY. Tend me to-night; + May be it is the period of your duty. + Haply you shall not see me more; or if, + A mangled shadow. Perchance to-morrow + 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 to-night 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-ey'd. 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 to-morrow, and will lead you + Where rather I'll expect victorious life + Than death and honour. Let's to supper, come, + And drown consideration. Exeunt + +ACT_4|SC_3 + SCENE III. + Alexandria. Before CLEOPATRA's palace + + Enter a company of soldiers + + FIRST SOLDIER. Brother, good night. To-morrow 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. + [They meet other soldiers] + SECOND SOLDIER. Soldiers, have careful watch. + FIRST SOLDIER. And you. Good night, good night. + [The two companies separate and place themselves + in every corner of the stage] + SECOND SOLDIER. Here we. And if to-morrow + Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope + Our landmen will stand up. + THIRD SOLDIER. 'Tis a brave army, + And full of purpose. + [Music of the hautboys is under the stage] + SECOND SOLDIER. Peace, what noise? + THIRD SOLDIER. List, list! + SECOND SOLDIER. Hark! + THIRD SOLDIER. Music i' th' air. + FOURTH SOLDIER. Under the earth. + THIRD SOLDIER. It signs well, does it not? + FOURTH SOLDIER. No. + THIRD SOLDIER. Peace, I say! + What should this mean? + SECOND SOLDIER. 'Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony lov'd, + Now leaves him. + THIRD SOLDIER. Walk; let's see if other watchmen + Do hear what we do. + SECOND SOLDIER. How now, masters! + SOLDIERS. [Speaking together] 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. + SOLDIERS. Content. 'Tis strange. Exeunt + +ACT_4|SC_4 + SCENE IV. + Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace + + Enter ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, + 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 mine iron on. + If fortune be not ours to-day, 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 to-day, and knew'st + The royal occupation! Thou shouldst see + A workman in't. + + Enter an armed SOLDIER + + 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. + SOLDIER. A thousand, sir, + Early though't be, have on their riveted trim, + And at the port expect you. + [Shout. Flourish of trumpets within] + + Enter 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. 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 + +ACT_4|SC_5 + SCENE V. + Alexandria. ANTONY'S camp + + 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 prevail'd + 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 say'st 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 + +ACT_4|SC_6 + SCENE VI. + Alexandria. CAESAR'S camp + + Flourish. Enter AGRIPPA, CAESAR, With DOLABELLA + and ENOBARBUS + + 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-nook'd 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 vant, + That Antony may seem to spend his fury + Upon himself. Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS + 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 hang'd 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 saf'd 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 + +ACT_4|SC_7 + SCENE VII. + Field of battle between the camps + + Alarum. Drums and trumpets. Enter AGRIPPA + and others + + AGRIPPA. Retire. We have engag'd 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. + 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 + +ACT_4|SC_8 + 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. To-morrow, + Before the sun shall see's, we'll spill the blood + That has to-day escap'd. I thank you all; + For doughty-handed are you, and have fought + Not as you serv'd 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 honour'd gashes whole. + + Enter CLEOPATRA, attended + + [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 arm'd 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 to-day + 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 deserv'd it, were it carbuncled + Like holy Phoebus' car. Give me thy hand. + Through Alexandria make a jolly march; + Bear our hack'd 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 + +ACT_4|SC_9 + SCENE IX. + CAESAR'S camp + + Enter a CENTURION and his company; ENOBARBUS follows + + CENTURION. If we be not reliev'd 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! + CENTURION. 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. + CENTURION. Let's hear him, for the things he speaks + May concern Caesar. + SECOND WATCH. Let's do so. But he sleeps. + CENTURION. 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? + CENTURION. 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 + +ACT_4|SC_10 + SCENE X. + Between the two camps + + Enter ANTONY and SCARUS, with their army + + ANTONY. Their preparation is to-day 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 + +ACT_4|SC_11 + SCENE XI. + Between the camps + + Enter CAESAR and his army + + CAESAR. But being charg'd, 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 + +ACT_4|SC_12 + SCENE XII. + A hill near Alexandria + + Enter ANTONY and SCARUS + + ANTONY. Yet they are not join'd. 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 augurers + 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. + [Alarum afar off, as at a sea-fight] + + Re-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-turn'd 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 reveng'd upon my charm, + I have done all. Bid them all fly; begone. 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 spaniel'd me at heels, to whom I gave + Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets + On blossoming Caesar; and this pine is bark'd + That overtopp'd them all. Betray'd I am. + O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm- + Whose eye beck'd forth my wars and call'd them home, + Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end- + Like a right gypsy hath at fast and loose + Beguil'd me to the very heart of loss. + What, Eros, Eros! + + Enter CLEOPATRA + + Ah, thou spell! Avaunt! + CLEOPATRA. Why is my lord enrag'd 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 doits, and let + Patient Octavia plough thy visage up + With her prepared nails. Exit CLEOPATRA + 'Tis well th'art 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 grasp'd 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 + +ACT_4|SC_13 + SCENE XIII. + Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's 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 emboss'd. + 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 + +ACT_4|SC_14 + SCENE XIV. + CLEOPATRA'S palace + + 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 tower'd citadel, a pendent 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 annex'd unto't + A million moe, now lost- she, Eros, has + Pack'd cards with Caesar, and false-play'd 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 robb'd me of my sword. + MARDIAN. No, Antony; + My mistress lov'd thee, and her fortunes mingled + With thine entirely. + ANTONY. Hence, saucy eunuch; peace! + She hath betray'd me, and shall die the death. + MARDIAN. Death of one person can be paid but once, + And that she has discharg'd. 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 rend'red 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! + + Re-enter EROS + + EROS. What would my lord? + ANTONY. Since Cleopatra died, + I have liv'd in such dishonour that the gods + Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword + Quarter'd 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 window'd in great Rome and see + Thy master thus with pleach'd arms, bending down + His corrigible neck, his face subdu'd + To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel'd 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 cur'd. + 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 unpurpos'd. 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! Thus do I escape the sorrow + Of Antony's death. [Kills himself + 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 learn'd of thee. How? not dead? not dead?- + The guard, ho! O, dispatch me! + + Enter DERCETAS and a guard + + 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 fall'n. + 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 any one. Exeunt guard + DERCETAS. 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? + DERCETAS. There, Diomed, there. + DIOMEDES. Lives he? + Wilt thou not answer, man? Exit DERCETAS + 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. Lock'd 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 dispos'd with Caesar, and that your rage + Would not be purg'd, 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, hearing ANTONY +ACT_4|SC_15 + 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, + Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great + As that which makes it. + + Enter DIOMEDES, below + + 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 triumph'd 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-fortun'd Caesar ever shall + Be brooch'd 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-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up, + And set thee by Jove's side. Yet come a little. + Wishers were ever fools. O come, come, + [They heave ANTONY aloft to CLEOPATRA] + And welcome, welcome! Die where thou hast liv'd. + 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, + Provok'd 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 liv'd 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 vanquish'd. 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, wither'd is the garland of the war, + The soldier's pole is fall'n! Young boys and girls + Are level now with men. The odds is gone, + And there is nothing left remarkable + Beneath the visiting moon. [Swoons] + CHARMIAN. O, quietness, lady! + IRAS. She's 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 stol'n our jewel. All's but nought; + 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; those above hearing off ANTONY'S body + +ACT_5|SC_1 + ACT V. SCENE I. + Alexandria. CAESAR'S camp + + Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, MAECENAS, GALLUS, + PROCULEIUS, and others, 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 DERCETAS With the sword of ANTONY + + CAESAR. Wherefore is that? And what art thou that dar'st + Appear thus to us? + DERCETAS. I am call'd Dercetas; + Mark Antony I serv'd, who best was worthy + Best to be serv'd. 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? + DERCETAS. 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. + DERCETAS. 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 robb'd his wound of it; behold it stain'd + 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 + Wag'd 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 touch'd. + MAECENAS. When such a spacious mirror's set before him, + He needs must see himself. + CAESAR. O Antony, + I have follow'd 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, + Confin'd in all she has, her monument, + Of thy intents desires instruction, + That she preparedly may frame herself + To th' way she's forc'd 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 learn + 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 her. + PROCULEIUS. Caesar, I shall. Exit + 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 employ'd; 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 + +ACT_5|SC_2 + SCENE II. + Alexandria. The monument + + Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN + + 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 dug, + The beggar's nurse and Caesar's. + + Enter, to the gates of the monument, PROCULEIUS, GALLUS, + and soldiers + + 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 deceiv'd, + 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 conquer'd 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; + Y'are fall'n 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 kneel'd 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 caus'd it. + GALLUS. You see how easily she may be surpris'd. + + Here PROCULEIUS and two of the guard ascend the + monument by a ladder placed against a window, + and come behind CLEOPATRA. Some of the guard + unbar and open the gates + + Guard her till Caesar come. Exit + IRAS. Royal Queen! + CHARMIAN. O Cleopatra! thou art taken, Queen! + CLEOPATRA. Quick, quick, good hands. [Drawing a dagger] + PROCULEIUS. Hold, worthy lady, hold, [Disarms her] + Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this + Reliev'd, but not betray'd. + 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 pinion'd at your master's court, + Nor once be chastis'd 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-nak'd, 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 ye- + CLEOPATRA. His face was as the heav'ns, 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 rear'd 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 show'd his back above + The element they liv'd in. In his livery + Walk'd crowns and crownets; realms and islands were + As plates dropp'd 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 drearning. 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 pursu'd 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't. [Flourish] + [Within: 'Make way there-Caesar!'] + + Enter CAESAR; GALLUS, PROCULEIUS, MAECENAS, SELEUCUS, + and others of his train + + CAESAR. Which is the Queen of Egypt? + DOLABELLA. It is the Emperor, madam. [CLEOPATPA 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 sham'd 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 possess'd of. 'Tis exactly valued, + Not petty things admitted. Where's Seleucus? + SELEUCUS. Here, madam. + CLEOPATRA. This is my treasurer; let him speak, my lord, + Upon his peril, that I have reserv'd + 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 hir'd! 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 reserv'd, + 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 reserv'd, nor what acknowledg'd, + 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 cheer'd; + 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 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. + + Re-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 perform'd + 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 forc'd 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 plac'd, 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. + + Re-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 + + Re-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 thus thou and nature can so gently part, + The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, + Which hurts and is desir'd. Dost thou lie still? + If 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 unparallel'd. Downy windows, close; + And golden Phoebus never be beheld + Of eyes again so royal! Your crown's awry; + I'll mend it and then play- + + Enter the guard, rushing 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 beguil'd. + 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 princes + Descended of so many royal kings. + Ah, soldier! [CHARMIAN dies] + + Re-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 perform'd the dreaded act which thou + So sought'st to hinder. + [Within: 'A way there, a way for Caesar!'] + + Re-enter CAESAR and all his train + + DOLABELLA. O sir, you are too sure an augurer: + That you did fear is done. + CAESAR. Bravest at the last, + She levell'd 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. Poison'd then. + FIRST GUARD. O Caesar, + This Charmian liv'd but now; she stood and spake. + I found her trimming up the diadem + On her dead mistress. Tremblingly she stood, + And on the sudden dropp'd. + CAESAR. O noble weakness! + If they had swallow'd 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 pursu'd 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 + + +THE END + + + + + + + + +1601 + +AS YOU LIKE IT + +by William Shakespeare + + + +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 END + + + + + +1593 + +THE COMEDY OF ERRORS + +by William Shakespeare + + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + +SOLINUS, Duke of Ephesus +AEGEON, a merchant of Syracuse + +ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS twin brothers and sons to +ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE Aegion and Aemelia + +DROMIO OF EPHESUS twin brothers, and attendants on +DROMIO OF SYRACUSE the two Antipholuses + +BALTHAZAR, a merchant +ANGELO, a goldsmith +FIRST MERCHANT, friend to Antipholus of Syracuse +SECOND MERCHANT, to whom Angelo is a debtor +PINCH, a schoolmaster + +AEMILIA, wife to AEgeon; an abbess at Ephesus +ADRIANA, wife to Antipholus of Ephesus +LUCIANA, her sister +LUCE, servant to Adriana + +A COURTEZAN + +Gaoler, Officers, Attendants + + + + + +SCENE: +Ephesus + + +THE COMEDY OF ERRORS + +ACT I. SCENE 1 + +A hall in the DUKE'S palace + +Enter the DUKE OF EPHESUS, AEGEON, the Merchant +of Syracuse, GAOLER, OFFICERS, and other ATTENDANTS + +AEGEON. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall, + And by the doom of death end woes and all. +DUKE. Merchant of Syracuse, 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 any 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. +AEGEON. 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 departed'st from thy native home, + And for what cause thou cam'st to Ephesus. +AEGEON. 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 Syracuse 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 disdnguish'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. +AEGEON. 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 encount'red 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-wreck'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. +AEGEON. 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, Aegeon, 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 help by beneficial hap. + 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. + Gaoler, take him to thy custody. +GAOLER. I will, my lord. +AEGEON. Hopeless and helpless doth Aegeon wend, + But to procrastinate his lifeless end. +