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FOR __ COMPLETE SHAKESPEARE **** ["Small Print" V.12.08.93] <> 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 fade, my verse distills your truth. 55 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme, But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn: The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth, your praise shall still find room, Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So till the judgment that your self arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 56 Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allayed, To-morrow sharpened in his former might. So love be thou, although to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, To-morrow see again, and do not kill The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness: Let this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contracted new, Come daily to the banks, that when they see: Return of love, more blest may be the view. Or call it winter, which being full of care, Makes summer's welcome, thrice more wished, more rare. 57 Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour, Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour, When you have bid your servant once adieu. Nor dare I question with my jealous thought, Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But like a sad slave stay and think of nought Save where you are, how happy you make those. So true a fool is love, that in your will, (Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill. 58 That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure. O let me suffer (being at your beck) Th' imprisoned absence of your liberty, And patience tame to sufferance bide each check, Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strong, That you your self may privilage your time To what you will, to you it doth belong, Your self to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well. 59 If there be nothing new, but that which is, Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which labouring for invention bear amis The second burthen of a former child! O that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done. That I might see what the old world could say, To this composed wonder of your frame, Whether we are mended, or whether better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O sure I am the wits of former days, To subjects worse have given admiring praise. 60 Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end, Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 61 Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenure of thy jealousy? O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near. 62 Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye, And all my soul, and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy, It is so grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account, And for my self mine own worth do define, As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me my self indeed beated and chopt with tanned antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read: Self, so self-loving were iniquity. 'Tis thee (my self) that for my self I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days. 63 Against my love shall be as I am now With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn, When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow With lines and wrinkles, when his youthful morn Hath travelled on to age's steepy night, And all those beauties whereof now he's king Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his spring: For such a time do I now fortify Against confounding age's cruel knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life. His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green. 64 When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age, When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage. When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store. When I have seen such interchange of State, Or state it self confounded, to decay, Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have, that which it fears to lose. 65 Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O how shall summer's honey breath hold out, Against the wrackful siege of batt'ring days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays? O fearful meditation, where alack, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back, Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. 66 Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill. Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that to die, I leave my love alone. 67 Ah wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve, And lace it self with his society? Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek, Roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is, Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins, For she hath no exchequer now but his, And proud of many, lives upon his gains? O him she stores, to show what wealth she had, In days long since, before these last so bad. 68 Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow: Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head, Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament, it self and true, Making no summer of another's green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new, And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore. 69 Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view, Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend: All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned, But those same tongues that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that in guess they measure by thy deeds, Then churls their thoughts (although their eyes were kind) To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost common grow. 70 That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair, The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approve, Thy worth the greater being wooed of time, For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days, Either not assailed, or victor being charged, Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore enlarged, If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. 71 No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: Nay if you read this line, remember not, The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O if (I say) you look upon this verse, When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse; But let your love even with my life decay. Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone. 72 O lest the world should task you to recite, What merit lived in me that you should love After my death (dear love) forget me quite, For you in me can nothing worthy prove. Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon deceased I, Than niggard truth would willingly impart: O lest your true love may seem false in this, That you for love speak well of me untrue, My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me, nor you. For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth. 73 That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self that seals up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. 74 But be contented when that fell arrest, Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review, The very part was consecrate to thee, The earth can have but earth, which is his due, My spirit is thine the better part of me, So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being dead, The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, Too base of thee to be remembered, The worth of that, is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains. 75 So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure, Now counting best to be with you alone, Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure, Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved for a look, Possessing or pursuing no delight Save what is had, or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on all, or all away. 76 Why is my verse so barren of new pride? So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods, and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? O know sweet love I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument: So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told. 77 Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste, These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show, Of mouthed graves will give thee memory, Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know, Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book. 78 So oft have I invoked thee for my muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse, As every alien pen hath got my use, And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing, And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing, And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee, In others' works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be. But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning, my rude ignorance. 79 Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, But now my gracious numbers are decayed, And my sick muse doth give an other place. I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen, Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent, He robs thee of, and pays it thee again, He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word, From thy behaviour, beauty doth he give And found it in thy cheek: he can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thy self dost pay. 80 O how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame. But since your worth (wide as the ocean is) The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark (inferior far to his) On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride, Or (being wrecked) I am a worthless boat, He of tall building, and of goodly pride. Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The worst was this, my love was my decay. 81 Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I (once gone) to all the world must die, The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie, Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read, And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead, You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen) Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. 82 I grant thou wert not married to my muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise, And therefore art enforced to seek anew, Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so love, yet when they have devised, What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized, In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend. And their gross painting might be better used, Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused. 83 I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set, I found (or thought I found) you did exceed, That barren tender of a poet's debt: And therefore have I slept in your report, That you your self being extant well might show, How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This silence for my sin you did impute, Which shall be most my glory being dumb, For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes, Than both your poets can in praise devise. 84 Who is it that says most, which can say more, Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you? In whose confine immured is the store, Which should example where your equal grew. Lean penury within that pen doth dwell, That to his subject lends not some small glory, But he that writes of you, if he can tell, That you are you, so dignifies his story. Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired every where. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. 85 My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise richly compiled, Reserve their character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words, And like unlettered clerk still cry Amen, To every hymn that able spirit affords, In polished form of well refined pen. Hearing you praised, I say 'tis so, 'tis true, And to the most of praise add something more, But that is in my thought, whose love to you (Though words come hindmost) holds his rank before, Then others, for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. 86 Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of (all too precious) you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write, Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors of my silence cannot boast, I was not sick of any fear from thence. But when your countenance filled up his line, Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine. 87 Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate, The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing: My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting, And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thy self thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking, So thy great gift upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgement making. Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. 88 When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side, against my self I'll fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn: With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted: That thou in losing me, shalt win much glory: And I by this will be a gainer too, For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to my self I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong. 89 Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence, Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt: Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not (love) disgrace me half so ill, To set a form upon desired change, As I'll my self disgrace, knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle and look strange: Be absent from thy walks and in my tongue, Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, Lest I (too much profane) should do it wronk: And haply of our old acquaintance tell. For thee, against my self I'll vow debate, For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. 90 Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now, Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after-loss: Ah do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquered woe, Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come, so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might. And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so. 91 Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body's force, Some in their garments though new-fangled ill: Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse. And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest, But these particulars are not my measure, All these I better in one general best. Thy love is better than high birth to me, Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' costs, Of more delight than hawks and horses be: And having thee, of all men's pride I boast. Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take, All this away, and me most wretchcd make. 92 But do thy worst to steal thy self away, For term of life thou art assured mine, And life no longer than thy love will stay, For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end, I see, a better state to me belongs Than that, which on thy humour doth depend. Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie, O what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. 93 So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband, so love's face, May still seem love to me, though altered new: Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place. For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change, In many's looks, the false heart's history Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange. But heaven in thy creation did decree, That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell, Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show. 94 They that have power to hurt, and will do none, That do not do the thing, they most do show, Who moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow: They rightly do inherit heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expense, Tibey are the lords and owners of their faces, Others, but stewards of their excellence: The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Though to it self, it only live and die, But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds, Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds. 95 How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame, Which like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! O in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose! That tongue that tells the story of thy days, (Making lascivious comments on thy sport) Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise, Naming thy name, blesses an ill report. O what a mansion have those vices got, Which for their habitation chose out thee, Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot, And all things turns to fair, that eyes can see! Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege, The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. 96 Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness, Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport, Both grace and faults are loved of more and less: Thou mak'st faults graces, that to thee resort: As on the finger of a throned queen, The basest jewel will be well esteemed: So are those errors that in thee are seen, To truths translated, and for true things deemed. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate! How many gazers mightst thou lead away, if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! But do not so, I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. 97 How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time, The teeming autumn big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease: Yet this abundant issue seemed to me But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit, For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And thou away, the very birds are mute. Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. 98 From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April (dressed in all his trim) Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing: That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell: Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose, They were but sweet, but figures of delight: Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and you away, As with your shadow I with these did play. 99 The forward violet thus did I chide, Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft check for complexion dwells, In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair, The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair: A third nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both, And to his robbery had annexed thy breath, But for his theft in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee. 100 Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long, To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem, In gentle numbers time so idly spent, Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey, If time have any wrinkle graven there, If any, be a satire to decay, And make time's spoils despised everywhere. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life, So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife. 101 O truant Muse what shall be thy amends, For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed? Both truth and beauty on my love depends: So dost thou too, and therein dignified: Make answer Muse, wilt thou not haply say, 'Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed, Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay: But best is best, if never intermixed'? Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee, To make him much outlive a gilded tomb: And to be praised of ages yet to be. Then do thy office Muse, I teach thee how, To make him seem long hence, as he shows now. 102 My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming, I love not less, though less the show appear, That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming, The owner's tongue doth publish every where. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays, As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue: Because I would not dull you with my song. 103 Alack what poverty my muse brings forth, That having such a scope to show her pride, The argument all bare is of more worth Than when it hath my added praise beside. O blame me not if I no more can write! Look in your glass and there appears a face, That over-goes my blunt invention quite, Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. Were it not sinful then striving to mend, To mar the subject that before was well? For to no other pass my verses tend, Than of your graces and your gifts to tell. And more, much more than in my verse can sit, Your own glass shows you, when you look in it. 104 To me fair friend you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still: three winters cold, Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned, In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. Ah yet doth beauty like a dial hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived, So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived. For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred, Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. 105 Let not my love be called idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence, Therefore my verse to constancy confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words, And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone. Which three till now, never kept seat in one. 106 When in the chronicle of wasted time, I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights, Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have expressed, Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring, And for they looked but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 107 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul, Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, And the sad augurs mock their own presage, Incertainties now crown themselves assured, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time, My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes. And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. 108 What's in the brain that ink may character, Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit, What's new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit? Nothing sweet boy, but yet like prayers divine, I must each day say o'er the very same, Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. So that eternal love in love's fresh case, Weighs not the dust and injury of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page, Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Where time and outward form would show it dead. 109 O never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seemed my flame to qualify, As easy might I from my self depart, As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie: That is my home of love, if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that my self bring water for my stain, Never believe though in my nature reigned, All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stained, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good: For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou my rose, in it thou art my all. 110 Alas 'tis true, I have gone here and there, And made my self a motley to the view, Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, Made old offences of affections new. Most true it is, that I have looked on truth Askance and strangely: but by all above, These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end, Mine appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god in love, to whom I am confined. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. 111 O for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide, Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand: Pity me then, and wish I were renewed, Whilst like a willing patient I will drink, Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection, No bitterness that I will bitter think, Nor double penance to correct correction. Pity me then dear friend, and I assure ye, Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 112 Your love and pity doth th' impression fill, Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow, For what care I who calls me well or ill, So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow? You are my all the world, and I must strive, To know my shames and praises from your tongue, None else to me, nor I to none alive, That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong. In so profound abysm I throw all care Of others' voices, that my adder's sense, To critic and to flatterer stopped are: Mark how with my neglect I do dispense. You are so strongly in my purpose bred, That all the world besides methinks are dead. 113 Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind, And that which governs me to go about, Doth part his function, and is partly blind, Seems seeing, but effectually is out: For it no form delivers to the heart Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch, Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch: For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight, The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature, The mountain, or the sea, the day, or night: The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature. Incapable of more, replete with you, My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue. 114 Or whether doth my mind being crowned with you Drink up the monarch's plague this flattery? Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true, And that your love taught it this alchemy? To make of monsters, and things indigest, Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, Creating every bad a perfect best As fast as objects to his beams assemble: O 'tis the first, 'tis flattery in my seeing, And my great mind most kingly drinks it up, Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, And to his palate doth prepare the cup. If it be poisoned, 'tis the lesser sin, That mine eye loves it and doth first begin. 115 Those lines that I before have writ do lie, Even those that said I could not love you dearer, Yet then my judgment knew no reason why, My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer, But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings, Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, Divert strong minds to the course of alt'ring things: Alas why fearing of time's tyranny, Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,' When I was certain o'er incertainty, Crowning the present, doubting of the rest? Love is a babe, then might I not say so To give full growth to that which still doth grow. 116 Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments, love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come, Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom: If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 117 Accuse me thus, that I have scanted all, Wherein I should your great deserts repay, Forgot upon your dearest love to call, Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day, That I have frequent been with unknown minds, And given to time your own dear-purchased right, That I have hoisted sail to all the winds Which should transport me farthest from your sight. Book both my wilfulness and errors down, And on just proof surmise, accumulate, Bring me within the level of your frown, But shoot not at me in your wakened hate: Since my appeal says I did strive to prove The constancy and virtue of your love. 118 Like as to make our appetite more keen With eager compounds we our palate urge, As to prevent our maladies unseen, We sicken to shun sickness when we purge. Even so being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding; And sick of welfare found a kind of meetness, To be diseased ere that there was true needing. Thus policy in love t' anticipate The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, And brought to medicine a healthful state Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured. But thence I learn and find the lesson true, Drugs poison him that so feil sick of you. 119 What potions have I drunk of Siren tears Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within, Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, Still losing when I saw my self to win! What wretched errors hath my heart committed, Whilst it hath thought it self so blessed never! How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted In the distraction of this madding fever! O benefit of ill, now I find true That better is, by evil still made better. And ruined love when it is built anew Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I return rebuked to my content, And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent. 120 That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken As I by yours, y'have passed a hell of time, And I a tyrant have no leisure taken To weigh how once I suffered in your crime. O that our night of woe might have remembered My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, And soon to you, as you to me then tendered The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits! But that your trespass now becomes a fee, Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. 121 'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing. For why should others' false adulterate eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood? Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, Which in their wills count bad what I think good? No, I am that I am, and they that level At my abuses, reckon up their own, I may be straight though they themselves be bevel; By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown Unless this general evil they maintain, All men are bad and in their badness reign. 122 Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full charactered with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain Beyond all date even to eternity. Or at the least, so long as brain and heart Have faculty by nature to subsist, Till each to razed oblivion yield his part Of thee, thy record never can be missed: That poor retention could not so much hold, Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score, Therefore to give them from me was I bold, To trust those tables that receive thee more: To keep an adjunct to remember thee Were to import forgetfulness in me. 123 No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change, Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange, They are but dressings Of a former sight: Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire, What thou dost foist upon us that is old, And rather make them born to our desire, Than think that we before have heard them told: Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wond'ring at the present, nor the past, For thy records, and what we see doth lie, Made more or less by thy continual haste: This I do vow and this shall ever be, I will be true despite thy scythe and thee. 124 If my dear love were but the child of state, It might for Fortune's bastard be unfathered, As subject to time's love or to time's hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered. No it was builded far from accident, It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under the blow of thralled discontent, Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls: It fears not policy that heretic, Which works on leases of short-numbered hours, But all alone stands hugely politic, That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers. To this I witness call the fools of time, Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime. 125 Were't aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which proves more short than waste or ruining? Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour Lose all, and more by paying too much rent For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour, Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent? No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free, Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art, But mutual render, only me for thee. Hence, thou suborned informer, a true soul When most impeached, stands least in thy control. 126 O thou my lovely boy who in thy power, Dost hold Time's fickle glass his fickle hour: Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st, Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st. If Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack) As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill. Yet fear her O thou minion of her pleasure, She may detain, but not still keep her treasure! Her audit (though delayed) answered must be, And her quietus is to render thee. 127 In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were it bore not beauty's name: But now is black beauty's successive heir, And beauty slandered with a bastard shame, For since each hand hath put on nature's power, Fairing the foul with art's false borrowed face, Sweet beauty hath no name no holy bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem, At such who not born fair no beauty lack, Slandering creation with a false esteem, Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe, That every tongue says beauty should look so. 128 How oft when thou, my music, music play'st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap, To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap, At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand. To be so tickled they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more blest than living lips, Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. 129 Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action, and till action, lust Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated as a swallowed bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad. Mad in pursuit and in possession so, Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme, A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe, Before a joy proposed behind a dream. All this the world well knows yet none knows well, To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. 130 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun, Coral is far more red, than her lips red, If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun: If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head: I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks, And in some perfumes is there more delight, Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know, That music hath a far more pleasing sound: I grant I never saw a goddess go, My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet by heaven I think my love as rare, As any she belied with false compare. 131 Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet in good faith some say that thee behold, Thy face hath not the power to make love groan; To say they err, I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to my self alone. And to be sure that is not false I swear, A thousand groans but thinking on thy face, One on another's neck do witness bear Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, And thence this slander as I think proceeds. 132 Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even Doth half that glory to the sober west As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack. 133 Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken, And my next self thou harder hast engrossed, Of him, my self, and thee I am forsaken, A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed: Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail, Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard, Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol. And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee, Perforce am thine and all that is in me. 134 So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, For thou art covetous, and he is kind, He learned but surety-like to write for me, Under that bond that him as fist doth bind. The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Thou usurer that put'st forth all to use, And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake, So him I lose through my unkind abuse. Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me, He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. 135 Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will, And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in 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. > ACT Il. SCENE 1 The house of ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS Enter ADRIANA, wife to ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, with LUCIANA, her sister ADRIANA. Neither my husband nor the slave return'd That in such haste I sent to seek his master! Sure, Luciana, it is two o'clock. LUCIANA. Perhaps some merchant hath invited him, And from the mart he's somewhere gone to dinner; Good sister, let us dine, and never fret. A man is master of his liberty; Time is their master, and when they see time, They'll go or come. If so, be patient, sister. ADRIANA. Why should their liberty than ours be more? LUCIANA. Because their business still lies out o' door. ADRIANA. Look when I serve him so, he takes it ill. LUCIANA. O, know he is the bridle of your will. ADRIANA. There's none but asses will be bridled so. LUCIANA. Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe. There's nothing situate under heaven's eye But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky. The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls, Are their males' subjects, and at their controls. Man, more divine, the master of all these, Lord of the wide world and wild wat'ry seas, Indu'd with intellectual sense and souls, Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls, Are masters to their females, and their lords; Then let your will attend on their accords. ADRIANA. This servitude makes you to keep unwed. LUCIANA. Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed. ADRIANA. But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway. LUCIANA. Ere I learn love, I'll practise to obey. ADRIANA. How if your husband start some other where? LUCIANA. Till he come home again, I would forbear. ADRIANA. Patience unmov'd! no marvel though she pause: They can be meek that have no other cause. A wretched soul, bruis'd with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burd'ned with like weight of pain, As much, or more, we should ourselves complain. So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee, With urging helpless patience would relieve me; But if thou live to see like right bereft, This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left. LUCIANA. Well, I will marry one day, but to try. Here comes your man, now is your husband nigh. Enter DROMIO OF EPHESUS ADRIANA. Say, is your tardy master now at hand? DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, he's at two hands with me, and that my two ears can witness. ADRIANA. Say, didst thou speak with him? Know'st thou his mind? DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear. Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it. LUCIANA. Spake he so doubtfully thou could'st not feel his meaning? DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, he struck so plainly I could to well feel his blows; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce understand them. ADRIANA. But say, I prithee, is he coming home? It seems he hath great care to please his wife. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad. ADRIANA. Horn-mad, thou villain! DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I mean not cuckold-mad; But, sure, he is stark mad. When I desir'd him to come home to dinner, He ask'd me for a thousand marks in gold. "Tis dinner time' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he. 'Your meat doth burn' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he. 'Will you come home?' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he. 'Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?' 'The pig' quoth I 'is burn'd'; 'My gold!' quoth he. 'My mistress, sir,' quoth I; 'Hang up thy mistress; I know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress.' LUCIANA. Quoth who? DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Quoth my master. 'I know' quoth he 'no house, no wife, no mistress.' So that my errand, due unto my tongue, I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders; For, in conclusion, he did beat me there. ADRIANA. Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Go back again, and be new beaten home? For God's sake, send some other messenger. ADRIANA. Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. And he will bless that cross with other beating; Between you I shall have a holy head. ADRIANA. Hence, prating peasant! Fetch thy master home. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Am I so round with you, as you with me, That like a football you do spurn me thus? You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither; If I last in this service, you must case me in leather. > ACT III. SCENE 1 Before the house of ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, DROMIO OF EPHESUS, ANGELO, and BALTHAZAR ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all; My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours. Say that I linger'd with you at your shop To see the making of her carcanet, And that to-morrow you will bring it home. But here's a villain that would face me down He met me on the mart, and that I beat him, And charg'd him with a thousand marks in gold, And that I did deny my wife and house. Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this? DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know. That you beat me at the mart I have your hand to show; If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I think thou art an ass. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Marry, so it doth appear By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear. I should kick, being kick'd; and being at that pass, You would keep from my heels, and beware of an ass. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Y'are sad, Signior Balthazar; pray God our cheer May answer my good will and your good welcome here. BALTHAZAR. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish, A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish. BALTHAZAR. Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And welcome more common; for that's nothing but words. BALTHAZAR. Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Ay, to a niggardly host and more sparing guest. But though my cates be mean, take them in good part; Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart. But, soft, my door is lock'd; go bid them let us in. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Ginn! DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch! Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch. Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call'st for such store, When one is one too many? Go get thee from the door. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. What patch is made our porter? My master stays in the street. DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] Let him walk from whence he came, lest he catch cold on's feet. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Who talks within there? Ho, open the door! DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] Right, sir; I'll tell you when, an you'll tell me wherefore. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Wherefore? For my dinner; I have not din'd to-day. DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] Nor to-day here you must not; come again when you may. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. What art thou that keep'st me out from the house I owe? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. O Villain, thou hast stol'n both mine office and my name! The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame. If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place, Thou wouldst have chang'd thy face for a name, or thy name for an ass. Enter LUCE, within LUCE. [Within] What a coil is there, Dromio? Who are those at the gate? DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Let my master in, Luce. LUCE. [Within] Faith, no, he comes too late; And so tell your master. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. O Lord, I must laugh! Have at you with a proverb: Shall I set in my staff? LUCE. [Within] Have at you with another: that's-when? can you tell? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] If thy name be called Luce -Luce, thou hast answer'd him well. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Do you hear, you minion? You'll let us in, I hope? LUCE. [Within] I thought to have ask'd you. DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] And you said no. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. SO, Come, help: well struck! there was blow for blow. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Thou baggage, let me in. LUCE. [Within] Can you tell for whose sake? DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Master, knock the door hard. LUCE. [Within] Let him knock till it ache. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You'll cry for this, minion, if beat the door down. LUCE. [Within] What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town? Enter ADRIANA, within ADRIANA. [Within] Who is that at the door, that keeps all this noise? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] By my troth, your town is troubled with unruly boys. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Are you there, wife? You might have come before. ADRIANA. [Within] Your wife, sir knave! Go get you from the door. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. If YOU went in pain, master, this 'knave' would go sore. ANGELO. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome; we would fain have either. BALTHAZAR. In debating which was best, we shall part with neither. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. They stand at the door, master; bid them welcome hither. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. You would say so, master, if your garments were thin. Your cake here is warm within; you stand here in the cold; It would make a man mad as a buck to be so bought and sold. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Go fetch me something; I'll break ope the gate. DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] Break any breaking here, and I'll break your knave's pate. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. A man may break a word with you, sir; and words are but wind; Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind. DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] It seems thou want'st breaking; out upon thee, hind! DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Here's too much 'out upon thee!' pray thee let me in. DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Well, I'll break in; go borrow me a crow. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. A crow without feather? Master, mean you so? For a fish without a fin, there's a fowl without a feather; If a crow help us in, sirrah, we'll pluck a crow together. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Go get thee gone; fetch me an iron crow. BALTHAZAR. Have patience, sir; O, let it not be so! Herein you war against your reputation, And draw within the compass of suspect Th' unviolated honour of your wife. Once this-your long experience of her wisdom, Her sober virtue, years, and modesty, Plead on her part some cause to you unknown; And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse Why at this time the doors are made against you. Be rul'd by me: depart in patience, And let us to the Tiger all to dinner; And, about evening, come yourself alone To know the reason of this strange restraint. If by strong hand you offer to break in Now in the stirring passage of the day, A vulgar comment will be made of it, And that supposed by the common rout Against your yet ungalled estimation That may with foul intrusion enter in And dwell upon your grave when you are dead; For slander lives upon succession, For ever hous'd where it gets possession. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You have prevail'd. I will depart in quiet, And in despite of mirth mean to be merry. I know a wench of excellent discourse, Pretty and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle; There will we dine. This woman that I mean, My wife-but, I protest, without desert- Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal; To her will we to dinner. [To ANGELO] Get you home And fetch the chain; by this I know 'tis made. Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine; For there's the house. That chain will I bestow- Be it for nothing but to spite my wife- Upon mine hostess there; good sir, make haste. Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me. ANGELO. I'll meet you at that place some hour hence. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Do so; this jest shall cost me some expense. > ACT IV. SCENE 1 A public place Enter SECOND MERCHANT, ANGELO, and an OFFICER SECOND MERCHANT. You know since Pentecost the sum is due, And since I have not much importun'd you; Nor now I had not, but that I am bound To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage. Therefore make present satisfaction, Or I'll attach you by this officer. ANGELO. Even just the sum that I do owe to you Is growing to me by Antipholus; And in the instant that I met with you He had of me a chain; at five o'clock I shall receive the money for the same. Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house, I will discharge my bond, and thank you too. Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, and DROMIO OF EPHESUS, from the COURTEZAN'S OFFICER. That labour may you save; see where he comes. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. While I go to the goldsmith's house, go thou And buy a rope's end; that will I bestow Among my wife and her confederates, For locking me out of my doors by day. But, soft, I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone; Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I buy a thousand pound a year; I buy a rope. > ACT V. SCENE 1 A street before a priory Enter SECOND MERCHANT and ANGELO ANGELO. I am sorry, sir, that I have hind'red you; But I protest he had the chain of me, Though most dishonestly he doth deny it. SECOND MERCHANT. How is the man esteem'd here in the city? ANGELO. Of very reverend reputation, sir, Of credit infinite, highly belov'd, Second to none that lives here in the city; His word might bear my wealth at any time. SECOND MERCHANT. Speak softly; yonder, as I think, he walks. Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and DROMIO OF SYRACUSE ANGELO. 'Tis so; and that self chain about his neck Which he forswore most monstrously to have. Good sir, draw near to me, I'll speak to him. Signior Andpholus, I wonder much That you would put me to this shame and trouble; And, not without some scandal to yourself, With circumstance and oaths so to deny This chain, which now you wear so openly. Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment, You have done wrong to this my honest friend; Who, but for staying on our controversy, Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day. This chain you had of me; can you deny it? ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I think I had; I never did deny it. SECOND MERCHANT. Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Who heard me to deny it or forswear it? SECOND MERCHANT. These ears of mine, thou know'st, did hear thee. Fie on thee, wretch! 'tis pity that thou liv'st To walk where any honest men resort. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thou art a villain to impeach me thus; I'll prove mine honour and mine honesty Against thee presently, if thou dar'st stand. SECOND MERCHANT. I dare, and do defy thee for a villain. [They draw] Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, the COURTEZAN, and OTHERS ADRIANA. Hold, hurt him not, for God's sake! He is mad. Some get within him, take his sword away; Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house. DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Run, master, run; for God's sake take a house. This is some priory. In, or we are spoil'd. > 1608 THE TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae CAIUS MARCIUS, afterwards CAIUS MARCIUS CORIOLANUS Generals against the Volscians TITUS LARTIUS COMINIUS MENENIUS AGRIPPA, friend to Coriolanus Tribunes of the People SICINIUS VELUTUS JUNIUS BRUTUS YOUNG MARCIUS, son to Coriolanus A ROMAN HERALD NICANOR, a Roman TULLUS AUFIDIUS, General of the Volscians LIEUTENANT, to Aufidius CONSPIRATORS, With Aufidius ADRIAN, a Volscian A CITIZEN of Antium TWO VOLSCIAN GUARDS VOLUMNIA, mother to Coriolanus VIRGILIA, wife to Coriolanus VALERIA, friend to Virgilia GENTLEWOMAN attending on Virgilia Roman and Volscian Senators, Patricians, Aediles, Lictors, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, Servants to Aufidius, and other Attendants <> SCENE: Rome and the neighbourhood; Corioli and the neighbourhood; Antium ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street Enter a company of mutinous citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons FIRST CITIZEN. Before we proceed any further, hear me speak. ALL. Speak, speak. FIRST CITIZEN. YOU are all resolv'd rather to die than to famish? ALL. Resolv'd, resolv'd. FIRST CITIZEN. First, you know Caius Marcius is chief enemy to the people. ALL. We know't, we know't. FIRST CITIZEN. Let us kill him, and we'll have corn at our own price. Is't a verdict? ALL. No more talking on't; let it be done. Away, away! SECOND CITIZEN. One word, good citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us; if they would yield us but the superfluity while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely; but they think we are too dear. The leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularize their abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes ere we become rakes; for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge. SECOND CITIZEN. Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius? FIRST CITIZEN. Against him first; he's a very dog to the commonalty. SECOND CITIZEN. Consider you what services he has done for his country? FIRST CITIZEN. Very well, and could be content to give him good report for't but that he pays himself with being proud. SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, but speak not maliciously. FIRST CITIZEN. I say unto you, what he hath done famously he did it to that end; though soft-conscienc'd men can be content to say it was for his country, he did it to please his mother and to be partly proud, which he is, even to the altitude of his virtue. SECOND CITIZEN. What he cannot help in his nature you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous. FIRST CITIZEN. If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations; he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [Shouts within] What shouts are these? The other side o' th' city is risen. Why stay we prating here? To th' Capitol! ALL. Come, come. FIRST CITIZEN. Soft! who comes here? Enter MENENIUS AGRIPPA SECOND CITIZEN. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always lov'd the people. FIRST CITIZEN. He's one honest enough; would all the rest were so! MENENIUS. What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you. FIRST CITIZEN. Our business is not unknown to th' Senate; they have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we'll show 'em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths; they shall know we have strong arms too. MENENIUS. Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours, Will you undo yourselves? FIRST CITIZEN. We cannot, sir; we are undone already. MENENIUS. I tell you, friends, most charitable care Have the patricians of you. For your wants, Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them Against the Roman state; whose course will on The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder than can ever Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, The gods, not the patricians, make it, and Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, You are transported by calamity Thither where more attends you; and you slander The helms o' th' state, who care for you like fathers, When you curse them as enemies. FIRST CITIZEN. Care for us! True, indeed! They ne'er car'd for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and their storehouses cramm'd with grain; make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there's all the love they bear us. MENENIUS. Either you must Confess yourselves wondrous malicious, Or be accus'd of folly. I shall tell you A pretty tale. It may be you have heard it; But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale't a little more. FIRST CITIZEN. Well, I'll hear it, sir; yet you must not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale. But, an't please you, deliver. MENENIUS. There was a time when all the body's members Rebell'd against the belly; thus accus'd it: That only like a gulf it did remain I' th' midst o' th' body, idle and unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labour with the rest; where th' other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, And, mutually participate, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. The belly answer'd- FIRST CITIZEN. Well, sir, what answer made the belly? MENENIUS. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile, Which ne'er came from the lungs, but even thus- For look you, I may make the belly smile As well as speak- it tauntingly replied To th' discontented members, the mutinous parts That envied his receipt; even so most fitly As you malign our senators for that They are not such as you. FIRST CITIZEN. Your belly's answer- What? The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye, The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter, With other muniments and petty helps Is this our fabric, if that they- MENENIUS. What then? Fore me, this fellow speaks! What then? What then? FIRST CITIZEN. Should by the cormorant belly be restrain'd, Who is the sink o' th' body- MENENIUS. Well, what then? FIRST CITIZEN. The former agents, if they did complain, What could the belly answer? MENENIUS. I will tell you; If you'll bestow a small- of what you have little- Patience awhile, you'st hear the belly's answer. FIRST CITIZEN. Y'are long about it. MENENIUS. Note me this, good friend: Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered. 'True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he 'That I receive the general food at first Which you do live upon; and fit it is, Because I am the storehouse and the shop Of the whole body. But, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, Even to the court, the heart, to th' seat o' th' brain; And, through the cranks and offices of man, The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live. And though that all at once You, my good friends'- this says the belly; mark me. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, sir; well, well. MENENIUS. 'Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran.' What say you to' t? FIRST CITIZEN. It was an answer. How apply you this? MENENIUS. The senators of Rome are this good belly, And you the mutinous members; for, examine Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly Touching the weal o' th' common, you shall find No public benefit which you receive But it proceeds or comes from them to you, And no way from yourselves. What do you think, You, the great toe of this assembly? FIRST CITIZEN. I the great toe? Why the great toe? MENENIUS. For that, being one o' th' lowest, basest, poorest, Of this most wise rebellion, thou goest foremost. Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, Lead'st first to win some vantage. But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs. Rome and her rats are at the point of battle; The one side must have bale. Enter CAIUS MARCIUS Hail, noble Marcius! MARCIUS. Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs? FIRST CITIZEN. We have ever your good word. MARCIUS. He that will give good words to thee will flatter Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you, The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where foxes, geese; you are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is To make him worthy whose offence subdues him, And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you do change a mind And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland. What's the matter That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble Senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else Would feed on one another? What's their seeking? MENENIUS. For corn at their own rates, whereof they say The city is well stor'd. MARCIUS. Hang 'em! They say! They'll sit by th' fire and presume to know What's done i' th' Capitol, who's like to rise, Who thrives and who declines; side factions, and give out Conjectural marriages, making parties strong, And feebling such as stand not in their liking Below their cobbled shoes. They say there's grain enough! Would the nobility lay aside their ruth And let me use my sword, I'd make a quarry With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high As I could pick my lance. MENENIUS. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded; For though abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you, What says the other troop? MARCIUS. They are dissolv'd. Hang 'em! They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs- That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds They vented their complainings; which being answer'd, And a petition granted them- a strange one, To break the heart of generosity And make bold power look pale- they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation. MENENIUS. What is granted them? MARCIUS. Five tribunes, to defend their vulgar wisdoms, Of their own choice. One's Junius Brutus- Sicinius Velutus, and I know not. 'Sdeath! The rabble should have first unroof'd the city Ere so prevail'd with me; it will in time Win upon power and throw forth greater themes For insurrection's arguing. MENENIUS. This is strange. MARCIUS. Go get you home, you fragments. Enter a MESSENGER, hastily MESSENGER. Where's Caius Marcius? MARCIUS. Here. What's the matter? MESSENGER. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. I am glad on't; then we shall ha' means to vent Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. Enter COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with other SENATORS; JUNIUS BRUTUS and SICINIUS VELUTUS FIRST SENATOR. Marcius, 'tis true that you have lately told us: The Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to't. I sin in envying his nobility; And were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he. COMINIUS. You have fought together? MARCIUS. Were half to half the world by th' ears, and he Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make Only my wars with him. He is a lion That I am proud to hunt. FIRST SENATOR. Then, worthy Marcius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars. COMINIUS. It is your former promise. MARCIUS. Sir, it is; And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus' face. What, art thou stiff? Stand'st out? LARTIUS. No, Caius Marcius; I'll lean upon one crutch and fight with t'other Ere stay behind this business. MENENIUS. O, true bred! FIRST SENATOR. Your company to th' Capitol; where, I know, Our greatest friends attend us. LARTIUS. [To COMINIUS] Lead you on. [To MARCIUS] Follow Cominius; we must follow you; Right worthy you priority. COMINIUS. Noble Marcius! FIRST SENATOR. [To the Citizens] Hence to your homes; be gone. MARCIUS. Nay, let them follow. The Volsces have much corn: take these rats thither To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutineers, Your valour puts well forth; pray follow. Ciitzens steal away. Exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius? BRUTUS. He has no equal. SICINIUS. When we were chosen tribunes for the people- BRUTUS. Mark'd you his lip and eyes? SICINIUS. Nay, but his taunts! BRUTUS. Being mov'd, he will not spare to gird the gods. SICINIUS. Bemock the modest moon. BRUTUS. The present wars devour him! He is grown Too proud to be so valiant. SICINIUS. Such a nature, Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder His insolence can brook to be commanded Under Cominius. BRUTUS. Fame, at the which he aims- In whom already he is well grac'd- cannot Better be held nor more attain'd than by A place below the first; for what miscarries Shall be the general's fault, though he perform To th' utmost of a man, and giddy censure Will then cry out of Marcius 'O, if he Had borne the business!' SICINIUS. Besides, if things go well, Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall Of his demerits rob Cominius. BRUTUS. Come. Half all Cominius' honours are to Marcius, Though Marcius earn'd them not; and all his faults To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed In aught he merit not. SICINIUS. Let's hence and hear How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, More than his singularity, he goes Upon this present action. BRUTUS. Let's along. Exeunt SCENE II. Corioli. The Senate House. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with SENATORS of Corioli FIRST SENATOR. So, your opinion is, Aufidius, That they of Rome are ent'red in our counsels And know how we proceed. AUFIDIUS. Is it not yours? What ever have been thought on in this state That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome Had circumvention? 'Tis not four days gone Since I heard thence; these are the words- I think I have the letter here;.yes, here it is: [Reads] 'They have press'd a power, but it is not known Whether for east or west. The dearth is great; The people mutinous; and it is rumour'd, Cominius, Marcius your old enemy, Who is of Rome worse hated than of you, And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, These three lead on this preparation Whither 'tis bent. Most likely 'tis for you; Consider of it.' FIRST SENATOR. Our army's in the field; We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready To answer us. AUFIDIUS. Nor did you think it folly To keep your great pretences veil'd till when They needs must show themselves; which in the hatching, It seem'd, appear'd to Rome. By the discovery We shall be short'ned in our aim, which was To take in many towns ere almost Rome Should know we were afoot. SECOND SENATOR. Noble Aufidius, Take your commission; hie you to your bands; Let us alone to guard Corioli. If they set down before's, for the remove Bring up your army; but I think you'll find Th' have not prepar'd for us. AUFIDIUS. O, doubt not that! I speak from certainties. Nay more, Some parcels of their power are forth already, And only hitherward. I leave your honours. If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet, 'Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike Till one can do no more. ALL. The gods assist you! AUFIDIUS. And keep your honours safe! FIRST SENATOR. Farewell. SECOND SENATOR. Farewell. ALL. Farewell. Exeunt SCENE III. Rome. MARCIUS' house Enter VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA, mother and wife to MARCIUS; they set them down on two low stools and sew VOLUMNIA. I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a more comfortable sort. If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb; when youth with comeliness pluck'd all gaze his way; when, for a day of kings' entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding; I, considering how honour would become such a person- that it was no better than picture-like to hang by th' wall, if renown made it not stir- was pleas'd to let him seek danger where he was to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he return'd his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man. VIRGILIA. But had he died in the business, madam, how then? VOLUMNIA. Then his good report should have been my son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action. Enter a GENTLEWOMAN GENTLEWOMAN. Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you. VIRGILIA. Beseech you give me leave to retire myself. VOLUMNIA. Indeed you shall not. Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum; See him pluck Aufidius down by th' hair; As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him. Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus: 'Come on, you cowards! You were got in fear, Though you were born in Rome.' His bloody brow With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes, Like to a harvest-man that's task'd to mow Or all or lose his hire. VIRGILIA. His bloody brow? O Jupiter, no blood! VOLUMNIA. Away, you fool! It more becomes a man Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood At Grecian sword, contemning. Tell Valeria We are fit to bid her welcome. Exit GENTLEWOMAN VIRGILIA. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius! VOLUMNIA. He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee And tread upon his neck. Re-enter GENTLEWOMAN, With VALERIA and an usher VALERIA. My ladies both, good day to you. VOLUMNIA. Sweet madam! VIRGILIA. I am glad to see your ladyship. VALERIA. How do you both? You are manifest housekeepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your little son? VIRGILIA. I thank your ladyship; well, good madam. VOLUMNIA. He had rather see the swords and hear a drum than look upon his schoolmaster. VALERIA. O' my word, the father's son! I'll swear 'tis a very pretty boy. O' my troth, I look'd upon him a Wednesday half an hour together; has such a confirm'd countenance! I saw him run after a gilded butterfly; and when he caught it he let it go again, and after it again, and over and over he comes, and up again, catch'd it again; or whether his fall enrag'd him, or how 'twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it. O, I warrant, how he mammock'd it! VOLUMNIA. One on's father's moods. VALERIA. Indeed, la, 'tis a noble child. VIRGILIA. A crack, madam. VALERIA. Come, lay aside your stitchery; I must have you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon. VIRGILIA. No, good madam; I will not out of doors. VALERIA. Not out of doors! VOLUMNIA. She shall, she shall. VIRGILIA. Indeed, no, by your patience; I'll not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars. VALERIA. Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably; come, you must go visit the good lady that lies in. VIRGILIA. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with my prayers; but I cannot go thither. VOLUMNIA. Why, I pray you? VIRGILIA. 'Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love. VALERIA. You would be another Penelope; yet they say all the yarn she spun in Ulysses' absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come, I would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us. VIRGILIA. No, good madam, pardon me; indeed I will not forth. VALERIA. In truth, la, go with me; and I'll tell you excellent news of your husband. VIRGILIA. O, good madam, there can be none yet. VALERIA. Verily, I do not jest with you; there came news from him last night. VIRGILIA. Indeed, madam? VALERIA. In earnest, it's true; I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: the Volsces have an army forth; against whom Cominius the general is gone, with one part of our Roman power. Your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli; they nothing doubt prevailing and to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us. VIRGILIA. Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you in everything hereafter. VOLUMNIA. Let her alone, lady; as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth. VALERIA. In troth, I think she would. Fare you well, then. Come, good sweet lady. Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o' door and go along with us. VIRGILIA. No, at a word, madam; indeed I must not. I wish you much mirth. VALERIA. Well then, farewell. Exeunt SCENE IV. Before Corioli Enter MARCIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with drum and colours, with CAPTAINS and soldiers. To them a MESSENGER MARCIUS. Yonder comes news; a wager- they have met. LARTIUS. My horse to yours- no. MARCIUS. 'Tis done. LARTIUS. Agreed. MARCIUS. Say, has our general met the enemy? MESSENGER. They lie in view, but have not spoke as yet. LARTIUS. So, the good horse is mine. MARCIUS. I'll buy him of you. LARTIUS. No, I'll nor sell nor give him; lend you him I will For half a hundred years. Summon the town. MARCIUS. How far off lie these armies? MESSENGER. Within this mile and half. MARCIUS. Then shall we hear their 'larum, and they ours. Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work, That we with smoking swords may march from hence To help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy blast. They sound a parley. Enter two SENATORS with others, on the walls of Corioli Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls? FIRST SENATOR. No, nor a man that fears you less than he: That's lesser than a little. [Drum afar off] Hark, our drums Are bringing forth our youth. We'll break our walls Rather than they shall pound us up; our gates, Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn'd with rushes; They'll open of themselves. [Alarum far off] Hark you far off! There is Aufidius. List what work he makes Amongst your cloven army. MARCIUS. O, they are at it! LARTIUS. Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho! Enter the army of the Volsces MARCIUS. They fear us not, but issue forth their city. Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, brave Titus. They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows. He that retires, I'll take him for a Volsce, And he shall feel mine edge. Alarum. The Romans are beat back to their trenches. Re-enter MARCIUS, cursing MARCIUS. All the contagion of the south light on you, You shames of Rome! you herd of- Boils and plagues Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd Farther than seen, and one infect another Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese That bear the shapes of men, how have you run From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! All hurt behind! Backs red, and faces pale With flight and agued fear! Mend and charge home, Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe And make my wars on you. Look to't. Come on; If you'll stand fast we'll beat them to their wives, As they us to our trenches. Follow me. Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and MARCIUS follows them to the gates So, now the gates are ope; now prove good seconds; 'Tis for the followers fortune widens them, Not for the fliers. Mark me, and do the like. [MARCIUS enters the gates] FIRST SOLDIER. Fool-hardiness; not I. SECOND SOLDIER. Not I. [MARCIUS is shut in] FIRST SOLDIER. See, they have shut him in. ALL. To th' pot, I warrant him. [Alarum continues] Re-enter TITUS LARTIUS LARTIUS. What is become of Marcius? ALL. Slain, sir, doubtless. FIRST SOLDIER. Following the fliers at the very heels, With them he enters; who, upon the sudden, Clapp'd to their gates. He is himself alone, To answer all the city. LARTIUS. O noble fellow! Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword, And when it bows stand'st up. Thou art left, Marcius; A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier Even to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible Only in strokes; but with thy grim looks and The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the world Were feverous and did tremble. Re-enter MARCIUS, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy FIRST SOLDIER. Look, sir. LARTIUS. O, 'tis Marcius! Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike. [They fight, and all enter the city] SCENE V. Within Corioli. A street Enter certain Romans, with spoils FIRST ROMAN. This will I carry to Rome. SECOND ROMAN. And I this. THIRD ROMAN. A murrain on 't! I took this for silver. [Alarum continues still afar off] Enter MARCIUS and TITUS LARTIUS With a trumpeter MARCIUS. See here these movers that do prize their hours At a crack'd drachma! Cushions, leaden spoons, Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves, Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with them! Exeunt pillagers And hark, what noise the general makes! To him! There is the man of my soul's hate, Aufidius, Piercing our Romans; then, valiant Titus, take Convenient numbers to make good the city; Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste To help Cominius. LARTIUS. Worthy sir, thou bleed'st; Thy exercise hath been too violent For a second course of fight. MARCIUS. Sir, praise me not; My work hath yet not warm'd me. Fare you well; The blood I drop is rather physical Than dangerous to me. To Aufidius thus I will appear, and fight. LARTIUS. Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords! Bold gentleman, Prosperity be thy page! MARCIUS. Thy friend no less Than those she placeth highest! So farewell. LARTIUS. Thou worthiest Marcius! Exit MARCIUS Go sound thy trumpet in the market-place; Call thither all the officers o' th' town, Where they shall know our mind. Away! Exeunt SCENE VI. Near the camp of COMINIUS Enter COMINIUS, as it were in retire, with soldiers COMINIUS. Breathe you, my friends. Well fought; we are come off Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands Nor cowardly in retire. Believe me, sirs, We shall be charg'd again. Whiles we have struck, By interims and conveying gusts we have heard The charges of our friends. The Roman gods, Lead their successes as we wish our own, That both our powers, with smiling fronts encount'ring, May give you thankful sacrifice! Enter A MESSENGER Thy news? MESSENGER. The citizens of Corioli have issued And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle; I saw our party to their trenches driven, And then I came away. COMINIUS. Though thou speak'st truth, Methinks thou speak'st not well. How long is't since? MESSENGER. Above an hour, my lord. COMINIUS. 'Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums. How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour, And bring thy news so late? MESSENGER. Spies of the Volsces Held me in chase, that I was forc'd to wheel Three or four miles about; else had I, sir, Half an hour since brought my report. Enter MARCIUS COMINIUS. Who's yonder That does appear as he were flay'd? O gods! He has the stamp of Marcius, and I have Before-time seen him thus. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue From every meaner man. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, But mantled in your own. MARCIUS. O! let me clip ye In arms as sound as when I woo'd, in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done, And tapers burn'd to bedward. COMINIUS. Flower of warriors, How is't with Titus Lartius? MARCIUS. As with a man busied about decrees: Condemning some to death and some to exile; Ransoming him or pitying, threat'ning th' other; Holding Corioli in the name of Rome Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, To let him slip at will. COMINIUS. Where is that slave Which told me they had beat you to your trenches? Where is he? Call him hither. MARCIUS. Let him alone; He did inform the truth. But for our gentlemen, The common file- a plague! tribunes for them! The mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat as they did budge From rascals worse than they. COMINIUS. But how prevail'd you? MARCIUS. Will the time serve to tell? I do not think. Where is the enemy? Are you lords o' th' field? If not, why cease you till you are so? COMINIUS. Marcius, We have at disadvantage fought, and did Retire to win our purpose. MARCIUS. How lies their battle? Know you on which side They have plac'd their men of trust? COMINIUS. As I guess, Marcius, Their bands i' th' vaward are the Antiates, Of their best trust; o'er them Aufidius, Their very heart of hope. MARCIUS. I do beseech you, By all the battles wherein we have fought, By th' blood we have shed together, by th' vows We have made to endure friends, that you directly Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates; And that you not delay the present, but, Filling the air with swords advanc'd and darts, We prove this very hour. COMINIUS. Though I could wish You were conducted to a gentle bath And balms applied to you, yet dare I never Deny your asking: take your choice of those That best can aid your action. MARCIUS. Those are they That most are willing. If any such be here- As it were sin to doubt- that love this painting Wherein you see me smear'd; if any fear Lesser his person than an ill report; If any think brave death outweighs bad life And that his country's dearer than himself; Let him alone, or so many so minded, Wave thus to express his disposition, And follow Marcius. [They all shout and wave their swords, take him up in their arms and cast up their caps] O, me alone! Make you a sword of me? If these shows be not outward, which of you But is four Volsces? None of you but is Able to bear against the great Aufidius A shield as hard as his. A certain number, Though thanks to all, must I select from all; the rest Shall bear the business in some other fight, As cause will be obey'd. Please you to march; And four shall quickly draw out my command, Which men are best inclin'd. COMINIUS. March on, my fellows; Make good this ostentation, and you shall Divide in all with us. Exeunt SCENE VII. The gates of Corioli TITUS LARTIUS, having set a guard upon Corioli, going with drum and trumpet toward COMINIUS and CAIUS MARCIUS, enters with a LIEUTENANT, other soldiers, and a scout LARTIUS. So, let the ports be guarded; keep your duties As I have set them down. If I do send, dispatch Those centuries to our aid; the rest will serve For a short holding. If we lose the field We cannot keep the town. LIEUTENANT. Fear not our care, sir. LARTIUS. Hence, and shut your gates upon's. Our guider, come; to th' Roman camp conduct us. Exeunt SCENE VIII. A field of battle between the Roman and the Volscian camps Alarum, as in battle. Enter MARCIUS and AUFIDIUS at several doors MARCIUS. I'll fight with none but thee, for I do hate thee Worse than a promise-breaker. AUFIDIUS. We hate alike: Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot. MARCIUS. Let the first budger die the other's slave, And the gods doom him after! AUFIDIUS. If I fly, Marcius, Halloa me like a hare. MARCIUS. Within these three hours, Tullus, Alone I fought in your Corioli walls, And made what work I pleas'd. 'Tis not my blood Wherein thou seest me mask'd. For thy revenge Wrench up thy power to th' highest. AUFIDIUS. Wert thou the Hector That was the whip of your bragg'd progeny, Thou shouldst not scape me here. Here they fight, and certain Volsces come in the aid of AUFIDIUS. MARCIUS fights till they be driven in breathless Officious, and not valiant, you have sham'd me In your condemned seconds. Exeunt SCENE IX. The Roman camp Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Enter, at one door, COMINIUS with the Romans; at another door, MARCIUS, with his arm in a scarf COMINIUS. If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work, Thou't not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles; Where great patricians shall attend, and shrug, I' th' end admire; where ladies shall be frighted And, gladly quak'd, hear more; where the dull tribunes, That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours, Shall say against their hearts 'We thank the gods Our Rome hath such a soldier.' Yet cam'st thou to a morsel of this feast, Having fully din'd before. Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the pursuit LARTIUS. O General, Here is the steed, we the caparison. Hadst thou beheld- MARCIUS. Pray now, no more; my mother, Who has a charter to extol her blood, When she does praise me grieves me. I have done As you have done- that's what I can; induc'd As you have been- that's for my country. He that has but effected his good will Hath overta'en mine act. COMINIUS. You shall not be The grave of your deserving; Rome must know The value of her own. 'Twere a concealment Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, To hide your doings and to silence that Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd, Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you, In sign of what you are, not to reward What you have done, before our army hear me. MARCIUS. I have some wounds upon me, and they smart To hear themselves rememb'red. COMINIUS. Should they not, Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses- Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store- of all The treasure in this field achiev'd and city, We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth Before the common distribution at Your only choice. MARCIUS. I thank you, General, But cannot make my heart consent to take A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it, And stand upon my common part with those That have beheld the doing. A long flourish. They all cry 'Marcius, Marcius!' cast up their caps and lances. COMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare May these same instruments which you profane Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall I' th' field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be Made all of false-fac'd soothing. When steel grows Soft as the parasite's silk, let him be made An overture for th' wars. No more, I say. For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled, Or foil'd some debile wretch, which without note Here's many else have done, you shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical, As if I lov'd my little should be dieted In praises sauc'd with lies. COMINIUS. Too modest are you; More cruel to your good report than grateful To us that give you truly. By your patience, If 'gainst yourself you be incens'd, we'll put you- Like one that means his proper harm- in manacles, Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it known, As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius Wears this war's garland; in token of the which, My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, With all his trim belonging; and from this time, For what he did before Corioli, can him With all th' applause-and clamour of the host, Caius Marcius Coriolanus. Bear th' addition nobly ever! [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums] ALL. Caius Marcius Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS. I will go wash; And when my face is fair you shall perceive Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you; I mean to stride your steed, and at all times To undercrest your good addition To th' fairness of my power. COMINIUS. So, to our tent; Where, ere we do repose us, we will write To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, Must to Corioli back. Send us to Rome The best, with whom we may articulate For their own good and ours. LARTIUS. I shall, my lord. CORIOLANUS. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg Of my Lord General. COMINIUS. Take't- 'tis yours; what is't? CORIOLANUS. I sometime lay here in Corioli At a poor man's house; he us'd me kindly. He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; But then Aufidius was within my view, And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity. I request you To give my poor host freedom. COMINIUS. O, well begg'd! Were he the butcher of my son, he should Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. LARTIUS. Marcius, his name? CORIOLANUS. By Jupiter, forgot! I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd. Have we no wine here? COMINIUS. Go we to our tent. The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time It should be look'd to. Come. Exeunt SCENE X. The camp of the Volsces A flourish. Cornets. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS bloody, with two or three soldiers AUFIDIUS. The town is ta'en. FIRST SOLDIER. 'Twill be deliver'd back on good condition. AUFIDIUS. Condition! I would I were a Roman; for I cannot, Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition? What good condition can a treaty find I' th' part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius, I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me; And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter As often as we eat. By th' elements, If e'er again I meet him beard to beard, He's mine or I am his. Mine emulation Hath not that honour in't it had; for where I thought to crush him in an equal force, True sword to sword, I'll potch at him some way, Or wrath or craft may get him. FIRST SOLDIER. He's the devil. AUFIDIUS. Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour's poison'd With only suff'ring stain by him; for him Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep nor sanctuary, Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice, Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst My hate to Marcius. Where I find him, were it At home, upon my brother's guard, even there, Against the hospitable canon, would I Wash my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to th' city; Learn how 'tis held, and what they are that must Be hostages for Rome. FIRST SOLDIER. Will not you go? AUFIDIUS. I am attended at the cypress grove; I pray you- 'Tis south the city mills- bring me word thither How the world goes, that to the pace of it I may spur on my journey. FIRST SOLDIER. I shall, sir. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, with the two Tribunes of the people, SICINIUS and BRUTUS MENENIUS. The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight. BRUTUS. Good or bad? MENENIUS. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius. SICINIUS. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends. MENENIUS. Pray you, who does the wolf love? SICINIUS. The lamb. MENENIUS. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius. BRUTUS. He's a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear. MENENIUS. He's a bear indeed, that lives fike a lamb. You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, sir. MENENIUS. In what enormity is Marcius poor in that you two have not in abundance? BRUTUS. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all. SICINIUS. Especially in pride. BRUTUS. And topping all others in boasting. MENENIUS. This is strange now. Do you two know how you are censured here in the city- I mean of us o' th' right-hand file? Do you? BOTH TRIBUNES. Why, how are we censur'd? MENENIUS. Because you talk of pride now- will you not be angry? BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, well, sir, well. MENENIUS. Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience. Give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures- at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud? BRUTUS. We do it not alone, sir. MENENIUS. I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk of pride. O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could! BOTH TRIBUNES. What then, sir? MENENIUS. Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates-alias fools- as any in Rome. SICINIUS. Menenius, you are known well enough too. MENENIUS. I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in't; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint, hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are- I cannot call you Lycurguses- if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have deliver'd the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables; and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too? BRUTUS. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough. MENENIUS. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs; you wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinch'd with the colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing. All the peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones. BRUTUS. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol. MENENIUS. Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's cushion or to be entomb'd in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion; though peradventure some of the best of 'em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to your worships. More of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you. [BRUTUS and SICINIUS go aside] Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALERIA How now, my as fair as noble ladies- and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler- whither do you follow your eyes so fast? VOLUMNIA. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let's go. MENENIUS. Ha! Marcius coming home? VOLUMNIA. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation. MENENIUS. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo! Marcius coming home! VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA. Nay, 'tis true. VOLUMNIA. Look, here's a letter from him; the state hath another, his wife another; and I think there's one at home for you. MENENIUS. I will make my very house reel to-night. A letter for me? VIRGILIA. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw't. MENENIUS. A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years' health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician. The most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded. VIRGILIA. O, no, no, no. VOLUMNIA. O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't. MENENIUS. So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings a victory in his pocket? The wounds become him. VOLUMNIA. On's brows, Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland. MENENIUS. Has he disciplin'd Aufidius soundly? VOLUMNIA. Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got off. MENENIUS. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that; an he had stay'd by him, I would not have been so fidius'd for all the chests in Corioli and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate possess'd of this? VOLUMNIA. Good ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes: the Senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war; he hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly. VALERIA. In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him. MENENIUS. Wondrous! Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing. VIRGILIA. The gods grant them true! VOLUMNIA. True! pow, waw. MENENIUS. True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [To the TRIBUNES] God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded? VOLUMNIA. I' th' shoulder and i' th' left arm; there will be large cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i' th' body. MENENIUS. One i' th' neck and two i' th' thigh- there's nine that I know. VOLUMNIA. He had before this last expedition twenty-five wounds upon him. MENENIUS. Now it's twenty-seven; every gash was an enemy's grave. [A shout and flourish] Hark! the trumpets. VOLUMNIA. These are the ushers of Marcius. Before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears; Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie, Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die. A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the GENERAL, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crown'd with an oaken garland; with CAPTAINS and soldiers and a HERALD HERALD. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight Within Corioli gates, where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these In honour follows Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! [Flourish] ALL. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS. No more of this, it does offend my heart. Pray now, no more. COMINIUS. Look, sir, your mother! CORIOLANUS. O, You have, I know, petition'd all the gods For my prosperity! [Kneels] VOLUMNIA. Nay, my good soldier, up; My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd- What is it? Coriolanus must I can thee? But, O, thy wife! CORIOLANUS. My gracious silence, hail! Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home, That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, And mothers that lack sons. MENENIUS. Now the gods crown thee! CORIOLANUS. And live you yet? [To VALERIA] O my sweet lady, pardon. VOLUMNIA. I know not where to turn. O, welcome home! And welcome, General. And y'are welcome all. MENENIUS. A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep And I could laugh; I am light and heavy. Welcome! A curse begin at very root on's heart That is not glad to see thee! You are three That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men, We have some old crab trees here at home that will not Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors. We call a nettle but a nettle, and The faults of fools but folly. COMINIUS. Ever right. CORIOLANUS. Menenius ever, ever. HERALD. Give way there, and go on. CORIOLANUS. [To his wife and mother] Your hand, and yours. Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited; From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings, But with them change of honours. VOLUMNIA. I have lived To see inherited my very wishes, And the buildings of my fancy; only There's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome will cast upon thee. CORIOLANUS. Know, good mother, I had rather be their servant in my way Than sway with them in theirs. COMINIUS. On, to the Capitol. [Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before] BRUTUS and SICINIUS come forward BRUTUS. All tongues speak of him and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry While she chats him; the kitchen malkin pins Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck, Clamb'ring the walls to eye him; stalls, bulks, windows, Are smother'd up, leads fill'd and ridges hors'd With variable complexions, all agreeing In earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throngs and puff To win a vulgar station; our veil'd dames Commit the war of white and damask in Their nicely gawded cheeks to th' wanton spoil Of Phoebus' burning kisses. Such a pother, As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slily crept into his human powers, And gave him graceful posture. SICINIUS. On the sudden I warrant him consul. BRUTUS. Then our office may During his power go sleep. SICINIUS. He cannot temp'rately transport his honours From where he should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won. BRUTUS. In that there's comfort. SICINIUS. Doubt not The commoners, for whom we stand, but they Upon their ancient malice will forget With the least cause these his new honours; which That he will give them make I as little question As he is proud to do't. BRUTUS. I heard him swear, Were he to stand for consul, never would he Appear i' th' market-place, nor on him put The napless vesture of humility; Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds To th' people, beg their stinking breaths. SICINIUS. 'Tis right. BRUTUS. It was his word. O, he would miss it rather Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him And the desire of the nobles. SICINIUS. I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it In execution. BRUTUS. 'Tis most like he will. SICINIUS. It shall be to him then as our good wills: A sure destruction. BRUTUS. So it must fall out To him or our authorities. For an end, We must suggest the people in what hatred He still hath held them; that to's power he would Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them In human action and capacity Of no more soul nor fitness for the world Than camels in their war, who have their provand Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows For sinking under them. SICINIUS. This, as you say, suggested At some time when his soaring insolence Shall touch the people- which time shall not want, If he be put upon't, and that's as easy As to set dogs on sheep- will be his fire To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze Shall darken him for ever. Enter A MESSENGER BRUTUS. What's the matter? MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought That Marcius shall be consul. I have seen the dumb men throng to see him and The blind to hear him speak; matrons flung gloves, Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers, Upon him as he pass'd; the nobles bended As to Jove's statue, and the commons made A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts. I never saw the like. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol, And carry with us ears and eyes for th' time, But hearts for the event. SICINIUS. Have with you. Exeunt SCENE II. Rome. The Capitol Enter two OFFICERS, to lay cushions, as it were in the Capitol FIRST OFFICER. Come, come, they are almost here. How many stand for consulships? SECOND OFFICER. Three, they say; but 'tis thought of every one Coriolanus will carry it. FIRST OFFICER. That's a brave fellow; but he's vengeance proud and loves not the common people. SECOND OFFICER. Faith, there have been many great men that have flatter'd the people, who ne'er loved them; and there be many that they have loved, they know not wherefore; so that, if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition, and out of his noble carelessness lets them plainly see't. FIRST OFFICER. If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently 'twixt doing them neither good nor harm; but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can render it him, and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes- to flatter them for their love. SECOND OFFICER. He hath deserved worthily of his country; and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple and courteous to the people, bonneted, without any further deed to have them at all, into their estimation and report; but he hath so planted his honours in their eyes and his actions in their hearts that for their tongues to be silent and not confess so much were a kind of ingrateful injury; to report otherwise were a malice that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every car that heard it. FIRST OFFICER. No more of him; he's a worthy man. Make way, they are coming. A sennet. Enter the PATRICIANS and the TRIBUNES OF THE PEOPLE, LICTORS before them; CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, COMINIUS the Consul. SICINIUS and BRUTUS take their places by themselves. CORIOLANUS stands MENENIUS. Having determin'd of the Volsces, and To send for Titus Lartius, it remains, As the main point of this our after-meeting, To gratify his noble service that Hath thus stood for his country. Therefore please you, Most reverend and grave elders, to desire The present consul and last general In our well-found successes to report A little of that worthy work perform'd By Caius Marcius Coriolanus; whom We met here both to thank and to remember With honours like himself. [CORIOLANUS sits] FIRST SENATOR. Speak, good Cominius. Leave nothing out for length, and make us think Rather our state's defective for requital Than we to stretch it out. Masters o' th' people, We do request your kindest ears; and, after, Your loving motion toward the common body, To yield what passes here. SICINIUS. We are convented Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts Inclinable to honour and advance The theme of our assembly. BRUTUS. Which the rather We shall be bless'd to do, if he remember A kinder value of the people than He hath hereto priz'd them at. MENENIUS. That's off, that's off; I would you rather had been silent. Please you To hear Cominius speak? BRUTUS. Most willingly. But yet my caution was more pertinent Than the rebuke you give it. MENENIUS. He loves your people; But tie him not to be their bedfellow. Worthy Cominius, speak. [CORIOLANUS rises, and offers to go away] Nay, keep your place. FIRST SENATOR. Sit, Coriolanus, never shame to hear What you have nobly done. CORIOLANUS. Your Honours' pardon. I had rather have my wounds to heal again Than hear say how I got them. BRUTUS. Sir, I hope My words disbench'd you not. CORIOLANUS. No, sir; yet oft, When blows have made me stay, I fled from words. You sooth'd not, therefore hurt not. But your people, I love them as they weigh- MENENIUS. Pray now, sit down. CORIOLANUS. I had rather have one scratch my head i' th' sun When the alarum were struck than idly sit To hear my nothings monster'd. Exit MENENIUS. Masters of the people, Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter- That's thousand to one good one- when you now see He had rather venture all his limbs for honour Than one on's ears to hear it? Proceed, Cominius. COMINIUS. I shall lack voice; the deeds of Coriolanus Should not be utter'd feebly. It is held That valour is the chiefest virtue and Most dignifies the haver. If it be, The man I speak of cannot in the world Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years, When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought Beyond the mark of others; our then Dictator, Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight When with his Amazonian chin he drove The bristled lips before him; he bestrid An o'erpress'd Roman and i' th' consul's view Slew three opposers; Tarquin's self he met, And struck him on his knee. In that day's feats, When he might act the woman in the scene, He prov'd best man i' th' field, and for his meed Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age Man-ent'red thus, he waxed like a sea, And in the brunt of seventeen battles since He lurch'd all swords of the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioli, let me say I cannot speak him home. He stopp'd the fliers, And by his rare example made the coward Turn terror into sport; as weeds before A vessel under sail, so men obey'd And fell below his stem. His sword, death's stamp, Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every motion Was tim'd with dying cries. Alone he ent'red The mortal gate of th' city, which he painted With shunless destiny; aidless came off, And with a sudden re-enforcement struck Corioli like a planet. Now all's his. When by and by the din of war 'gan pierce His ready sense, then straight his doubled spirit Re-quick'ned what in flesh was fatigate, And to the battle came he; where he did Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if 'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we call'd Both field and city ours he never stood To ease his breast with panting. MENENIUS. Worthy man! FIRST SENATOR. He cannot but with measure fit the honours Which we devise him. COMINIUS. Our spoils he kick'd at, And look'd upon things precious as they were The common muck of the world. He covets less Than misery itself would give, rewards His deeds with doing them, and is content To spend the time to end it. MENENIUS. He's right noble; Let him be call'd for. FIRST SENATOR. Call Coriolanus. OFFICER. He doth appear. Re-enter CORIOLANUS MENENIUS. The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas'd To make thee consul. CORIOLANUS. I do owe them still My life and services. MENENIUS. It then remains That you do speak to the people. CORIOLANUS. I do beseech you Let me o'erleap that custom; for I cannot Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat them For my wounds' sake to give their suffrage. Please you That I may pass this doing. SICINIUS. Sir, the people Must have their voices; neither will they bate One jot of ceremony. MENENIUS. Put them not to't. Pray you go fit you to the custom, and Take to you, as your predecessors have, Your honour with your form. CORIOLANUS. It is a part That I shall blush in acting, and might well Be taken from the people. BRUTUS. Mark you that? CORIOLANUS. To brag unto them 'Thus I did, and thus!' Show them th' unaching scars which I should hide, As if I had receiv'd them for the hire Of their breath only! MENENIUS. Do not stand upon't. We recommend to you, Tribunes of the People, Our purpose to them; and to our noble consul Wish we all joy and honour. SENATORS. To Coriolanus come all joy and honour! [Flourish. Cornets. Then exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS] BRUTUS. You see how he intends to use the people. SICINIUS. May they perceive's intent! He will require them As if he did contemn what he requested Should be in them to give. BRUTUS. Come, we'll inform them Of our proceedings here. On th' market-place I know they do attend us. Exeunt SCENE III. Rome. The Forum Enter seven or eight citizens FIRST CITIZEN. Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him. SECOND CITIZEN. We may, sir, if we will. THIRD CITIZEN. We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do; for if he show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and speak for them; so, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful were to make a monster of the multitude; of the which we being members should bring ourselves to be monstrous members. FIRST CITIZEN. And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude. THIRD CITIZEN. We have been call'd so of many; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some abram, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely colour'd; and truly I think if all our wits were to issue out of one skull, they would fly east, west, north, south, and their consent of one direct way should be at once to all the points o' th' compass. SECOND CITIZEN. Think you so? Which way do you judge my wit would fly? THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man's will- 'tis strongly wedg'd up in a block-head; but if it were at liberty 'twould sure southward. SECOND CITIZEN. Why that way? THIRD CITIZEN. To lose itself in a fog; where being three parts melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return for conscience' sake, to help to get thee a wife. SECOND CITIZEN. YOU are never without your tricks; you may, you may. THIRD CITIZEN. Are you all resolv'd to give your voices? But that's no matter, the greater part carries it. I say, if he would incline to the people, there was never a worthier man. Enter CORIOLANUS, in a gown of humility, with MENENIUS Here he comes, and in the gown of humility. Mark his behaviour. We are not to stay all together, but to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He's to make his requests by particulars, wherein every one of us has a single honour, in giving him our own voices with our own tongues; therefore follow me, and I'll direct you how you shall go by him. ALL. Content, content. Exeunt citizens MENENIUS. O sir, you are not right; have you not known The worthiest men have done't? CORIOLANUS. What must I say? 'I pray, sir'- Plague upon't! I cannot bring My tongue to such a pace. 'Look, sir, my wounds I got them in my country's service, when Some certain of your brethren roar'd and ran From th' noise of our own drums.' MENENIUS. O me, the gods! You must not speak of that. You must desire them To think upon you. CORIOLANUS. Think upon me? Hang 'em! I would they would forget me, like the virtues Which our divines lose by 'em. MENENIUS. You'll mar all. I'll leave you. Pray you speak to 'em, I pray you, In wholesome manner. Exit Re-enter three of the citizens CORIOLANUS. Bid them wash their faces And keep their teeth clean. So, here comes a brace. You know the cause, sir, of my standing here. THIRD CITIZEN. We do, sir; tell us what hath brought you to't. CORIOLANUS. Mine own desert. SECOND CITIZEN. Your own desert? CORIOLANUS. Ay, not mine own desire. THIRD CITIZEN. How, not your own desire? CORIOLANUS. No, sir, 'twas never my desire yet to trouble the poor with begging. THIRD CITIZEN. YOU MUST think, if we give you anything, we hope to gain by you. CORIOLANUS. Well then, I pray, your price o' th' consulship? FIRST CITIZEN. The price is to ask it kindly. CORIOLANUS. Kindly, sir, I pray let me ha't. I have wounds to show you, which shall be yours in private. Your good voice, sir; what say you? SECOND CITIZEN. You shall ha' it, worthy sir. CORIOLANUS. A match, sir. There's in all two worthy voices begg'd. I have your alms. Adieu. THIRD CITIZEN. But this is something odd. SECOND CITIZEN. An 'twere to give again- but 'tis no matter. Exeunt the three citizens Re-enter two other citizens CORIOLANUS. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your voices that I may be consul, I have here the customary gown. FOURTH CITIZEN. You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved nobly. CORIOLANUS. Your enigma? FOURTH CITIZEN. You have been a scourge to her enemies; you have been a rod to her friends. You have not indeed loved the common people. CORIOLANUS. You should account me the more virtuous, that I have not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother, the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; 'tis a condition they account gentle; and since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I will practise the insinuating nod and be off to them most counterfeitly. That is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some popular man and give it bountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you I may be consul. FIFTH CITIZEN. We hope to find you our friend; and therefore give you our voices heartily. FOURTH CITIZEN. You have received many wounds for your country. CORIOLANUS. I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I will make much of your voices, and so trouble you no farther. BOTH CITIZENS. The gods give you joy, sir, heartily! Exeunt citizens CORIOLANUS. Most sweet voices! Better it is to die, better to starve, Than crave the hire which first we do deserve. Why in this wolvish toge should I stand here To beg of Hob and Dick that do appear Their needless vouches? Custom calls me to't. What custom wills, in all things should we do't, The dust on antique time would lie unswept, And mountainous error be too highly heap'd For truth to o'erpeer. Rather than fool it so, Let the high office and the honour go To one that would do thus. I am half through: The one part suffered, the other will I do. Re-enter three citizens more Here come moe voices. Your voices. For your voices I have fought; Watch'd for your voices; for your voices bear Of wounds two dozen odd; battles thrice six I have seen and heard of; for your voices have Done many things, some less, some more. Your voices? Indeed, I would be consul. SIXTH CITIZEN. He has done nobly, and cannot go without any honest man's voice. SEVENTH CITIZEN. Therefore let him be consul. The gods give him joy, and make him good friend to the people! ALL. Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul! Exeunt citizens CORIOLANUS. Worthy voices! Re-enter MENENIUS with BRUTUS and SICINIUS MENENIUS. You have stood your limitation, and the tribunes Endue you with the people's voice. Remains That, in th' official marks invested, you Anon do meet the Senate. CORIOLANUS. Is this done? SICINIUS. The custom of request you have discharg'd. The people do admit you, and are summon'd To meet anon, upon your approbation. CORIOLANUS. Where? At the Senate House? SICINIUS. There, Coriolanus. CORIOLANUS. May I change these garments? SICINIUS. You may, sir. CORIOLANUS. That I'll straight do, and, knowing myself again, Repair to th' Senate House. MENENIUS. I'll keep you company. Will you along? BRUTUS. We stay here for the people. SICINIUS. Fare you well. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and MENENIUS He has it now; and by his looks methinks 'Tis warm at's heart. BRUTUS. With a proud heart he wore His humble weeds. Will you dismiss the people? Re-enter citizens SICINIUS. How now, my masters! Have you chose this man? FIRST CITIZEN. He has our voices, sir. BRUTUS. We pray the gods he may deserve your loves. SECOND CITIZEN. Amen, sir. To my poor unworthy notice, He mock'd us when he begg'd our voices. THIRD CITIZEN. Certainly; He flouted us downright. FIRST CITIZEN. No, 'tis his kind of speech- he did not mock us. SECOND CITIZEN. Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says He us'd us scornfully. He should have show'd us His marks of merit, wounds receiv'd for's country. SICINIUS. Why, so he did, I am sure. ALL. No, no; no man saw 'em. THIRD CITIZEN. He said he had wounds which he could show in private, And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn, 'I would be consul,' says he; 'aged custom But by your voices will not so permit me; Your voices therefore.' When we granted that, Here was 'I thank you for your voices. Thank you, Your most sweet voices. Now you have left your voices, I have no further with you.' Was not this mockery? SICINIUS. Why either were you ignorant to see't, Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness To yield your voices? BRUTUS. Could you not have told him- As you were lesson'd- when he had no power But was a petty servant to the state, He was your enemy; ever spake against Your liberties and the charters that you bear I' th' body of the weal; and now, arriving A place of potency and sway o' th' state, If he should still malignantly remain Fast foe to th' plebeii, your voices might Be curses to yourselves? You should have said That as his worthy deeds did claim no less Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature Would think upon you for your voices, and Translate his malice towards you into love, Standing your friendly lord. SICINIUS. Thus to have said, As you were fore-advis'd, had touch'd his spirit And tried his inclination; from him pluck'd Either his gracious promise, which you might, As cause had call'd you up, have held him to; Or else it would have gall'd his surly nature, Which easily endures not article Tying him to aught. So, putting him to rage, You should have ta'en th' advantage of his choler And pass'd him unelected. BRUTUS. Did you perceive He did solicit you in free contempt When he did need your loves; and do you think That his contempt shall not be bruising to you When he hath power to crush? Why, had your bodies No heart among you? Or had you tongues to cry Against the rectorship of judgment? SICINIUS. Have you Ere now denied the asker, and now again, Of him that did not ask but mock, bestow Your su'd-for tongues? THIRD CITIZEN. He's not confirm'd: we may deny him yet. SECOND CITIZENS. And will deny him; I'll have five hundred voices of that sound. FIRST CITIZEN. I twice five hundred, and their friends to piece 'em. BRUTUS. Get you hence instantly, and tell those friends They have chose a consul that will from them take Their liberties, make them of no more voice Than dogs, that are as often beat for barking As therefore kept to do so. SICINIUS. Let them assemble; And, on a safer judgment, all revoke Your ignorant election. Enforce his pride And his old hate unto you; besides, forget not With what contempt he wore the humble weed; How in his suit he scorn'd you; but your loves, Thinking upon his services, took from you Th' apprehension of his present portance, Which, most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion After the inveterate hate he bears you. BRUTUS. Lay A fault on us, your tribunes, that we labour'd, No impediment between, but that you must Cast your election on him. SICINIUS. Say you chose him More after our commandment than as guided By your own true affections; and that your minds, Pre-occupied with what you rather must do Than what you should, made you against the grain To voice him consul. Lay the fault on us. BRUTUS. Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you, How youngly he began to serve his country, How long continued; and what stock he springs of- The noble house o' th' Marcians; from whence came That Ancus Marcius, Numa's daughter's son, Who, after great Hostilius, here was king; Of the same house Publius and Quintus were, That our best water brought by conduits hither; And Censorinus, nobly named so, Twice being by the people chosen censor, Was his great ancestor. SICINIUS. One thus descended, That hath beside well in his person wrought To be set high in place, we did commend To your remembrances; but you have found, Scaling his present bearing with his past, That he's your fixed enemy, and revoke Your sudden approbation. BRUTUS. Say you ne'er had done't- Harp on that still- but by our putting on; And presently, when you have drawn your number, Repair to th' Capitol. CITIZENS. will will so; almost all Repent in their election. Exeunt plebeians BRUTUS. Let them go on; This mutiny were better put in hazard Than stay, past doubt, for greater. If, as his nature is, he fall in rage With their refusal, both observe and answer The vantage of his anger. SICINIUS. To th' Capitol, come. We will be there before the stream o' th' people; And this shall seem, as partly 'tis, their own, Which we have goaded onward. Exeunt ACT III. SCENE I. Rome. A street Cornets. Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, all the GENTRY, COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, and other SENATORS CORIOLANUS. Tullus Aufidius, then, had made new head? LARTIUS. He had, my lord; and that it was which caus'd Our swifter composition. CORIOLANUS. So then the Volsces stand but as at first, Ready, when time shall prompt them, to make road Upon's again. COMINIUS. They are worn, Lord Consul, so That we shall hardly in our ages see Their banners wave again. CORIOLANUS. Saw you Aufidius? LARTIUS. On safeguard he came to me, and did curse Against the Volsces, for they had so vilely Yielded the town. He is retir'd to Antium. CORIOLANUS. Spoke he of me? LARTIUS. He did, my lord. CORIOLANUS. How? What? LARTIUS. How often he had met you, sword to sword; That of all things upon the earth he hated Your person most; that he would pawn his fortunes To hopeless restitution, so he might Be call'd your vanquisher. CORIOLANUS. At Antium lives he? LARTIUS. At Antium. CORIOLANUS. I wish I had a cause to seek him there, To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home. Enter SICINIUS and BRUTUS Behold, these are the tribunes of the people, The tongues o' th' common mouth. I do despise them, For they do prank them in authority, Against all noble sufferance. SICINIUS. Pass no further. CORIOLANUS. Ha! What is that? BRUTUS. It will be dangerous to go on- no further. CORIOLANUS. What makes this change? MENENIUS. The matter? COMINIUS. Hath he not pass'd the noble and the common? BRUTUS. Cominius, no. CORIOLANUS. Have I had children's voices? FIRST SENATOR. Tribunes, give way: he shall to th' market-place. BRUTUS. The people are incens'd against him. SICINIUS. Stop, Or all will fall in broil. CORIOLANUS. Are these your herd? Must these have voices, that can yield them now And straight disclaim their tongues? What are your offices? You being their mouths, why rule you not their teeth? Have you not set them on? MENENIUS. Be calm, be calm. CORIOLANUS. It is a purpos'd thing, and grows by plot, To curb the will of the nobility; Suffer't, and live with such as cannot rule Nor ever will be rul'd. BRUTUS. Call't not a plot. The people cry you mock'd them; and of late, When corn was given them gratis, you repin'd; Scandal'd the suppliants for the people, call'd them Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness. CORIOLANUS. Why, this was known before. BRUTUS. Not to them all. CORIOLANUS. Have you inform'd them sithence? BRUTUS. How? I inform them! COMINIUS. You are like to do such business. BRUTUS. Not unlike Each way to better yours. CORIOLANUS. Why then should I be consul? By yond clouds, Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me Your fellow tribune. SICINIUS. You show too much of that For which the people stir; if you will pass To where you are bound, you must enquire your way, Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit, Or never be so noble as a consul, Nor yoke with him for tribune. MENENIUS. Let's be calm. COMINIUS. The people are abus'd; set on. This palt'ring Becomes not Rome; nor has Coriolanus Deserved this so dishonour'd rub, laid falsely I' th' plain way of his merit. CORIOLANUS. Tell me of corn! This was my speech, and I will speak't again- MENENIUS. Not now, not now. FIRST SENATOR. Not in this heat, sir, now. CORIOLANUS. Now, as I live, I will. My nobler friends, I crave their pardons. For the mutable, rank-scented meiny, let them Regard me as I do not flatter, and Therein behold themselves. I say again, In soothing them we nourish 'gainst our Senate The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition, Which we ourselves have plough'd for, sow'd, and scatter'd, By mingling them with us, the honour'd number, Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that Which they have given to beggars. MENENIUS. Well, no more. FIRST SENATOR. No more words, we beseech you. CORIOLANUS. How? no more! As for my country I have shed my blood, Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs Coin words till their decay against those measles Which we disdain should tetter us, yet sought The very way to catch them. BRUTUS. You speak o' th' people As if you were a god, to punish; not A man of their infirmity. SICINIUS. 'Twere well We let the people know't. MENENIUS. What, what? his choler? CORIOLANUS. Choler! Were I as patient as the midnight sleep, By Jove, 'twould be my mind! SICINIUS. It is a mind That shall remain a poison where it is, Not poison any further. CORIOLANUS. Shall remain! Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you His absolute 'shall'? COMINIUS. 'Twas from the canon. CORIOLANUS. 'Shall'! O good but most unwise patricians! Why, You grave but reckless senators, have you thus Given Hydra here to choose an officer That with his peremptory 'shall,' being but The horn and noise o' th' monster's, wants not spirit To say he'll turn your current in a ditch, And make your channel his? If he have power, Then vail your ignorance; if none, awake Your dangerous lenity. If you are learn'd, Be not as common fools; if you are not, Let them have cushions by you. You are plebeians, If they be senators; and they are no less, When, both your voices blended, the great'st taste Most palates theirs. They choose their magistrate; And such a one as he, who puts his 'shall,' His popular 'shall,' against a graver bench Than ever frown'd in Greece. By Jove himself, It makes the consuls base; and my soul aches To know, when two authorities are up, Neither supreme, how soon confusion May enter 'twixt the gap of both and take The one by th' other. COMINIUS. Well, on to th' market-place. CORIOLANUS. Whoever gave that counsel to give forth The corn o' th' storehouse gratis, as 'twas us'd Sometime in Greece- MENENIUS. Well, well, no more of that. CORIOLANUS. Though there the people had more absolute pow'r- I say they nourish'd disobedience, fed The ruin of the state. BRUTUS. Why shall the people give One that speaks thus their voice? CORIOLANUS. I'll give my reasons, More worthier than their voices. They know the corn Was not our recompense, resting well assur'd They ne'er did service for't; being press'd to th' war Even when the navel of the state was touch'd, They would not thread the gates. This kind of service Did not deserve corn gratis. Being i' th' war, Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show'd Most valour, spoke not for them. Th' accusation Which they have often made against the Senate, All cause unborn, could never be the native Of our so frank donation. Well, what then? How shall this bosom multiplied digest The Senate's courtesy? Let deeds express What's like to be their words: 'We did request it; We are the greater poll, and in true fear They gave us our demands.' Thus we debase The nature of our seats, and make the rabble Call our cares fears; which will in time Break ope the locks o' th' Senate and bring in The crows to peck the eagles. MENENIUS. Come, enough. BRUTUS. Enough, with over measure. CORIOLANUS. No, take more. What may be sworn by, both divine and human, Seal what I end withal! This double worship, Where one part does disdain with cause, the other Insult without all reason; where gentry, title, wisdom, Cannot conclude but by the yea and no Of general ignorance- it must omit Real necessities, and give way the while To unstable slightness. Purpose so barr'd, it follows Nothing is done to purpose. Therefore, beseech you- You that will be less fearful than discreet; That love the fundamental part of state More than you doubt the change on't; that prefer A noble life before a long, and wish To jump a body with a dangerous physic That's sure of death without it- at once pluck out The multitudinous tongue; let them not lick The sweet which is their poison. Your dishonour Mangles true judgment, and bereaves the state Of that integrity which should become't, Not having the power to do the good it would, For th' ill which doth control't. BRUTUS. Has said enough. SICINIUS. Has spoken like a traitor and shall answer As traitors do. CORIOLANUS. Thou wretch, despite o'erwhelm thee! What should the people do with these bald tribunes, On whom depending, their obedience fails To the greater bench? In a rebellion, When what's not meet, but what must be, was law, Then were they chosen; in a better hour Let what is meet be said it must be meet, And throw their power i' th' dust. BRUTUS. Manifest treason! SICINIUS. This a consul? No. BRUTUS. The aediles, ho! Enter an AEDILE Let him be apprehended. SICINIUS. Go call the people, [Exit AEDILE] in whose name myself Attach thee as a traitorous innovator, A foe to th' public weal. Obey, I charge thee, And follow to thine answer. CORIOLANUS. Hence, old goat! PATRICIANS. We'll surety him. COMINIUS. Ag'd sir, hands off. CORIOLANUS. Hence, rotten thing! or I shall shake thy bones Out of thy garments. SICINIUS. Help, ye citizens! Enter a rabble of plebeians, with the AEDILES MENENIUS. On both sides more respect. SICINIUS. Here's he that would take from you all your power. BRUTUS. Seize him, aediles. PLEBEIANS. Down with him! down with him! SECOND SENATOR. Weapons, weapons, weapons! [They all bustle about CORIOLANUS] ALL. Tribunes! patricians! citizens! What, ho! Sicinius! Brutus! Coriolanus! Citizens! PATRICIANS. Peace, peace, peace; stay, hold, peace! MENENIUS. What is about to be? I am out of breath; Confusion's near; I cannot speak. You tribunes To th' people- Coriolanus, patience! Speak, good Sicinius. SICINIUS. Hear me, people; peace! PLEBEIANS. Let's hear our tribune. Peace! Speak, speak, speak. SICINIUS. You are at point to lose your liberties. Marcius would have all from you; Marcius, Whom late you have nam'd for consul. MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie! This is the way to kindle, not to quench. FIRST SENATOR. To unbuild the city, and to lay all flat. SICINIUS. What is the city but the people? PLEBEIANS. True, The people are the city. BRUTUS. By the consent of all we were establish'd The people's magistrates. PLEBEIANS. You so remain. MENENIUS. And so are like to do. COMINIUS. That is the way to lay the city flat, To bring the roof to the foundation, And bury all which yet distinctly ranges In heaps and piles of ruin. SICINIUS. This deserves death. BRUTUS. Or let us stand to our authority Or let us lose it. We do here pronounce, Upon the part o' th' people, in whose power We were elected theirs: Marcius is worthy Of present death. SICINIUS. Therefore lay hold of him; Bear him to th' rock Tarpeian, and from thence Into destruction cast him. BRUTUS. AEdiles, seize him. PLEBEIANS. Yield, Marcius, yield. MENENIUS. Hear me one word; beseech you, Tribunes, Hear me but a word. AEDILES. Peace, peace! MENENIUS. Be that you seem, truly your country's friend, And temp'rately proceed to what you would Thus violently redress. BRUTUS. Sir, those cold ways, That seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous Where the disease is violent. Lay hands upon him And bear him to the rock. [CORIOLANUS draws his sword] CORIOLANUS. No: I'll die here. There's some among you have beheld me fighting; Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen me. MENENIUS. Down with that sword! Tribunes, withdraw awhile. BRUTUS. Lay hands upon him. MENENIUS. Help Marcius, help, You that be noble; help him, young and old. PLEBEIANS. Down with him, down with him! [In this mutiny the TRIBUNES, the AEDILES, and the people are beat in] MENENIUS. Go, get you to your house; be gone, away. All will be nought else. SECOND SENATOR. Get you gone. CORIOLANUS. Stand fast; We have as many friends as enemies. MENENIUS. Shall it be put to that? FIRST SENATOR. The gods forbid! I prithee, noble friend, home to thy house; Leave us to cure this cause. MENENIUS. For 'tis a sore upon us You cannot tent yourself; be gone, beseech you. COMINIUS. Come, sir, along with us. CORIOLANUS. I would they were barbarians, as they are, Though in Rome litter'd; not Romans, as they are not, Though calved i' th' porch o' th' Capitol. MENENIUS. Be gone. Put not your worthy rage into your tongue; One time will owe another. CORIOLANUS. On fair ground I could beat forty of them. MENENIUS. I could myself Take up a brace o' th' best of them; yea, the two tribunes. COMINIUS. But now 'tis odds beyond arithmetic, And manhood is call'd foolery when it stands Against a falling fabric. Will you hence, Before the tag return? whose rage doth rend Like interrupted waters, and o'erbear What they are us'd to bear. MENENIUS. Pray you be gone. I'll try whether my old wit be in request With those that have but little; this must be patch'd With cloth of any colour. COMINIUS. Nay, come away. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and COMINIUS, with others PATRICIANS. This man has marr'd his fortune. MENENIUS. His nature is too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove for's power to thunder. His heart's his mouth; What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent; And, being angry, does forget that ever He heard the name of death. [A noise within] Here's goodly work! PATRICIANS. I would they were a-bed. MENENIUS. I would they were in Tiber. What the vengeance, could he not speak 'em fair? Re-enter BRUTUS and SICINIUS, the rabble again SICINIUS. Where is this viper That would depopulate the city and Be every man himself? MENENIUS. You worthy Tribunes- SICINIUS. He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock With rigorous hands; he hath resisted law, And therefore law shall scorn him further trial Than the severity of the public power, Which he so sets at nought. FIRST CITIZEN. He shall well know The noble tribunes are the people's mouths, And we their hands. PLEBEIANS. He shall, sure on't. MENENIUS. Sir, sir- SICINIUS. Peace! MENENIUS. Do not cry havoc, where you should but hunt With modest warrant. SICINIUS. Sir, how comes't that you Have holp to make this rescue? MENENIUS. Hear me speak. As I do know the consul's worthiness, So can I name his faults. SICINIUS. Consul! What consul? MENENIUS. The consul Coriolanus. BRUTUS. He consul! PLEBEIANS. No, no, no, no, no. MENENIUS. If, by the tribunes' leave, and yours, good people, I may be heard, I would crave a word or two; The which shall turn you to no further harm Than so much loss of time. SICINIUS. Speak briefly, then, For we are peremptory to dispatch This viperous traitor; to eject him hence Were but one danger, and to keep him here Our certain death; therefore it is decreed He dies to-night. MENENIUS. Now the good gods forbid That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude Towards her deserved children is enroll'd In Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam Should now eat up her own! SICINIUS. He's a disease that must be cut away. MENENIUS. O, he's a limb that has but a disease- Mortal, to cut it off: to cure it, easy. What has he done to Rome that's worthy death? Killing our enemies, the blood he hath lost- Which I dare vouch is more than that he hath By many an ounce- he dropt it for his country; And what is left, to lose it by his country Were to us all that do't and suffer it A brand to th' end o' th' world. SICINIUS. This is clean kam. BRUTUS. Merely awry. When he did love his country, It honour'd him. SICINIUS. The service of the foot, Being once gangren'd, is not then respected For what before it was. BRUTUS. We'll hear no more. Pursue him to his house and pluck him thence, Lest his infection, being of catching nature, Spread further. MENENIUS. One word more, one word This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find The harm of unscann'd swiftness, will, too late, Tie leaden pounds to's heels. Proceed by process, Lest parties- as he is belov'd- break out, And sack great Rome with Romans. BRUTUS. If it were so- SICINIUS. What do ye talk? Have we not had a taste of his obedience- Our aediles smote, ourselves resisted? Come! MENENIUS. Consider this: he has been bred i' th' wars Since 'a could draw a sword, and is ill school'd In bolted language; meal and bran together He throws without distinction. Give me leave, I'll go to him and undertake to bring him Where he shall answer by a lawful form, In peace, to his utmost peril. FIRST SENATOR. Noble Tribunes, It is the humane way; the other course Will prove too bloody, and the end of it Unknown to the beginning. SICINIUS. Noble Menenius, Be you then as the people's officer. Masters, lay down your weapons. BRUTUS. Go not home. SICINIUS. Meet on the market-place. We'll attend you there; Where, if you bring not Marcius, we'll proceed In our first way. MENENIUS. I'll bring him to you. [To the SENATORS] Let me desire your company; he must come, Or what is worst will follow. FIRST SENATOR. Pray you let's to him. Exeunt SCENE II. Rome. The house of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS with NOBLES CORIOLANUS. Let them pull all about mine ears, present me Death on the wheel or at wild horses' heels; Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of sight; yet will I still Be thus to them. FIRST PATRICIAN. You do the nobler. CORIOLANUS. I muse my mother Does not approve me further, who was wont To call them woollen vassals, things created To buy and sell with groats; to show bare heads In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder, When one but of my ordinance stood up To speak of peace or war. Enter VOLUMNIA I talk of you: Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me False to my nature? Rather say I play The man I am. VOLUMNIA. O, sir, sir, sir, I would have had you put your power well on Before you had worn it out. CORIOLANUS. Let go. VOLUMNIA. You might have been enough the man you are With striving less to be so; lesser had been The thwartings of your dispositions, if You had not show'd them how ye were dispos'd, Ere they lack'd power to cross you. CORIOLANUS. Let them hang. VOLUMNIA. Ay, and burn too. Enter MENENIUS with the SENATORS MENENIUS. Come, come, you have been too rough, something too rough; You must return and mend it. FIRST SENATOR. There's no remedy, Unless, by not so doing, our good city Cleave in the midst and perish. VOLUMNIA. Pray be counsell'd; I have a heart as little apt as yours, But yet a brain that leads my use of anger To better vantage. MENENIUS. Well said, noble woman! Before he should thus stoop to th' herd, but that The violent fit o' th' time craves it as physic For the whole state, I would put mine armour on, Which I can scarcely bear. CORIOLANUS. What must I do? MENENIUS. Return to th' tribunes. CORIOLANUS. Well, what then, what then? MENENIUS. Repent what you have spoke. CORIOLANUS. For them! I cannot do it to the gods; Must I then do't to them? VOLUMNIA. You are too absolute; Though therein you can never be too noble But when extremities speak. I have heard you say Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends, I' th' war do grow together; grant that, and tell me In peace what each of them by th' other lose That they combine not there. CORIOLANUS. Tush, tush! MENENIUS. A good demand. VOLUMNIA. If it be honour in your wars to seem The same you are not, which for your best ends You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour as in war; since that to both It stands in like request? CORIOLANUS. Why force you this? VOLUMNIA. Because that now it lies you on to speak To th' people, not by your own instruction, Nor by th' matter which your heart prompts you, But with such words that are but roted in Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables Of no allowance to your bosom's truth. Now, this no more dishonours you at all Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune and The hazard of much blood. I would dissemble with my nature where My fortunes and my friends at stake requir'd I should do so in honour. I am in this Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles; And you will rather show our general louts How you can frown, than spend a fawn upon 'em For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard Of what that want might ruin. MENENIUS. Noble lady! Come, go with us, speak fair; you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the los Of what is past. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, My son, Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand; And thus far having stretch'd it- here be with them- Thy knee bussing the stones- for in such busines Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th' ignorant More learned than the ears- waving thy head, Which often thus correcting thy-stout heart, Now humble as the ripest mulberry That will not hold the handling. Or say to them Thou art their soldier and, being bred in broils, Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess, Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim, In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power and person. MENENIUS. This but done Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours; For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free As words to little purpose. VOLUMNIA. Prithee now, Go, and be rul'd; although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower. Enter COMINIUS Here is Cominius. COMINIUS. I have been i' th' market-place; and, sir, 'tis fit You make strong party, or defend yourself By calmness or by absence; all's in anger. MENENIUS. Only fair speech. COMINIUS. I think 'twill serve, if he Can thereto frame his spirit. VOLUMNIA. He must and will. Prithee now, say you will, and go about it. CORIOLANUS. Must I go show them my unbarb'd sconce? Must I With my base tongue give to my noble heart A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do't; Yet, were there but this single plot to lose, This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it, And throw't against the wind. To th' market-place! You have put me now to such a part which never I shall discharge to th' life. COMINIUS. Come, come, we'll prompt you. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said My praises made thee first a soldier, so, To have my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before. CORIOLANUS. Well, I must do't. Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot's spirit! My throat of war be turn'd, Which quier'd with my drum, into a pipe Small as an eunuch or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys' tears take up The glasses of my sight! A beggar's tongue Make motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees, Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath receiv'd an alms! I will not do't, Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth, And by my body's action teach my mind A most inherent baseness. VOLUMNIA. At thy choice, then. To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour Than thou of them. Come all to ruin. Let Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear Thy dangerous stoutness; for I mock at death With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list. Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me; But owe thy pride thyself. CORIOLANUS. Pray be content. Mother, I am going to the market-place; Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves, Cog their hearts from them, and come home belov'd Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going. Commend me to my wife. I'll return consul, Or never trust to what my tongue can do I' th' way of flattery further. VOLUMNIA. Do your will. Exit COMINIUS. Away! The tribunes do attend you. Arm yourself To answer mildly; for they are prepar'd With accusations, as I hear, more strong Than are upon you yet. CORIOLANUS. The word is 'mildly.' Pray you let us go. Let them accuse me by invention; I Will answer in mine honour. MENENIUS. Ay, but mildly. CORIOLANUS. Well, mildly be it then- mildly. Exeunt SCENE III. Rome. The Forum Enter SICINIUS and BRUTUS BRUTUS. In this point charge him home, that he affects Tyrannical power. If he evade us there, Enforce him with his envy to the people, And that the spoil got on the Antiates Was ne'er distributed. Enter an AEDILE What, will he come? AEDILE. He's coming. BRUTUS. How accompanied? AEDILE. With old Menenius, and those senators That always favour'd him. SICINIUS. Have you a catalogue Of all the voices that we have procur'd, Set down by th' poll? AEDILE. I have; 'tis ready. SICINIUS. Have you corrected them by tribes? AEDILE. I have. SICINIUS. Assemble presently the people hither; And when they hear me say 'It shall be so I' th' right and strength o' th' commons' be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them, If I say fine, cry 'Fine!'- if death, cry 'Death!' Insisting on the old prerogative And power i' th' truth o' th' cause. AEDILE. I shall inform them. BRUTUS. And when such time they have begun to cry, Let them not cease, but with a din confus'd Enforce the present execution Of what we chance to sentence. AEDILE. Very well. SICINIUS. Make them be strong, and ready for this hint, When we shall hap to give't them. BRUTUS. Go about it. Exit AEDILE Put him to choler straight. He hath been us'd Ever to conquer, and to have his worth Of contradiction; being once chaf'd, he cannot Be rein'd again to temperance; then he speaks What's in his heart, and that is there which looks With us to break his neck. Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS and COMINIUS, with others SICINIUS. Well, here he comes. MENENIUS. Calmly, I do beseech you. CORIOLANUS. Ay, as an ostler, that for th' poorest piece Will bear the knave by th' volume. Th' honour'd gods Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice Supplied with worthy men! plant love among's! Throng our large temples with the shows of peace, And not our streets with war! FIRST SENATOR. Amen, amen! MENENIUS. A noble wish. Re-enter the.AEDILE,with the plebeians SICINIUS. Draw near, ye people. AEDILE. List to your tribunes. Audience! peace, I say! CORIOLANUS. First, hear me speak. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, say. Peace, ho! CORIOLANUS. Shall I be charg'd no further than this present? Must all determine here? SICINIUS. I do demand, If you submit you to the people's voices, Allow their officers, and are content To suffer lawful censure for such faults As shall be prov'd upon you. CORIOLANUS. I am content. MENENIUS. Lo, citizens, he says he is content. The warlike service he has done, consider; think Upon the wounds his body bears, which show Like graves i' th' holy churchyard. CORIOLANUS. Scratches with briers, Scars to move laughter only. MENENIUS. Consider further, That when he speaks not like a citizen, You find him like a soldier; do not take His rougher accents for malicious sounds, But, as I say, such as become a soldier Rather than envy you. COMINIUS. Well, well! No more. CORIOLANUS. What is the matter, That being pass'd for consul with full voice, I am so dishonour'd that the very hour You take it off again? SICINIUS. Answer to us. CORIOLANUS. Say then; 'tis true, I ought so. SICINIUS. We charge you that you have contriv'd to take From Rome all season'd office, and to wind Yourself into a power tyrannical; For which you are a traitor to the people. CORIOLANUS. How- traitor? MENENIUS. Nay, temperately! Your promise. CORIOLANUS. The fires i' th' lowest hell fold in the people! Call me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune! Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say 'Thou liest' unto thee with a voice as free As I do pray the gods. SICINIUS. Mark you this, people? PLEBEIANS. To th' rock, to th' rock, with him! SICINIUS. Peace! We need not put new matter to his charge. What you have seen him do and heard him speak, Beating your officers, cursing yourselves, Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying Those whose great power must try him- even this, So criminal and in such capital kind, Deserves th' extremest death. BRUTUS. But since he hath Serv'd well for Rome- CORIOLANUS. What do you prate of service? BRUTUS. I talk of that that know it. CORIOLANUS. You! MENENIUS. Is this the promise that you made your mother? COMINIUS. Know, I pray you- CORIOLANUS. I'll know no further. Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger But with a grain a day, I would not buy Their mercy at the price of one fair word, Nor check my courage for what they can give, To have't with saying 'Good morrow.' SICINIUS. For that he has- As much as in him lies- from time to time Envied against the people, seeking means To pluck away their power; as now at last Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers That do distribute it- in the name o' th' people, And in the power of us the tribunes, we, Ev'n from this instant, banish him our city, In peril of precipitation From off the rock Tarpeian, never more To enter our Rome gates. I' th' people's name, I say it shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so! Let him away! He's banish'd, and it shall be so. COMINIUS. Hear me, my masters and my common friends- SICINIUS. He's sentenc'd; no more hearing. COMINIUS. Let me speak. I have been consul, and can show for Rome Her enemies' marks upon me. I do love My country's good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, than mine own life, My dear wife's estimate, her womb's increase And treasure of my loins. Then if I would Speak that- SICINIUS. We know your drift. Speak what? BRUTUS. There's no more to be said, but he is banish'd, As enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so. CORIOLANUS. YOU common cry of curs, whose breath I hate As reek o' th' rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air- I banish you. And here remain with your uncertainty! Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts; Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair! Have the power still To banish your defenders, till at length Your ignorance- which finds not till it feels, Making but reservation of yourselves Still your own foes- deliver you As most abated captives to some nation That won you without blows! Despising For you the city, thus I turn my back; There is a world elsewhere. Exeunt CORIOLANUS, COMINIUS, MENENIUS, with the other PATRICIANS AEDILE. The people's enemy is gone, is gone! [They all shout and throw up their caps] PLEBEIANS. Our enemy is banish'd, he is gone! Hoo-oo! SICINIUS. Go see him out at gates, and follow him, As he hath follow'd you, with all despite; Give him deserv'd vexation. Let a guard Attend us through the city. PLEBEIANS. Come, come, let's see him out at gates; come! The gods preserve our noble tribunes! Come. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE I. Rome. Before a gate of the city Enter CORIOLANUS, VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, MENENIUS, COMINIUS, with the young NOBILITY of Rome CORIOLANUS. Come, leave your tears; a brief farewell. The beast With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother, Where is your ancient courage? You were us'd To say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm all boats alike Show'd mastership in floating; fortune's blows, When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves A noble cunning. You were us'd to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conn'd them. VIRGILIA. O heavens! O heavens! CORIOLANUS. Nay, I prithee, woman- VOLUMNIA. Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, And occupations perish! CORIOLANUS. What, what, what! I shall be lov'd when I am lack'd. Nay, mother, Resume that spirit when you were wont to say, If you had been the wife of Hercules, Six of his labours you'd have done, and sav'd Your husband so much sweat. Cominius, Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother. I'll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius, Thy tears are salter than a younger man's And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime General, I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-hard'ning spectacles; tell these sad women 'Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes, As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My mother, you wot well My hazards still have been your solace; and Believe't not lightly- though I go alone, Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen Makes fear'd and talk'd of more than seen- your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice. VOLUMNIA. My first son, Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius With thee awhile; determine on some course More than a wild exposture to each chance That starts i' th' way before thee. VIRGILIA. O the gods! COMINIUS. I'll follow thee a month, devise with the Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us, And we of thee; so, if the time thrust forth A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send O'er the vast world to seek a single man, And lose advantage, which doth ever cool I' th' absence of the needer. CORIOLANUS. Fare ye well; Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full Of the wars' surfeits to go rove with one That's yet unbruis'd; bring me but out at gate. Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble touch; when I am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you come. While I remain above the ground you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is like me formerly. MENENIUS. That's worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let's not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I'd with thee every foot. CORIOLANUS. Give me thy hand. Come. Exeunt SCENE II. Rome. A street near the gate Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS with the AEDILE SICINIUS. Bid them all home; he's gone, and we'll no further. The nobility are vex'd, whom we see have sided In his behalf. BRUTUS. Now we have shown our power, Let us seem humbler after it is done Than when it was a-doing. SICINIUS. Bid them home. Say their great enemy is gone, and they Stand in their ancient strength. BRUTUS. Dismiss them home. Exit AEDILE Here comes his mother. Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Let's not meet her. BRUTUS. Why? SICINIUS. They say she's mad. BRUTUS. They have ta'en note of us; keep on your way. VOLUMNIA. O, Y'are well met; th' hoarded plague o' th' gods Requite your love! MENENIUS. Peace, peace, be not so loud. VOLUMNIA. If that I could for weeping, you should hear- Nay, and you shall hear some. [To BRUTUS] Will you be gone? VIRGILIA. [To SICINIUS] You shall stay too. I would I had the power To say so to my husband. SICINIUS. Are you mankind? VOLUMNIA. Ay, fool; is that a shame? Note but this, fool: Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship To banish him that struck more blows for Rome Than thou hast spoken words? SICINIUS. O blessed heavens! VOLUMNIA. Moe noble blows than ever thou wise words; And for Rome's good. I'll tell thee what- yet go! Nay, but thou shalt stay too. I would my son Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him, His good sword in his hand. SICINIUS. What then? VIRGILIA. What then! He'd make an end of thy posterity. VOLUMNIA. Bastards and all. Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome! MENENIUS. Come, come, peace. SICINIUS. I would he had continued to his country As he began, and not unknit himself The noble knot he made. BRUTUS. I would he had. VOLUMNIA. 'I would he had!' 'Twas you incens'd the rabble- Cats that can judge as fitly of his worth As I can of those mysteries which heaven Will not have earth to know. BRUTUS. Pray, let's go. VOLUMNIA. Now, pray, sir, get you gone; You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this: As far as doth the Capitol exceed The meanest house in Rome, so far my son- This lady's husband here, this, do you see?- Whom you have banish'd does exceed you an. BRUTUS. Well, well, we'll leave you. SICINIUS. Why stay we to be baited With one that wants her wits? Exeunt TRIBUNES VOLUMNIA. Take my prayers with you. I would the gods had nothing else to do But to confirm my curses. Could I meet 'em But once a day, it would unclog my heart Of what lies heavy to't. MENENIUS. You have told them home, And, by my troth, you have cause. You'll sup with me? VOLUMNIA. Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let's go. Leave this faint puling and lament as I do, In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come. Exeunt VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie! Exit SCENE III. A highway between Rome and Antium Enter a ROMAN and a VOLSCE, meeting ROMAN. I know you well, sir, and you know me; your name, I think, is Adrian. VOLSCE. It is so, sir. Truly, I have forgot you. ROMAN. I am a Roman; and my services are, as you are, against 'em. Know you me yet? VOLSCE. Nicanor? No! ROMAN. The same, sir. VOLSCE. YOU had more beard when I last saw you, but your favour is well appear'd by your tongue. What's the news in Rome? I have a note from the Volscian state, to find you out there. You have well saved me a day's journey. ROMAN. There hath been in Rome strange insurrections: the people against the senators, patricians, and nobles. VOLSCE. Hath been! Is it ended, then? Our state thinks not so; they are in a most warlike preparation, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their division. ROMAN. The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again; for the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy Coriolanus that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people, and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out. VOLSCE. Coriolanus banish'd! ROMAN. Banish'd, sir. VOLSCE. You will be welcome with this intelligence, Nicanor. ROMAN. The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said the fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is when she's fall'n out with her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his great opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request of his country. VOLSCE. He cannot choose. I am most fortunate thus accidentally to encounter you; you have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home. ROMAN. I shall between this and supper tell you most strange things from Rome, all tending to the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you? VOLSCE. A most royal one: the centurions and their charges, distinctly billeted, already in th' entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour's warning. ROMAN. I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am the man, I think, that shall set them in present action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company. VOLSCE. You take my part from me, sir. I have the most cause to be glad of yours. ROMAN. Well, let us go together. SCENE IV. Antium. Before AUFIDIUS' house Enter CORIOLANUS, in mean apparel, disguis'd and muffled CORIOLANUS. A goodly city is this Antium. City, 'Tis I that made thy widows: many an heir Of these fair edifices fore my wars Have I heard groan and drop. Then know me not. Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones, In puny battle slay me. Enter A CITIZEN Save you, sir. CITIZEN. And you. CORIOLANUS. Direct me, if it be your will, Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium? CITIZEN. He is, and feasts the nobles of the state At his house this night. CORIOLANUS. Which is his house, beseech you? CITIZEN. This here before you. CORIOLANUS. Thank you, sir; farewell. Exit CITIZEN O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as 'twere, in love, Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity; so fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. So with me: My birthplace hate I, and my love's upon This enemy town. I'll enter. If he slay me, He does fair justice: if he give me way, I'll do his country service. SCENE V. Antium. AUFIDIUS' house Music plays. Enter A SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. Wine, wine, wine! What service is here! I think our fellows are asleep. Exit Enter another SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT.Where's Cotus? My master calls for him. Cotus! Exit Enter CORIOLANUS CORIOLANUS. A goodly house. The feast smells well, but I Appear not like a guest. Re-enter the first SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. What would you have, friend? Whence are you? Here's no place for you: pray go to the door. Exit CORIOLANUS. I have deserv'd no better entertainment In being Coriolanus. Re-enter second SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT. Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his eyes in his head that he gives entrance to such companions? Pray get you out. CORIOLANUS. Away! SECOND SERVANT. Away? Get you away. CORIOLANUS. Now th' art troublesome. SECOND SERVANT. Are you so brave? I'll have you talk'd with anon. Enter a third SERVINGMAN. The first meets him THIRD SERVANT. What fellow's this? FIRST SERVANT. A strange one as ever I look'd on. I cannot get him out o' th' house. Prithee call my master to him. THIRD SERVANT. What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you avoid the house. CORIOLANUS. Let me but stand- I will not hurt your hearth. THIRD SERVANT. What are you? CORIOLANUS. A gentleman. THIRD SERVANT. A marv'llous poor one. CORIOLANUS. True, so I am. THIRD SERVANT. Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station; here's no place for you. Pray you avoid. Come. CORIOLANUS. Follow your function, go and batten on cold bits. [Pushes him away from him] THIRD SERVANT. What, you will not? Prithee tell my master what a strange guest he has here. SECOND SERVANT. And I shall. Exit THIRD SERVANT. Where dwell'st thou? CORIOLANUS. Under the canopy. THIRD SERVANT. Under the canopy? CORIOLANUS. Ay. THIRD SERVANT. Where's that? CORIOLANUS. I' th' city of kites and crows. THIRD SERVANT. I' th' city of kites and crows! What an ass it is! Then thou dwell'st with daws too? CORIOLANUS. No, I serve not thy master. THIRD SERVANT. How, sir! Do you meddle with my master? CORIOLANUS. Ay; 'tis an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. Thou prat'st and prat'st; serve with thy trencher; hence! [Beats him away] Enter AUFIDIUS with the second SERVINGMAN AUFIDIUS. Where is this fellow? SECOND SERVANT. Here, sir; I'd have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within. AUFIDIUS. Whence com'st thou? What wouldst thou? Thy name? Why speak'st not? Speak, man. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. [Unmuffling] If, Tullus, Not yet thou know'st me, and, seeing me, dost not Think me for the man I am, necessity Commands me name myself. AUFIDIUS. What is thy name? CORIOLANUS. A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, And harsh in sound to thine. AUFIDIUS. Say, what's thy name? Thou has a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn, Thou show'st a noble vessel. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. Prepare thy brow to frown- know'st thou me yet? AUFIDIUS. I know thee not. Thy name? CORIOLANUS. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may My surname, Coriolanus. The painful service, The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood Shed for my thankless country, are requited But with that surname- a good memory And witness of the malice and displeasure Which thou shouldst bear me. Only that name remains; The cruelty and envy of the people, Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest, An suffer'd me by th' voice of slaves to be Whoop'd out of Rome. Now this extremity Hath brought me to thy hearth; not out of hope, Mistake me not, to save my life; for if I had fear'd death, of all the men i' th' world I would have 'voided thee; but in mere spite, To be full quit of those my banishers, Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight And make my misery serve thy turn. So use it That my revengeful services may prove As benefits to thee; for I will fight Against my cank'red country with the spleen Of all the under fiends. But if so be Thou dar'st not this, and that to prove more fortunes Th'art tir'd, then, in a word, I also am Longer to live most weary, and present My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice; Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, Since I have ever followed thee with hate, Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast, And cannot live but to thy shame, unless It be to do thee service. AUFIDIUS. O Marcius, Marcius! Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter Should from yond cloud speak divine things, And say ''Tis true,' I'd not believe them more Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarr'd the moon with splinters; here I clip The anvil of my sword, and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I lov'd the maid I married; never man Sigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars, I tell the We have a power on foot, and I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn, Or lose mine arm for't. Thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me- We have been down together in my sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat- And wak'd half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome but that Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all From twelve to seventy, and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o'erbeat. O, come, go in, And take our friendly senators by th' hands, Who now are here, taking their leaves of me Who am prepar'd against your territories, Though not for Rome itself. CORIOLANUS. You bless me, gods! AUFIDIUS. Therefore, most. absolute sir, if thou wilt have The leading of thine own revenges, take Th' one half of my commission, and set down- As best thou art experienc'd, since thou know'st Thy country's strength and weakness- thine own ways, Whether to knock against the gates of Rome, Or rudely visit them in parts remote To fright them ere destroy. But come in; Let me commend thee first to those that shall Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes! And more a friend than e'er an enemy; Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand; most welcome! Exeunt CORIOLANUS and AUFIDIUS The two SERVINGMEN come forward FIRST SERVANT. Here's a strange alteration! SECOND SERVANT. By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel; and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false report of him. FIRST SERVANT. What an arm he has! He turn'd me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top. SECOND SERVANT. Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him; he had, sir, a kind of face, methought- I cannot tell how to term it. FIRST SERVANT. He had so, looking as it were- Would I were hang'd, but I thought there was more in him than I could think. SECOND SERVANT. So did I, I'll be sworn. He is simply the rarest man i' th' world. FIRST SERVANT. I think he is; but a greater soldier than he you wot on. SECOND SERVANT. Who, my master? FIRST SERVANT. Nay, it's no matter for that. SECOND SERVANT. Worth six on him. FIRST SERVANT. Nay, not so neither; but I take him to be the greater soldier. SECOND SERVANT. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that; for the defence of a town our general is excellent. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and for an assault too. Re-enter the third SERVINGMAN THIRD SERVANT. O slaves, I can tell you news- news, you rascals! BOTH. What, what, what? Let's partake. THIRD SERVANT. I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lief be a condemn'd man. BOTH. Wherefore? wherefore? THIRD SERVANT. Why, here's he that was wont to thwack our general- Caius Marcius. FIRST SERVANT. Why do you say 'thwack our general'? THIRD SERVANT. I do not say 'thwack our general,' but he was always good enough for him. SECOND SERVANT. Come, we are fellows and friends. He was ever too hard for him, I have heard him say so himself. FIRST SERVANT. He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on't; before Corioli he scotch'd him and notch'd him like a carbonado. SECOND SERVANT. An he had been cannibally given, he might have broil'd and eaten him too. FIRST SERVANT. But more of thy news! THIRD SERVANT. Why, he is so made on here within as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end o' th' table; no question asked him by any of the senators but they stand bald before him. Our general himself makes a mistress of him, sanctifies himself with's hand, and turns up the white o' th' eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our general is cut i' th' middle and but one half of what he was yesterday, for the other has half by the entreaty and grant of the whole table. He'll go, he says, and sowl the porter of Rome gates by th' ears; he will mow all down before him, and leave his passage poll'd. SECOND SERVANT. And he's as like to do't as any man I can imagine. THIRD SERVANT. Do't! He will do't; for look you, sir, he has as many friends as enemies; which friends, sir, as it were, durst not- look you, sir- show themselves, as we term it, his friends, whilst he's in directitude. FIRST SERVANT. Directitude? What's that? THIRD SERVANT. But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows, like conies after rain, and revel an with him. FIRST SERVANT. But when goes this forward? THIRD SERVANT. To-morrow, to-day, presently. You shall have the drum struck up this afternoon; 'tis as it were parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips. SECOND SERVANT. Why, then we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers. FIRST SERVANT. Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mull'd, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men. SECOND SERVANT. 'Tis so; and as war in some sort may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and it makes men hate one another. THIRD SERVANT. Reason: because they then less need one another. The wars for my money. I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising, they are rising. BOTH. In, in, in, in! Exeunt SCENE VI. Rome. A public place Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him. His remedies are tame. The present peace And quietness of the people, which before Were in wild hurry, here do make his friends Blush that the world goes well; who rather had, Though they themselves did suffer by't, behold Dissentious numbers pest'ring streets than see Our tradesmen singing in their shops, and going About their functions friendly. Enter MENENIUS BRUTUS. We stood to't in good time. Is this Menenius? SICINIUS. 'Tis he, 'tis he. O, he is grown most kind Of late. Hail, sir! MENENIUS. Hail to you both! SICINIUS. Your Coriolanus is not much miss'd But with his friends. The commonwealth doth stand, And so would do, were he more angry at it. MENENIUS. All's well, and might have been much better He could have temporiz'd. SICINIUS. Where is he, hear you? MENENIUS. Nay, I hear nothing; his mother and his wife Hear nothing from him. Enter three or four citizens CITIZENS. The gods preserve you both! SICINIUS. God-den, our neighbours. BRUTUS. God-den to you all, god-den to you an. FIRST CITIZEN. Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees Are bound to pray for you both. SICINIUS. Live and thrive! BRUTUS. Farewell, kind neighbours; we wish'd Coriolanus Had lov'd you as we did. CITIZENS. Now the gods keep you! BOTH TRIBUNES. Farewell, farewell. Exeunt citizens SICINIUS. This is a happier and more comely time Than when these fellows ran about the streets Crying confusion. BRUTUS. Caius Marcius was A worthy officer i' the war, but insolent, O'ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking, Self-loving- SICINIUS. And affecting one sole throne, Without assistance. MENENIUS. I think not so. SICINIUS. We should by this, to all our lamentation, If he had gone forth consul, found it so. BRUTUS. The gods have well prevented it, and Rome Sits safe and still without him. Enter an AEDILE AEDILE. Worthy tribunes, There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, Reports the Volsces with several powers Are ent'red in the Roman territories, And with the deepest malice of the war Destroy what lies before 'em. MENENIUS. 'Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Marcius' banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which were inshell'd when Marcius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out. SICINIUS. Come, what talk you of Marcius? BRUTUS. Go see this rumourer whipp'd. It cannot be The Volsces dare break with us. MENENIUS. Cannot be! We have record that very well it can; And three examples of the like hath been Within my age. But reason with the fellow Before you punish him, where he heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded. SICINIUS. Tell not me. I know this cannot be. BRUTUS. Not Possible. Enter A MESSENGER MESSENGER. The nobles in great earnestness are going All to the Senate House; some news is come That turns their countenances. SICINIUS. 'Tis this slave- Go whip him fore the people's eyes- his raising, Nothing but his report. MESSENGER. Yes, worthy sir, The slave's report is seconded, and more, More fearful, is deliver'd. SICINIUS. What more fearful? MESSENGER. It is spoke freely out of many mouths- How probable I do not know- that Marcius, Join'd with Aufidius, leads a power 'gainst Rome, And vows revenge as spacious as between The young'st and oldest thing. SICINIUS. This is most likely! BRUTUS. Rais'd only that the weaker sort may wish Good Marcius home again. SICINIUS. The very trick on 't. MENENIUS. This is unlikely. He and Aufidius can no more atone Than violent'st contrariety. Enter a second MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Senate. A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O'erborne their way, consum'd with fire and took What lay before them. Enter COMINIUS COMINIUS. O, you have made good work! MENENIUS. What news? what news? COMINIUS. You have holp to ravish your own daughters and To melt the city leads upon your pates, To see your wives dishonour'd to your noses- MENENIUS. What's the news? What's the news? COMINIUS. Your temples burned in their cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confin'd Into an auger's bore. MENENIUS. Pray now, your news? You have made fair work, I fear me. Pray, your news. If Marcius should be join'd wi' th' Volscians- COMINIUS. If! He is their god; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than Nature, That shapes man better; and they follow him Against us brats with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies, Or butchers killing flies. MENENIUS. You have made good work, You and your apron men; you that stood so much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic-eaters! COMINIUS. He'll shake Your Rome about your ears. MENENIUS. As Hercules Did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair work! BRUTUS. But is this true, sir? COMINIUS. Ay; and you'll look pale Before you find it other. All the regions Do smilingly revolt, and who resists Are mock'd for valiant ignorance, And perish constant fools. Who is't can blame him? Your enemies and his find something in him. MENENIUS. We are all undone unless The noble man have mercy. COMINIUS. Who shall ask it? The tribunes cannot do't for shame; the people Deserve such pity of him as the wolf Does of the shepherds; for his best friends, if they Should say 'Be good to Rome'- they charg'd him even As those should do that had deserv'd his hate, And therein show'd fike enemies. MENENIUS. 'Tis true; If he were putting to my house the brand That should consume it, I have not the face To say 'Beseech you, cease.' You have made fair hands, You and your crafts! You have crafted fair! COMINIUS. You have brought A trembling upon Rome, such as was never S' incapable of help. BOTH TRIBUNES. Say not we brought it. MENENIUS. How! Was't we? We lov'd him, but, like beasts And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, Who did hoot him out o' th' city. COMINIUS. But I fear They'll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius, The second name of men, obeys his points As if he were his officer. Desperation Is all the policy, strength, and defence, That Rome can make against them. Enter a troop of citizens MENENIUS. Here comes the clusters. And is Aufidius with him? You are they That made the air unwholesome when you cast Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus' exile. Now he's coming, And not a hair upon a soldier's head Which will not prove a whip; as many coxcombs As you threw caps up will he tumble down, And pay you for your voices. 'Tis no matter; If he could burn us all into one coal We have deserv'd it. PLEBEIANS. Faith, we hear fearful news. FIRST CITIZEN. For mine own part, When I said banish him, I said 'twas pity. SECOND CITIZEN. And so did I. THIRD CITIZEN. And so did I; and, to say the truth, so did very many of us. That we did, we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will. COMINIUS. Y'are goodly things, you voices! MENENIUS. You have made Good work, you and your cry! Shall's to the Capitol? COMINIUS. O, ay, what else? Exeunt COMINIUS and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Go, masters, get you be not dismay'd; These are a side that would be glad to have This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, And show no sign of fear. FIRST CITIZEN. The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let's home. I ever said we were i' th' wrong when we banish'd him. SECOND CITIZEN. So did we all. But come, let's home. Exeunt citizens BRUTUS. I do not like this news. SICINIUS. Nor I. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol. Would half my wealth Would buy this for a lie! SICINIUS. Pray let's go. Exeunt SCENE VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome Enter AUFIDIUS with his LIEUTENANT AUFIDIUS. Do they still fly to th' Roman? LIEUTENANT. I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are dark'ned in this action, sir, Even by your own. AUFIDIUS. I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him; yet his nature In that's no changeling, and I must excuse What cannot be amended. LIEUTENANT. Yet I wish, sir- I mean, for your particular- you had not Join'd in commission with him, but either Had borne the action of yourself, or else To him had left it solely. AUFIDIUS. I understand thee well; and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he knows not What I can urge against him. Although it seems, And so he thinks, and is no less apparent To th' vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine Whene'er we come to our account. LIEUTENANT. Sir, I beseech you, think you he'll carry Rome? AUFIDIUS. All places yield to him ere he sits down, And the nobility of Rome are his; The senators and patricians love him too. The tribunes are no soldiers, and their people Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty To expel him thence. I think he'll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature. First he was A noble servant to them, but he could not Carry his honours even. Whether 'twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From th' casque to th' cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controll'd the war; but one of these- As he hath spices of them all- not all, For I dare so far free him- made him fear'd, So hated, and so banish'd. But he has a merit To choke it in the utt'rance. So our virtues Lie in th' interpretation of the time; And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair T' extol what it hath done. One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail; Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, Thou art poor'st of all; then shortly art thou mine. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, COMINIUS, SICINIUS and BRUTUS, the two Tribunes, with others MENENIUS. No, I'll not go. You hear what he hath said Which was sometime his general, who lov'd him In a most dear particular. He call'd me father; But what o' that? Go, you that banish'd him: A mile before his tent fall down, and knee The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coy'd To hear Cominius speak, I'll keep at home. COMINIUS. He would not seem to know me. MENENIUS. Do you hear? COMINIUS. Yet one time he did call me by my name. I urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together. 'Coriolanus' He would not answer to; forbid all names; He was a kind of nothing, titleless, Till he had forg'd himself a name i' th' fire Of burning Rome. MENENIUS. Why, so! You have made good work. A pair of tribunes that have wrack'd for Rome To make coals cheap- a noble memory! COMINIUS. I minded him how royal 'twas to pardon When it was less expected; he replied, It was a bare petition of a state To one whom they had punish'd. MENENIUS. Very well. Could he say less? COMINIUS. I offer'd to awaken his regard For's private friends; his answer to me was, He could not stay to pick them in a pile Of noisome musty chaff. He said 'twas folly, For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt And still to nose th' offence. MENENIUS. For one poor grain or two! I am one of those. His mother, wife, his child, And this brave fellow too- we are the grains: You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt Above the moon. We must be burnt for you. SICINIUS. Nay, pray be patient; if you refuse your aid In this so never-needed help, yet do not Upbraid's with our distress. But sure, if you Would be your country's pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army we can make, Might stop our countryman. MENENIUS. No; I'll not meddle. SICINIUS. Pray you go to him. MENENIUS. What should I do? BRUTUS. Only make trial what your love can do For Rome, towards Marcius. MENENIUS. Well, and say that Marcius Return me, as Cominius is return'd, Unheard- what then? But as a discontented friend, grief-shot With his unkindness? Say't be so? SICINIUS. Yet your good will Must have that thanks from Rome after the measure As you intended well. MENENIUS. I'll undertake't; I think he'll hear me. Yet to bite his lip And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me. He was not taken well: he had not din'd; The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd These pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priest-like fasts. Therefore I'll watch him Till he be dieted to my request, And then I'll set upon him. BRUTUS. You know the very road into his kindness And cannot lose your way. MENENIUS. Good faith, I'll prove him, Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge Of my success. Exit COMINIUS. He'll never hear him. SICINIUS. Not? COMINIUS. I tell you he does sit in gold, his eye Red as 'twould burn Rome, and his injury The gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him; 'Twas very faintly he said 'Rise'; dismiss'd me Thus with his speechless hand. What he would do, He sent in writing after me; what he would not, Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions; So that all hope is vain, Unless his noble mother and his wife, Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him For mercy to his country. Therefore let's hence, And with our fair entreaties haste them on. Exeunt SCENE II. The Volscian camp before Rome Enter MENENIUS to the WATCH on guard FIRST WATCH. Stay. Whence are you? SECOND WATCH. Stand, and go back. MENENIUS. You guard like men, 'tis well; but, by your leave, I am an officer of state and come To speak with Coriolanus. FIRST WATCH. From whence? MENENIUS. From Rome. FIRST WATCH. YOU may not pass; you must return. Our general Will no more hear from thence. SECOND WATCH. You'll see your Rome embrac'd with fire before You'll speak with Coriolanus. MENENIUS. Good my friends, If you have heard your general talk of Rome And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks My name hath touch'd your ears: it is Menenius. FIRST WATCH. Be it so; go back. The virtue of your name Is not here passable. MENENIUS. I tell thee, fellow, Thy general is my lover. I have been The book of his good acts whence men have read His fame unparallel'd haply amplified; For I have ever verified my friends- Of whom he's chief- with all the size that verity Would without lapsing suffer. Nay, sometimes, Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise Have almost stamp'd the leasing; therefore, fellow, I must have leave to pass. FIRST WATCH. Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here; no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general. SECOND WATCH. Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say you cannot pass. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Has he din'd, canst thou tell? For I would not speak with him till after dinner. FIRST WATCH. You are a Roman, are you? MENENIUS. I am as thy general is. FIRST WATCH. Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you, when you have push'd out your gates the very defender of them, and in a violent popular ignorance given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decay'd dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceiv'd; therefore back to Rome and prepare for your execution. You are condemn'd; our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon. MENENIUS. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me with estimation. FIRST WATCH. Come, my captain knows you not. MENENIUS. I mean thy general. FIRST WATCH. My general cares not for you. Back, I say; go, lest I let forth your half pint of blood. Back- that's the utmost of your having. Back. MENENIUS. Nay, but fellow, fellow- Enter CORIOLANUS with AUFIDIUS CORIOLANUS. What's the matter? MENENIUS. Now, you companion, I'll say an errand for you; you shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus. Guess but by my entertainment with him if thou stand'st not i' th' state of hanging, or of some death more long in spectatorship and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what's to come upon thee. The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my son! my son! thou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here's water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs, and conjure thee to pardon Rome and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here; this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee. CORIOLANUS. Away! MENENIUS. How! away! CORIOLANUS. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs Are servanted to others. Though I owe My revenge properly, my remission lies In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison rather Than pity note how much. Therefore be gone. Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force. Yet, for I lov'd thee, Take this along; I writ it for thy sake [Gives a letter] And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius, Was my belov'd in Rome; yet thou behold'st. AUFIDIUS. You keep a constant temper. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and Aufidius FIRST WATCH. Now, sir, is your name Menenius? SECOND WATCH. 'Tis a spell, you see, of much power! You know the way home again. FIRST WATCH. Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your greatness back? SECOND WATCH. What cause, do you think, I have to swoon? MENENIUS. I neither care for th' world nor your general; for such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, y'are so slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another. Let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and your misery increase with your age! I say to you, as I was said to: Away! Exit FIRST WATCH. A noble fellow, I warrant him. SECOND WATCH. The worthy fellow is our general; he's the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. Exeunt SCENE III. The tent of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others CORIOLANUS. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to th' Volscian lords how plainly I have borne this business. AUFIDIUS. Only their ends You have respected; stopp'd your ears against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper- no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you. CORIOLANUS. This last old man, Whom with crack'd heart I have sent to Rome, Lov'd me above the measure of a father; Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him; for whose old love I have- Though I show'd sourly to him- once more offer'd The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept. To grace him only, That thought he could do more, a very little I have yielded to; fresh embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to. [Shout within] Ha! what shout is this? Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time 'tis made? I will not. Enter, in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, VALERIA, YOUNG MARCIUS, with attendants My wife comes foremost, then the honour'd mould Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curtsy worth? or those doves' eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows, As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod; and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession which Great nature cries 'Deny not.' Let the Volsces Plough Rome and harrow Italy; I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As if a man were author of himself And knew no other kin. VIRGILIA. My lord and husband! CORIOLANUS. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. VIRGILIA. The sorrow that delivers us thus chang'd Makes you think so. CORIOLANUS. Like a dull actor now I have forgot my part and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny; but do not say, For that, 'Forgive our Romans.' O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgin'd it e'er since. You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i' th' earth; [Kneels] Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons. VOLUMNIA. O, stand up blest! Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint I kneel before thee, and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent. [Kneels] CORIOLANUS. What's this? Your knees to me, to your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun, Murd'ring impossibility, to make What cannot be slight work. VOLUMNIA. Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady? CORIOLANUS. The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That's curdied by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple- dear Valeria! VOLUMNIA. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by th' interpretation of full time May show like all yourself. CORIOLANUS. The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' th' wars Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw, And saving those that eye thee! VOLUMNIA. Your knee, sirrah. CORIOLANUS. That's my brave boy. VOLUMNIA. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself, Are suitors to you. CORIOLANUS. I beseech you, peace! Or, if you'd ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate Again with Rome's mechanics. Tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not T'allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons. VOLUMNIA. O, no more, no more! You have said you will not grant us any thing- For we have nothing else to ask but that Which you deny already; yet we will ask, That, if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness; therefore hear us. CORIOLANUS. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we'll Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request? VOLUMNIA. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither; since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow, Making the mother, wife, and child, to see The son, the husband, and the father, tearing His country's bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity's most capital: thou bar'st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy. For how can we, Alas, how can we for our country pray, Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win; for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin, And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children's blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine; if I can not persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread- Trust to't, thou shalt not- on thy mother's womb That brought thee to this world. VIRGILIA. Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy to keep your name Living to time. BOY. 'A shall not tread on me! I'll run away till I am bigger, but then I'll fight. CORIOLANUS. Not of a woman's tenderness to be Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. I have sat too long. [Rising] VOLUMNIA. Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us As poisonous of your honour. No, our suit Is that you reconcile them: while the Volsces May say 'This mercy we have show'd,' the Romans 'This we receiv'd,' and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry 'Be blest For making up this peace!' Thou know'st, great son, The end of war's uncertain; but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogg'd with curses; Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wip'd it out, Destroy'd his country, and his name remains To th' ensuing age abhorr'd.' Speak to me, son. Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour, To imitate the graces of the gods, To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' th' air, And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you: He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy; Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons. There's no man in the world More bound to's mother, yet here he lets me prate Like one i' th' stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy, When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home Loaden with honour. Say my request's unjust, And spurn me back; but if it he not so, Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee, That thou restrain'st from me the duty which To a mother's part belongs. He turns away. Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees. To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down. An end; This is the last. So we will home to Rome, And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold's! This boy, that cannot tell what he would have But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny't. Come, let us go. This fellow had a Volscian to his mother; His wife is in Corioli, and his child Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch. I am hush'd until our city be afire, And then I'll speak a little. [He holds her by the hand, silent] CORIOLANUS. O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! You have won a happy victory to Rome; But for your son- believe it, O, believe it!- Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd, If not most mortal to him. But let it come. Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, I'll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less, or granted less, Aufidius? AUFIDIUS. I was mov'd withal. CORIOLANUS. I dare be sworn you were! And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, What peace you'fl make, advise me. For my part, I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you; and pray you Stand to me in this cause. O mother! wife! AUFIDIUS. [Aside] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee. Out of that I'll work Myself a former fortune. CORIOLANUS. [To the ladies] Ay, by and by; But we will drink together; and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have counter-seal'd. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you. All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace. Exeunt SCENE IV. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS and SICINIUS MENENIUS. See you yond coign o' th' Capitol, yond cornerstone? SICINIUS. Why, what of that? MENENIUS. If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope in't; our throats are sentenc'd, and stay upon execution. SICINIUS. Is't possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man? MENENIUS. There is differency between a grub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown from man to dragon; he has wings, he's more than a creeping thing. SICINIUS. He lov'd his mother dearly. MENENIUS. So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes; when he walks, he moves like an engine and the ground shrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his eye, talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finish'd with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity, and a heaven to throne in. SICINIUS. Yes- mercy, if you report him truly. MENENIUS. I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him. There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger; that shall our poor city find. And all this is 'long of you. SICINIUS. The gods be good unto us! MENENIUS. No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banish'd him we respected not them; and, he returning to break our necks, they respect not us. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Sir, if you'd save your life, fly to your house. The plebeians have got your fellow tribune And hale him up and down; all swearing if The Roman ladies bring not comfort home They'll give him death by inches. Enter another MESSENGER SICINIUS. What's the news? SECOND MESSENGER. Good news, good news! The ladies have prevail'd, The Volscians are dislodg'd, and Marcius gone. A merrier day did never yet greet Rome, No, not th' expulsion of the Tarquins. SICINIUS. Friend, Art thou certain this is true? Is't most certain? SECOND MESSENGER. As certain as I know the sun is fire. Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it? Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide As the recomforted through th' gates. Why, hark you! [Trumpets, hautboys, drums beat, all together] The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes, Tabors and cymbals, and the shouting Romans, Make the sun dance. Hark you! [A shout within] MENENIUS. This is good news. I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians, A city full; of tribunes such as you, A sea and land full. You have pray'd well to-day: This morning for ten thousand of your throats I'd not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy! [Sound still with the shouts] SICINIUS. First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next, Accept my thankfulness. SECOND MESSENGER. Sir, we have all Great cause to give great thanks. SICINIUS. They are near the city? MESSENGER. Almost at point to enter. SICINIUS. We'll meet them, And help the joy. Exeunt SCENE V. Rome. A street near the gate Enter two SENATORS With VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, VALERIA, passing over the stage, 'With other LORDS FIRST SENATOR. Behold our patroness, the life of Rome! Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, And make triumphant fires; strew flowers before them. Unshout the noise that banish'd Marcius, Repeal him with the welcome of his mother; ALL. Welcome, ladies, welcome! [A flourish with drums and trumpets. Exeunt] SCENE VI. Corioli. A public place Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with attendents AUFIDIUS. Go tell the lords o' th' city I am here; Deliver them this paper' having read it, Bid them repair to th' market-place, where I, Even in theirs and in the commons' ears, Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse The city ports by this hath enter'd and Intends t' appear before the people, hoping To purge himself with words. Dispatch. Exeunt attendants Enter three or four CONSPIRATORS of AUFIDIUS' faction Most welcome! FIRST CONSPIRATOR. How is it with our general? AUFIDIUS. Even so As with a man by his own alms empoison'd, And with his charity slain. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. Most noble sir, If you do hold the same intent wherein You wish'd us parties, we'll deliver you Of your great danger. AUFIDIUS. Sir, I cannot tell; We must proceed as we do find the people. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. The people will remain uncertain whilst 'Twixt you there's difference; but the fall of either Makes the survivor heir of all. AUFIDIUS. I know it; And my pretext to strike at him admits A good construction. I rais'd him, and I pawn'd Mine honour for his truth; who being so heighten'd, He watered his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends; and to this end He bow'd his nature, never known before But to be rough, unswayable, and free. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Sir, his stoutness When he did stand for consul, which he lost By lack of stooping- AUFIDIUS. That I would have spoken of. Being banish'd for't, he came unto my hearth, Presented to my knife his throat. I took him; Made him joint-servant with me; gave him way In all his own desires; nay, let him choose Out of my files, his projects to accomplish, My best and freshest men; serv'd his designments In mine own person; holp to reap the fame Which he did end all his, and took some pride To do myself this wrong. Till, at the last, I seem'd his follower, not partner; and He wag'd me with his countenance as if I had been mercenary. FIRST CONSPIRATOR. So he did, my lord. The army marvell'd at it; and, in the last, When he had carried Rome and that we look'd For no less spoil than glory- AUFIDIUS. There was it; For which my sinews shall be stretch'd upon him. At a few drops of women's rheum, which are As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour Of our great action; therefore shall he die, And I'll renew me in his fall. But, hark! [Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of the people] FIRST CONSPIRATOR. Your native town you enter'd like a post, And had no welcomes home; but he returns Splitting the air with noise. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. And patient fools, Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear With giving him glory. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Therefore, at your vantage, Ere he express himself or move the people With what he would say, let him feel your sword, Which we will second. When he lies along, After your way his tale pronounc'd shall bury His reasons with his body. AUFIDIUS. Say no more: Here come the lords. Enter the LORDS of the city LORDS. You are most welcome home. AUFIDIUS. I have not deserv'd it. But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused What I have written to you? LORDS. We have. FIRST LORD. And grieve to hear't. What faults he made before the last, I think Might have found easy fines; but there to end Where he was to begin, and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own charge, making a treaty where There was a yielding- this admits no excuse. AUFIDIUS. He approaches; you shall hear him. Enter CORIOLANUS, marching with drum and colours; the commoners being with him CORIOLANUS. Hail, lords! I am return'd your soldier; No more infected with my country's love Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know That prosperously I have attempted, and With bloody passage led your wars even to The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home Doth more than counterpoise a full third part The charges of the action. We have made peace With no less honour to the Antiates Than shame to th' Romans; and we here deliver, Subscrib'd by th' consuls and patricians, Together with the seal o' th' Senate, what We have compounded on. AUFIDIUS. Read it not, noble lords; But tell the traitor in the highest degree He hath abus'd your powers. CORIOLANUS. Traitor! How now? AUFIDIUS. Ay, traitor, Marcius. CORIOLANUS. Marcius! AUFIDIUS. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius! Dost thou think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol'n name Coriolanus, in Corioli? You lords and heads o' th' state, perfidiously He has betray'd your business and given up, For certain drops of salt, your city Rome- I say your city- to his wife and mother; Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk; never admitting Counsel o' th' war; but at his nurse's tears He whin'd and roar'd away your victory, That pages blush'd at him, and men of heart Look'd wond'ring each at others. CORIOLANUS. Hear'st thou, Mars? AUFIDIUS. Name not the god, thou boy of tears- CORIOLANUS. Ha! AUFIDIUS. -no more. CORIOLANUS. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. 'Boy'! O slave! Pardon me, lords, 'tis the first time that ever I was forc'd to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie; and his own notion- Who wears my stripes impress'd upon him, that Must bear my beating to his grave- shall join To thrust the lie unto him. FIRST LORD. Peace, both, and hear me speak. CORIOLANUS. Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. 'Boy'! False hound! If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Flutter'd your Volscians in Corioli. Alone I did it. 'Boy'! AUFIDIUS. Why, noble lords, Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune, Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart, Fore your own eyes and ears? CONSPIRATORS. Let him die for't. ALL THE PEOPLE. Tear him to pieces. Do it presently. He kill'd my son. My daughter. He kill'd my cousin Marcus. He kill'd my father. SECOND LORD. Peace, ho! No outrage- peace! The man is noble, and his fame folds in This orb o' th' earth. His last offences to us Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, And trouble not the peace. CORIOLANUS. O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more- his tribe, To use my lawful sword! AUFIDIUS. Insolent villain! CONSPIRATORS. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him! [The CONSPIRATORS draw and kill CORIOLANUS,who falls. AUFIDIUS stands on him] LORDS. Hold, hold, hold, hold! AUFIDIUS. My noble masters, hear me speak. FIRST LORD. O Tullus! SECOND LORD. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep. THIRD LORD. Tread not upon him. Masters all, be quiet; Put up your swords. AUFIDIUS. My lords, when you shall know- as in this rage, Provok'd by him, you cannot- the great danger Which this man's life did owe you, you'll rejoice That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours To call me to your Senate, I'll deliver Myself your loyal servant, or endure Your heaviest censure. FIRST LORD. Bear from hence his body, And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded As the most noble corse that ever herald Did follow to his um. SECOND LORD. His own impatience Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame. Let's make the best of it. AUFIDIUS. My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' th' chiefest soldiers; I'll be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully; Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist. Exeunt, bearing the body of CORIOLANUS [A dead march sounded] THE END <> 1609 CYMBELINE by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae CYMBELINE, King of Britain CLOTEN, son to the Queen by a former husband POSTHUMUS LEONATUS, a gentleman, husband to Imogen BELARIUS, a banished lord, disguised under the name of Morgan GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS, sons to Cymbeline, disguised under the names of POLYDORE and CADWAL, supposed sons to Belarius PHILARIO, Italian, friend to Posthumus IACHIMO, Italian, friend to Philario A FRENCH GENTLEMAN, friend to Philario CAIUS LUCIUS, General of the Roman Forces A ROMAN CAPTAIN TWO BRITISH CAPTAINS PISANIO, servant to Posthumus CORNELIUS, a physician TWO LORDS of Cymbeline's court TWO GENTLEMEN of the same TWO GAOLERS QUEEN, wife to Cymbeline IMOGEN, daughter to Cymbeline by a former queen HELEN, a lady attending on Imogen APPARITIONS Lords, Ladies, Roman Senators, Tribunes, a Soothsayer, a Dutch Gentleman, a Spanish Gentleman, Musicians, Officers, Captains, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants <> SCENE: Britain; Italy ACT I. SCENE I. Britain. The garden of CYMBELINE'S palace FIRST GENTLEMAN. You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the King's. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what's the matter? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His daughter, and the heir of's kingdom, whom He purpos'd to his wife's sole son- a widow That late he married- hath referr'd herself Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She's wedded; Her husband banish'd; she imprison'd. All Is outward sorrow, though I think the King Be touch'd at very heart. SECOND GENTLEMAN. None but the King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath lost her too. So is the Queen, That most desir'd the match. But not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King's looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And why so? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath miss'd the Princess is a thing Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her- I mean that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish'd- is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You speak him far. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What's his name and birth? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I cannot delve him to the root; his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He serv'd with glory and admir'd success, So gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus; And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars o' th' time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being; and his gentle lady, Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas'd As he was born. The King he takes the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make him the receiver of; which he took, As we do air, fast as 'twas minist'red, And in's spring became a harvest, liv'd in court- Which rare it is to do- most prais'd, most lov'd, A sample to the youngest; to th' more mature A glass that feated them; and to the graver A child that guided dotards. To his mistress, For whom he now is banish'd- her own price Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I honour him Even out of your report. But pray you tell me, Is she sole child to th' King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His only child. He had two sons- if this be worth your hearing, Mark it- the eldest of them at three years old, I' th' swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. SECOND GENTLEMAN. How long is this ago? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That a king's children should be so convey'd, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow That could not trace them! FIRST GENTLEMAN. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do well believe you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. We must forbear; here comes the gentleman, The Queen, and Princess. Exeunt Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN QUEEN. No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey'd unto you. You're my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win th' offended King, I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you. POSTHUMUS. Please your Highness, I will from hence to-day. QUEEN. You know the peril. I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections, though the King Hath charg'd you should not speak together. Exit IMOGEN. O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing- Always reserv'd my holy duty- what His rage can do on me. You must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again. POSTHUMUS. My queen! my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth; My residence in Rome at one Philario's, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Re-enter QUEEN QUEEN. Be brief, I pray you. If the King come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I'll move him To walk this way. I never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for my offences. Exit POSTHUMUS. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! IMOGEN. Nay, stay a little. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love: This diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; But keep it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead. POSTHUMUS. How, how? Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here [Puts on the ring] While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles I still win of you. For my sake wear this; It is a manacle of love; I'll place it Upon this fairest prisoner. [Puts a bracelet on her arm] IMOGEN. O the gods! When shall we see again? Enter CYMBELINE and LORDS POSTHUMUS. Alack, the King! CYMBELINE. Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood. POSTHUMUS. The gods protect you, And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone. Exit IMOGEN. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. CYMBELINE. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st A year's age on me! IMOGEN. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation. I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. CYMBELINE. Past grace? obedience? IMOGEN. Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace. CYMBELINE. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen! IMOGEN. O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock. CYMBELINE. Thou took'st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness. IMOGEN. No; I rather added A lustre to it. CYMBELINE. O thou vile one! IMOGEN. Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus. You bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman; overbuys me Almost the sum he pays. CYMBELINE. What, art thou mad? IMOGEN. Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd's son! Re-enter QUEEN CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing! [To the QUEEN] They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up. QUEEN. Beseech your patience.- Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace!- Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort Out of your best advice. CYMBELINE. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day and, being aged, Die of this folly. Exit, with LORDS Enter PISANIO QUEEN. Fie! you must give way. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news? PISANIO. My lord your son drew on my master. QUEEN. Ha! No harm, I trust, is done? PISANIO. There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than fought, And had no help of anger; they were parted By gentlemen at hand. QUEEN. I am very glad on't. IMOGEN. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both together; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came you from your master? PISANIO. On his command. He would not suffer me To bring him to the haven; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to, When't pleas'd you to employ me. QUEEN. This hath been Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour He will remain so. PISANIO. I humbly thank your Highness. QUEEN. Pray walk awhile. IMOGEN. About some half-hour hence, Pray you speak with me. You shall at least Go see my lord aboard. For this time leave me. Exeunt SCENE II. Britain. A public place Enter CLOTEN and two LORDS FIRST LORD. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. CLOTEN. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him? SECOND LORD. [Aside] No, faith; not so much as his patience. FIRST LORD. Hurt him! His body's a passable carcass if he be not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt. SECOND LORD. [Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o' th' back side the town. CLOTEN. The villain would not stand me. SECOND LORD. [Aside] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face. FIRST LORD. Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground. SECOND LORD. [Aside] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies! CLOTEN. I would they had not come between us. SECOND LORD. [Aside] So would I, till you had measur'd how long a fool you were upon the ground. CLOTEN. And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me! SECOND LORD. [Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn'd. FIRST LORD. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she's a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit. SECOND LORD. [Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her. CLOTEN. Come, I'll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done! SECOND LORD. [Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt. CLOTEN. You'll go with us? FIRST LORD. I'll attend your lordship. CLOTEN. Nay, come, let's go together. SECOND LORD. Well, my lord. Exeunt SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter IMOGEN and PISANIO IMOGEN. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven, And questioned'st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost, As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee? PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen! IMOGEN. Then wav'd his handkerchief? PISANIO. And kiss'd it, madam. IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I! And that was all? PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with his eye, or care Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him. PISANIO. Madam, so I did. IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack'd them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him? PISANIO. Be assur'd, madam, With his next vantage. IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg'd him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, T' encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. Enter a LADY LADY. The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness' company. IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch'd. I will attend the Queen. PISANIO. Madam, I shall. Exeunt SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter PHILARIO, IACHIMO, a FRENCHMAN, a DUTCHMAN, and a SPANIARD IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look'd on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items. PHILARIO. You speak of him when he was less furnish'd than now he is with that which makes him both without and within. FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his king's daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter. FRENCHMAN. And then his banishment. IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance? PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Enter POSTHUMUS Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing. FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans. POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still. FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o'errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature. POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn'd to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others' experiences; but upon my mended judgment- if I offend not to say it is mended- my quarrel was not altogether slight. FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall'n both. IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference? FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. 'Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching- and upon warrant of bloody affirmation- his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France. IACHIMO. That lady is not now living, or this gentleman's opinion, by this, worn out. POSTHUMUS. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind. IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer her fore ours of Italy. POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok'd as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend. IACHIMO. As fair and as good- a kind of hand-in-hand comparison- had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. POSTHUMUS. I prais'd her as I rated her. So do I my stone. IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at? POSTHUMUS. More than the world enjoys. IACHIMO. Either your unparagon'd mistress is dead, or she's outpriz'd by a trifle. POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. IACHIMO. Which the gods have given you? POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep. IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol'n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish'd courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last. POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish'd a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring. PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen. POSTHUMUS. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first. IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend. POSTHUMUS. No, no. IACHIMO. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o'ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus'd in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y'are worthy of by your attempt. IACHIMO. What's that? POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more- a punishment too. PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted. IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour's on th' approbation of what I have spoke! POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to assail? IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv'd. POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; 'tis part of it. IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear. POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope. IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what's spoken, I swear. POSTHUMUS. Will you? I Shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between's. My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: here's my ring. PHILARIO. I will have it no lay. IACHIMO. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy'd the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours- provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment. POSTHUMUS. I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail'd, I am no further your enemy- she is not worth our debate; if she remain unseduc'd, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and th' assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword. IACHIMO. Your hand- a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. POSTHUMUS. Agreed. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and IACHIMO FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you? PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow 'em. Exeunt SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter QUEEN, LADIES, and CORNELIUS QUEEN. Whiles yet the dew's on ground, gather those flowers; Make haste; who has the note of them? LADY. I, madam. QUEEN. Dispatch. Exeunt LADIES Now, Master Doctor, have you brought those drugs? CORNELIUS. Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they are, madam. [Presenting a box] But I beseech your Grace, without offence- My conscience bids me ask- wherefore you have Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds Which are the movers of a languishing death, But, though slow, deadly? QUEEN. I wonder, Doctor, Thou ask'st me such a question. Have I not been Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn'd me how To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections? Having thus far proceeded- Unless thou think'st me devilish- is't not meet That I did amplify my judgment in Other conclusions? I will try the forces Of these thy compounds on such creatures as We count not worth the hanging- but none human- To try the vigour of them, and apply Allayments to their act, and by them gather Their several virtues and effects. CORNELIUS. Your Highness Shall from this practice but make hard your heart; Besides, the seeing these effects will be Both noisome and infectious. QUEEN. O, content thee. Enter PISANIO [Aside] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him Will I first work. He's for his master, An enemy to my son.- How now, Pisanio! Doctor, your service for this time is ended; Take your own way. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do suspect you, madam; But you shall do no harm. QUEEN. [To PISANIO] Hark thee, a word. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she has Strange ling'ring poisons. I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of her malice with A drug of such damn'd nature. Those she has Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile, Which first perchance she'll prove on cats and dogs, Then afterward up higher; but there is No danger in what show of death it makes, More than the locking up the spirits a time, To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool'd With a most false effect; and I the truer So to be false with her. QUEEN. No further service, Doctor, Until I send for thee. CORNELIUS. I humbly take my leave. Exit QUEEN. Weeps she still, say'st thou? Dost thou think in time She will not quench, and let instructions enter Where folly now possesses? Do thou work. When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, I'll tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master; greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name Is at last gasp. Return he cannot, nor Continue where he is. To shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes comes to A day's work in him. What shalt thou expect To be depender on a thing that leans, Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends So much as but to prop him? [The QUEEN drops the box. PISANIO takes it up] Thou tak'st up Thou know'st not what; but take it for thy labour. It is a thing I made, which hath the King Five times redeem'd from death. I do not know What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee take it; It is an earnest of a further good That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how The case stands with her; do't as from thyself. Think what a chance thou changest on; but think Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son, Who shall take notice of thee. I'll move the King To any shape of thy preferment, such As thou'lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this desert, am bound To load thy merit richly. Call my women. Think on my words. Exit PISANIO A sly and constant knave, Not to be shak'd; the agent for his master, And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of leigers for her sweet; and which she after, Except she bend her humour, shall be assur'd To taste of too. Re-enter PISANIO and LADIES So, so. Well done, well done. The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio; Think on my words. Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES PISANIO. And shall do. But when to my good lord I prove untrue I'll choke myself- there's all I'll do for you. Exit SCENE VI. Britain. The palace Enter IMOGEN alone IMOGEN. A father cruel and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady That hath her husband banish'd. O, that husband! My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n, As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable Is the desire that's glorious. Blessed be those, How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie! Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO PISANIO. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome Comes from my lord with letters. IACHIMO. Change you, madam? The worthy Leonatus is in safety, And greets your Highness dearly. [Presents a letter] IMOGEN. Thanks, good sir. You're kindly welcome. IACHIMO. [Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich! If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare, She is alone th' Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; Rather, directly fly. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust. LEONATUS.' So far I read aloud; But even the very middle of my heart Is warm'd by th' rest and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you; and shall find it so In all that I can do. IACHIMO. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones Upon the number'd beach, and can we not Partition make with spectacles so precious 'Twixt fair and foul? IMOGEN. What makes your admiration? IACHIMO. It cannot be i' th' eye, for apes and monkeys, 'Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and Contemn with mows the other; nor i' th' judgment, For idiots in this case of favour would Be wisely definite; nor i' th' appetite; Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos'd, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur'd to feed. IMOGEN. What is the matter, trow? IACHIMO. The cloyed will- That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill'd and running- ravening first the lamb, Longs after for the garbage. IMOGEN. What, dear sir, Thus raps you? Are you well? IACHIMO. Thanks, madam; well.- Beseech you, sir, Desire my man's abode where I did leave him. He's strange and peevish. PISANIO. I was going, sir, To give him welcome. Exit IMOGEN. Continues well my lord? His health beseech you? IACHIMO. Well, madam. IMOGEN. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope he is. IACHIMO. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome. He is call'd The Britain reveller. IMOGEN. When he was here He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why. IACHIMO. I never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton- Your lord, I mean- laughs from's free lungs, cries 'O, Can my sides hold, to think that man- who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be- will's free hours languish for Assured bondage?' IMOGEN. Will my lord say so? IACHIMO. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. It is a recreation to be by And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know Some men are much to blame. IMOGEN. Not he, I hope. IACHIMO. Not he; but yet heaven's bounty towards him might Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much; In you, which I account his, beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound To pity too. IMOGEN. What do you pity, sir? IACHIMO. Two creatures heartily. IMOGEN. Am I one, sir? You look on me: what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity? IACHIMO. Lamentable! What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I' th' dungeon by a snuff? IMOGEN. I pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me? IACHIMO. That others do, I was about to say, enjoy your- But It is an office of the gods to venge it, Not mine to speak on't. IMOGEN. You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you- Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born- discover to me What both you spur and stop. IACHIMO. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul To th' oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; should I, damn'd then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood- falsehood as With labour; then by-peeping in an eye Base and illustrious as the smoky light That's fed with stinking tallow- it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt. IMOGEN. My lord, I fear, Has forgot Britain. IACHIMO. And himself. Not I Inclin'd to this intelligence pronounce The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out. IMOGEN. Let me hear no more. IACHIMO. O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart With pity that doth make me sick! A lady So fair, and fasten'd to an empery, Would make the great'st king double, to be partner'd With tomboys hir'd with that self exhibition Which your own coffers yield! with diseas'd ventures That play with all infirmities for gold Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff As well might poison poison! Be reveng'd; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil from your great stock. IMOGEN. Reveng'd? How should I be reveng'd? If this be true- As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse- if it be true, How should I be reveng'd? IACHIMO. Should he make me Live like Diana's priest betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection, Still close as sure. IMOGEN. What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. Let me my service tender on your lips. IMOGEN. Away! I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange. Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far From thy report as thou from honour; and Solicits here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike.- What ho, Pisanio!- The King my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew, and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for, and a daughter who He not respects at all.- What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. O happy Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assur'd credit. Blessed live you long, A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call'd his! and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. I have spoke this to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord That which he is new o'er; and he is one The truest manner'd, such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him, Half all men's hearts are his. IMOGEN. You make amends. IACHIMO. He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him of More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon. IMOGEN. All's well, sir; take my pow'r i' th' court for yours. IACHIMO. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot T' entreat your Grace but in a small request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other noble friends Are partners in the business. IMOGEN. Pray what is't? IACHIMO. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord- The best feather of our wing- have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor; Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France. 'Tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in safe stowage. May it please you To take them in protection? IMOGEN. Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber. IACHIMO. They are in a trunk, Attended by my men. I will make bold To send them to you only for this night; I must aboard to-morrow. IMOGEN. O, no, no. IACHIMO. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By length'ning my return. From Gallia I cross'd the seas on purpose and on promise To see your Grace. IMOGEN. I thank you for your pains. But not away to-morrow! IACHIMO. O, I must, madam. Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night. I have outstood my time, which is material 'To th' tender of our present. IMOGEN. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. Britain. Before CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss'd the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on't; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure. FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. SECOND LORD. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out. CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha? SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them. CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been one of my rank! SECOND LORD. [Aside] To have smell'd like a fool. CLOTEN. I am not vex'd more at anything in th' earth. A pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on. CLOTEN. Sayest thou? SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to. CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. CLOTEN. Why, so I say. FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night? CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on't? SECOND LORD. [Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. FIRST LORD. There's an Italian come, and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus' friends. CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish'd rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger? FIRST LORD. One of your lordship's pages. CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't? SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord. CLOTEN. Not easily, I think. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate. CLOTEN. Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go. SECOND LORD. I'll attend your lordship. Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak'd That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T' enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Exit SCENE II. Britain. IMOGEN'S bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen? LADY. Please you, madam. IMOGEN. What hour is it? LADY. Almost midnight, madam. IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' th' clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. Exit LADY To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye! [Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk] IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that's riveted, Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes] One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk SCENE III. CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments Enter CLOTEN and LORDS FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up ace. CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose. FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not? FIRST LORD. Day, my lord. CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate. Enter musicians Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it- and then let her consider. SONG Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flow'rs that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise! So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN SECOND LORD. Here comes the King. CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother. CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth? CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice. CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she's yours. QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless. CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. Exeunt all but CLOTEN CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks] I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold Which buys admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th' stand o' th' stealer; and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave. [Knocks] Enter a LADY LADY. Who's there that knocks? CLOTEN. A gentleman. LADY. No more? CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. LADY. That's more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure? CLOTEN. Your lady's person; is she ready? LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber. CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report. LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess! Enter IMOGEN CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand. Exit LADY IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you. IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. CLOTEN. This is no answer. IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin; I will not. IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks. CLOTEN. Do you call me fool? IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do; If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady's manners By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th' very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast. CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o' th' court- it is no contract, none. And though it be allowed in meaner parties- Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls- On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot, Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler- not so eminent! IMOGEN. Profane fellow! Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr'd so well. CLOTEN. The south fog rot him! IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment That ever hath but clipp'd his body is dearer In my respect than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio! Enter PISANIO CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil- IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently. CLOTEN. 'His garment'! IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe! I do think I saw't this morning; confident I am Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost. IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO CLOTEN. You have abus'd me. 'His meanest garment'! IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't. CLOTEN. I will inform your father. IMOGEN. Your mother too. She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th' worst of discontent. Exit CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd. 'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure To win the King as I am bold her honour Will remain hers. PHILARIO. What means do you make to him? POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter's state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear'd hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor. PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O'erpays all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius Will do's commission throughly; and I think He'll grant the tribute, send th' arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief. POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world. Enter IACHIMO PHILARIO. See! Iachimo! POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land, And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble. PHILARIO. Welcome, sir. POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return. IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon. POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them. IACHIMO. Here are letters for you. POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust. IACHIMO. 'Tis very like. PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there? IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach'd. POSTHUMUS. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not Too dull for your good wearing? IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I'll make a journey twice as far t' enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won. POSTHUMUS. The stone's too hard to come by. IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy. POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must not continue friends. IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills. POSTHUMUS. If you can make't apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them. IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe- whose strength I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not You'll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not. POSTHUMUS. Proceed. IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber, Where I confess I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching-it was hang'd With tapestry of silk and silver; the story, Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride. A piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on't was- POSTHUMUS. This is true; And this you might have heard of here, by me Or by some other. IACHIMO. More particulars Must justify my knowledge. POSTHUMUS. So they must, Or do your honour injury. IACHIMO. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures So likely to report themselves. The cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out. POSTHUMUS. This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of. IACHIMO. The roof o' th' chamber With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons- I had forgot them- were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands. POSTHUMUS. This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise Be given to your remembrance; the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid. IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [Shows the bracelet] Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See! And now 'tis up again. It must be married To that your diamond; I'll keep them. POSTHUMUS. Jove! Once more let me behold it. Is it that Which I left with her? IACHIMO. Sir- I thank her- that. She stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me, and said She priz'd it once. POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck'd it of To send it me. IACHIMO. She writes so to you, doth she? POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too; [Gives the ring] It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love Where there's another man. The vows of women Of no more bondage be to where they are made Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. O, above measure false! PHILARIO. Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won. It may be probable she lost it, or Who knows if one her women, being corrupted Hath stol'n it from her? POSTHUMUS. Very true; And so I hope he came by't. Back my ring. Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than this; for this was stol'n. IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm! POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true- nay, keep the ring, 'tis true. I am sure She would not lose it. Her attendants are All sworn and honourable- they induc'd to steal it! And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy'd her. The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you! PHILARIO. Sir, be patient; This is not strong enough to be believ'd Of one persuaded well of. POSTHUMUS. Never talk on't; She hath been colted by him. IACHIMO. If you seek For further satisfying, under her breast- Worthy the pressing- lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodging. By my life, I kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger To feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her? POSTHUMUS. Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it. IACHIMO. Will you hear more? POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns. Once, and a million! IACHIMO. I'll be sworn- POSTHUMUS. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done't, you lie; And I will kill thee if thou dost deny Thou'st made me cuckold. IACHIMO. I'll deny nothing. POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! I will go there and do't, i' th' court, before Her father. I'll do something- Exit PHILARIO. Quite besides The government of patience! You have won. Let's follow him and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself. IACHIMO. With all my heart. Exeunt SCENE V. Rome. Another room in PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS POSTHUMUS. Is there no way for men to be, but women Must be half-workers? We are all bastards, And that most venerable man which I Did call my father was I know not where When I was stamp'd. Some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem'd The Dian of that time. So doth my wife The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance! Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd, And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't Might well have warm'd old Saturn; that I thought her As chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils! This yellow Iachimo in an hour- was't not? Or less!- at first? Perchance he spoke not, but, Like a full-acorn'd boar, a German one, Cried 'O!' and mounted; found no opposition But what he look'd for should oppose and she Should from encounter guard. Could I find out The woman's part in me! For there's no motion That tends to vice in man but I affirm It is the woman's part. Be it lying, note it, The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, Nice longing, slanders, mutability, All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows, Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all; For even to vice They are not constant, but are changing still One vice but of a minute old for one Not half so old as that. I'll write against them, Detest them, curse them. Yet 'tis greater skill In a true hate to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague them better. Exit <> ACT III. SCENE I. Britain. A hall in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter in state, CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, and LORDS at one door, and at another CAIUS LUCIUS and attendants CYMBELINE. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us? LUCIUS. When Julius Caesar- whose remembrance yet Lives in men's eyes, and will to ears and tongues Be theme and hearing ever- was in this Britain, And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle, Famous in Caesar's praises no whit less Than in his feats deserving it, for him And his succession granted Rome a tribute, Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately Is left untender'd. QUEEN. And, to kill the marvel, Shall be so ever. CLOTEN. There be many Caesars Ere such another Julius. Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses. QUEEN. That opportunity, Which then they had to take from 's, to resume We have again. Remember, sir, my liege, The kings your ancestors, together with The natural bravery of your isle, which stands As Neptune's park, ribb'd and pal'd in With rocks unscalable and roaring waters, With sands that will not bear your enemies' boats But suck them up to th' top-mast. A kind of conquest Caesar made here; but made not here his brag Of 'came, and saw, and overcame.' With shame- The first that ever touch'd him- he was carried From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping- Poor ignorant baubles!- on our terrible seas, Like egg-shells mov'd upon their surges, crack'd As easily 'gainst our rocks; for joy whereof The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point- O, giglot fortune!- to master Caesar's sword, Made Lud's Town with rejoicing fires bright And Britons strut with courage. CLOTEN. Come, there's no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no moe such Caesars. Other of them may have crook'd noses; but to owe such straight arms, none. CYMBELINE. Son, let your mother end. CLOTEN. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan. I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? Why should we pay tribute? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now. CYMBELINE. You must know, Till the injurious Romans did extort This tribute from us, we were free. Caesar's ambition- Which swell'd so much that it did almost stretch The sides o' th' world- against all colour here Did put the yoke upon's; which to shake of Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon Ourselves to be. CLOTEN. We do. CYMBELINE. Say then to Caesar, Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which Ordain'd our laws- whose use the sword of Caesar Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws, Who was the first of Britain which did put His brows within a golden crown, and call'd Himself a king. LUCIUS. I am sorry, Cymbeline, That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar- Caesar, that hath moe kings his servants than Thyself domestic officers- thine enemy. Receive it from me, then: war and confusion In Caesar's name pronounce I 'gainst thee; look For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, I thank thee for myself. CYMBELINE. Thou art welcome, Caius. Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent Much under him; of him I gather'd honour, Which he to seek of me again, perforce, Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent Which not to read would show the Britons cold; So Caesar shall not find them. LUCIUS. Let proof speak. CLOTEN. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer. If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle. If you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there's an end. LUCIUS. So, sir. CYMBELINE. I know your master's pleasure, and he mine; All the remain is, welcome. Exeunt SCENE II. Britain. Another room in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter PISANIO reading of a letter PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange infection Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian- As poisonous-tongu'd as handed- hath prevail'd On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] 'Do't. The letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.' O damn'd paper, Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a fedary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. Enter IMOGEN I am ignorant in what I am commanded. IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio! PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord- Leonatus? O, learn'd indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters- He'd lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content; yet not That we two are asunder- let that grieve him! Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love- of his content, All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods! [Reads] 'Justice and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.' O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio- Who long'st like me to see thy lord, who long'st- O, let me 'bate!- but not like me, yet long'st, But in a fainter kind- O, not like me, For mine's beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick- Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th' smothering of the sense- how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as T' inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour? PISANIO. One score 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too. IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's huswife. PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider. IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt SCENE III. Wales. A mountainous country with a cave Enter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven! ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven! BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours! GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd, Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not What air's from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit. ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you but know the city's usuries, And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search, And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse- Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once first with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather. GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour! BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains! This is not hunters' language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys. Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd! O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit SCENE IV. Wales, near Milford Haven Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN IMOGEN. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th' inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter? Why tender'st thou that paper to me with A look untender! If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand? That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me. PISANIO. Please you read, And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.' PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam? IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed, Is it? PISANIO. Alas, good lady! IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him. Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls I must be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies. PISANIO. Good madam, hear me. IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon's weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men: Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur'd From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master's bidding; when thou seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look! I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike. Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, But now thou seem'st a coward. PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my hand. IMOGEN. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart- Something's afore't. Soft, soft! we'll no defence!- Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn'd to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers; though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, That didst set up my disobedience 'gainst the King My father, and make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage but A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee dispatch. The lamp entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, When I desire it too. PISANIO. O gracious lady, Since I receiv'd command to do this busines I have not slept one wink. IMOGEN. Do't, and to bed then. PISANIO. I'll wake mine eyeballs first. IMOGEN. Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus'd So many miles with a pretence? This place? Mine action and thine own? our horses' labour? The time inviting thee? the perturb'd court, For my being absent?- whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand, Th' elected deer before thee? PISANIO. But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider'd of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience. IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary- speak. I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. PISANIO. Then, madam, I thought you would not back again. IMOGEN. Most like- Bringing me here to kill me. PISANIO. Not so, neither; But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus'd. Some villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury. IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan! PISANIO. No, on my life! I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for 'tis commanded I should do so. You shall be miss'd at court, And that will well confirm it. IMOGEN. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? where bide? how live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband? PISANIO. If you'll back to th' court- IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing- That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege. PISANIO. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide. IMOGEN. Where then? Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they not but in Britain? I' th' world's volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in't; In a great pool a swan's nest. Prithee think There's livers out of Britain. PISANIO. I am most glad You think of other place. Th' ambassador, LUCIUS the Roman, comes to Milford Haven To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which t' appear itself must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least, That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves. IMOGEN. O! for such means, Though peril to my modesty, not death on't, I would adventure. PISANIO. Well then, here's the point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness- The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman it pretty self- into a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it- but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy!- to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein You made great Juno angry. IMOGEN. Nay, be brief; I see into thy end, and am almost A man already. PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one. Fore-thinking this, I have already fit- 'Tis in my cloak-bag- doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them. Would you, in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him Wherein you're happy- which will make him know If that his head have ear in music; doubtless With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable, And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad- You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment. IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Prithee away! There's more to be consider'd; but we'll even All that good time will give us. This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince's courage. Away, I prithee. PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box; I had it from the Queen. What's in't is precious. If you are sick at sea Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best! IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee. Exeunt severally SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS CYMBELINE. Thus far; and so farewell. LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence, And am right sorry that I must report ye My master's enemy. CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike. LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct overland to Milford Haven. Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you! CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit. So farewell, noble Lucius. LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord. CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy. LUCIUS. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well. CYMBELINE. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness! Exeunt LUCIUS and LORDS QUEEN. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause. CLOTEN. 'Tis all the better; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. CYMBELINE. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness. The pow'rs that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain. QUEEN. 'Tis not sleepy business, But must be look'd to speedily and strongly. CYMBELINE. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd The duty of the day. She looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty; We have noted it. Call her before us, for We have been too slight in sufferance. Exit a MESSENGER QUEEN. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her; she's a lady So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, And strokes death to her. Re-enter MESSENGER CYMBELINE. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? MESSENGER. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be given to th' loud of noise we make. QUEEN. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close; Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity She should that duty leave unpaid to you Which daily she was bound to proffer. This She wish'd me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in memory. CYMBELINE. Her doors lock'd? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Prove false! Exit QUEEN. Son, I say, follow the King. CLOTEN. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days. QUEEN. Go, look after. Exit CLOTEN Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz'd her; Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she's flown To her desir'd Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonour, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British crown. Re-enter CLOTEN How now, my son? CLOTEN. 'Tis certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none Dare come about him. QUEEN. All the better. May This night forestall him of the coming day! Exit CLOTEN. I love and hate her; for she's fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment That what's else rare is chok'd; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng'd upon her. For when fools Shall- Enter PISANIO Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither. Ah, you precious pander! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the fiends. PISANIO. O good my lord! CLOTEN. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter- I will not ask again. Close villain, I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn. PISANIO. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss'd? He is in Rome. CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer. No farther halting! Satisfy me home What is become of her. PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord! CLOTEN. All-worthy villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word. No more of 'worthy lord'! Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death. PISANIO. Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight. [Presenting a letter] CLOTEN. Let's see't. I will pursue her Even to Augustus' throne. PISANIO. [Aside] Or this or perish. She's far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger. CLOTEN. Humh! PISANIO. [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter true? PISANIO. Sir, as I think. CLOTEN. It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry- that is, what villainy soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly- I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment. PISANIO. Well, my good lord. CLOTEN. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me? PISANIO. Sir, I will. CLOTEN. Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy late master's garments in thy possession? PISANIO. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress. CLOTEN. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy first service; go. PISANIO. I shall, my lord. Exit CLOTEN. Meet thee at Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one thing; I'll remember't anon. Even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time- the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart- that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined- which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so prais'd- to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis'd me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge. Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes Be those the garments? PISANIO. Ay, my noble lord. CLOTEN. How long is't since she went to Milford Haven? PISANIO. She can scarce be there yet. CLOTEN. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous and true, preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true. Exit PISANIO. Thou bid'st me to my loss; for true to thee Were to prove false, which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed Be cross'd with slowness! Labour be his meed! Exit SCENE VI. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one. I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here? If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword, like me, he'll scarcely look on't. Such a foe, good heavens! Exit into the cave Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what's homely savoury; weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep'st thyself! GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary. ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy. GUIDERIUS. What's the matter, sir? BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy! Re-enter IMOGEN IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol'n nought; nor would not though I had found Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and parted With pray'rs for the provider. GUIDERIUS. Money, youth? ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those Who worship dirty gods. IMOGEN. I see you're angry. Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Have died had I not made it. BELARIUS. Whither bound? IMOGEN. To Milford Haven. BELARIUS. What's your name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall'n in this offence. BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd! 'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty I bid for you as I'd buy. ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort He is a man. I'll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I'd give to him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends, If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so that they Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize Been less, and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus. BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress. GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't! ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be, What pain it cost, what danger! Gods! BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys. IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal'd them, laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! I'd change my sex to be companion with them, Since Leonatus' false. BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd, We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it. GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near. ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less welcome. IMOGEN. Thanks, sir. ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near. Exeunt SCENE VII. Rome. A public place Enter two ROMAN SENATORS and TRIBUNES FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor's writ: That since the common men are now in action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission. Long live Caesar! TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces? SECOND SENATOR. Ay. TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia? FIRST SENATOR. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch. TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE I. Wales. Near the cave of BELARIUS Enter CLOTEN alone CLOTEN. I am near to th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp'd it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather- saving reverence of the word- for 'tis said a woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber- I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me. Exit SCENE II. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter, from the cave, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, and IMOGEN BELARIUS. [To IMOGEN] You are not well. Remain here in the cave; We'll come to you after hunting. ARVIRAGUS. [To IMOGEN] Brother, stay here. Are we not brothers? IMOGEN. So man and man should be; But clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick. GUIDERIUS. Go you to hunting; I'll abide with him. IMOGEN. So sick I am not, yet I am not well; But not so citizen a wanton as To seem to die ere sick. So please you, leave me; Stick to your journal course. The breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me; society is no comfort To one not sociable. I am not very sick, Since I can reason of it. Pray you trust me here. I'll rob none but myself; and let me die, Stealing so poorly. GUIDERIUS. I love thee; I have spoke it. How much the quantity, the weight as much As I do love my father. BELARIUS. What? how? how? ARVIRAGUS. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me In my good brother's fault. I know not why I love this youth, and I have heard you say Love's reason's without reason. The bier at door, And a demand who is't shall die, I'd say 'My father, not this youth.' BELARIUS. [Aside] O noble strain! O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! Cowards father cowards and base things sire base. Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. I'm not their father; yet who this should be Doth miracle itself, lov'd before me.- 'Tis the ninth hour o' th' morn. ARVIRAGUS. Brother, farewell. IMOGEN. I wish ye sport. ARVIRAGUS. Your health. [To BELARIUS] So please you, sir. IMOGEN. [Aside] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard! Our courtiers say all's savage but at court. Experience, O, thou disprov'st report! Th' imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish, Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio, I'll now taste of thy drug. [Swallows some] GUIDERIUS. I could not stir him. He said he was gentle, but unfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. ARVIRAGUS. Thus did he answer me; yet said hereafter I might know more. BELARIUS. To th' field, to th' field! We'll leave you for this time. Go in and rest. ARVIRAGUS. We'll not be long away. BELARIUS. Pray be not sick, For you must be our huswife. IMOGEN. Well, or ill, I am bound to you. BELARIUS. And shalt be ever. Exit IMOGEN into the cave This youth, howe'er distress'd, appears he hath had Good ancestors. ARVIRAGUS. How angel-like he sings! GUIDERIUS. But his neat cookery! He cut our roots in characters, And sauc'd our broths as Juno had been sick, And he her dieter. ARVIRAGUS. Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh Was that it was for not being such a smile; The smile mocking the sigh that it would fly From so divine a temple to commix With winds that sailors rail at. GUIDERIUS. I do note That grief and patience, rooted in him both, Mingle their spurs together. ARVIRAGUS. Grow patience! And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine His perishing root with the increasing vine! BELARIUS. It is great morning. Come, away! Who's there? Enter CLOTEN CLOTEN. I cannot find those runagates; that villain Hath mock'd me. I am faint. BELARIUS. Those runagates? Means he not us? I partly know him; 'tis Cloten, the son o' th' Queen. I fear some ambush. I saw him not these many years, and yet I know 'tis he. We are held as outlaws. Hence! GUIDERIUS. He is but one; you and my brother search What companies are near. Pray you away; Let me alone with him. Exeunt BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS CLOTEN. Soft! What are you That fly me thus? Some villain mountaineers? I have heard of such. What slave art thou? GUIDERIUS. A thing More slavish did I ne'er than answering 'A slave' without a knock. CLOTEN. Thou art a robber, A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief. GUIDERIUS. To who? To thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine, a heart as big? Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art; Why I should yield to thee. CLOTEN. Thou villain base, Know'st me not by my clothes? GUIDERIUS. No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather; he made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee. CLOTEN. Thou precious varlet, My tailor made them not. GUIDERIUS. Hence, then, and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool; I am loath to beat thee. CLOTEN. Thou injurious thief, Hear but my name, and tremble. GUIDERIUS. What's thy name? CLOTEN. Cloten, thou villain. GUIDERIUS. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it. Were it toad, or adder, spider, 'Twould move me sooner. CLOTEN. To thy further fear, Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know I am son to th' Queen. GUIDERIUS. I'm sorry for't; not seeming So worthy as thy birth. CLOTEN. Art not afeard? GUIDERIUS. Those that I reverence, those I fear- the wise: At fools I laugh, not fear them. CLOTEN. Die the death. When I have slain thee with my proper hand, I'll follow those that even now fled hence, And on the gates of Lud's Town set your heads. Yield, rustic mountaineer. Exeunt, fighting Re-enter BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. No company's abroad. ARVIRAGUS. None in the world; you did mistake him, sure. BELARIUS. I cannot tell; long is it since I saw him, But time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of favour Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute 'Twas very Cloten. ARVIRAGUS. In this place we left them. I wish my brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell. BELARIUS. Being scarce made up, I mean to man, he had not apprehension Or roaring terrors; for defect of judgment Is oft the cease of fear. Re-enter GUIDERIUS with CLOTEN'S head But, see, thy brother. GUIDERIUS. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; There was no money in't. Not Hercules Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had none; Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne My head as I do his. BELARIUS. What hast thou done? GUIDERIUS. I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten's head, Son to the Queen, after his own report; Who call'd me traitor, mountaineer, and swore With his own single hand he'd take us in, Displace our heads where- thank the gods!- they grow, And set them on Lud's Town. BELARIUS. We are all undone. GUIDERIUS. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose But that he swore to take, our lives? The law Protects not us; then why should we be tender To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us, Play judge and executioner all himself, For we do fear the law? What company Discover you abroad? BELARIUS. No single soul Can we set eye on, but in an safe reason He must have some attendants. Though his humour Was nothing but mutation- ay, and that From one bad thing to worse- not frenzy, not Absolute madness could so far have rav'd, To bring him here alone. Although perhaps It may be heard at court that such as we Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head- the which he hearing, As it is like him, might break out and swear He'd fetch us in; yet is't not probable To come alone, either he so undertaking Or they so suffering. Then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this body hath a tail More perilous than the head. ARVIRAGUS. Let ordinance Come as the gods foresay it. Howsoe'er, My brother hath done well. BELARIUS. I had no mind To hunt this day; the boy Fidele's sickness Did make my way long forth. GUIDERIUS. With his own sword, Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en His head from him. I'll throw't into the creek Behind our rock, and let it to the sea And tell the fishes he's the Queen's son, Cloten. That's all I reck. Exit BELARIUS. I fear'twill be reveng'd. Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done't! though valour Becomes thee well enough. ARVIRAGUS. Would I had done't, So the revenge alone pursu'd me! Polydore, I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou hast robb'd me of this deed. I would revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us through, And put us to our answer. BELARIUS. Well, 'tis done. We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger Where there's no profit. I prithee to our rock. You and Fidele play the cooks; I'll stay Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him To dinner presently. ARVIRAGUS. Poor sick Fidele! I'll willingly to him; to gain his colour I'd let a parish of such Cloten's blood, And praise myself for charity. Exit BELARIUS. O thou goddess, Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon'st In these two princely boys! They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind That by the top doth take the mountain pine And make him stoop to th' vale. 'Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn'd, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow'd. Yet still it's strange What Cloten's being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us. Re-enter GUIDERIUS GUIDERIUS. Where's my brother? I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream, In embassy to his mother; his body's hostage For his return. [Solemn music] BELARIUS. My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds. But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark! GUIDERIUS. Is he at home? BELARIUS. He went hence even now. GUIDERIUS. What does he mean? Since death of my dear'st mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Should answer solemn accidents. The matter? Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. Is Cadwal mad? Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, with IMOGEN as dead, bearing her in his arms BELARIUS. Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his arms Of what we blame him for! ARVIRAGUS. The bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch, Than have seen this. GUIDERIUS. O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears thee not the one half so well As when thou grew'st thyself. BELARIUS. O melancholy! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find The ooze to show what coast thy sluggish crare Might'st easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing! Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. How found you him? ARVIRAGUS. Stark, as you see; Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at; his right cheek Reposing on a cushion. GUIDERIUS. Where? ARVIRAGUS. O' th' floor; His arms thus leagu'd. I thought he slept, and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud. GUIDERIUS. Why, he but sleeps. If he be gone he'll make his grave a bed; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee. ARVIRAGUS. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweet'ned not thy breath. The ruddock would, With charitable bill- O bill, sore shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie Without a monument!- bring thee all this; Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flow'rs are none, To winter-ground thy corse- GUIDERIUS. Prithee have done, And do not play in wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let us bury him, And not protract with admiration what Is now due debt. To th' grave. ARVIRAGUS. Say, where shall's lay him? GUIDERIUS. By good Euriphile, our mother. ARVIRAGUS. Be't so; And let us, Polydore, though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th' ground, As once to our mother; use like note and words, Save that Euriphile must be Fidele. GUIDERIUS. Cadwal, I cannot sing. I'll weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse Than priests and fanes that lie. ARVIRAGUS. We'll speak it, then. BELARIUS. Great griefs, I see, med'cine the less, for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys; And though he came our enemy, remember He was paid for that. Though mean and mighty rotting Together have one dust, yet reverence- That angel of the world- doth make distinction Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely; And though you took his life, as being our foe, Yet bury him as a prince. GUIDERIUS. Pray you fetch him hither. Thersites' body is as good as Ajax', When neither are alive. ARVIRAGUS. If you'll go fetch him, We'll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin. Exit BELARIUS GUIDERIUS. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th' East; My father hath a reason for't. ARVIRAGUS. 'Tis true. GUIDERIUS. Come on, then, and remove him. ARVIRAGUS. So. Begin. SONG GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. ARVIRAGUS. Fear no more the frown o' th' great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust. GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the lightning flash, ARVIRAGUS. Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone; GUIDERIUS. Fear not slander, censure rash; ARVIRAGUS. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan. BOTH. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust. GUIDERIUS. No exorciser harm thee! ARVIRAGUS. Nor no witchcraft charm thee! GUIDERIUS. Ghost unlaid forbear thee! ARVIRAGUS. Nothing ill come near thee! BOTH. Quiet consummation have, And renowned be thy grave! Re-enter BELARIUS with the body of CLOTEN GUIDERIUS. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down. BELARIUS. Here's a few flowers; but 'bout midnight, more. The herbs that have on them cold dew o' th' night Are strewings fit'st for graves. Upon their faces. You were as flow'rs, now wither'd. Even so These herblets shall which we upon you strew. Come on, away. Apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again. Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain. Exeunt all but IMOGEN IMOGEN. [Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way? I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither? 'Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet? I have gone all night. Faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow. O gods and goddesses! [Seeing the body] These flow'rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on't. I hope I dream; For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures. But 'tis not so; 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind. Good faith, I tremble still with fear; but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it! The dream's here still. Even when I wake it is Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt. A headless man? The garments of Posthumus? I know the shape of's leg; this is his hand, His foot Mercurial, his Martial thigh, The brawns of Hercules; but his Jovial face- Murder in heaven! How! 'Tis gone. Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, Conspir'd with that irregulous devil, Cloten, Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read Be henceforth treacherous! Damn'd Pisanio Hath with his forged letters- damn'd Pisanio- From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top. O Posthumus! alas, Where is thy head? Where's that? Ay me! where's that? Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio? 'Tis he and Cloten; malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. O, 'tis pregnant, pregnant! The drug he gave me, which he said was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murd'rous to th' senses? That confirms it home. This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten. O! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us. O, my lord, my lord! [Falls fainting on the body] Enter LUCIUS, CAPTAINS, and a SOOTHSAYER CAPTAIN. To them the legions garrison'd in Gallia, After your will, have cross'd the sea, attending You here at Milford Haven; with your ships, They are in readiness. LUCIUS. But what from Rome? CAPTAIN. The Senate hath stirr'd up the confiners And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits, That promise noble service; and they come Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, Sienna's brother. LUCIUS. When expect you them? CAPTAIN. With the next benefit o' th' wind. LUCIUS. This forwardness Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers Be muster'd; bid the captains look to't. Now, sir, What have you dream'd of late of this war's purpose? SOOTHSAYER. Last night the very gods show'd me a vision- I fast and pray'd for their intelligence- thus: I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing'd From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish'd in the sunbeams; which portends, Unless my sins abuse my divination, Success to th' Roman host. LUCIUS. Dream often so, And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime It was a worthy building. How? a page? Or dead or sleeping on him? But dead, rather; For nature doth abhor to make his bed With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. Let's see the boy's face. CAPTAIN. He's alive, my lord. LUCIUS. He'll then instruct us of this body. Young one, Inform us of thy fortunes; for it seems They crave to be demanded. Who is this Thou mak'st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest In this sad wreck? How came't? Who is't? What art thou? IMOGEN. I am nothing; or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton and a good, That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas! There is no more such masters. I may wander From east to occident; cry out for service; Try many, all good; serve truly; never Find such another master. LUCIUS. 'Lack, good youth! Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend. IMOGEN. Richard du Champ. [Aside] If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope They'll pardon it.- Say you, sir? LUCIUS. Thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. LUCIUS. Thou dost approve thyself the very same; Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say Thou shalt be so well master'd; but, be sure, No less belov'd. The Roman Emperor's letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me. IMOGEN. I'll follow, sir. But first, an't please the gods, I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his grave, And on it said a century of prayers, Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep and sigh; And leaving so his service, follow you, So please you entertain me. LUCIUS. Ay, good youth; And rather father thee than master thee. My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave. Come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr'd By thee to us; and he shall be interr'd As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes. Some falls are means the happier to arise. Exeunt SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, LORDS, PISANIO, and attendants CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how 'tis with her. Exit an attendant A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life's in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant. LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he's true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found. CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [To PISANIO] We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent. CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz'd with matter. LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're ready. The want is but to put those pow'rs in motion That long to move. CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let's withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away! Exeunt all but PISANIO PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. 'Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex'd in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o' th' King, or I'll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. Exit SCENE IV. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us. BELARIUS. Let us from it. ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure? GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after. BELARIUS. Sons, We'll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King's party there's no going. Newness Of Cloten's death- we being not known, not muster'd Among the bands-may drive us to a render Where we have liv'd, and so extort from's that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture. GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us. ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv'd my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis'd, But to be still hot summer's tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter. GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th' army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown, Cannot be questioned. ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I'll thither. What thing is't that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look'd on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham'd To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I'll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I'll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans! ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen. BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I'll lie. Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody handkerchief POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom. 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I'll fight Against the part I come with; so I'll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' th' Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin The fashion- less without and more within. Exit SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS. He vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. Exit The battle continues; the BRITONS fly; CYMBELINE is taken. Then enter to his rescue BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th' advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears. GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight! Re-enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then re-enter LUCIUS and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hoodwink'd. IACHIMO. 'Tis their fresh supplies. LUCIUS. It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes Let's reinforce or fly. Exeunt SCENE III. Another part of the field Enter POSTHUMUS and a Britain LORD LORD. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. LORD. I did. POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, an flying, Through a strait lane- the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length'ned shame. LORD. Where was this lane? POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier- An honest one, I warrant, who deserv'd So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for's country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings- lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas'd or shame- Made good the passage, cried to those that fled 'Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!' These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many- For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing- with this word 'Stand, stand!' Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some turn'd coward But by example- O, a sin in war Damn'd in the first beginners!- gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o' th' hunters. Then began A stop i' th' chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o' th' need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O'erborne i' th' former wave. Ten chas'd by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o' th' field. LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And vent it for a mock'ry? Here is one: 'Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.' LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir. POSTHUMUS. 'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I'll be his friend; For if he'll do as he is made to do, I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. LORD. Farewell; you're angry. Exit POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i' th' field and ask 'What news?' of me! To-day how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses! took heel to do't, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i' th' war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum'd again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom's death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I'll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two BRITISH CAPTAINS and soldiers FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken. 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th' affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN. So 'tis reported; But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there? POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer'd him. SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th' King. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman captives. The CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a gaoler. Exeunt omnes SCENE IV. Britain. A prison Enter POSTHUMUS and two GAOLERS FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol'n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture. SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach. Exeunt GAOLERS POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that's sick o' th' gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd By th' sure physician death, who is the key T' unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is't enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir'd more than constrain'd. To satisfy, If of my freedom 'tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that's not my desire. For Imogen's dear life take mine; and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it. 'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow'rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I'll speak to thee in silence. [Sleeps] Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, SICILIUS LEONATUS, father to POSTHUMUS, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his WIFE, and mother to POSTHUMUS, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young LEONATI, brothers to POSTHUMUS, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle POSTHUMUS round as he lies sleeping SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay'd Attending nature's law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans' father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp'd, Came crying 'mongst his foes, A thing of pity. SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv'd the praise o' th' world As great Sicilius' heir. FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity? MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exil'd and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen? SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O' th' other's villainy? SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our country's cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius' right With honour to maintain. FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform'd. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn'd The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn'd? SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries. MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries. SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th' shining synod of the rest Against thy deity. BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly. JUPITER descends-in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The GHOSTS fall on their knees JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flow'rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay'd, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends] SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulpherous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop'd as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas'd. ALL. Thanks, Jupiter! SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest. [GHOSTS vanish] POSTHUMUS. [Waking] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness' favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' 'Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I'll keep, if but for sympathy. Re-enter GAOLER GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death? POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago. GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook'd. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes in's head, then; I have not seen him so pictur'd. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one. POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging's the way of winking. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS. Thou bring'st good news: I am call'd to be made free. GAOLER. I'll be hang'd then. POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and MESSENGER GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't. Exit SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S tent Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, LORDS, OFFICERS, and attendants CYMBELINE. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp'd before targes of proof, cannot be found. He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so. BELARIUS. I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought But beggary and poor looks. CYMBELINE. No tidings of him? PISANIO. He hath been search'd among the dead and living, But no trace of him. CYMBELINE. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward; [To BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS] which I will add To you, the liver, heart, and brain, of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. 'Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it. BELARIUS. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen; Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add we are honest. CYMBELINE. Bow your knees. Arise my knights o' th' battle; I create you Companions to our person, and will fit you With dignities becoming your estates. Enter CORNELIUS and LADIES There's business in these faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory? You look like Romans, And not o' th' court of Britain. CORNELIUS. Hail, great King! To sour your happiness I must report The Queen is dead. CYMBELINE. Who worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider By med'cine'life may be prolong'd, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she? CORNELIUS. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd I will report, so please you; these her women Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks Were present when she finish'd. CYMBELINE. Prithee say. CORNELIUS. First, she confess'd she never lov'd you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you; Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorr'd your person. CYMBELINE. She alone knew this; And but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed. CORNELIUS. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her flight prevented it, she had Ta'en off by poison. CYMBELINE. O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more? CORNELIUS. More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral, which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life, and ling'ring, By inches waste you. In which time she purpos'd, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O'ercome you with her show; and in time, When she had fitted you with her craft, to work Her son into th' adoption of the crown; But failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate, open'd, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented The evils she hatch'd were not effected; so, Despairing, died. CYMBELINE. Heard you all this, her women? LADY. We did, so please your Highness. CYMBELINE. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter! That it was folly in me thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the SOOTHSAYER, and other Roman prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind, and IMOGEN Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute; that The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So think of your estate. LUCIUS. Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten'd Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call'd ransom, let it come. Sufficeth A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer. Augustus lives to think on't; and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom'd. Never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join With my request, which I'll make bold your Highness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm Though he have serv'd a Roman. Save him, sir, And spare no blood beside. CYMBELINE. I have surely seen him; His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore To say 'Live, boy.' Ne'er thank thy master. Live; And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, I'll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta'en. IMOGEN. I humbly thank your Highness. LUCIUS. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt. IMOGEN. No, no! Alack, There's other work in hand. I see a thing Bitter to me as death; your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself. LUCIUS. The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why stands he so perplex'd? CYMBELINE. What wouldst thou, boy? I love thee more and more; think more and more What's best to ask. Know'st him thou look'st on? Speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend? IMOGEN. He is a Roman, no more kin to me Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer. CYMBELINE. Wherefore ey'st him so? IMOGEN. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. CYMBELINE. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. CYMBELINE. Thou'rt my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart] BELARIUS. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? ARVIRAGUS. One sand another Not more resembles- that sweet rosy lad Who died and was Fidele. What think you? GUIDERIUS. The same dead thing alive. BELARIUS. Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear. Creatures may be alike; were't he, I am sure He would have spoke to us. GUIDERIUS. But we saw him dead. BELARIUS. Be silent; let's see further. PISANIO. [Aside] It is my mistress. Since she is living, let the time run on To good or bad. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN advance] CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud. [To IACHIMO] Sir, step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely, Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, Which is our honour, bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him. IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring. POSTHUMUS. [Aside] What's that to him? CYMBELINE. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours? IACHIMO. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken that Which to be spoke would torture thee. CYMBELINE. How? me? IACHIMO. I am glad to be constrain'd to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villainy I got this ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel, Whom thou didst banish; and- which more may grieve thee, As it doth me- a nobler sir ne'er liv'd 'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord? CYMBELINE. All that belongs to this. IACHIMO. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits Quail to remember- Give me leave, I faint. CYMBELINE. My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength; I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak. IACHIMO. Upon a time- unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!- was in Rome- accurs'd The mansion where!- 'twas at a feast- O, would Our viands had been poison'd, or at least Those which I heav'd to head!- the good Posthumus- What should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Amongst the rar'st of good ones- sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty that made barren the swell'd boast Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the eye- CYMBELINE. I stand on fire. Come to the matter. IACHIMO. All too soon I shall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a noble lord in love and one That had a royal lover, took his hint; And not dispraising whom we prais'd- therein He was as calm as virtue- he began His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in't, either our brags Were crack'd of kitchen trulls, or his description Prov'd us unspeaking sots. CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th' purpose. IACHIMO. Your daughter's chastity- there it begins. He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch, Made scruple of his praise, and wager'd with him Pieces of gold 'gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour'd finger, to attain In suit the place of's bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of Phoebus' wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth of's car. Away to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference 'Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench'd Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain Gan in your duller Britain operate Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent; And, to be brief, my practice so prevail'd That I return'd with simular proof enough To make the noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his belief in her renown With tokens thus and thus; averring notes Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet- O cunning, how I got it!- nay, some marks Of secret on her person, that he could not But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd, I having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon- Methinks I see him now- POSTHUMUS. [Coming forward] Ay, so thou dost, Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool, Egregious murderer, thief, anything That's due to all the villains past, in being, To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison, Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out For torturers ingenious. It is I That all th' abhorred things o' th' earth amend By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, That kill'd thy daughter; villain-like, I lie- That caus'd a lesser villain than myself, A sacrilegious thief, to do't. The temple Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself. Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set The dogs o' th' street to bay me. Every villain Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villainy less than 'twas! O Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen! IMOGEN. Peace, my lord. Hear, hear! POSTHUMUS. Shall's have a play of this? Thou scornful page, There lies thy part. [Strikes her. She falls] PISANIO. O gentlemen, help! Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus! You ne'er kill'd Imogen till now. Help, help! Mine honour'd lady! CYMBELINE. Does the world go round? POSTHUMUS. How comes these staggers on me? PISANIO. Wake, my mistress! CYMBELINE. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy. PISANIO. How fares my mistress? IMOGEN. O, get thee from my sight; Thou gav'st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where princes are. CYMBELINE. The tune of Imogen! PISANIO. Lady, The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if That box I gave you was not thought by me A precious thing! I had it from the Queen. CYMBELINE. New matter still? IMOGEN. It poison'd me. CORNELIUS. O gods! I left out one thing which the Queen confess'd, Which must approve thee honest. 'If Pisanio Have' said she 'given his mistress that confection Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv'd As I would serve a rat.' CYMBELINE. What's this, Cornelius? CORNELIUS. The Queen, sir, very oft importun'd me To temper poisons for her; still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge only In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs, Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certain stuff, which, being ta'en would cease The present pow'r of life, but in short time All offices of nature should again Do their due functions. Have you ta'en of it? IMOGEN. Most like I did, for I was dead. BELARIUS. My boys, There was our error. GUIDERIUS. This is sure Fidele. IMOGEN. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a rock, and now Throw me again. [Embracing him] POSTHUMUS. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die! CYMBELINE. How now, my flesh? my child? What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me? IMOGEN. [Kneeling] Your blessing, sir. BELARIUS. [To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not; You had a motive for't. CYMBELINE. My tears that fall Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mother's dead. IMOGEN. I am sorry for't, my lord. CYMBELINE. O, she was naught, and long of her it was That we meet here so strangely; but her son Is gone, we know not how nor where. PISANIO. My lord, Now fear is from me, I'll speak troth. Lord Cloten, Upon my lady's missing, came to me With his sword drawn, foam'd at the mouth, and swore, If I discover'd not which way she was gone, It was my instant death. By accident I had a feigned letter of my master's Then in my pocket, which directed him To seek her on the mountains near to Milford; Where, in a frenzy, in my master's garments, Which he enforc'd from me, away he posts With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My lady's honour. What became of him I further know not. GUIDERIUS. Let me end the story: I slew him there. CYMBELINE. Marry, the gods forfend! I would not thy good deeds should from my lips Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth, Deny't again. GUIDERIUS. I have spoke it, and I did it. CYMBELINE. He was a prince. GUIDERIUS. A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me With language that would make me spurn the sea, If it could so roar to me. I cut off's head, And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale of mine. CYMBELINE. I am sorry for thee. By thine own tongue thou art condemn'd, and must Endure our law. Thou'rt dead. IMOGEN. That headless man I thought had been my lord. CYMBELINE. Bind the offender, And take him from our presence. BELARIUS. Stay, sir King. This man is better than the man he slew, As well descended as thyself, and hath More of thee merited than a band of Clotens Had ever scar for. [To the guard] Let his arms alone; They were not born for bondage. CYMBELINE. Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we? ARVIRAGUS. In that he spake too far. CYMBELINE. And thou shalt die for't. BELARIUS. We will die all three; But I will prove that two on's are as good As I have given out him. My sons, I must For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech, Though haply well for you. ARVIRAGUS. Your danger's ours. GUIDERIUS. And our good his. BELARIUS. Have at it then by leave! Thou hadst, great King, a subject who Was call'd Belarius. CYMBELINE. What of him? He is A banish'd traitor. BELARIUS. He it is that hath Assum'd this age; indeed a banish'd man; I know not how a traitor. CYMBELINE. Take him hence, The whole world shall not save him. BELARIUS. Not too hot. First pay me for the nursing of thy sons, And let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have receiv'd it. CYMBELINE. Nursing of my sons? BELARIUS. I am too blunt and saucy: here's my knee. Ere I arise I will prefer my sons; Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, These two young gentlemen that call me father, And think they are my sons, are none of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting. CYMBELINE. How? my issue? BELARIUS. So sure as you your father's. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd. Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer'd Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes- For such and so they are- these twenty years Have I train'd up; those arts they have as Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment; I mov'd her to't, Having receiv'd the punishment before For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shap'd Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, Here are your sons again, and I must lose Two of the sweet'st companions in the world. The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars. CYMBELINE. Thou weep'st and speak'st. The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tell'st. I lost my children. If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier sons. BELARIUS. Be pleas'd awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius; This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp'd In a most curious mantle, wrought by th' hand Of his queen mother, which for more probation I can with ease produce. CYMBELINE. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder. BELARIUS. This is he, Who hath upon him still that natural stamp. It was wise nature's end in the donation, To be his evidence now. CYMBELINE. O, what am I? A mother to the birth of three? Ne'er mother Rejoic'd deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now! O Imogen, Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. IMOGEN. No, my lord; I have got two worlds by't. O my gentle brothers, Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter But I am truest speaker! You call'd me brother, When I was but your sister: I you brothers, When we were so indeed. CYMBELINE. Did you e'er meet? ARVIRAGUS. Ay, my good lord. GUIDERIUS. And at first meeting lov'd, Continu'd so until we thought he died. CORNELIUS. By the Queen's dram she swallow'd. CYMBELINE. O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgment Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv'd you? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your brothers? how first met them? Why fled you from the court? and whither? These, And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be demanded, And all the other by-dependences, From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place Will serve our long interrogatories. See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen; And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting Each object with a joy; the counterchange Is severally in all. Let's quit this ground, And smoke the temple with our sacrifices. [To BELARIUS] Thou art my brother; so we'll hold thee ever. IMOGEN. You are my father too, and did relieve me To see this gracious season. CYMBELINE. All o'erjoy'd Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort. IMOGEN. My good master, I will yet do you service. LUCIUS. Happy be you! CYMBELINE. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He would have well becom'd this place and grac'd The thankings of a king. POSTHUMUS. I am, sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor beseeming; 'twas a fitment for The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he, Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might Have made you finish. IACHIMO. [Kneeling] I am down again; But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe; but your ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith. POSTHUMUS. Kneel not to me. The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, And deal with others better. CYMBELINE. Nobly doom'd! We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law; Pardon's the word to all. ARVIRAGUS. You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our brother; Joy'd are we that you are. POSTHUMUS. Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back'd, Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows Of mine own kindred. When I wak'd, I found This label on my bosom; whose containing Is so from sense in hardness that I can Make no collection of it. Let him show His skill in the construction. LUCIUS. Philarmonus! SOOTHSAYER. Here, my good lord. LUCIUS. Read, and declare the meaning. SOOTHSAYER. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name, Being Leo-natus, doth import so much. [To CYMBELINE] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which we call 'mollis aer,' and 'mollis aer' We term it 'mulier'; which 'mulier' I divine Is this most constant wife, who even now Answering the letter of the oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about With this most tender air. CYMBELINE. This hath some seeming. SOOTHSAYER. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee; and thy lopp'd branches point Thy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol'n, For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd, To the majestic cedar join'd, whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty. CYMBELINE. Well, My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, Although the victor, we submit to Caesar And to the Roman empire, promising To pay our wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen, Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers, Have laid most heavy hand. SOOTHSAYER. The fingers of the pow'rs above do tune The harmony of this peace. The vision Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke Of yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant Is full accomplish'd; for the Roman eagle, From south to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessen'd herself and in the beams o' th' sun So vanish'd; which foreshow'd our princely eagle, Th'imperial Caesar, Caesar, should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines here in the west. CYMBELINE. Laud we the gods; And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our bless'd altars. Publish we this peace To all our subjects. Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud's Town march; And in the temple of great Jupiter Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace. Exeunt THE END <> 1604 THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae Claudius, King of Denmark. Marcellus, Officer. Hamlet, son to the former, and nephew to the present king. Polonius, Lord Chamberlain. Horatio, friend to Hamlet. Laertes, son to Polonius. Voltemand, courtier. Cornelius, courtier. Rosencrantz, courtier. Guildenstern, courtier. Osric, courtier. A Gentleman, courtier. A Priest. Marcellus, officer. Bernardo, officer. Francisco, a soldier Reynaldo, servant to Polonius. Players. Two Clowns, gravediggers. Fortinbras, Prince of Norway. A Norwegian Captain. English Ambassadors. Getrude, Queen of Denmark, mother to Hamlet. Ophelia, daughter to Polonius. Ghost of Hamlet's Father. Lords, ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, Attendants. <> SCENE.- Elsinore. ACT I. Scene I. Elsinore. A platform before the Castle. Enter two Sentinels-[first,] Francisco, [who paces up and down at his post; then] Bernardo, [who approaches him]. Ber. Who's there.? Fran. Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself. Ber. Long live the King! Fran. Bernardo? Ber. He. Fran. You come most carefully upon your hour. Ber. 'Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco. Fran. For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart. Ber. Have you had quiet guard? Fran. Not a mouse stirring. Ber. Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste. Enter Horatio and Marcellus. Fran. I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who is there? Hor. Friends to this ground. Mar. And liegemen to the Dane. Fran. Give you good night. Mar. O, farewell, honest soldier. Who hath reliev'd you? Fran. Bernardo hath my place. Give you good night. Exit. Mar. Holla, Bernardo! Ber. Say- What, is Horatio there ? Hor. A piece of him. Ber. Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus. Mar. What, has this thing appear'd again to-night? Ber. I have seen nothing. Mar. Horatio says 'tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us. Therefore I have entreated him along, With us to watch the minutes of this night, That, if again this apparition come, He may approve our eyes and speak to it. Hor. Tush, tush, 'twill not appear. Ber. Sit down awhile, And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we two nights have seen. Hor. Well, sit we down, And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. Ber. Last night of all, When yond same star that's westward from the pole Had made his course t' illume that part of heaven Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one- Enter Ghost. Mar. Peace! break thee off! Look where it comes again! Ber. In the same figure, like the King that's dead. Mar. Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio. Ber. Looks it not like the King? Mark it, Horatio. Hor. Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder. Ber. It would be spoke to. Mar. Question it, Horatio. Hor. What art thou that usurp'st this time of night Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee speak! Mar. It is offended. Ber. See, it stalks away! Hor. Stay! Speak, speak! I charge thee speak! Exit Ghost. Mar. 'Tis gone and will not answer. Ber. How now, Horatio? You tremble and look pale. Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on't? Hor. Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes. Mar. Is it not like the King? Hor. As thou art to thyself. Such was the very armour he had on When he th' ambitious Norway combated. So frown'd he once when, in an angry parle, He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. 'Tis strange. Mar. Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. Hor. In what particular thought to work I know not; But, in the gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state. Mar. Good now, sit down, and tell me he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land, And why such daily cast of brazen cannon And foreign mart for implements of war; Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week. What might be toward, that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day? Who is't that can inform me? Hor. That can I. At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king, Whose image even but now appear'd to us, Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, Thereto prick'd on by a most emulate pride, Dar'd to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet (For so this side of our known world esteem'd him) Did slay this Fortinbras; who, by a seal'd compact, Well ratified by law and heraldry, Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands Which he stood seiz'd of, to the conqueror; Against the which a moiety competent Was gaged by our king; which had return'd To the inheritance of Fortinbras, Had he been vanquisher, as, by the same comart And carriage of the article design'd, His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Of unimproved mettle hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there, Shark'd up a list of lawless resolutes, For food and diet, to some enterprise That hath a stomach in't; which is no other, As it doth well appear unto our state, But to recover of us, by strong hand And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost; and this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch, and the chief head Of this post-haste and romage in the land. Ber. I think it be no other but e'en so. Well may it sort that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch, so like the King That was and is the question of these wars. Hor. A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; As stars with trains of fire, and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse. And even the like precurse of fierce events, As harbingers preceding still the fates And prologue to the omen coming on, Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climature and countrymen. Enter Ghost again. But soft! behold! Lo, where it comes again! I'll cross it, though it blast me.- Stay illusion! Spreads his arms. If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me. If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease, and, race to me, Speak to me. If thou art privy to thy country's fate, Which happily foreknowing may avoid, O, speak! Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth (For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death), The cock crows. Speak of it! Stay, and speak!- Stop it, Marcellus! Mar. Shall I strike at it with my partisan? Hor. Do, if it will not stand. Ber. 'Tis here! Hor. 'Tis here! Mar. 'Tis gone! Exit Ghost. We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence; For it is as the air, invulnerable, And our vain blows malicious mockery. Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew. Hor. And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard The