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If music be the food of love, play on;\nGive me excess of it, that, surfeiting,\nThe appetite may sicken, and so die.\nThat strain again! it had a dying fall:\nO, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound,\nThat breathes upon a bank of violets,\nStealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:\n'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.\nO spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,\nThat, notwithstanding thy capacity\nReceiveth as the sea, nought enters there,\nOf what validity and pitch soe'er,\nBut falls into abatement and low price,\nEven in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy\nThat it alone is high fantastical.


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Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:\nO, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,\nMethought she purged the air of pestilence!\nThat instant was I turn'd into a hart;\nAnd my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,\nE'er since pursue me.\n[Enter VALENTINE]\nHow now! what news from her?


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So please my lord, I might not be admitted;\nBut from her handmaid do return this answer:\nThe element itself, till seven years' heat,\nShall not behold her face at ample view;\nBut, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk\nAnd water once a day her chamber round\nWith eye-offending brine: all this to season\nA brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh\nAnd lasting in her sad remembrance.


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O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame\nTo pay this debt of love but to a brother,\nHow will she love, when the rich golden shaft\nHath kill'd the flock of all affections else\nThat live in her; when liver, brain and heart,\nThese sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill'd\nHer sweet perfections with one self king!\nAway before me to sweet beds of flowers:\nLove-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.


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And what should I do in Illyria?\nMy brother he is in Elysium.\nPerchance he is not drown'd: what think you, sailors?


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True, madam: and, to comfort you with chance,\nAssure yourself, after our ship did split,\nWhen you and those poor number saved with you\nHung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,\nMost provident in peril, bind himself,\nCourage and hope both teaching him the practise,\nTo a strong mast that lived upon the sea;\nWhere, like Arion on the dolphin's back,\nI saw him hold acquaintance with the waves\nSo long as I could see.


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For saying so, there's gold:\nMine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,\nWhereto thy speech serves for authority,\nThe like of him. Know'st thou this country?


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And so is now, or was so very late;\nFor but a month ago I went from hence,\nAnd then 'twas fresh in murmur,--as, you know,\nWhat great ones do the less will prattle of,--\nThat he did seek the love of fair Olivia.


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A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count\nThat died some twelvemonth since, then leaving her\nIn the protection of his son, her brother,\nWho shortly also died: for whose dear love,\nThey say, she hath abjured the company\nAnd sight of men.


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O that I served that lady\nAnd might not be delivered to the world,\nTill I had made mine own occasion mellow,\nWhat my estate is!


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There is a fair behavior in thee, captain;\nAnd though that nature with a beauteous wall\nDoth oft close in pollution, yet of thee\nI will believe thou hast a mind that suits\nWith this thy fair and outward character.\nI prithee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,\nConceal me what I am, and be my aid\nFor such disguise as haply shall become\nThe form of my intent. I'll serve this duke:\nThou shall present me as an eunuch to him:\nIt may be worth thy pains; for I can sing\nAnd speak to him in many sorts of music\nThat will allow me very worth his service.\nWhat else may hap to time I will commit;\nOnly shape thou thy silence to my wit.


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What a plague means my niece, to take the death of\nher brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.


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By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o'\nnights: your cousin, my lady, takes great\nexceptions to your ill hours.


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Confine! I'll confine myself no finer than I am:\nthese clothes are good enough to drink in; and so be\nthese boots too: an they be not, let them hang\nthemselves in their own straps.


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That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard\nmy lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish\nknight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer.


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Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' the\nviol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages\nword for word without book, and hath all the good\ngifts of nature.


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He hath indeed, almost natural: for besides that\nhe's a fool, he's a great quarreller: and but that\nhe hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he\nhath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent\nhe would quickly have the gift of a grave.


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With drinking healths to my niece: I'll drink to\nher as long as there is a passage in my throat and\ndrink in Illyria: he's a coward and a coystrill\nthat will not drink to my niece till his brains turn\no' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench!\nCastiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.


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An you part so, mistress, I would I might never\ndraw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have\nfools in hand?


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Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary\nput me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit\nthan a Christian or an ordinary man has: but I am a\ngreat eater of beef and I believe that does harm to my wit.


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What is 'Pourquoi'? do or not do? I would I had\nbestowed that time in the tongues that I have in\nfencing, dancing and bear-baiting: O, had I but\nfollowed the arts!


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Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I\nhope to see a housewife take thee between her legs\nand spin it off.


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Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece\nwill not be seen; or if she be, it's four to one\nshe'll none of me: the count himself here hard by woos her.


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She'll none o' the count: she'll not match above\nher degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I\nhave heard her swear't. Tut, there's life in't,\nman.


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I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the\nstrangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques\nand revels sometimes altogether.


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As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the\ndegree of my betters; and yet I will not compare\nwith an old man.


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Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have\nthese gifts a curtain before 'em? are they like to\ntake dust, like Mistress Mall's picture? why dost\nthou not go to church in a galliard and come home in\na coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not\nso much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What\ndost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in?\nI did think, by the excellent constitution of thy\nleg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.


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Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a\nflame-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels?


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If the duke continue these favours towards you,\nCesario, you are like to be much advanced: he hath\nknown you but three days, and already you are no stranger.


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You either fear his humour or my negligence, that\nyou call in question the continuance of his love:\nis he inconstant, sir, in his favours?


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Stand you a while aloof, Cesario,\nThou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd\nTo thee the book even of my secret soul:\nTherefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;\nBe not denied access, stand at her doors,\nAnd tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow\nTill thou have audience.


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Sure, my noble lord,\nIf she be so abandon'd to her sorrow\nAs it is spoke, she never will admit me.


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O, then unfold the passion of my love,\nSurprise her with discourse of my dear faith:\nIt shall become thee well to act my woes;\nShe will attend it better in thy youth\nThan in a nuncio's of more grave aspect.


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Dear lad, believe it;\nFor they shall yet belie thy happy years,\nThat say thou art a man: Diana's lip\nIs not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe\nIs as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,\nAnd all is semblative a woman's part.\nI know thy constellation is right apt\nFor this affair. Some four or five attend him;\nAll, if you will; for I myself am best\nWhen least in company. Prosper well in this,\nAnd thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,\nTo call his fortunes thine.


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I'll do my best\nTo woo your lady:\n[Aside]\nyet, a barful strife!\nWhoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.


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Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will\nnot open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in\nway of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence.


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Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or,\nto be turned away, is not that as good as a hanging to you?


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Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way; if\nSir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a\npiece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.


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Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling!\nThose wits, that think they have thee, do very oft\nprove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may\npass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus?\n'Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.'\n[Enter OLIVIA with MALVOLIO]\nGod bless thee, lady!


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Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel\nwill amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is\nthe fool not dry: bid the dishonest man mend\nhimself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if\nhe cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing\nthat's mended is but patched: virtue that\ntransgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that\namends is but patched with virtue. If that this\nsimple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not,\nwhat remedy? As there is no true cuckold but\ncalamity, so beauty's a flower. The lady bade take\naway the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.


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Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non\nfacit monachum; that's as much to say as I wear not\nmotley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to\nprove you a fool.


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The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's\nsoul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.


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Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him:\ninfirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the\nbetter fool.


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God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the\nbetter increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be\nsworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his\nword for two pence that you are no fool.


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I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a\nbarren rascal: I saw him put down the other day\nwith an ordinary fool that has no more brain\nthan a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard\nalready; unless you laugh and minister occasion to\nhim, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men,\nthat crow so at these set kind of fools, no better\nthan the fools' zanies.


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Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste\nwith a distempered appetite. To be generous,\nguiltless and of free disposition, is to take those\nthings for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets:\nthere is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do\nnothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet\nman, though he do nothing but reprove.


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Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but\nmadman: fie on him!\n[Exit MARIA]\nGo you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I\nam sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it.\n[Exit MALVOLIO]\nNow you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and\npeople dislike it.


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Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest\nson should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram with\nbrains! for,--here he comes,--one of thy kin has a\nmost weak pia mater.


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Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one\ndraught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads\nhim; and a third drowns him.


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Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my\ncoz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's\ndrowned: go, look after him.


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Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with\nyou. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to\nunderstand so much, and therefore comes to speak\nwith you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to\nhave a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore\ncomes to speak with you. What is to be said to him,\nlady? he's fortified against any denial.


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Has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your\ndoor like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to\na bench, but he'll speak with you.


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Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for\na boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a\ncooling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him\nin standing water, between boy and man. He is very\nwell-favoured and he speaks very shrewishly; one\nwould think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.


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Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty,--I\npray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house,\nfor I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away\nmy speech, for besides that it is excellently well\npenned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good\nbeauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very\ncomptible, even to the least sinister usage.


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I can say little more than I have studied, and that\nquestion's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me\nmodest assurance if you be the lady of the house,\nthat I may proceed in my speech.


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No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs\nof malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you\nthe lady of the house?


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Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp\nyourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours\nto reserve. But this is from my commission: I will\non with my speech in your praise, and then show you\nthe heart of my message.


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It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you,\nkeep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates,\nand allowed your approach rather to wonder at you\nthan to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if\nyou have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of\nmoon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.


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No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little\nlonger. Some mollification for your giant, sweet\nlady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger.


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Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when\nthe courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.


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It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of\nwar, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my\nhand; my words are as fun of peace as matter.


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The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I\nlearned from my entertainment. What I am, and what I\nwould, are as secret as maidenhead; to your ears,\ndivinity, to any other's, profanation.


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Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.\n[Exeunt MARIA and Attendants]\nNow, sir, what is your text?


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Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate\nwith my face? You are now out of your text: but\nwe will draw the curtain and show you the picture.\nLook you, sir, such a one I was this present: is't\nnot well done?


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'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white\nNature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:\nLady, you are the cruell'st she alive,\nIf you will lead these graces to the grave\nAnd leave the world no copy.


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O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give\nout divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be\ninventoried, and every particle and utensil\nlabelled to my will: as, item, two lips,\nindifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to\nthem; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were\nyou sent hither to praise me?


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I see you what you are, you are too proud;\nBut, if you were the devil, you are fair.\nMy lord and master loves you: O, such love\nCould be but recompensed, though you were crown'd\nThe nonpareil of beauty!


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Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him:\nYet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,\nOf great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;\nIn voices well divulged, free, learn'd and valiant;\nAnd in dimension and the shape of nature\nA gracious person: but yet I cannot love him;\nHe might have took his answer long ago.


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If I did love you in my master's flame,\nWith such a suffering, such a deadly life,\nIn your denial I would find no sense;\nI would not understand it.


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Make me a willow cabin at your gate,\nAnd call upon my soul within the house;\nWrite loyal cantons of contemned love\nAnd sing them loud even in the dead of night;\nHalloo your name to the reverberate hills\nAnd make the babbling gossip of the air\nCry out 'Olivia!' O, You should not rest\nBetween the elements of air and earth,\nBut you should pity me!


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Get you to your lord;\nI cannot love him: let him send no more;\nUnless, perchance, you come to me again,\nTo tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:\nI thank you for your pains: spend this for me.


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I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse:\nMy master, not myself, lacks recompense.\nLove make his heart of flint that you shall love;\nAnd let your fervor, like my master's, be\nPlaced in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.


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'What is your parentage?'\n'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:\nI am a gentleman.' I'll be sworn thou art;\nThy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions and spirit,\nDo give thee five-fold blazon: not too fast:\nsoft, soft!\nUnless the master were the man. How now!\nEven so quickly may one catch the plague?\nMethinks I feel this youth's perfections\nWith an invisible and subtle stealth\nTo creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.\nWhat ho, Malvolio!


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Run after that same peevish messenger,\nThe county's man: he left this ring behind him,\nWould I or not: tell him I'll none of it.\nDesire him not to flatter with his lord,\nNor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:\nIf that the youth will come this way to-morrow,\nI'll give him reasons for't: hie thee, Malvolio.


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I do I know not what, and fear to find\nMine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.\nFate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;\nWhat is decreed must be, and be this so.


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By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over\nme: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps\ndistemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your\nleave that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad\nrecompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.


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No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage is mere\nextravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a\ntouch of modesty, that you will not extort from me\nwhat I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges\nme in manners the rather to express myself. You\nmust know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,\nwhich I called Roderigo. My father was that\nSebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard\nof. He left behind him myself and a sister, both\nborn in an hour: if the heavens had been pleased,\nwould we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that;\nfor some hour before you took me from the breach of\nthe sea was my sister drowned.


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A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled\nme, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but,\nthough I could not with such estimable wonder\noverfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly\npublish her; she bore a mind that envy could not but\ncall fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt\nwater, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.


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If you will not undo what you have done, that is,\nkill him whom you have recovered, desire it not.\nFare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness,\nand I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that\nupon the least occasion more mine eyes will tell\ntales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell.


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The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!\nI have many enemies in Orsino's court,\nElse would I very shortly see thee there.\nBut, come what may, I do adore thee so,\nThat danger shall seem sport, and I will go.


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She returns this ring to you, sir: you might have\nsaved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself.\nShe adds, moreover, that you should put your lord\ninto a desperate assurance she will none of him:\nand one thing more, that you be never so hardy to\ncome again in his affairs, unless it be to report\nyour lord's taking of this. Receive it so.


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Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her\nwill is, it should be so returned: if it be worth\nstooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be\nit his that finds it.


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I left no ring with her: what means this lady?\nFortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!\nShe made good view of me; indeed, so much,\nThat sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,\nFor she did speak in starts distractedly.\nShe loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion\nInvites me in this churlish messenger.\nNone of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.\nI am the man: if it be so, as 'tis,\nPoor lady, she were better love a dream.\nDisguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,\nWherein the pregnant enemy does much.\nHow easy is it for the proper-false\nIn women's waxen hearts to set their forms!\nAlas, our frailty is the cause, not we!\nFor such as we are made of, such we be.\nHow will this fadge? my master loves her dearly;\nAnd I, poor monster, fond as much on him;\nAnd she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.\nWhat will become of this? As I am man,\nMy state is desperate for my master's love;\nAs I am woman,--now alas the day!--\nWhat thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!\nO time! thou must untangle this, not I;\nIt is too hard a knot for me to untie!


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Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed after\nmidnight is to be up betimes; and 'diluculo\nsurgere,' thou know'st,--


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A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled can.\nTo be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is\nearly: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go\nto bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the\nfour elements?


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By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I\nhad rather than forty shillings I had such a leg,\nand so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In\nsooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last\nnight, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the\nVapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus: 'twas\nvery good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy\nleman: hadst it?


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I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose\nis no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the\nMyrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.


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[Sings]\nO mistress mine, where are you roaming?\nO, stay and hear; your true love's coming,\nThat can sing both high and low:\nTrip no further, pretty sweeting;\nJourneys end in lovers meeting,\nEvery wise man's son doth know.


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[Sings]\nWhat is love? 'tis not hereafter;\nPresent mirth hath present laughter;\nWhat's to come is still unsure:\nIn delay there lies no plenty;\nThen come kiss me, sweet and twenty,\nYouth's a stuff will not endure.


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To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion.\nBut shall we make the welkin dance indeed? shall we\nrouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three\nsouls out of one weaver? shall we do that?


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'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to\ncall me knave. Begin, fool: it begins 'Hold thy peace.'


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What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady\nhave not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him\nturn you out of doors, never trust me.


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My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's\na Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.' Am not\nI consanguineous? am I not of her blood?\nTillyvally. Lady!\n[Sings]\n'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'


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Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do\nI too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it\nmore natural.


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My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye\nno wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like\ntinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an\nalehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your\ncoziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse\nof voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor\ntime in you?


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Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me\ntell you, that, though she harbours you as her\nkinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If\nyou can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you\nare welcome to the house; if not, an it would please\nyou to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid\nyou farewell.


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Out o' tune, sir: ye lie. Art any more than a\nsteward? Dost thou think, because thou art\nvirtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?


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Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any\nthing more than contempt, you would not give means\nfor this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand.


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'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's\na-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to\nbreak promise with him and make a fool of him.


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Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll\ndeliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.


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Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight: since the\nyouth of the count's was today with thy lady, she is\nmuch out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me\nalone with him: if I do not gull him into a\nnayword, and make him a common recreation, do not\nthink I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed:\nI know I can do it.


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The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing\nconstantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass,\nthat cons state without book and utters it by great\nswarths: the best persuaded of himself, so\ncrammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is\nhis grounds of faith that all that look on him love\nhim; and on that vice in him will my revenge find\nnotable cause to work.


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I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of\nlove; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape\nof his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure\nof his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find\nhimself most feelingly personated. I can write very\nlike my lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we\ncan hardly make distinction of our hands.


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He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop,\nthat they come from my niece, and that she's in\nlove with him.


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Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will\nwork with him. I will plant you two, and let the\nfool make a third, where he shall find the letter:\nobserve his construction of it. For this night, to\nbed, and dream on the event. Farewell.


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Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends.\nNow, good Cesario, but that piece of song,\nThat old and antique song we heard last night:\nMethought it did relieve my passion much,\nMore than light airs and recollected terms\nOf these most brisk and giddy-paced times:\nCome, but one verse.


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Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady\nOlivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house.


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Seek him out, and play the tune the while.\n[Exit CURIO. Music plays]\nCome hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,\nIn the sweet pangs of it remember me;\nFor such as I am all true lovers are,\nUnstaid and skittish in all motions else,\nSave in the constant image of the creature\nThat is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?


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Thou dost speak masterly:\nMy life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye\nHath stay'd upon some favour that it loves:\nHath it not, boy?


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Too old by heaven: let still the woman take\nAn elder than herself: so wears she to him,\nSo sways she level in her husband's heart:\nFor, boy, however we do praise ourselves,\nOur fancies are more giddy and unfirm,\nMore longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,\nThan women's are.


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Then let thy love be younger than thyself,\nOr thy affection cannot hold the bent;\nFor women are as roses, whose fair flower\nBeing once display'd, doth fall that very hour.


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O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.\nMark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;\nThe spinsters and the knitters in the sun\nAnd the free maids that weave their thread with bones\nDo use to chant it: it is silly sooth,\nAnd dallies with the innocence of love,\nLike the old age.


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Come away, come away, death,\nAnd in sad cypress let me be laid;\nFly away, fly away breath;\nI am slain by a fair cruel maid.\nMy shroud of white, stuck all with yew,\nO, prepare it!\nMy part of death, no one so true\nDid share it.\nNot a flower, not a flower sweet\nOn my black coffin let there be strown;\nNot a friend, not a friend greet\nMy poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:\nA thousand thousand sighs to save,\nLay me, O, where\nSad true lover never find my grave,\nTo weep there!


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Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the\ntailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for\nthy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such\nconstancy put to sea, that their business might be\nevery thing and their intent every where; for that's\nit that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.


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Let all the rest give place.\n[CURIO and Attendants retire]\nOnce more, Cesario,\nGet thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:\nTell her, my love, more noble than the world,\nPrizes not quantity of dirty lands;\nThe parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,\nTell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;\nBut 'tis that miracle and queen of gems\nThat nature pranks her in attracts my soul.


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Sooth, but you must.\nSay that some lady, as perhaps there is,\nHath for your love a great a pang of heart\nAs you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;\nYou tell her so; must she not then be answer'd?


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There is no woman's sides\nCan bide the beating of so strong a passion\nAs love doth give my heart; no woman's heart\nSo big, to hold so much; they lack retention\nAlas, their love may be call'd appetite,\nNo motion of the liver, but the palate,\nThat suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt;\nBut mine is all as hungry as the sea,\nAnd can digest as much: make no compare\nBetween that love a woman can bear me\nAnd that I owe Olivia.


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Too well what love women to men may owe:\nIn faith, they are as true of heart as we.\nMy father had a daughter loved a man,\nAs it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,\nI should your lordship.


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A blank, my lord. She never told her love,\nBut let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,\nFeed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,\nAnd with a green and yellow melancholy\nShe sat like patience on a monument,\nSmiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?\nWe men may say more, swear more: but indeed\nOur shows are more than will; for still we prove\nMuch in our vows, but little in our love.


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I am all the daughters of my father's house,\nAnd all the brothers too: and yet I know not.\nSir, shall I to this lady?


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Ay, that's the theme.\nTo her in haste; give her this jewel; say,\nMy love can give no place, bide no denay.


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To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will\nfool him black and blue: shall we not, Sir Andrew?


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Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's\ncoming down this walk: he has been yonder i' the\nsun practising behavior to his own shadow this half\nhour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I\nknow this letter will make a contemplative idiot of\nhim. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there,\n[Throws down a letter]\nfor here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.


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'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told\nme she did affect me: and I have heard herself come\nthus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one\nof my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more\nexalted respect than any one else that follows her.\nWhat should I think on't?


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Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet\ngown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left\nOlivia sleeping,--


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And then to have the humour of state; and after a\ndemure travel of regard, telling them I know my\nplace as I would they should do theirs, to for my\nkinsman Toby,--


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Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make\nout for him: I frown the while; and perchance wind\nup watch, or play with my--some rich jewel. Toby\napproaches; courtesies there to me,--


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Saying, 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on\nyour niece give me this prerogative of speech,'--


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By my life, this is my lady's hand these be her\nvery C's, her U's and her T's and thus makes she her\ngreat P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.


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[Reads] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good\nwishes:'--her very phrases! By your leave, wax.\nSoft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she\nuses to seal: 'tis my lady. To whom should this be?


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[Reads]\nJove knows I love: But who?\nLips, do not move;\nNo man must know.\n'No man must know.' What follows? the numbers\naltered! 'No man must know:' if this should be\nthee, Malvolio?


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[Reads]\nI may command where I adore;\nBut silence, like a Lucrece knife,\nWith bloodless stroke my heart doth gore:\nM, O, A, I, doth sway my life.


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'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command\nme: I serve her; she is my lady. Why, this is\nevident to any formal capacity; there is no\nobstruction in this: and the end,--what should\nthat alphabetical position portend? If I could make\nthat resemble something in me,--Softly! M, O, A,\nI,--


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M,--but then there is no consonancy in the sequel;\nthat suffers under probation A should follow but O does.


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Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see\nmore detraction at your heels than fortunes before\nyou.


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M, O, A, I; this simulation is not as the former: and\nyet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for\nevery one of these letters are in my name. Soft!\nhere follows prose.\n[Reads]\n'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I\nam above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some\nare born great, some achieve greatness, and some\nhave greatness thrust upon 'em. Thy Fates open\ntheir hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them;\nand, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be,\ncast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be\nopposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let\nthy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into\nthe trick of singularity: she thus advises thee\nthat sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy\nyellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever\ncross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to, thou art\nmade, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see\nthee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and\nnot worthy to touch Fortune's fingers. Farewell.\nShe that would alter services with thee,\nTHE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.'\nDaylight and champaign discovers not more: this is\nopen. I will be proud, I will read politic authors,\nI will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross\nacquaintance, I will be point-devise the very man.\nI do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade\nme; for every reason excites to this, that my lady\nloves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of\nlate, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered;\nand in this she manifests herself to my love, and\nwith a kind of injunction drives me to these habits\nof her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will\nbe strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and\ncross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting\non. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a\npostscript.\n[Reads]\n'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou\nentertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling;\nthy smiles become thee well; therefore in my\npresence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.'\nJove, I thank thee: I will smile; I will do\neverything that thou wilt have me.


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If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark\nhis first approach before my lady: he will come to\nher in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she\nabhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests;\nand he will smile upon her, which will now be so\nunsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a\nmelancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him\ninto a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow\nme.


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No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for\nI do live at my house, and my house doth stand by\nthe church.


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So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, if a\nbeggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by thy\ntabour, if thy tabour stand by the church.


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You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is\nbut a cheveril glove to a good wit: how quickly the\nwrong side may be turned outward!


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Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that\nword might make my sister wanton. But indeed words\nare very rascals since bonds disgraced them.


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Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and\nwords are grown so false, I am loath to prove\nreason with them.


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Not so, sir, I do care for something; but in my\nconscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that be\nto care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.


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No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she\nwill keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and\nfools are as like husbands as pilchards are to\nherrings; the husband's the bigger: I am indeed not\nher fool, but her corrupter of words.


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Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun,\nit shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but\nthe fool should be as oft with your master as with\nmy mistress: I think I saw your wisdom there.


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By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for\none;\n[Aside]\nthough I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy\nlady within?


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The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but\na beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is\nwithin, sir. I will construe to them whence you\ncome; who you are and what you would are out of my\nwelkin, I might say 'element,' but the word is over-worn.


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This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;\nAnd to do that well craves a kind of wit:\nHe must observe their mood on whom he jests,\nThe quality of persons, and the time,\nAnd, like the haggard, cheque at every feather\nThat comes before his eye. This is a practise\nAs full of labour as a wise man's art\nFor folly that he wisely shows is fit;\nBut wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.


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I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we\nare prevented.\n[Enter OLIVIA and MARIA]\nMost excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain\nodours on you!


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Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.\n[Exeunt SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW, and MARIA]\nGive me your hand, sir.


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My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world\nSince lowly feigning was call'd compliment:\nYou're servant to the Count Orsino, youth.


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O, by your leave, I pray you,\nI bade you never speak again of him:\nBut, would you undertake another suit,\nI had rather hear you to solicit that\nThan music from the spheres.


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Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,\nAfter the last enchantment you did here,\nA ring in chase of you: so did I abuse\nMyself, my servant and, I fear me, you:\nUnder your hard construction must I sit,To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,\nWhich you knew none of yours: what might you think?\nHave you not set mine honour at the stake\nAnd baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts\nThat tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving\nEnough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,\nHideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak.


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Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again.\nO, world, how apt the poor are to be proud!\nIf one should be a prey, how much the better\nTo fall before the lion than the wolf!\n[Clock strikes]\nThe clock upbraids me with the waste of time.\nBe not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:\nAnd yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,\nYour were is alike to reap a proper man:\nThere lies your way, due west.


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Then westward-ho! Grace and good disposition\nAttend your ladyship!\nYou'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?


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O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful\nIn the contempt and anger of his lip!\nA murderous guilt shows not itself more soon\nThan love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.\nCesario, by the roses of the spring,\nBy maidhood, honour, truth and every thing,\nI love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,\nNor wit nor reason can my passion hide.\nDo not extort thy reasons from this clause,\nFor that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause,\nBut rather reason thus with reason fetter,\nLove sought is good, but given unsought better.


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By innocence I swear, and by my youth\nI have one heart, one bosom and one truth,\nAnd that no woman has; nor never none\nShall mistress be of it, save I alone.\nAnd so adieu, good madam: never more\nWill I my master's tears to you deplore.


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Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the\ncount's serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me;\nI saw't i' the orchard.


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She did show favour to the youth in your sight only\nto exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to\nput fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.\nYou should then have accosted her; and with some\nexcellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should\nhave banged the youth into dumbness. This was\nlooked for at your hand, and this was balked: the\ndouble gilt of this opportunity you let time wash\noff, and you are now sailed into the north of my\nlady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle\non a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by\nsome laudable attempt either of valour or policy.


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An't be any way, it must be with valour; for policy\nI hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a\npolitician.


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Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of\nvalour. Challenge me the count's youth to fight\nwith him; hurt him in eleven places: my niece shall\ntake note of it; and assure thyself, there is no\nlove-broker in the world can more prevail in man's\ncommendation with woman than report of valour.


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Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief;\nit is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun\nof invention: taunt him with the licence of ink:\nif thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be\namiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of\npaper, although the sheet were big enough for the\nbed of Ware in England, set 'em down: go, about it.\nLet there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou\nwrite with a goose-pen, no matter: about it.


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Never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the\nyouth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes\ncannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were\nopened, and you find so much blood in his liver as\nwill clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of\nthe anatomy.


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If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself\ninto stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is\nturned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no\nChristian, that means to be saved by believing\nrightly, can ever believe such impossible passages\nof grossness. He's in yellow stockings.


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Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school\ni' the church. I have dogged him, like his\nmurderer. He does obey every point of the letter\nthat I dropped to betray him: he does smile his\nface into more lines than is in the new map with the\naugmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such\na thing as 'tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things\nat him. I know my lady will strike him: if she do,\nhe'll smile and take't for a great favour.


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I would not by my will have troubled you;\nBut, since you make your pleasure of your pains,\nI will no further chide you.


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I could not stay behind you: my desire,\nMore sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;\nAnd not all love to see you, though so much\nAs might have drawn one to a longer voyage,\nBut jealousy what might befall your travel,\nBeing skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,\nUnguided and unfriended, often prove\nRough and unhospitable: my willing love,\nThe rather by these arguments of fear,\nSet forth in your pursuit.


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My kind Antonio,\nI can no other answer make but thanks,\nAnd thanks; and ever thanks; and oft good turns\nAre shuffled off with such uncurrent pay:\nBut, were my worth as is my conscience firm,\nYou should find better dealing. What's to do?\nShall we go see the reliques of this town?


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I am not weary, and 'tis long to night:\nI pray you, let us satisfy our eyes\nWith the memorials and the things of fame\nThat do renown this city.


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Would you'ld pardon me;\nI do not without danger walk these streets:\nOnce, in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count his galleys\nI did some service; of such note indeed,\nThat were I ta'en here it would scarce be answer'd.


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The offence is not of such a bloody nature;\nAlbeit the quality of the time and quarrel\nMight well have given us bloody argument.\nIt might have since been answer'd in repaying\nWhat we took from them; which, for traffic's sake,\nMost of our city did: only myself stood out;\nFor which, if I be lapsed in this place,\nI shall pay dear.


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It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my purse.\nIn the south suburbs, at the Elephant,\nIs best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet,\nWhiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge\nWith viewing of the town: there shall you have me.


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Haply your eye shall light upon some toy\nYou have desire to purchase; and your store,\nI think, is not for idle markets, sir.


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I have sent after him: he says he'll come;\nHow shall I feast him? what bestow of him?\nFor youth is bought more oft than begg'd or borrow'd.\nI speak too loud.\nWhere is Malvolio? he is sad and civil,\nAnd suits well for a servant with my fortunes:\nWhere is Malvolio?


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No. madam, he does nothing but smile: your\nladyship were best to have some guard about you, if\nhe come; for, sure, the man is tainted in's wits.


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Go call him hither.\n[Exit MARIA]\nI am as mad as he,\nIf sad and merry madness equal be.\n[Re-enter MARIA, with MALVOLIO]\nHow now, Malvolio!


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Sad, lady! I could be sad: this does make some\nobstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering; but\nwhat of that? if it please the eye of one, it is\nwith me as the very true sonnet is, 'Please one, and\nplease all.'


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Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It\ndid come to his hands, and commands shall be\nexecuted: I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.


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Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino's is\nreturned: I could hardly entreat him back: he\nattends your ladyship's pleasure.


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I'll come to him.\n[Exit Servant]\nGood Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where's\nmy cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special\ncare of him: I would not have him miscarry for the\nhalf of my dowry.


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O, ho! do you come near me now? no worse man than\nSir Toby to look to me! This concurs directly with\nthe letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may\nappear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that\nin the letter. 'Cast thy humble slough,' says she;\n'be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants;\nlet thy tongue tang with arguments of state; put\nthyself into the trick of singularity;' and\nconsequently sets down the manner how; as, a sad\nface, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the\nhabit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have\nlimed her; but it is Jove's doing, and Jove make me\nthankful! And when she went away now, 'Let this\nfellow be looked to:' fellow! not Malvolio, nor\nafter my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing\nadheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no\nscruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous\nor unsafe circumstance--What can be said? Nothing\nthat can be can come between me and the full\nprospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the\ndoer of this, and he is to be thanked.


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Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all\nthe devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion\nhimself possessed him, yet I'll speak to him.


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Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not\nI tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a\ncare of him.


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Go to, go to; peace, peace; we must deal gently\nwith him: let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? how\nis't with you? What, man! defy the devil:\nconsider, he's an enemy to mankind.


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Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I\nlive. My lady would not lose him for more than I'll say.


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Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! 'tis not for\ngravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: hang\nhim, foul collier!


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Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow\nthings: I am not of your element: you shall know\nmore hereafter.


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Come, we'll have him in a dark room and bound. My\nniece is already in the belief that he's mad: we\nmay carry it thus, for our pleasure and his penance,\ntill our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt\nus to have mercy on him: at which time we will\nbring the device to the bar and crown thee for a\nfinder of madmen. But see, but see.


plain_text:
[Reads] 'Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind,\nwhy I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't.'


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[Reads] 'Thou comest to the lady Olivia, and in my\nsight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy\nthroat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for.'


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[Reads] 'Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon\none of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but\nmy hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy\nfriend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy,\nANDREW AGUECHEEK.\nIf this letter move him not, his legs cannot:\nI'll give't him.


plain_text:
You may have very fit occasion for't: he is now in\nsome commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.


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Go, Sir Andrew: scout me for him at the corner the\norchard like a bum-baily: so soon as ever thou seest\nhim, draw; and, as thou drawest swear horrible; for\nit comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a\nswaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood\nmore approbation than ever proof itself would have\nearned him. Away!


plain_text:
Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behavior\nof the young gentleman gives him out to be of good\ncapacity and breeding; his employment between his\nlord and my niece confirms no less: therefore this\nletter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no\nterror in the youth: he will find it comes from a\nclodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by\nword of mouth; set upon Aguecheek a notable report\nof valour; and drive the gentleman, as I know his\nyouth will aptly receive it, into a most hideous\nopinion of his rage, skill, fury and impetuosity.\nThis will so fright them both that they will kill\none another by the look, like cockatrices.


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I have said too much unto a heart of stone\nAnd laid mine honour too unchary out:\nThere's something in me that reproves my fault;\nBut such a headstrong potent fault it is,\nThat it but mocks reproof.


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Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture;\nRefuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you;\nAnd I beseech you come again to-morrow.\nWhat shall you ask of me that I'll deny,\nThat honour saved may upon asking give?


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That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what\nnature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know\nnot; but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as\nthe hunter, attends thee at the orchard-end:\ndismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for\nthy assailant is quick, skilful and deadly.


plain_text:
You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel\nto me: my remembrance is very free and clear from\nany image of offence done to any man.


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You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore,\nif you hold your life at any price, betake you to\nyour guard; for your opposite hath in him what\nyouth, strength, skill and wrath can furnish man withal.


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He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier and on\ncarpet consideration; but he is a devil in private\nbrawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and\nhis incensement at this moment is so implacable,\nthat satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death\nand sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his word; give't or take't.


plain_text:
I will return again into the house and desire some\nconduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard\nof some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on\nothers, to taste their valour: belike this is a man\nof that quirk.


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Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of a\nvery competent injury: therefore, get you on and\ngive him his desire. Back you shall not to the\nhouse, unless you undertake that with me which with\nas much safety you might answer him: therefore, on,\nor strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you\nmust, that's certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.


plain_text:
This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me\nthis courteous office, as to know of the knight what\nmy offence to him is: it is something of my\nnegligence, nothing of my purpose.


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I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a\nmortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.


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Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by\nhis form, as you are like to find him in the proof\nof his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful,\nbloody and fatal opposite that you could possibly\nhave found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk\ntowards him? I will make your peace with him if I\ncan.


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I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one that\nhad rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I\ncare not who knows so much of my mettle.


plain_text:
Why, man, he's a very devil; I have not seen such a\nfirago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard and\nall, and he gives me the stuck in with such a mortal\nmotion, that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he\npays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they\nstep on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy.


plain_text:
Plague on't, an I thought he had been valiant and so\ncunning in fence, I'ld have seen him damned ere I'ld\nhave challenged him. Let him let the matter slip,\nand I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet.


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I'll make the motion: stand here, make a good show\non't: this shall end without the perdition of souls.\n[Aside]\nMarry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.\n[Re-enter FABIAN and VIOLA]\n[To FABIAN]\nI have his horse to take up the quarrel:\nI have persuaded him the youth's a devil.


plain_text:
[To VIOLA] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight\nwith you for's oath sake: marry, he hath better\nbethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now\nscarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for\nthe supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you.


plain_text:
Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman\nwill, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you;\nhe cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has\npromised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he\nwill not hurt you. Come on; to't.


plain_text:
Put up your sword. If this young gentleman\nHave done offence, I take the fault on me:\nIf you offend him, I for him defy you.


plain_text:
Marry, will I, sir; and, for that I promised you,\nI'll be as good as my word: he will bear you easily\nand reins well.


plain_text:
No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well,\nThough now you have no sea-cap on your head.\nTake him away: he knows I know him well.


plain_text:
I must obey.\n[To VIOLA]\nThis comes with seeking you:\nBut there's no remedy; I shall answer it.\nWhat will you do, now my necessity\nMakes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me\nMuch more for what I cannot do for you\nThan what befalls myself. You stand amazed;\nBut be of comfort.


plain_text:
What money, sir?\nFor the fair kindness you have show'd me here,\nAnd, part, being prompted by your present trouble,\nOut of my lean and low ability\nI'll lend you something: my having is not much;\nI'll make division of my present with you:\nHold, there's half my coffer.


plain_text:
Will you deny me now?\nIs't possible that my deserts to you\nCan lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,\nLest that it make me so unsound a man\nAs to upbraid you with those kindnesses\nThat I have done for you.


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I know of none;\nNor know I you by voice or any feature:\nI hate ingratitude more in a man\nThan lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness,\nOr any taint of vice whose strong corruption\nInhabits our frail blood.


plain_text:
Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here\nI snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death,\nRelieved him with such sanctity of love,\nAnd to his image, which methought did promise\nMost venerable worth, did I devotion.


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But O how vile an idol proves this god\nThou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.\nIn nature there's no blemish but the mind;\nNone can be call'd deform'd but the unkind:\nVirtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil\nAre empty trunks o'erflourish'd by the devil.


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Methinks his words do from such passion fly,\nThat he believes himself: so do not I.\nProve true, imagination, O, prove true,\nThat I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you!


plain_text:
He named Sebastian: I my brother know\nYet living in my glass; even such and so\nIn favour was my brother, and he went\nStill in this fashion, colour, ornament,\nFor him I imitate: O, if it prove,\nTempests are kind and salt waves fresh in love.


plain_text:
A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than\na hare: his dishonesty appears in leaving his\nfriend here in necessity and denying him; and for\nhis cowardship, ask Fabian.


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Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor\nI am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come\nspeak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario;\nnor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so.


plain_text:
Vent my folly! he has heard that word of some\ngreat man and now applies it to a fool. Vent my\nfolly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world,\nwill prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy\nstrangeness and tell me what I shall vent to my\nlady: shall I vent to her that thou art coming?


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I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me: There's\nmoney for thee: if you tarry longer, I shall give\nworse payment.


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By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men\nthat give fools money get themselves a good\nreport--after fourteen years' purchase.


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Nay, let him alone: I'll go another way to work\nwith him; I'll have an action of battery against\nhim, if there be any law in Illyria: though I\nstruck him first, yet it's no matter for that.


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Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young\nsoldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on.


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Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,\nFit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,\nWhere manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight!\nBe not offended, dear Cesario.\nRudesby, be gone!\n[Exeunt SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN]\nI prithee, gentle friend,\nLet thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway\nIn this uncivil and thou unjust extent\nAgainst thy peace. Go with me to my house,\nAnd hear thou there how many fruitless pranks\nThis ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby\nMayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go:\nDo not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,\nHe started one poor heart of mine in thee.


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What relish is in this? how runs the stream?\nOr I am mad, or else this is a dream:\nLet fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;\nIf it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!


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Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard;\nmake him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate: do\nit quickly; I'll call Sir Toby the whilst.


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Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself\nin't; and I would I were the first that ever\ndissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to\nbecome the function well, nor lean enough to be\nthought a good student; but to be said an honest man\nand a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say a\ncareful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter.


plain_text:
Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for, as the old hermit of\nPrague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily\nsaid to a niece of King Gorboduc, 'That that is is;'\nso I, being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for,\nwhat is 'that' but 'that,' and 'is' but 'is'?


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Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged: good Sir\nTopas, do not think I am mad: they have laid me\nhere in hideous darkness.


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Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most\nmodest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones\nthat will use the devil himself with courtesy:\nsayest thou that house is dark?


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Why it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes,\nand the clearstores toward the south north are as\nlustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of\nobstruction?


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Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness\nbut ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than\nthe Egyptians in their fog.


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I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, though\nignorance were as dark as hell; and I say, there\nwas never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you\nare: make the trial of it in any constant question.


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Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness:\nthou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will\nallow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest\nthou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well.


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To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how\nthou findest him: I would we were well rid of this\nknavery. If he may be conveniently delivered, I\nwould he were, for I am now so far in offence with\nmy niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this\nsport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.


plain_text:
Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my\nhand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink and paper:\nas I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to\nthee for't.


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They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness,\nsend ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to\nface me out of my wits.


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Advise you what you say; the minister is here.\nMalvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore!\nendeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain\nbibble babble.


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Maintain no words with him, good fellow. Who, I,\nsir? not I, sir. God be wi' you, good Sir Topas.\nMerry, amen. I will, sir, I will.


plain_text:
Good fool, help me to some light and some paper: I\ntell thee, I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.


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By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper and\nlight; and convey what I will set down to my lady:\nit shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing\nof letter did.


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[Singing]\nI am gone, sir,\nAnd anon, sir,\nI'll be with you again,\nIn a trice,\nLike to the old Vice,\nYour need to sustain;\nWho, with dagger of lath,\nIn his rage and his wrath,\nCries, ah, ha! to the devil:\nLike a mad lad,\nPare thy nails, dad;\nAdieu, good man devil.


plain_text:
This is the air; that is the glorious sun;\nThis pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't;\nAnd though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,\nYet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio, then?\nI could not find him at the Elephant:\nYet there he was; and there I found this credit,\nThat he did range the town to seek me out.\nHis counsel now might do me golden service;\nFor though my soul disputes well with my sense,\nThat this may be some error, but no madness,\nYet doth this accident and flood of fortune\nSo far exceed all instance, all discourse,\nThat I am ready to distrust mine eyes\nAnd wrangle with my reason that persuades me\nTo any other trust but that I am mad\nOr else the lady's mad; yet, if 'twere so,\nShe could not sway her house, command her followers,\nTake and give back affairs and their dispatch\nWith such a smooth, discreet and stable bearing\nAs I perceive she does: there's something in't\nThat is deceiveable. But here the lady comes.


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Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,\nNow go with me and with this holy man\nInto the chantry by: there, before him,\nAnd underneath that consecrated roof,\nPlight me the full assurance of your faith;\nThat my most jealous and too doubtful soul\nMay live at peace. He shall conceal it\nWhiles you are willing it shall come to note,\nWhat time we will our celebration keep\nAccording to my birth. What do you say?


plain_text:
Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me;\nnow my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by\nmy foes, sir I profit in the knowledge of myself,\nand by my friends, I am abused: so that,\nconclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives\nmake your two affirmatives why then, the worse for\nmy friends and the better for my foes.


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Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old\nsaying is, the third pays for all: the triplex,\nsir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of\nSaint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind; one, two, three.


plain_text:
You can fool no more money out of me at this throw:\nif you will let your lady know I am here to speak\nwith her, and bring her along with you, it may awake\nmy bounty further.


plain_text:
Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come\nagain. I go, sir; but I would not have you to think\nthat my desire of having is the sin of covetousness:\nbut, as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I\nwill awake it anon.


plain_text:
That face of his I do remember well;\nYet, when I saw it last, it was besmear'd\nAs black as Vulcan in the smoke of war:\nA bawbling vessel was he captain of,\nFor shallow draught and bulk unprizable;\nWith which such scathful grapple did he make\nWith the most noble bottom of our fleet,\nThat very envy and the tongue of loss\nCried fame and honour on him. What's the matter?


plain_text:
Orsino, this is that Antonio\nThat took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy;\nAnd this is he that did the Tiger board,\nWhen your young nephew Titus lost his leg:\nHere in the streets, desperate of shame and state,\nIn private brabble did we apprehend him.


plain_text:
He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side;\nBut in conclusion put strange speech upon me:\nI know not what 'twas but distraction.


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Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief!\nWhat foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies,\nWhom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,\nHast made thine enemies?


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Orsino, noble sir,\nBe pleased that I shake off these names you give me:\nAntonio never yet was thief or pirate,\nThough I confess, on base and ground enough,\nOrsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:\nThat most ingrateful boy there by your side,\nFrom the rude sea's enraged and foamy mouth\nDid I redeem; a wreck past hope he was:\nHis life I gave him and did thereto add\nMy love, without retention or restraint,\nAll his in dedication; for his sake\nDid I expose myself, pure for his love,\nInto the danger of this adverse town;\nDrew to defend him when he was beset:\nWhere being apprehended, his false cunning,\nNot meaning to partake with me in danger,\nTaught him to face me out of his acquaintance,\nAnd grew a twenty years removed thing\nWhile one would wink; denied me mine own purse,\nWhich I had recommended to his use\nNot half an hour before.


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To-day, my lord; and for three months before,\nNo interim, not a minute's vacancy,\nBoth day and night did we keep company.


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Here comes the countess: now heaven walks on earth.\nBut for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are madness:\nThree months this youth hath tended upon me;\nBut more of that anon. Take him aside.


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What would my lord, but that he may not have,\nWherein Olivia may seem serviceable?\nCesario, you do not keep promise with me.


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If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,\nIt is as fat and fulsome to mine ear\nAs howling after music.


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What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady,\nTo whose ingrate and unauspicious altars\nMy soul the faithfull'st offerings hath breathed out\nThat e'er devotion tender'd! What shall I do?


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Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,\nLike to the Egyptian thief at point of death,\nKill what I love?--a savage jealousy\nThat sometimes savours nobly. But hear me this:\nSince you to non-regardance cast my faith,\nAnd that I partly know the instrument\nThat screws me from my true place in your favour,\nLive you the marble-breasted tyrant still;\nBut this your minion, whom I know you love,\nAnd whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,\nHim will I tear out of that cruel eye,\nWhere he sits crowned in his master's spite.\nCome, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief:\nI'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,\nTo spite a raven's heart within a dove.


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After him I love\nMore than I love these eyes, more than my life,\nMore, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife.\nIf I do feign, you witnesses above\nPunish my life for tainting of my love!


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Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear\nThat makes thee strangle thy propriety:\nFear not, Cesario; take thy fortunes up;\nBe that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art\nAs great as that thou fear'st.\n[Enter Priest]\nO, welcome, father!\nFather, I charge thee, by thy reverence,\nHere to unfold, though lately we intended\nTo keep in darkness what occasion now\nReveals before 'tis ripe, what thou dost know\nHath newly pass'd between this youth and me.


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A contract of eternal bond of love,\nConfirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands,\nAttested by the holy close of lips,\nStrengthen'd by interchangement of your rings;\nAnd all the ceremony of this compact\nSeal'd in my function, by my testimony:\nSince when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave\nI have travell'd but two hours.


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O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be\nWhen time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case?\nOr will not else thy craft so quickly grow,\nThat thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?\nFarewell, and take her; but direct thy feet\nWhere thou and I henceforth may never meet.


plain_text:
He has broke my head across and has given Sir Toby\na bloody coxcomb too: for the love of God, your\nhelp! I had rather than forty pound I were at home.


plain_text:
'Od's lifelings, here he is! You broke my head for\nnothing; and that that I did, I was set on to do't\nby Sir Toby.


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Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you:\nYou drew your sword upon me without cause;\nBut I bespoke you fair, and hurt you not.


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If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me: I\nthink you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb.\n[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and Clown]\nHere comes Sir Toby halting; you shall hear more:\nbut if he had not been in drink, he would have\ntickled you othergates than he did.


plain_text:
I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman:\nBut, had it been the brother of my blood,\nI must have done no less with wit and safety.\nYou throw a strange regard upon me, and by that\nI do perceive it hath offended you:\nPardon me, sweet one, even for the vows\nWe made each other but so late ago.


plain_text:
How have you made division of yourself?\nAn apple, cleft in two, is not more twin\nThan these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?


plain_text:
Do I stand there? I never had a brother;\nNor can there be that deity in my nature,\nOf here and every where. I had a sister,\nWhom the blind waves and surges have devour'd.\nOf charity, what kin are you to me?\nWhat countryman? what name? what parentage?


plain_text:
Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;\nSuch a Sebastian was my brother too,\nSo went he suited to his watery tomb:\nIf spirits can assume both form and suit\nYou come to fright us.


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A spirit I am indeed;\nBut am in that dimension grossly clad\nWhich from the womb I did participate.\nWere you a woman, as the rest goes even,\nI should my tears let fall upon your cheek,\nAnd say 'Thrice-welcome, drowned Viola!'


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O, that record is lively in my soul!\nHe finished indeed his mortal act\nThat day that made my sister thirteen years.


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If nothing lets to make us happy both\nBut this my masculine usurp'd attire,\nDo not embrace me till each circumstance\nOf place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump\nThat I am Viola: which to confirm,\nI'll bring you to a captain in this town,\nWhere lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help\nI was preserved to serve this noble count.\nAll the occurrence of my fortune since\nHath been between this lady and this lord.


plain_text:
[To OLIVIA] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook:\nBut nature to her bias drew in that.\nYou would have been contracted to a maid;\nNor are you therein, by my life, deceived,\nYou are betroth'd both to a maid and man.


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Be not amazed; right noble is his blood.\nIf this be so, as yet the glass seems true,\nI shall have share in this most happy wreck.\n[To VIOLA]\nBoy, thou hast said to me a thousand times\nThou never shouldst love woman like to me.


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And all those sayings will I overswear;\nAnd those swearings keep as true in soul\nAs doth that orbed continent the fire\nThat severs day from night.


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The captain that did bring me first on shore\nHath my maid's garments: he upon some action\nIs now in durance, at Malvolio's suit,\nA gentleman, and follower of my lady's.


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He shall enlarge him: fetch Malvolio hither:\nAnd yet, alas, now I remember me,\nThey say, poor gentleman, he's much distract.\n[Re-enter Clown with a letter, and FABIAN]\nA most extracting frenzy of mine own\nFrom my remembrance clearly banish'd his.\nHow does he, sirrah?


plain_text:
Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the staves's end as\nwell as a man in his case may do: has here writ a\nletter to you; I should have given't you to-day\nmorning, but as a madman's epistles are no gospels,\nso it skills not much when they are delivered.


plain_text:
No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship\nwill have it as it ought to be, you must allow Vox.


plain_text:
So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to\nread thus: therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear.


plain_text:
[Reads] 'By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the\nworld shall know it: though you have put me into\ndarkness and given your drunken cousin rule over\nme, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as\nyour ladyship. I have your own letter that induced\nme to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt\nnot but to do myself much right, or you much shame.\nThink of me as you please. I leave my duty a little\nunthought of and speak out of my injury.\nTHE MADLY-USED MALVOLIO.'


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See him deliver'd, Fabian; bring him hither.\n[Exit FABIAN]\nMy lord so please you, these things further\nthought on,\nTo think me as well a sister as a wife,\nOne day shall crown the alliance on't, so please you,\nHere at my house and at my proper cost.


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Madam, I am most apt to embrace your offer.\n[To VIOLA]\nYour master quits you; and for your service done him,\nSo much against the mettle of your sex,\nSo far beneath your soft and tender breeding,\nAnd since you call'd me master for so long,\nHere is my hand: you shall from this time be\nYour master's mistress.


plain_text:
Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that letter.\nYou must not now deny it is your hand:\nWrite from it, if you can, in hand or phrase;\nOr say 'tis not your seal, nor your invention:\nYou can say none of this: well, grant it then\nAnd tell me, in the modesty of honour,\nWhy you have given me such clear lights of favour,\nBade me come smiling and cross-garter'd to you,\nTo put on yellow stockings and to frown\nUpon Sir Toby and the lighter people;\nAnd, acting this in an obedient hope,\nWhy have you suffer'd me to be imprison'd,\nKept in a dark house, visited by the priest,\nAnd made the most notorious geck and gull\nThat e'er invention play'd on? tell me why.


plain_text:
Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing,\nThough, I confess, much like the character\nBut out of question 'tis Maria's hand.\nAnd now I do bethink me, it was she\nFirst told me thou wast mad; then camest in smiling,\nAnd in such forms which here were presupposed\nUpon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content:\nThis practise hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee;\nBut when we know the grounds and authors of it,\nThou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge\nOf thine own cause.


plain_text:
Good madam, hear me speak,\nAnd let no quarrel nor no brawl to come\nTaint the condition of this present hour,\nWhich I have wonder'd at. In hope it shall not,\nMost freely I confess, myself and Toby\nSet this device against Malvolio here,\nUpon some stubborn and uncourteous parts\nWe had conceived against him: Maria writ\nThe letter at Sir Toby's great importance;\nIn recompense whereof he hath married her.\nHow with a sportful malice it was follow'd,\nMay rather pluck on laughter than revenge;\nIf that the injuries be justly weigh'd\nThat have on both sides pass'd.


plain_text:
Why, 'some are born great, some achieve greatness,\nand some have greatness thrown upon them.' I was\none, sir, in this interlude; one Sir Topas, sir; but\nthat's all one. 'By the Lord, fool, I am not mad.'\nBut do you remember? 'Madam, why laugh you at such\na barren rascal? an you smile not, he's gagged:'\nand thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.


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Pursue him and entreat him to a peace:\nHe hath not told us of the captain yet:\nWhen that is known and golden time convents,\nA solemn combination shall be made\nOf our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister,\nWe will not part from hence. Cesario, come;\nFor so you shall be, while you are a man;\nBut when in other habits you are seen,\nOrsino's mistress and his fancy's queen.


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[Sings]\nWhen that I was and a little tiny boy,\nWith hey, ho, the wind and the rain,\nA foolish thing was but a toy,\nFor the rain it raineth every day.\nBut when I came to man's estate,\nWith hey, ho, &c.\n'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,\nFor the rain, &c.\nBut when I came, alas! to wive,\nWith hey, ho, &c.\nBy swaggering could I never thrive,\nFor the rain, &c.\nBut when I came unto my beds,\nWith hey, ho, &c.\nWith toss-pots still had drunken heads,\nFor the rain, &c.\nA great while ago the world begun,\nWith hey, ho, &c.\nBut that's all one, our play is done,\nAnd we'll strive to please you every day.


plain_text:
And I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death\nanew: but I must attend his majesty's command, to\nwhom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection.


plain_text:
You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you,\nsir, a father: he that so generally is at all times\ngood must of necessity hold his virtue to you; whose\nworthiness would stir it up where it wanted rather\nthan lack it where there is such abundance.


plain_text:
He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose\npractises he hath persecuted time with hope, and\nfinds no other advantage in the process but only the\nlosing of hope by time.


plain_text:
This young gentlewoman had a father,--O, that\n'had'! how sad a passage 'tis!--whose skill was\nalmost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so\nfar, would have made nature immortal, and death\nshould have play for lack of work. Would, for the\nking's sake, he were living! I think it would be\nthe death of the king's disease.


plain_text:
He was excellent indeed, madam: the king very\nlately spoke of him admiringly and mourningly: he\nwas skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge\ncould be set up against mortality.


plain_text:
His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my\noverlooking. I have those hopes of her good that\nher education promises; her dispositions she\ninherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where\nan unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there\ncommendations go with pity; they are virtues and\ntraitors too; in her they are the better for their\nsimpleness; she derives her honesty and achieves her goodness.


plain_text:
'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise\nin. The remembrance of her father never approaches\nher heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all\nlivelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena;\ngo to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect\na sorrow than have it.


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Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father\nIn manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue\nContend for empire in thee, and thy goodness\nShare with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,\nDo wrong to none: be able for thine enemy\nRather in power than use, and keep thy friend\nUnder thy own life's key: be cheque'd for silence,\nBut never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will,\nThat thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down,\nFall on thy head! Farewell, my lord;\n'Tis an unseason'd courtier; good my lord,\nAdvise him.


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[To HELENA] The best wishes that can be forged in\nyour thoughts be servants to you! Be comfortable\nto my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.


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O, were that all! I think not on my father;\nAnd these great tears grace his remembrance more\nThan those I shed for him. What was he like?\nI have forgot him: my imagination\nCarries no favour in't but Bertram's.\nI am undone: there is no living, none,\nIf Bertram be away. 'Twere all one\nThat I should love a bright particular star\nAnd think to wed it, he is so above me:\nIn his bright radiance and collateral light\nMust I be comforted, not in his sphere.\nThe ambition in my love thus plagues itself:\nThe hind that would be mated by the lion\nMust die for love. 'Twas pretty, though plague,\nTo see him every hour; to sit and draw\nHis arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,\nIn our heart's table; heart too capable\nOf every line and trick of his sweet favour:\nBut now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy\nMust sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?\n[Enter PAROLLES]\n[Aside]\nOne that goes with him: I love him for his sake;\nAnd yet I know him a notorious liar,\nThink him a great way fool, solely a coward;\nYet these fixed evils sit so fit in him,\nThat they take place, when virtue's steely bones\nLook bleak i' the cold wind: withal, full oft we see\nCold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.


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Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you: let me\nask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity; how\nmay we barricado it against him?


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But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant,\nin the defence yet is weak: unfold to us some\nwarlike resistance.


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Bless our poor virginity from underminers and\nblowers up! Is there no military policy, how\nvirgins might blow up men?


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Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be\nblown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with\nthe breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It\nis not politic in the commonwealth of nature to\npreserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational\nincrease and there was never virgin got till\nvirginity was first lost. That you were made of is\nmetal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost\nmay be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is\never lost: 'tis too cold a companion; away with 't!


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There's little can be said in 't; 'tis against the\nrule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity,\nis to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible\ndisobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin:\nvirginity murders itself and should be buried in\nhighways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate\noffendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites,\nmuch like a cheese; consumes itself to the very\nparing, and so dies with feeding his own stomach.\nBesides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of\nself-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the\ncanon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but loose\nby't: out with 't! within ten year it will make\nitself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the\nprincipal itself not much the worse: away with 't!


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Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it\nlikes. 'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with\nlying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with 't\nwhile 'tis vendible; answer the time of request.\nVirginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out\nof fashion: richly suited, but unsuitable: just\nlike the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not\nnow. Your date is better in your pie and your\nporridge than in your cheek; and your virginity,\nyour old virginity, is like one of our French\nwithered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; marry,\n'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better;\nmarry, yet 'tis a withered pear: will you anything with it?


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Not my virginity yet [--]\nThere shall your master have a thousand loves,\nA mother and a mistress and a friend,\nA phoenix, captain and an enemy,\nA guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,\nA counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;\nHis humble ambition, proud humility,\nHis jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,\nHis faith, his sweet disaster; with a world\nOf pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,\nThat blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he--\nI know not what he shall. God send him well!\nThe court's a learning place, and he is one--


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That wishing well had not a body in't,\nWhich might be felt; that we, the poorer born,\nWhose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,\nMight with effects of them follow our friends,\nAnd show what we alone must think, which never\nReturn us thanks.


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So is running away, when fear proposes the safety;\nbut the composition that your valour and fear makes\nin you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.


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I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee\nacutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the\nwhich, my instruction shall serve to naturalize\nthee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's\ncounsel and understand what advice shall thrust upon\nthee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and\nthine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When\nthou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast\nnone, remember thy friends; get thee a good husband,\nand use him as he uses thee; so, farewell.


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Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,\nWhich we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky\nGives us free scope, only doth backward pull\nOur slow designs when we ourselves are dull.\nWhat power is it which mounts my love so high,\nThat makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?\nThe mightiest space in fortune nature brings\nTo join like likes and kiss like native things.\nImpossible be strange attempts to those\nThat weigh their pains in sense and do suppose\nWhat hath been cannot be: who ever strove\nSo show her merit, that did miss her love?\nThe king's disease--my project may deceive me,\nBut my intents are fix'd and will not leave me.


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The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;\nHave fought with equal fortune and continue\nA braving war.


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Nay, 'tis most credible; we here received it\nA certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria,\nWith caution that the Florentine will move us\nFor speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend\nPrejudicates the business and would seem\nTo have us make denial.


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He hath arm'd our answer,\nAnd Florence is denied before he comes:\nYet, for our gentlemen that mean to see\nThe Tuscan service, freely have they leave\nTo stand on either part.


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Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face;\nFrank nature, rather curious than in haste,\nHath well composed thee. Thy father's moral parts\nMayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.


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I would I had that corporal soundness now,\nAs when thy father and myself in friendship\nFirst tried our soldiership! He did look far\nInto the service of the time and was\nDiscipled of the bravest: he lasted long;\nBut on us both did haggish age steal on\nAnd wore us out of act. It much repairs me\nTo talk of your good father. In his youth\nHe had the wit which I can well observe\nTo-day in our young lords; but they may jest\nTill their own scorn return to them unnoted\nEre they can hide their levity in honour;\nSo like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness\nWere in his pride or sharpness; if they were,\nHis equal had awaked them, and his honour,\nClock to itself, knew the true minute when\nException bid him speak, and at this time\nHis tongue obey'd his hand: who were below him\nHe used as creatures of another place\nAnd bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,\nMaking them proud of his humility,\nIn their poor praise he humbled. Such a man\nMight be a copy to these younger times;\nWhich, follow'd well, would demonstrate them now\nBut goers backward.


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His good remembrance, sir,\nLies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;\nSo in approof lives not his epitaph\nAs in your royal speech.


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Would I were with him! He would always say--\nMethinks I hear him now; his plausive words\nHe scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,\nTo grow there and to bear,--'Let me not live,'--\nThis his good melancholy oft began,\nOn the catastrophe and heel of pastime,\nWhen it was out,--'Let me not live,' quoth he,\n'After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff\nOf younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses\nAll but new things disdain; whose judgments are\nMere fathers of their garments; whose constancies\nExpire before their fashions.' This he wish'd;\nI after him do after him wish too,\nSince I nor wax nor honey can bring home,\nI quickly were dissolved from my hive,\nTo give some labourers room.


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I fill a place, I know't. How long is't, count,\nSince the physician at your father's died?\nHe was much famed.


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If he were living, I would try him yet.\nLend me an arm; the rest have worn me out\nWith several applications; nature and sickness\nDebate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;\nMy son's no dearer.


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Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I\nwish might be found in the calendar of my past\nendeavours; for then we wound our modesty and make\nfoul the clearness of our deservings, when of\nourselves we publish them.


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What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah:\nthe complaints I have heard of you I do not all\nbelieve: 'tis my slowness that I do not; for I know\nyou lack not folly to commit them, and have ability\nenough to make such knaveries yours.


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No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though\nmany of the rich are damned: but, if I may have\nyour ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel\nthe woman and I will do as we may.


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In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is no\nheritage: and I think I shall never have the\nblessing of God till I have issue o' my body; for\nthey say barnes are blessings.


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My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on\nby the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.


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I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and\nall flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry\nthat I may repent.


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You're shallow, madam, in great friends; for the\nknaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of.\nHe that ears my land spares my team and gives me\nleave to in the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my\ndrudge: he that comforts my wife is the cherisher\nof my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh\nand blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my\nflesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses\nmy wife is my friend. If men could be contented to\nbe what they are, there were no fear in marriage;\nfor young Charbon the Puritan and old Poysam the\nPapist, howsome'er their hearts are severed in\nreligion, their heads are both one; they may jowl\nhorns together, like any deer i' the herd.


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A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next\nway:\nFor I the ballad will repeat,\nWhich men full true shall find;\nYour marriage comes by destiny,\nYour cuckoo sings by kind.


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Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,\nWhy the Grecians sacked Troy?\nFond done, done fond,\nWas this King Priam's joy?\nWith that she sighed as she stood,\nWith that she sighed as she stood,\nAnd gave this sentence then;\nAmong nine bad if one be good,\nAmong nine bad if one be good,\nThere's yet one good in ten.


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One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying\no' the song: would God would serve the world so all\nthe year! we'ld find no fault with the tithe-woman,\nif I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a'! An we\nmight have a good woman born but one every blazing\nstar, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery\nwell: a man may draw his heart out, ere a' pluck\none.


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That man should be at woman's command, and yet no\nhurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet it\nwill do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of\nhumility over the black gown of a big heart. I am\ngoing, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither.


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Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and\nshe herself, without other advantage, may lawfully\nmake title to as much love as she finds: there is\nmore owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid\nher than she'll demand.


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Madam, I was very late more near her than I think\nshe wished me: alone she was, and did communicate\nto herself her own words to her own ears; she\nthought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any\nstranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son:\nFortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put\nsuch difference betwixt their two estates; Love no\ngod, that would not extend his might, only where\nqualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, that\nwould suffer her poor knight surprised, without\nrescue in the first assault or ransom afterward.\nThis she delivered in the most bitter touch of\nsorrow that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I\nheld my duty speedily to acquaint you withal;\nsithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns\nyou something to know it.


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You have discharged this honestly; keep it to\nyourself: many likelihoods informed me of this\nbefore, which hung so tottering in the balance that\nI could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you,\nleave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you\nfor your honest care: I will speak with you further anon.\n[Exit Steward]\n[Enter HELENA]\nEven so it was with me when I was young:\nIf ever we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn\nDoth to our rose of youth rightly belong;\nOur blood to us, this to our blood is born;\nIt is the show and seal of nature's truth,\nWhere love's strong passion is impress'd in youth:\nBy our remembrances of days foregone,\nSuch were our faults, or then we thought them none.\nHer eye is sick on't: I observe her now.


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Nay, a mother:\nWhy not a mother? When I said 'a mother,'\nMethought you saw a serpent: what's in 'mother,'\nThat you start at it? I say, I am your mother;\nAnd put you in the catalogue of those\nThat were enwombed mine: 'tis often seen\nAdoption strives with nature and choice breeds\nA native slip to us from foreign seeds:\nYou ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,\nYet I express to you a mother's care:\nGod's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood\nTo say I am thy mother? What's the matter,\nThat this distemper'd messenger of wet,\nThe many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?\nWhy? that you are my daughter?


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Pardon, madam;\nThe Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:\nI am from humble, he from honour'd name;\nNo note upon my parents, his all noble:\nMy master, my dear lord he is; and I\nHis servant live, and will his vassal die:\nHe must not be my brother.


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You are my mother, madam; would you were,--\nSo that my lord your son were not my brother,--\nIndeed my mother! or were you both our mothers,\nI care no more for than I do for heaven,\nSo I were not his sister. Can't no other,\nBut, I your daughter, he must be my brother?


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Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:\nGod shield you mean it not! daughter and mother\nSo strive upon your pulse. What, pale again?\nMy fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I see\nThe mystery of your loneliness, and find\nYour salt tears' head: now to all sense 'tis gross\nYou love my son; invention is ashamed,\nAgainst the proclamation of thy passion,\nTo say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;\nBut tell me then, 'tis so; for, look thy cheeks\nConfess it, th' one to th' other; and thine eyes\nSee it so grossly shown in thy behaviors\nThat in their kind they speak it: only sin\nAnd hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,\nThat truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so?\nIf it be so, you have wound a goodly clew;\nIf it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,\nAs heaven shall work in me for thine avail,\nTell me truly.


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Go not about; my love hath in't a bond,\nWhereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose\nThe state of your affection; for your passions\nHave to the full appeach'd.


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Then, I confess,\nHere on my knee, before high heaven and you,\nThat before you, and next unto high heaven,\nI love your son.\nMy friends were poor, but honest; so's my love:\nBe not offended; for it hurts not him\nThat he is loved of me: I follow him not\nBy any token of presumptuous suit;\nNor would I have him till I do deserve him;\nYet never know how that desert should be.\nI know I love in vain, strive against hope;\nYet in this captious and intenible sieve\nI still pour in the waters of my love\nAnd lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like,\nReligious in mine error, I adore\nThe sun, that looks upon his worshipper,\nBut knows of him no more. My dearest madam,\nLet not your hate encounter with my love\nFor loving where you do: but if yourself,\nWhose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,\nDid ever in so true a flame of liking\nWish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian\nWas both herself and love: O, then, give pity\nTo her, whose state is such that cannot choose\nBut lend and give where she is sure to lose;\nThat seeks not to find that her search implies,\nBut riddle-like lives sweetly where she dies!


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I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.\nYou know my father left me some prescriptions\nOf rare and proved effects, such as his reading\nAnd manifest experience had collected\nFor general sovereignty; and that he will'd me\nIn heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,\nAs notes whose faculties inclusive were\nMore than they were in note: amongst the rest,\nThere is a remedy, approved, set down,\nTo cure the desperate languishings whereof\nThe king is render'd lost.


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My lord your son made me to think of this;\nElse Paris and the medicine and the king\nHad from the conversation of my thoughts\nHaply been absent then.


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But think you, Helen,\nIf you should tender your supposed aid,\nHe would receive it? he and his physicians\nAre of a mind; he, that they cannot help him,\nThey, that they cannot help: how shall they credit\nA poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,\nEmbowell'd of their doctrine, have left off\nThe danger to itself?


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There's something in't,\nMore than my father's skill, which was the greatest\nOf his profession, that his good receipt\nShall for my legacy be sanctified\nBy the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour\nBut give me leave to try success, I'ld venture\nThe well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure\nBy such a day and hour.


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Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,\nMeans and attendants and my loving greetings\nTo those of mine in court: I'll stay at home\nAnd pray God's blessing into thy attempt:\nBe gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,\nWhat I can help thee to thou shalt not miss.


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[Exeunt]\n[Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING, attended]\nwith divers young Lords taking leave for the\nFlorentine war; BERTRAM, and PAROLLES]


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Farewell, young lords; these warlike principles\nDo not throw from you: and you, my lords, farewell:\nShare the advice betwixt you; if both gain, all\nThe gift doth stretch itself as 'tis received,\nAnd is enough for both.


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No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart\nWill not confess he owes the malady\nThat doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;\nWhether I live or die, be you the sons\nOf worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy,--\nThose bated that inherit but the fall\nOf the last monarchy,--see that you come\nNot to woo honour, but to wed it; when\nThe bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek,\nThat fame may cry you loud: I say, farewell.


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Those girls of Italy, take heed of them:\nThey say, our French lack language to deny,\nIf they demand: beware of being captives,\nBefore you serve.


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I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,\nCreaking my shoes on the plain masonry,\nTill honour be bought up and no sword worn\nBut one to dance with! By heaven, I'll steal away.


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Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good\nsparks and lustrous, a word, good metals: you shall\nfind in the regiment of the Spinii one Captain\nSpurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here\non his sinister cheek; it was this very sword\nentrenched it: say to him, I live; and observe his\nreports for me.


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[To BERTRAM] Use a more spacious ceremony to the\nnoble lords; you have restrained yourself within the\nlist of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to\nthem: for they wear themselves in the cap of the\ntime, there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and\nmove under the influence of the most received star;\nand though the devil lead the measure, such are to\nbe followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell.


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Then here's a man stands, that has brought his pardon.\nI would you had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me mercy,\nAnd that at my bidding you could so stand up.


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O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox?\nYes, but you will my noble grapes, an if\nMy royal fox could reach them: I have seen a medicine\nThat's able to breathe life into a stone,\nQuicken a rock, and make you dance canary\nWith spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch,\nIs powerful to araise King Pepin, nay,\nTo give great Charlemain a pen in's hand,\nAnd write to her a love-line.


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Why, Doctor She: my lord, there's one arrived,\nIf you will see her: now, by my faith and honour,\nIf seriously I may convey my thoughts\nIn this my light deliverance, I have spoke\nWith one that, in her sex, her years, profession,\nWisdom and constancy, hath amazed me more\nThan I dare blame my weakness: will you see her\nFor that is her demand, and know her business?\nThat done, laugh well at me.


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Now, good Lafeu,\nBring in the admiration; that we with thee\nMay spend our wonder too, or take off thine\nBy wondering how thou took'st it.


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Nay, come your ways:\nThis is his majesty; say your mind to him:\nA traitor you do look like; but such traitors\nHis majesty seldom fears: I am Cressid's uncle,\nThat dare leave two together; fare you well.


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The rather will I spare my praises towards him:\nKnowing him is enough. On's bed of death\nMany receipts he gave me: chiefly one.\nWhich, as the dearest issue of his practise,\nAnd of his old experience the oily darling,\nHe bade me store up, as a triple eye,\nSafer than mine own two, more dear; I have so;\nAnd hearing your high majesty is touch'd\nWith that malignant cause wherein the honour\nOf my dear father's gift stands chief in power,\nI come to tender it and my appliance\nWith all bound humbleness.


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We thank you, maiden;\nBut may not be so credulous of cure,\nWhen our most learned doctors leave us and\nThe congregated college have concluded\nThat labouring art can never ransom nature\nFrom her inaidible estate; I say we must not\nSo stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,\nTo prostitute our past-cure malady\nTo empirics, or to dissever so\nOur great self and our credit, to esteem\nA senseless help when help past sense we deem.


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My duty then shall pay me for my pains:\nI will no more enforce mine office on you.\nHumbly entreating from your royal thoughts\nA modest one, to bear me back a again.


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I cannot give thee less, to be call'd grateful:\nThou thought'st to help me; and such thanks I give\nAs one near death to those that wish him live:\nBut what at full I know, thou know'st no part,\nI knowing all my peril, thou no art.


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What I can do can do no hurt to try,\nSince you set up your rest 'gainst remedy.\nHe that of greatest works is finisher\nOft does them by the weakest minister:\nSo holy writ in babes hath judgment shown,\nWhen judges have been babes; great floods have flown\nFrom simple sources, and great seas have dried\nWhen miracles have by the greatest been denied.\nOft expectation fails and most oft there\nWhere most it promises, and oft it hits\nWhere hope is coldest and despair most fits.


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I must not hear thee; fare thee well, kind maid;\nThy pains not used must by thyself be paid:\nProffers not took reap thanks for their reward.


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Inspired merit so by breath is barr'd:\nIt is not so with Him that all things knows\nAs 'tis with us that square our guess by shows;\nBut most it is presumption in us when\nThe help of heaven we count the act of men.\nDear sir, to my endeavours give consent;\nOf heaven, not me, make an experiment.\nI am not an impostor that proclaim\nMyself against the level of mine aim;\nBut know I think and think I know most sure\nMy art is not past power nor you past cure.


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The great'st grace lending grace\nEre twice the horses of the sun shall bring\nTheir fiery torcher his diurnal ring,\nEre twice in murk and occidental damp\nMoist Hesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp,\nOr four and twenty times the pilot's glass\nHath told the thievish minutes how they pass,\nWhat is infirm from your sound parts shall fly,\nHealth shall live free and sickness freely die.


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Tax of impudence,\nA strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame\nTraduced by odious ballads: my maiden's name\nSear'd otherwise; nay, worse--if worse--extended\nWith vilest torture let my life be ended.


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Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak\nHis powerful sound within an organ weak:\nAnd what impossibility would slay\nIn common sense, sense saves another way.\nThy life is dear; for all that life can rate\nWorth name of life in thee hath estimate,\nYouth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all\nThat happiness and prime can happy call:\nThou this to hazard needs must intimate\nSkill infinite or monstrous desperate.\nSweet practiser, thy physic I will try,\nThat ministers thine own death if I die.


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If I break time, or flinch in property\nOf what I spoke, unpitied let me die,\nAnd well deserved: not helping, death's my fee;\nBut, if I help, what do you promise me?


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Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand\nWhat husband in thy power I will command:\nExempted be from me the arrogance\nTo choose from forth the royal blood of France,\nMy low and humble name to propagate\nWith any branch or image of thy state;\nBut such a one, thy vassal, whom I know\nIs free for me to ask, thee to bestow.


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Here is my hand; the premises observed,\nThy will by my performance shall be served:\nSo make the choice of thy own time, for I,\nThy resolved patient, on thee still rely.\nMore should I question thee, and more I must,\nThough more to know could not be more to trust,\nFrom whence thou camest, how tended on: but rest\nUnquestion'd welcome and undoubted blest.\nGive me some help here, ho! If thou proceed\nAs high as word, my deed shall match thy meed.


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To the court! why, what place make you special,\nwhen you put off that with such contempt? But to the court!


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Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he\nmay easily put it off at court: he that cannot make\na leg, put off's cap, kiss his hand and say nothing,\nhas neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed\nsuch a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the\ncourt; but for me, I have an answer will serve all\nmen.


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It is like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks,\nthe pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn\nbuttock, or any buttock.


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As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney,\nas your French crown for your taffeta punk, as Tib's\nrush for Tom's forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove\nTuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his\nhole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding queen\nto a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the\nfriar's mouth, nay, as the pudding to his skin.


plain_text:
But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned\nshould speak truth of it: here it is, and all that\nbelongs to't. Ask me if I am a courtier: it shall\ndo you no harm to learn.


plain_text:
To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in\nquestion, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I\npray you, sir, are you a courtier?


plain_text:
Do you cry, 'O Lord, sir!' at your whipping, and\n'spare not me?' Indeed your 'O Lord, sir!' is very\nsequent to your whipping: you would answer very well\nto a whipping, if you were but bound to't.


plain_text:
I ne'er had worse luck in my life in my 'O Lord,\nsir!' I see things may serve long, but not serve ever.


plain_text:
An end, sir; to your business. Give Helen this,\nAnd urge her to a present answer back:\nCommend me to my kinsmen and my son:\nThis is not much.


plain_text:
They say miracles are past; and we have our\nphilosophical persons, to make modern and familiar,\nthings supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that\nwe make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves\ninto seeming knowledge, when we should submit\nourselves to an unknown fear.


plain_text:
Nay, 'tis strange, 'tis very strange, that is the\nbrief and the tedious of it; and he's of a most\nfacinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the--


plain_text:
In a most weak--\n[pausing]\nand debile minister, great power, great\ntranscendence: which should, indeed, give us a\nfurther use to be made than alone the recovery of\nthe king, as to be--\n[pausing]\ngenerally thankful.


plain_text:
I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.\n[Enter KING, HELENA, and Attendants. LAFEU and]\nPAROLLES retire]


plain_text:
Lustig, as the Dutchman says: I'll like a maid the\nbetter, whilst I have a tooth in my head: why, he's\nable to lead her a coranto.


plain_text:
Go, call before me all the lords in court.\nSit, my preserver, by thy patient's side;\nAnd with this healthful hand, whose banish'd sense\nThou hast repeal'd, a second time receive\nThe confirmation of my promised gift,\nWhich but attends thy naming.\n[Enter three or four Lords]\nFair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful parcel\nOf noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,\nO'er whom both sovereign power and father's voice\nI have to use: thy frank election make;\nThou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.


plain_text:
I'ld give bay Curtal and his furniture,\nMy mouth no more were broken than these boys',\nAnd writ as little beard.


plain_text:
I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest,\nThat I protest I simply am a maid.\nPlease it your majesty, I have done already:\nThe blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me,\n'We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be refused,\nLet the white death sit on thy cheek for ever;\nWe'll ne'er come there again.'


plain_text:
Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,\nAnd to imperial Love, that god most high,\nDo my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my suit?


plain_text:
The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes,\nBefore I speak, too threateningly replies:\nLove make your fortunes twenty times above\nHer that so wishes and her humble love!


plain_text:
Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine,\nI'd have them whipped; or I would send them to the\nTurk, to make eunuchs of.


plain_text:
Be not afraid that I your hand should take;\nI'll never do you wrong for your own sake:\nBlessing upon your vows! and in your bed\nFind fairer fortune, if you ever wed!


plain_text:
These boys are boys of ice, they'll none have her:\nsure, they are bastards to the English; the French\nne'er got 'em.


plain_text:
There's one grape yet; I am sure thy father drunk\nwine: but if thou be'st not an ass, I am a youth\nof fourteen; I have known thee already.


plain_text:
[To BERTRAM] I dare not say I take you; but I give\nMe and my service, ever whilst I live,\nInto your guiding power. This is the man.


plain_text:
My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness,\nIn such a business give me leave to use\nThe help of mine own eyes.


plain_text:
But follows it, my lord, to bring me down\nMust answer for your raising? I know her well:\nShe had her breeding at my father's charge.\nA poor physician's daughter my wife! Disdain\nRather corrupt me ever!


plain_text:
'Tis only title thou disdain'st in her, the which\nI can build up. Strange is it that our bloods,\nOf colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together,\nWould quite confound distinction, yet stand off\nIn differences so mighty. If she be\nAll that is virtuous, save what thou dislikest,\nA poor physician's daughter, thou dislikest\nOf virtue for the name: but do not so:\nFrom lowest place when virtuous things proceed,\nThe place is dignified by the doer's deed:\nWhere great additions swell's, and virtue none,\nIt is a dropsied honour. Good alone\nIs good without a name. Vileness is so:\nThe property by what it is should go,\nNot by the title. She is young, wise, fair;\nIn these to nature she's immediate heir,\nAnd these breed honour: that is honour's scorn,\nWhich challenges itself as honour's born\nAnd is not like the sire: honours thrive,\nWhen rather from our acts we them derive\nThan our foregoers: the mere word's a slave\nDebosh'd on every tomb, on every grave\nA lying trophy, and as oft is dumb\nWhere dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb\nOf honour'd bones indeed. What should be said?\nIf thou canst like this creature as a maid,\nI can create the rest: virtue and she\nIs her own dower; honour and wealth from me.


plain_text:
My honour's at the stake; which to defeat,\nI must produce my power. Here, take her hand,\nProud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift;\nThat dost in vile misprision shackle up\nMy love and her desert; that canst not dream,\nWe, poising us in her defective scale,\nShall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know,\nIt is in us to plant thine honour where\nWe please to have it grow. Cheque thy contempt:\nObey our will, which travails in thy good:\nBelieve not thy disdain, but presently\nDo thine own fortunes that obedient right\nWhich both thy duty owes and our power claims;\nOr I will throw thee from my care for ever\nInto the staggers and the careless lapse\nOf youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate\nLoosing upon thee, in the name of justice,\nWithout all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer.


plain_text:
Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit\nMy fancy to your eyes: when I consider\nWhat great creation and what dole of honour\nFlies where you bid it, I find that she, which late\nWas in my nobler thoughts most base, is now\nThe praised of the king; who, so ennobled,\nIs as 'twere born so.


plain_text:
Take her by the hand,\nAnd tell her she is thine: to whom I promise\nA counterpoise, if not to thy estate\nA balance more replete.


plain_text:
Good fortune and the favour of the king\nSmile upon this contract; whose ceremony\nShall seem expedient on the now-born brief,\nAnd be perform'd to-night: the solemn feast\nShall more attend upon the coming space,\nExpecting absent friends. As thou lovest her,\nThy love's to me religious; else, does err.


plain_text:
I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty\nwise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy\ntravel; it might pass: yet the scarfs and the\nbannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from\nbelieving thee a vessel of too great a burthen. I\nhave now found thee; when I lose thee again, I care\nnot: yet art thou good for nothing but taking up; and\nthat thou't scarce worth.


plain_text:
Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou\nhasten thy trial; which if--Lord have mercy on thee\nfor a hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee\nwell: thy casement I need not open, for I look\nthrough thee. Give me thy hand.


plain_text:
Even as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at\na smack o' the contrary. If ever thou be'st bound\nin thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is\nto be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold\nmy acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge,\nthat I may say in the default, he is a man I know.


plain_text:
I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor\ndoing eternal: for doing I am past: as I will by\nthee, in what motion age will give me leave.


plain_text:
Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off\nme; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must\nbe patient; there is no fettering of authority.\nI'll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with\nany convenience, an he were double and double a\nlord. I'll have no more pity of his age than I\nwould of--I'll beat him, an if I could but meet him again.


plain_text:
I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make\nsome reservation of your wrongs: he is my good\nlord: whom I serve above is my master.


plain_text:
The devil it is that's thy master. Why dost thou\ngarter up thy arms o' this fashion? dost make hose of\nsleeves? do other servants so? Thou wert best set\nthy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine\nhonour, if I were but two hours younger, I'ld beat\nthee: methinks, thou art a general offence, and\nevery man should beat thee: I think thou wast\ncreated for men to breathe themselves upon thee.


plain_text:
Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a\nkernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond and\nno true traveller: you are more saucy with lords\nand honourable personages than the commission of your\nbirth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not\nworth another word, else I'ld call you knave. I leave you.


plain_text:
Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the wars!\nHe wears his honour in a box unseen,\nThat hugs his kicky-wicky here at home,\nSpending his manly marrow in her arms,\nWhich should sustain the bound and high curvet\nOf Mars's fiery steed. To other regions\nFrance is a stable; we that dwell in't jades;\nTherefore, to the war!


plain_text:
It shall be so: I'll send her to my house,\nAcquaint my mother with my hate to her,\nAnd wherefore I am fled; write to the king\nThat which I durst not speak; his present gift\nShall furnish me to those Italian fields,\nWhere noble fellows strike: war is no strife\nTo the dark house and the detested wife.


plain_text:
Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.\nI'll send her straight away: to-morrow\nI'll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.


plain_text:
Why, these balls bound; there's noise in it. 'Tis hard:\nA young man married is a man that's marr'd:\nTherefore away, and leave her bravely; go:\nThe king has done you wrong: but, hush, 'tis so.


plain_text:
She is not well; but yet she has her health: she's\nvery merry; but yet she is not well: but thanks be\ngiven, she's very well and wants nothing i', the\nworld; but yet she is not well.


plain_text:
One, that she's not in heaven, whither God send her\nquickly! the other that she's in earth, from whence\nGod send her quickly!


plain_text:
You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them\non, have them still. O, my knave, how does my old lady?


plain_text:
Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man's\ntongue shakes out his master's undoing: to say\nnothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to have\nnothing, is to be a great part of your title; which\nis within a very little of nothing.


plain_text:
You should have said, sir, before a knave thou'rt a\nknave; that's, before me thou'rt a knave: this had\nbeen truth, sir.


plain_text:
Did you find me in yourself, sir? or were you\ntaught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable;\nand much fool may you find in you, even to the\nworld's pleasure and the increase of laughter.


plain_text:
A good knave, i' faith, and well fed.\nMadam, my lord will go away to-night;\nA very serious business calls on him.\nThe great prerogative and rite of love,\nWhich, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge;\nBut puts it off to a compell'd restraint;\nWhose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets,\nWhich they distil now in the curbed time,\nTo make the coming hour o'erflow with joy\nAnd pleasure drown the brim.


plain_text:
That you will take your instant leave o' the king\nAnd make this haste as your own good proceeding,\nStrengthen'd with what apology you think\nMay make it probable need.


plain_text:
I have then sinned against his experience and\ntransgressed against his valour; and my state that\nway is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my\nheart to repent. Here he comes: I pray you, make\nus friends; I will pursue the amity.


plain_text:
I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,\nGiven order for our horses; and to-night,\nWhen I should take possession of the bride,\nEnd ere I do begin.


plain_text:
A good traveller is something at the latter end of a\ndinner; but one that lies three thirds and uses a\nknown truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should\nbe once heard and thrice beaten. God save you, captain.


plain_text:
You have made shift to run into 't, boots and spurs\nand all, like him that leaped into the custard; and\nout of it you'll run again, rather than suffer\nquestion for your residence.


plain_text:
And shall do so ever, though I took him at 's\nprayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe this\nof me, there can be no kernel in this light nut; the\nsoul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in\nmatter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them\ntame, and know their natures. Farewell, monsieur:\nI have spoken better of you than you have or will to\ndeserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil.


plain_text:
I have, sir, as I was commanded from you,\nSpoke with the king and have procured his leave\nFor present parting; only he desires\nSome private speech with you.


plain_text:
I shall obey his will.\nYou must not marvel, Helen, at my course,\nWhich holds not colour with the time, nor does\nThe ministration and required office\nOn my particular. Prepared I was not\nFor such a business; therefore am I found\nSo much unsettled: this drives me to entreat you\nThat presently you take our way for home;\nAnd rather muse than ask why I entreat you,\nFor my respects are better than they seem\nAnd my appointments have in them a need\nGreater than shows itself at the first view\nTo you that know them not. This to my mother:\n[Giving a letter]\n'Twill be two days ere I shall see you, so\nI leave you to your wisdom.


plain_text:
And ever shall\nWith true observance seek to eke out that\nWherein toward me my homely stars have fail'd\nTo equal my great fortune.


plain_text:
I am not worthy of the wealth I owe,\nNor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is;\nBut, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal\nWhat law does vouch mine own.


plain_text:
Something; and scarce so much: nothing, indeed.\nI would not tell you what I would, my lord:\nFaith yes;\nStrangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss.


plain_text:
Where are my other men, monsieur? Farewell.\n[Exit HELENA]\nGo thou toward home; where I will never come\nWhilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum.\nAway, and for our flight.


plain_text:
[Exeunt]\n[Flourish. Enter the DUKE of Florence attended;]\nthe two Frenchmen, with a troop of soldiers.


plain_text:
So that from point to point now have you heard\nThe fundamental reasons of this war,\nWhose great decision hath much blood let forth\nAnd more thirsts after.


plain_text:
Therefore we marvel much our cousin France\nWould in so just a business shut his bosom\nAgainst our borrowing prayers.


plain_text:
Good my lord,\nThe reasons of our state I cannot yield,\nBut like a common and an outward man,\nThat the great figure of a council frames\nBy self-unable motion: therefore dare not\nSay what I think of it, since I have found\nMyself in my incertain grounds to fail\nAs often as I guess'd.


plain_text:
But I am sure the younger of our nature,\nThat surfeit on their ease, will day by day\nCome here for physic.


plain_text:
Welcome shall they be;\nAnd all the honours that can fly from us\nShall on them settle. You know your places well;\nWhen better fall, for your avails they fell:\nTo-morrow to the field.


plain_text:
Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the\nruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his\nteeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of\nmelancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.


plain_text:
I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court: our\nold ling and our Isbels o' the country are nothing\nlike your old ling and your Isbels o' the court:\nthe brains of my Cupid's knocked out, and I begin to\nlove, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.


plain_text:
[Reads] I have sent you a daughter-in-law: she hath\nrecovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded\nher, not bedded her; and sworn to make the 'not'\neternal. You shall hear I am run away: know it\nbefore the report come. If there be breadth enough\nin the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty\nto you.. Your unfortunate son,\nBERTRAM.\nThis is not well, rash and unbridled boy.\nTo fly the favours of so good a king;\nTo pluck his indignation on thy head\nBy the misprising of a maid too virtuous\nFor the contempt of empire.


plain_text:
Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some\ncomfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I\nthought he would.


plain_text:
So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does:\nthe danger is in standing to't; that's the loss of\nmen, though it be the getting of children. Here\nthey come will tell you more: for my part, I only\nhear your son was run away.


plain_text:
Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen,\nI have felt so many quirks of joy and grief,\nThat the first face of neither, on the start,\nCan woman me unto't: where is my son, I pray you?


plain_text:
Madam, he's gone to serve the duke of Florence:\nWe met him thitherward; for thence we came,\nAnd, after some dispatch in hand at court,\nThither we bend again.


plain_text:
Look on his letter, madam; here's my passport.\n[Reads]\nWhen thou canst get the ring upon my finger which\nnever shall come off, and show me a child begotten\nof thy body that I am father to, then call me\nhusband: but in such a 'then' I write a 'never.'\nThis is a dreadful sentence.


plain_text:
I prithee, lady, have a better cheer;\nIf thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,\nThou robb'st me of a moiety: he was my son;\nBut I do wash his name out of my blood,\nAnd thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he?


plain_text:
Such is his noble purpose; and believe 't,\nThe duke will lay upon him all the honour\nThat good convenience claims.


plain_text:
Nothing in France, until he have no wife!\nThere's nothing here that is too good for him\nBut only she; and she deserves a lord\nThat twenty such rude boys might tend upon\nAnd call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?


plain_text:
A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.\nMy son corrupts a well-derived nature\nWith his inducement.


plain_text:
You're welcome, gentlemen.\nI will entreat you, when you see my son,\nTo tell him that his sword can never win\nThe honour that he loses: more I'll entreat you\nWritten to bear along.


plain_text:
'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.'\nNothing in France, until he has no wife!\nThou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;\nThen hast thou all again. Poor lord! is't I\nThat chase thee from thy country and expose\nThose tender limbs of thine to the event\nOf the none-sparing war? and is it I\nThat drive thee from the sportive court, where thou\nWast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark\nOf smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,\nThat ride upon the violent speed of fire,\nFly with false aim; move the still-peering air,\nThat sings with piercing; do not touch my lord.\nWhoever shoots at him, I set him there;\nWhoever charges on his forward breast,\nI am the caitiff that do hold him to't;\nAnd, though I kill him not, I am the cause\nHis death was so effected: better 'twere\nI met the ravin lion when he roar'd\nWith sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere\nThat all the miseries which nature owes\nWere mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousillon,\nWhence honour but of danger wins a scar,\nAs oft it loses all: I will be gone;\nMy being here it is that holds thee hence:\nShall I stay here to do't? no, no, although\nThe air of paradise did fan the house\nAnd angels officed all: I will be gone,\nThat pitiful rumour may report my flight,\nTo consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!\nFor with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away.


plain_text:
The general of our horse thou art; and we,\nGreat in our hope, lay our best love and credence\nUpon thy promising fortune.


plain_text:
Sir, it is\nA charge too heavy for my strength, but yet\nWe'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake\nTo the extreme edge of hazard.


plain_text:
This very day,\nGreat Mars, I put myself into thy file:\nMake me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove\nA lover of thy drum, hater of love.


plain_text:
Alas! and would you take the letter of her?\nMight you not know she would do as she has done,\nBy sending me a letter? Read it again.


plain_text:
[Reads]\nI am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone:\nAmbitious love hath so in me offended,\nThat barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,\nWith sainted vow my faults to have amended.\nWrite, write, that from the bloody course of war\nMy dearest master, your dear son, may hie:\nBless him at home in peace, whilst I from far\nHis name with zealous fervor sanctify:\nHis taken labours bid him me forgive;\nI, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth\nFrom courtly friends, with camping foes to live,\nWhere death and danger dogs the heels of worth:\nHe is too good and fair for death and me:\nWhom I myself embrace, to set him free.


plain_text:
Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!\nRinaldo, you did never lack advice so much,\nAs letting her pass so: had I spoke with her,\nI could have well diverted her intents,\nWhich thus she hath prevented.


plain_text:
Pardon me, madam:\nIf I had given you this at over-night,\nShe might have been o'erta'en; and yet she writes,\nPursuit would be but vain.


plain_text:
What angel shall\nBless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,\nUnless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear\nAnd loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath\nOf greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo,\nTo this unworthy husband of his wife;\nLet every word weigh heavy of her worth\nThat he does weigh too light: my greatest grief.\nThough little he do feel it, set down sharply.\nDispatch the most convenient messenger:\nWhen haply he shall hear that she is gone,\nHe will return; and hope I may that she,\nHearing so much, will speed her foot again,\nLed hither by pure love: which of them both\nIs dearest to me. I have no skill in sense\nTo make distinction: provide this messenger:\nMy heart is heavy and mine age is weak;\nGrief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak.


plain_text:
It is reported that he has taken their greatest\ncommander; and that with his own hand he slew the\nduke's brother.\n[Tucket]\nWe have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary\nway: hark! you may know by their trumpets.


plain_text:
Come, let's return again, and suffice ourselves with\nthe report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this\nFrench earl: the honour of a maid is her name; and\nno legacy is so rich as honesty.


plain_text:
I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles: a\nfilthy officer he is in those suggestions for the\nyoung earl. Beware of them, Diana; their promises,\nenticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of\nlust, are not the things they go under: many a maid\nhath been seduced by them; and the misery is,\nexample, that so terrible shows in the wreck of\nmaidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade succession,\nbut that they are limed with the twigs that threaten\nthem. I hope I need not to advise you further; but\nI hope your own grace will keep you where you are,\nthough there were no further danger known but the\nmodesty which is so lost.


plain_text:
I hope so.\n[Enter HELENA, disguised like a Pilgrim]\nLook, here comes a pilgrim: I know she will lie at\nmy house; thither they send one another: I'll\nquestion her. God save you, pilgrim! whither are you bound?


plain_text:
Ay, marry, is't.\n[A march afar]\nHark you! they come this way.\nIf you will tarry, holy pilgrim,\nBut till the troops come by,\nI will conduct you where you shall be lodged;\nThe rather, for I think I know your hostess\nAs ample as myself.


plain_text:
Whatsome'er he is,\nHe's bravely taken here. He stole from France,\nAs 'tis reported, for the king had married him\nAgainst his liking: think you it is so?


plain_text:
O, I believe with him,\nIn argument of praise, or to the worth\nOf the great count himself, she is too mean\nTo have her name repeated: all her deserving\nIs a reserved honesty, and that\nI have not heard examined.


plain_text:
I warrant, good creature, wheresoe'er she is,\nHer heart weighs sadly: this young maid might do her\nA shrewd turn, if she pleased.


plain_text:
He does indeed;\nAnd brokes with all that can in such a suit\nCorrupt the tender honour of a maid:\nBut she is arm'd for him and keeps her guard\nIn honestest defence.


plain_text:
So, now they come:\n[Drum and Colours]\n[Enter BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and the whole army]\nThat is Antonio, the duke's eldest son;\nThat, Escalus.


plain_text:
He;\nThat with the plume: 'tis a most gallant fellow.\nI would he loved his wife: if he were honester\nHe were much goodlier: is't not a handsome gentleman?


plain_text:
'Tis pity he is not honest: yond's that same knave\nThat leads him to these places: were I his lady,\nI would Poison that vile rascal.


plain_text:
The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you\nWhere you shall host: of enjoin'd penitents\nThere's four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound,\nAlready at my house.


plain_text:
I humbly thank you:\nPlease it this matron and this gentle maid\nTo eat with us to-night, the charge and thanking\nShall be for me; and, to requite you further,\nI will bestow some precepts of this virgin\nWorthy the note.


plain_text:
Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct knowledge,\nwithout any malice, but to speak of him as my\nkinsman, he's a most notable coward, an infinite and\nendless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner\nof no one good quality worthy your lordship's\nentertainment.


plain_text:
It were fit you knew him; lest, reposing too far in\nhis virtue, which he hath not, he might at some\ngreat and trusty business in a main danger fail you.


plain_text:
I, with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly\nsurprise him; such I will have, whom I am sure he\nknows not from the enemy: we will bind and hoodwink\nhim so, that he shall suppose no other but that he\nis carried into the leaguer of the adversaries, when\nwe bring him to our own tents. Be but your lordship\npresent at his examination: if he do not, for the\npromise of his life and in the highest compulsion of\nbase fear, offer to betray you and deliver all the\nintelligence in his power against you, and that with\nthe divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never\ntrust my judgment in any thing.


plain_text:
O, for the love of laughter, let him fetch his drum;\nhe says he has a stratagem for't: when your\nlordship sees the bottom of his success in't, and to\nwhat metal this counterfeit lump of ore will be\nmelted, if you give him not John Drum's\nentertainment, your inclining cannot be removed.\nHere he comes.


plain_text:
[Aside to BERTRAM] O, for the love of laughter,\nhinder not the honour of his design: let him fetch\noff his drum in any hand.


plain_text:
'But a drum'! is't 'but a drum'? A drum so lost!\nThere was excellent command,--to charge in with our\nhorse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers!


plain_text:
That was not to be blamed in the command of the\nservice: it was a disaster of war that Caesar\nhimself could not have prevented, if he had been\nthere to command.


plain_text:
Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success: some\ndishonour we had in the loss of that drum; but it is\nnot to be recovered.


plain_text:
It is to be recovered: but that the merit of\nservice is seldom attributed to the true and exact\nperformer, I would have that drum or another, or\n'hic jacet.'


plain_text:
Why, if you have a stomach, to't, monsieur: if you\nthink your mystery in stratagem can bring this\ninstrument of honour again into his native quarter,\nbe magnanimous in the enterprise and go on; I will\ngrace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you\nspeed well in it, the duke shall both speak of it.\nand extend to you what further becomes his\ngreatness, even to the utmost syllable of your\nworthiness.


plain_text:
I'll about it this evening: and I will presently\npen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my\ncertainty, put myself into my mortal preparation;\nand by midnight look to hear further from me.


plain_text:
I know thou'rt valiant; and, to the possibility of\nthy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. Farewell.


plain_text:
No more than a fish loves water. Is not this a\nstrange fellow, my lord, that so confidently seems\nto undertake this business, which he knows is not to\nbe done; damns himself to do and dares better be\ndamned than to do't?


plain_text:
You do not know him, my lord, as we do: certain it\nis that he will steal himself into a man's favour and\nfor a week escape a great deal of discoveries; but\nwhen you find him out, you have him ever after.


plain_text:
Why, do you think he will make no deed at all of\nthis that so seriously he does address himself unto?


plain_text:
None in the world; but return with an invention and\nclap upon you two or three probable lies: but we\nhave almost embossed him; you shall see his fall\nto-night; for indeed he is not for your lordship's respect.


plain_text:
We'll make you some sport with the fox ere we case\nhim. He was first smoked by the old lord Lafeu:\nwhen his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a\nsprat you shall find him; which you shall see this\nvery night.


plain_text:
That's all the fault: I spoke with her but once\nAnd found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her,\nBy this same coxcomb that we have i' the wind,\nTokens and letters which she did re-send;\nAnd this is all I have done. She's a fair creature:\nWill you go see her?


plain_text:
If you misdoubt me that I am not she,\nI know not how I shall assure you further,\nBut I shall lose the grounds I work upon.


plain_text:
Though my estate be fallen, I was well born,\nNothing acquainted with these businesses;\nAnd would not put my reputation now\nIn any staining act.


plain_text:
Nor would I wish you.\nFirst, give me trust, the count he is my husband,\nAnd what to your sworn counsel I have spoken\nIs so from word to word; and then you cannot,\nBy the good aid that I of you shall borrow,\nErr in bestowing it.


plain_text:
Take this purse of gold,\nAnd let me buy your friendly help thus far,\nWhich I will over-pay and pay again\nWhen I have found it. The count he wooes your daughter,\nLays down his wanton siege before her beauty,\nResolved to carry her: let her in fine consent,\nAs we'll direct her how 'tis best to bear it.\nNow his important blood will nought deny\nThat she'll demand: a ring the county wears,\nThat downward hath succeeded in his house\nFrom son to son, some four or five descents\nSince the first father wore it: this ring he holds\nIn most rich choice; yet in his idle fire,\nTo buy his will, it would not seem too dear,\nHowe'er repented after.


plain_text:
You see it lawful, then: it is no more,\nBut that your daughter, ere she seems as won,\nDesires this ring; appoints him an encounter;\nIn fine, delivers me to fill the time,\nHerself most chastely absent: after this,\nTo marry her, I'll add three thousand crowns\nTo what is passed already.


plain_text:
I have yielded:\nInstruct my daughter how she shall persever,\nThat time and place with this deceit so lawful\nMay prove coherent. Every night he comes\nWith musics of all sorts and songs composed\nTo her unworthiness: it nothing steads us\nTo chide him from our eaves; for he persists\nAs if his life lay on't.


plain_text:
Why then to-night\nLet us assay our plot; which, if it speed,\nIs wicked meaning in a lawful deed\nAnd lawful meaning in a lawful act,\nWhere both not sin, and yet a sinful fact:\nBut let's about it.


plain_text:
He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner.\nWhen you sally upon him, speak what terrible\nlanguage you will: though you understand it not\nyourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to\nunderstand him, unless some one among us whom we\nmust produce for an interpreter.


plain_text:
He must think us some band of strangers i' the\nadversary's entertainment. Now he hath a smack of\nall neighbouring languages; therefore we must every\none be a man of his own fancy, not to know what we\nspeak one to another; so we seem to know, is to\nknow straight our purpose: choughs' language,\ngabble enough, and good enough. As for you,\ninterpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch,\nho! here he comes, to beguile two hours in a sleep,\nand then to return and swear the lies he forges.


plain_text:
Ten o'clock: within these three hours 'twill be\ntime enough to go home. What shall I say I have\ndone? It must be a very plausive invention that\ncarries it: they begin to smoke me; and disgraces\nhave of late knocked too often at my door. I find\nmy tongue is too foolhardy; but my heart hath the\nfear of Mars before it and of his creatures, not\ndaring the reports of my tongue.


plain_text:
What the devil should move me to undertake the\nrecovery of this drum, being not ignorant of the\nimpossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I\nmust give myself some hurts, and say I got them in\nexploit: yet slight ones will not carry it; they\nwill say, 'Came you off with so little?' and great\nones I dare not give. Wherefore, what's the\ninstance? Tongue, I must put you into a\nbutter-woman's mouth and buy myself another of\nBajazet's mule, if you prattle me into these perils.


plain_text:
I know you are the Muskos' regiment:\nAnd I shall lose my life for want of language;\nIf there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch,\nItalian, or French, let him speak to me; I'll\nDiscover that which shall undo the Florentine.


plain_text:
Boskos vauvado: I understand thee, and can speak\nthy tongue. Kerely bonto, sir, betake thee to thy\nfaith, for seventeen poniards are at thy bosom.


plain_text:
The general is content to spare thee yet;\nAnd, hoodwink'd as thou art, will lead thee on\nTo gather from thee: haply thou mayst inform\nSomething to save thy life.


plain_text:
O, let me live!\nAnd all the secrets of our camp I'll show,\nTheir force, their purposes; nay, I'll speak that\nWhich you will wonder at.


plain_text:
Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and my brother,\nWe have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled\nTill we do hear from them.


plain_text:
Titled goddess;\nAnd worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,\nIn your fine frame hath love no quality?\nIf quick fire of youth light not your mind,\nYou are no maiden, but a monument:\nWhen you are dead, you should be such a one\nAs you are now, for you are cold and stem;\nAnd now you should be as your mother was\nWhen your sweet self was got.


plain_text:
No more o' that;\nI prithee, do not strive against my vows:\nI was compell'd to her; but I love thee\nBy love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever\nDo thee all rights of service.


plain_text:
Ay, so you serve us\nTill we serve you; but when you have our roses,\nYou barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves\nAnd mock us with our bareness.


plain_text:
'Tis not the many oaths that makes the truth,\nBut the plain single vow that is vow'd true.\nWhat is not holy, that we swear not by,\nBut take the High'st to witness: then, pray you, tell me,\nIf I should swear by God's great attributes,\nI loved you dearly, would you believe my oaths,\nWhen I did love you ill? This has no holding,\nTo swear by him whom I protest to love,\nThat I will work against him: therefore your oaths\nAre words and poor conditions, but unseal'd,\nAt least in my opinion.


plain_text:
Change it, change it;\nBe not so holy-cruel: love is holy;\nAnd my integrity ne'er knew the crafts\nThat you do charge men with. Stand no more off,\nBut give thyself unto my sick desires,\nWho then recover: say thou art mine, and ever\nMy love as it begins shall so persever.


plain_text:
It is an honour 'longing to our house,\nBequeathed down from many ancestors;\nWhich were the greatest obloquy i' the world\nIn me to lose.


plain_text:
Mine honour's such a ring:\nMy chastity's the jewel of our house,\nBequeathed down from many ancestors;\nWhich were the greatest obloquy i' the world\nIn me to lose: thus your own proper wisdom\nBrings in the champion Honour on my part,\nAgainst your vain assault.


plain_text:
When midnight comes, knock at my chamber-window:\nI'll order take my mother shall not hear.\nNow will I charge you in the band of truth,\nWhen you have conquer'd my yet maiden bed,\nRemain there but an hour, nor speak to me:\nMy reasons are most strong; and you shall know them\nWhen back again this ring shall be deliver'd:\nAnd on your finger in the night I'll put\nAnother ring, that what in time proceeds\nMay token to the future our past deeds.\nAdieu, till then; then, fail not. You have won\nA wife of me, though there my hope be done.


plain_text:
For which live long to thank both heaven and me!\nYou may so in the end.\nMy mother told me just how he would woo,\nAs if she sat in 's heart; she says all men\nHave the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me\nWhen his wife's dead; therefore I'll lie with him\nWhen I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid,\nMarry that will, I live and die a maid:\nOnly in this disguise I think't no sin\nTo cozen him that would unjustly win.


plain_text:
I have delivered it an hour since: there is\nsomething in't that stings his nature; for on the\nreading it he changed almost into another man.


plain_text:
Especially he hath incurred the everlasting\ndispleasure of the king, who had even tuned his\nbounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a\nthing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.


plain_text:
He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in\nFlorence, of a most chaste renown; and this night he\nfleshes his will in the spoil of her honour: he hath\ngiven her his monumental ring, and thinks himself\nmade in the unchaste composition.


plain_text:
Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course\nof all treasons, we still see them reveal\nthemselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends,\nso he that in this action contrives against his own\nnobility, in his proper stream o'erflows himself.


plain_text:
Is it not meant damnable in us, to be trumpeters of\nour unlawful intents? We shall not then have his\ncompany to-night?


plain_text:
That approaches apace; I would gladly have him see\nhis company anatomized, that he might take a measure\nof his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had\nset this counterfeit.


plain_text:
Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his\nhouse: her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques\nle Grand; which holy undertaking with most austere\nsanctimony she accomplished; and, there residing the\ntenderness of her nature became as a prey to her\ngrief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and\nnow she sings in heaven.


plain_text:
The stronger part of it by her own letters, which\nmakes her story true, even to the point of her\ndeath: her death itself, which could not be her\noffice to say is come, was faithfully confirmed by\nthe rector of the place.


plain_text:
And how mightily some other times we drown our gain\nin tears! The great dignity that his valour hath\nhere acquired for him shall at home be encountered\nwith a shame as ample.


plain_text:
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and\nill together: our virtues would be proud, if our\nfaults whipped them not; and our crimes would\ndespair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.\n[Enter a Messenger]\nHow now! where's your master?


plain_text:
He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom he hath\ntaken a solemn leave: his lordship will next\nmorning for France. The duke hath offered him\nletters of commendations to the king.


plain_text:
They cannot be too sweet for the king's tartness.\nHere's his lordship now.\n[Enter BERTRAM]\nHow now, my lord! is't not after midnight?


plain_text:
I have to-night dispatched sixteen businesses, a\nmonth's length a-piece, by an abstract of success:\nI have congied with the duke, done my adieu with his\nnearest; buried a wife, mourned for her; writ to my\nlady mother I am returning; entertained my convoy;\nand between these main parcels of dispatch effected\nmany nicer needs; the last was the greatest, but\nthat I have not ended yet.


plain_text:
If the business be of any difficulty, and this\nmorning your departure hence, it requires haste of\nyour lordship.


plain_text:
I mean, the business is not ended, as fearing to\nhear of it hereafter. But shall we have this\ndialogue between the fool and the soldier? Come,\nbring forth this counterfeit module, he has deceived\nme, like a double-meaning prophesier.


plain_text:
I have told your lordship already, the stocks carry\nhim. But to answer you as you would be understood;\nhe weeps like a wench that had shed her milk: he\nhath confessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes\nto be a friar, from the time of his remembrance to\nthis very instant disaster of his setting i' the\nstocks: and what think you he hath confessed?


plain_text:
His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his\nface: if your lordship be in't, as I believe you\nare, you must have the patience to hear it.


plain_text:
Five or six thousand; but very weak and\nunserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and\nthe commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation\nand credit and as I hope to live.


plain_text:
You're deceived, my lord: this is Monsieur\nParolles, the gallant militarist,--that was his own\nphrase,--that had the whole theoric of war in the\nknot of his scarf, and the practise in the chape of\nhis dagger.


plain_text:
I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword\nclean. nor believe he can have every thing in him\nby wearing his apparel neatly.


plain_text:
Five or six thousand horse, I said,-- I will say\ntrue,--or thereabouts, set down, for I'll speak truth.


plain_text:
By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present\nhour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a\nhundred and fifty; Sebastian, so many; Corambus, so\nmany; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick,\nand Gratii, two hundred and fifty each; mine own\ncompany, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred and\nfifty each: so that the muster-file, rotten and\nsound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand\npoll; half of the which dare not shake snow from off\ntheir cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces.


plain_text:
Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my\ncondition, and what credit I have with the duke.


plain_text:
Well, that's set down.\n[Reads]\n'You shall demand of him, whether one Captain Dumain\nbe i' the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is\nwith the duke; what his valour, honesty, and\nexpertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not\npossible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to\ncorrupt him to revolt.' What say you to this? what\ndo you know of it?


plain_text:
I know him: a' was a botcher's 'prentice in Paris,\nfrom whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve's\nfool with child,--a dumb innocent, that could not\nsay him nay.


plain_text:
Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know\nhis brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.


plain_text:
The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer\nof mine; and writ to me this other day to turn him\nout o' the band: I think I have his letter in my pocket.


plain_text:
In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there,\nor it is upon a file with the duke's other letters\nin my tent.


plain_text:
That is not the duke's letter, sir; that is an\nadvertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one\nDiana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count\nRousillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very\nruttish: I pray you, sir, put it up again.


plain_text:
My meaning in't, I protest, was very honest in the\nbehalf of the maid; for I knew the young count to be\na dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to\nvirginity and devours up all the fry it finds.


plain_text:
[Reads] 'When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it;\nAfter he scores, he never pays the score:\nHalf won is match well made; match, and well make it;\nHe ne'er pays after-debts, take it before;\nAnd say a soldier, Dian, told thee this,\nMen are to mell with, boys are not to kiss:\nFor count of this, the count's a fool, I know it,\nWho pays before, but not when he does owe it.\nThine, as he vowed to thee in thine ear,\nPAROLLES.'


plain_text:
My life, sir, in any case: not that I am afraid to\ndie; but that, my offences being many, I would\nrepent out the remainder of nature: let me live,\nsir, in a dungeon, i' the stocks, or any where, so I may live.


plain_text:
We'll see what may be done, so you confess freely;\ntherefore, once more to this Captain Dumain: you\nhave answered to his reputation with the duke and to\nhis valour: what is his honesty?


plain_text:
He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: for\nrapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus: he\nprofesses not keeping of oaths; in breaking 'em he\nis stronger than Hercules: he will lie, sir, with\nsuch volubility, that you would think truth were a\nfool: drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will\nbe swine-drunk; and in his sleep he does little\nharm, save to his bed-clothes about him; but they\nknow his conditions and lay him in straw. I have but\nlittle more to say, sir, of his honesty: he has\nevery thing that an honest man should not have; what\nan honest man should have, he has nothing.


plain_text:
Faith, sir, he has led the drum before the English\ntragedians; to belie him, I will not, and more of\nhis soldiership I know not; except, in that country\nhe had the honour to be the officer at a place there\ncalled Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of\nfiles: I would do the man what honour I can, but of\nthis I am not certain.


plain_text:
Sir, for a quart d'ecu he will sell the fee-simple\nof his salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut the\nentail from all remainders, and a perpetual\nsuccession for it perpetually.


plain_text:
E'en a crow o' the same nest; not altogether so\ngreat as the first in goodness, but greater a great\ndeal in evil: he excels his brother for a coward,\nyet his brother is reputed one of the best that is:\nin a retreat he outruns any lackey; marry, in coming\non he has the cramp.


plain_text:
[Aside] I'll no more drumming; a plague of all\ndrums! Only to seem to deserve well, and to\nbeguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy\nthe count, have I run into this danger. Yet who\nwould have suspected an ambush where I was taken?


plain_text:
There is no remedy, sir, but you must die: the\ngeneral says, you that have so traitorously\ndiscovered the secrets of your army and made such\npestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can\nserve the world for no honest use; therefore you\nmust die. Come, headsman, off with his head.


plain_text:
That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends.\n[Unblinding him]\nSo, look about you: know you any here?


plain_text:
Good captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet\nyou writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon?\nan I were not a very coward, I'ld compel it of you:\nbut fare you well.


plain_text:
If you could find out a country where but women were\nthat had received so much shame, you might begin an\nimpudent nation. Fare ye well, sir; I am for France\ntoo: we shall speak of you there.


plain_text:
Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great,\n'Twould burst at this. Captain I'll be no more;\nBut I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft\nAs captain shall: simply the thing I am\nShall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart,\nLet him fear this, for it will come to pass\nthat every braggart shall be found an ass.\nRust, sword? cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live\nSafest in shame! being fool'd, by foolery thrive!\nThere's place and means for every man alive.\nI'll after them.


plain_text:
That you may well perceive I have not wrong'd you,\nOne of the greatest in the Christian world\nShall be my surety; 'fore whose throne 'tis needful,\nEre I can perfect mine intents, to kneel:\nTime was, I did him a desired office,\nDear almost as his life; which gratitude\nThrough flinty Tartar's bosom would peep forth,\nAnd answer, thanks: I duly am inform'd\nHis grace is at Marseilles; to which place\nWe have convenient convoy. You must know\nI am supposed dead: the army breaking,\nMy husband hies him home; where, heaven aiding,\nAnd by the leave of my good lord the king,\nWe'll be before our welcome.


plain_text:
Nor you, mistress,\nEver a friend whose thoughts more truly labour\nTo recompense your love: doubt not but heaven\nHath brought me up to be your daughter's dower,\nAs it hath fated her to be my motive\nAnd helper to a husband. But, O strange men!\nThat can such sweet use make of what they hate,\nWhen saucy trusting of the cozen'd thoughts\nDefiles the pitchy night: so lust doth play\nWith what it loathes for that which is away.\nBut more of this hereafter. You, Diana,\nUnder my poor instructions yet must suffer\nSomething in my behalf.


plain_text:
Yet, I pray you:\nBut with the word the time will bring on summer,\nWhen briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,\nAnd be as sweet as sharp. We must away;\nOur wagon is prepared, and time revives us:\nAll's well that ends well; still the fine's the crown;\nWhate'er the course, the end is the renown.


plain_text:
No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt-taffeta\nfellow there, whose villanous saffron would have\nmade all the unbaked and doughy youth of a nation in\nhis colour: your daughter-in-law had been alive at\nthis hour, and your son here at home, more advanced\nby the king than by that red-tailed humble-bee I speak of.


plain_text:
I would I had not known him; it was the death of the\nmost virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had\npraise for creating. If she had partaken of my\nflesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I\ncould not have owed her a more rooted love.


plain_text:
'Twas a good lady, 'twas a good lady: we may pick a\nthousand salads ere we light on such another herb.


plain_text:
Hold thee, there's my purse: I give thee not this\nto suggest thee from thy master thou talkest of;\nserve him still.


plain_text:
I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a\ngreat fire; and the master I speak of ever keeps a\ngood fire. But, sure, he is the prince of the\nworld; let his nobility remain in's court. I am for\nthe house with the narrow gate, which I take to be\ntoo little for pomp to enter: some that humble\nthemselves may; but the many will be too chill and\ntender, and they'll be for the flowery way that\nleads to the broad gate and the great fire.


plain_text:
Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of thee; and I\ntell thee so before, because I would not fall out\nwith thee. Go thy ways: let my horses be well\nlooked to, without any tricks.


plain_text:
If I put any tricks upon 'em, sir, they shall be\njades' tricks; which are their own right by the law of nature.


plain_text:
So he is. My lord that's gone made himself much\nsport out of him: by his authority he remains here,\nwhich he thinks is a patent for his sauciness; and,\nindeed, he has no pace, but runs where he will.


plain_text:
I like him well; 'tis not amiss. And I was about to\ntell you, since I heard of the good lady's death and\nthat my lord your son was upon his return home, I\nmoved the king my master to speak in the behalf of\nmy daughter; which, in the minority of them both,\nhis majesty, out of a self-gracious remembrance, did\nfirst propose: his highness hath promised me to do\nit: and, to stop up the displeasure he hath\nconceived against your son, there is no fitter\nmatter. How does your ladyship like it?


plain_text:
His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able\nbody as when he numbered thirty: he will be here\nto-morrow, or I am deceived by him that in such\nintelligence hath seldom failed.


plain_text:
It rejoices me, that I hope I shall see him ere I\ndie. I have letters that my son will be here\nto-night: I shall beseech your lordship to remain\nwith me till they meet together.


plain_text:
O madam, yonder's my lord your son with a patch of\nvelvet on's face: whether there be a scar under't\nor no, the velvet knows; but 'tis a goodly patch of\nvelvet: his left cheek is a cheek of two pile and a\nhalf, but his right cheek is worn bare.


plain_text:
Faith there's a dozen of 'em, with delicate fine\nhats and most courteous feathers, which bow the head\nand nod at every man.


plain_text:
But this exceeding posting day and night\nMust wear your spirits low; we cannot help it:\nBut since you have made the days and nights as one,\nTo wear your gentle limbs in my affairs,\nBe bold you do so grow in my requital\nAs nothing can unroot you. In happy time;\n[Enter a Gentleman]\nThis man may help me to his majesty's ear,\nIf he would spend his power. God save you, sir.


plain_text:
I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen\nFrom the report that goes upon your goodness;\nAn therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions,\nWhich lay nice manners by, I put you to\nThe use of your own virtues, for the which\nI shall continue thankful.


plain_text:
That it will please you\nTo give this poor petition to the king,\nAnd aid me with that store of power you have\nTo come into his presence.


plain_text:
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL yet,\nThough time seem so adverse and means unfit.\nI do beseech you, whither is he gone?


plain_text:
I do beseech you, sir,\nSince you are like to see the king before me,\nCommend the paper to his gracious hand,\nWhich I presume shall render you no blame\nBut rather make you thank your pains for it.\nI will come after you with what good speed\nOur means will make us means.


plain_text:
And you shall find yourself to be well thank'd,\nWhate'er falls more. We must to horse again.\nGo, go, provide.


plain_text:
Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu this\nletter: I have ere now, sir, been better known to\nyou, when I have held familiarity with fresher\nclothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in fortune's\nmood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong\ndispleasure.


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Truly, fortune's displeasure is but sluttish, if it\nsmell so strongly as thou speakest of: I will\nhenceforth eat no fish of fortune's buttering.\nPrithee, allow the wind.


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Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my\nnose; or against any man's metaphor. Prithee, get\nthee further.


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Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from fortune's\nclose-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he\ncomes himself.\n[Enter LAFEU]\nHere is a purr of fortune's, sir, or of fortune's\ncat,--but not a musk-cat,--that has fallen into the\nunclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he\nsays, is muddied withal: pray you, sir, use the\ncarp as you may; for he looks like a poor, decayed,\ningenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his\ndistress in my similes of comfort and leave him to\nyour lordship.


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And what would you have me to do? 'Tis too late to\npare her nails now. Wherein have you played the\nknave with fortune, that she should scratch you, who\nof herself is a good lady and would not have knaves\nthrive long under her? There's a quart d'ecu for\nyou: let the justices make you and fortune friends:\nI am for other business.


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Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once\nboth the office of God and the devil? One brings\nthee in grace and the other brings thee out.\n[Trumpets sound]\nThe king's coming; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah,\ninquire further after me; I had talk of you last\nnight: though you are a fool and a knave, you shall\neat; go to, follow.


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We lost a jewel of her; and our esteem\nWas made much poorer by it: but your son,\nAs mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know\nHer estimation home.


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'Tis past, my liege;\nAnd I beseech your majesty to make it\nNatural rebellion, done i' the blaze of youth;\nWhen oil and fire, too strong for reason's force,\nO'erbears it and burns on.


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My honour'd lady,\nI have forgiven and forgotten all;\nThough my revenges were high bent upon him,\nAnd watch'd the time to shoot.


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This I must say,\nBut first I beg my pardon, the young lord\nDid to his majesty, his mother and his lady\nOffence of mighty note; but to himself\nThe greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife\nWhose beauty did astonish the survey\nOf richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive,\nWhose dear perfection hearts that scorn'd to serve\nHumbly call'd mistress.


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Praising what is lost\nMakes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither;\nWe are reconciled, and the first view shall kill\nAll repetition: let him not ask our pardon;\nThe nature of his great offence is dead,\nAnd deeper than oblivion we do bury\nThe incensing relics of it: let him approach,\nA stranger, no offender; and inform him\nSo 'tis our will he should.


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I am not a day of season,\nFor thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail\nIn me at once: but to the brightest beams\nDistracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth;\nThe time is fair again.


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All is whole;\nNot one word more of the consumed time.\nLet's take the instant by the forward top;\nFor we are old, and on our quick'st decrees\nThe inaudible and noiseless foot of Time\nSteals ere we can effect them. You remember\nThe daughter of this lord?


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Admiringly, my liege, at first\nI stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart\nDurst make too bold a herald of my tongue\nWhere the impression of mine eye infixing,\nContempt his scornful perspective did lend me,\nWhich warp'd the line of every other favour;\nScorn'd a fair colour, or express'd it stolen;\nExtended or contracted all proportions\nTo a most hideous object: thence it came\nThat she whom all men praised and whom myself,\nSince I have lost, have loved, was in mine eye\nThe dust that did offend it.


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Well excused:\nThat thou didst love her, strikes some scores away\nFrom the great compt: but love that comes too late,\nLike a remorseful pardon slowly carried,\nTo the great sender turns a sour offence,\nCrying, 'That's good that's gone.' Our rash faults\nMake trivial price of serious things we have,\nNot knowing them until we know their grave:\nOft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,\nDestroy our friends and after weep their dust\nOur own love waking cries to see what's done,\nWhile shame full late sleeps out the afternoon.\nBe this sweet Helen's knell, and now forget her.\nSend forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin:\nThe main consents are had; and here we'll stay\nTo see our widower's second marriage-day.


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Come on, my son, in whom my house's name\nMust be digested, give a favour from you\nTo sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,\nThat she may quickly come.\n[BERTRAM gives a ring]\nBy my old beard,\nAnd every hair that's on't, Helen, that's dead,\nWas a sweet creature: such a ring as this,\nThe last that e'er I took her at court,\nI saw upon her finger.


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Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye,\nWhile I was speaking, oft was fasten'd to't.\nThis ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen,\nI bade her, if her fortunes ever stood\nNecessitied to help, that by this token\nI would relieve her. Had you that craft, to reave\nher\nOf what should stead her most?


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You are deceived, my lord; she never saw it:\nIn Florence was it from a casement thrown me,\nWrapp'd in a paper, which contain'd the name\nOf her that threw it: noble she was, and thought\nI stood engaged: but when I had subscribed\nTo mine own fortune and inform'd her fully\nI could not answer in that course of honour\nAs she had made the overture, she ceased\nIn heavy satisfaction and would never\nReceive the ring again.


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Plutus himself,\nThat knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,\nHath not in nature's mystery more science\nThan I have in this ring: 'twas mine, 'twas Helen's,\nWhoever gave it you. Then, if you know\nThat you are well acquainted with yourself,\nConfess 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement\nYou got it from her: she call'd the saints to surety\nThat she would never put it from her finger,\nUnless she gave it to yourself in bed,\nWhere you have never come, or sent it us\nUpon her great disaster.


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Thou speak'st it falsely, as I love mine honour;\nAnd makest conjectural fears to come into me\nWhich I would fain shut out. If it should prove\nThat thou art so inhuman,--'twill not prove so;--\nAnd yet I know not: thou didst hate her deadly,\nAnd she is dead; which nothing, but to close\nHer eyes myself, could win me to believe,\nMore than to see this ring. Take him away.\n[Guards seize BERTRAM]\nMy fore-past proofs, howe'er the matter fall,\nShall tax my fears of little vanity,\nHaving vainly fear'd too little. Away with him!\nWe'll sift this matter further.


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If you shall prove\nThis ring was ever hers, you shall as easy\nProve that I husbanded her bed in Florence,\nWhere yet she never was.


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Gracious sovereign,\nWhether I have been to blame or no, I know not:\nHere's a petition from a Florentine,\nWho hath for four or five removes come short\nTo tender it herself. I undertook it,\nVanquish'd thereto by the fair grace and speech\nOf the poor suppliant, who by this I know\nIs here attending: her business looks in her\nWith an importing visage; and she told me,\nIn a sweet verbal brief, it did concern\nYour highness with herself.


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[Reads] Upon his many protestations to marry me\nwhen his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won\nme. Now is the Count Rousillon a widower: his vows\nare forfeited to me, and my honour's paid to him. He\nstole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow\nhim to his country for justice: grant it me, O\nking! in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer\nflourishes, and a poor maid is undone.\nDIANA CAPILET.


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The heavens have thought well on thee Lafeu,\nTo bring forth this discovery. Seek these suitors:\nGo speedily and bring again the count.\nI am afeard the life of Helen, lady,\nWas foully snatch'd.


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I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters to you,\nAnd that you fly them as you swear them lordship,\nYet you desire to marry.\n[Enter Widow and DIANA]\nWhat woman's that?


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I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine,\nDerived from the ancient Capilet:\nMy suit, as I do understand, you know,\nAnd therefore know how far I may be pitied.


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I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour\nBoth suffer under this complaint we bring,\nAnd both shall cease, without your remedy.


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If you shall marry,\nYou give away this hand, and that is mine;\nYou give away heaven's vows, and those are mine;\nYou give away myself, which is known mine;\nFor I by vow am so embodied yours,\nThat she which marries you must marry me,\nEither both or none.


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My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature,\nWhom sometime I have laugh'd with: let your highness\nLay a more noble thought upon mine honour\nThan for to think that I would sink it here.


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Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend\nTill your deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour\nThan in my thought it lies.


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He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so,\nHe might have bought me at a common price:\nDo not believe him. O, behold this ring,\nWhose high respect and rich validity\nDid lack a parallel; yet for all that\nHe gave it to a commoner o' the camp,\nIf I be one.


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He blushes, and 'tis it:\nOf six preceding ancestors, that gem,\nConferr'd by testament to the sequent issue,\nHath it been owed and worn. This is his wife;\nThat ring's a thousand proofs.


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What of him?\nHe's quoted for a most perfidious slave,\nWith all the spots o' the world tax'd and debosh'd;\nWhose nature sickens but to speak a truth.\nAm I or that or this for what he'll utter,\nThat will speak any thing?


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I think she has: certain it is I liked her,\nAnd boarded her i' the wanton way of youth:\nShe knew her distance and did angle for me,\nMadding my eagerness with her restraint,\nAs all impediments in fancy's course\nAre motives of more fancy; and, in fine,\nHer infinite cunning, with her modern grace,\nSubdued me to her rate: she got the ring;\nAnd I had that which any inferior might\nAt market-price have bought.


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I must be patient:\nYou, that have turn'd off a first so noble wife,\nMay justly diet me. I pray you yet;\nSince you lack virtue, I will lose a husband;\nSend for your ring, I will return it home,\nAnd give me mine again.


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Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I charge you,\nNot fearing the displeasure of your master,\nWhich on your just proceeding I'll keep off,\nBy him and by this woman here what know you?


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So please your majesty, my master hath been an\nhonourable gentleman: tricks he hath had in him,\nwhich gentlemen have.


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Yes, so please your majesty. I did go between them,\nas I said; but more than that, he loved her: for\nindeed he was mad for her, and talked of Satan and\nof Limbo and of Furies and I know not what: yet I\nwas in that credit with them at that time that I\nknew of their going to bed, and of other motions,\nas promising her marriage, and things which would\nderive me ill will to speak of; therefore I will not\nspeak what I know.


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Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou canst say\nthey are married: but thou art too fine in thy\nevidence; therefore stand aside.\nThis ring, you say, was yours?


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Take her away; I do not like her now;\nTo prison with her: and away with him.\nUnless thou tell'st me where thou hadst this ring,\nThou diest within this hour.


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Because he's guilty, and he is not guilty:\nHe knows I am no maid, and he'll swear to't;\nI'll swear I am a maid, and he knows not.\nGreat king, I am no strumpet, by my life;\nI am either maid, or else this old man's wife.


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Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal sir:\n[Exit Widow]\nThe jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,\nAnd he shall surety me. But for this lord,\nWho hath abused me, as he knows himself,\nThough yet he never harm'd me, here I quit him:\nHe knows himself my bed he hath defiled;\nAnd at that time he got his wife with child:\nDead though she be, she feels her young one kick:\nSo there's my riddle: one that's dead is quick:\nAnd now behold the meaning.


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O my good lord, when I was like this maid,\nI found you wondrous kind. There is your ring;\nAnd, look you, here's your letter; this it says:\n'When from my finger you can get this ring\nAnd are by me with child,' &c. This is done:\nWill you be mine, now you are doubly won?


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If it appear not plain and prove untrue,\nDeadly divorce step between me and you!\nO my dear mother, do I see you living?


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Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon:\n[To PAROLLES]\nGood Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher: so,\nI thank thee: wait on me home, I'll make sport with thee:\nLet thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones.


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Let us from point to point this story know,\nTo make the even truth in pleasure flow.\n[To DIANA]\nIf thou be'st yet a fresh uncropped flower,\nChoose thou thy husband, and I'll pay thy dower;\nFor I can guess that by thy honest aid\nThou keep'st a wife herself, thyself a maid.\nOf that and all the progress, more or less,\nResolvedly more leisure shall express:\nAll yet seems well; and if it end so meet,\nThe bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.\n[Flourish]\nEPILOGUE


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The king's a beggar, now the play is done:\nAll is well ended, if this suit be won,\nThat you express content; which we will pay,\nWith strife to please you, day exceeding day:\nOurs be your patience then, and yours our parts;\nYour gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.


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Nay, but this dotage of our general's\nO'erflows the measure: those his goodly eyes,\nThat o'er the files and musters of the war\nHave glow'd like plated Mars, now bend, now turn,\nThe office and devotion of their view\nUpon a tawny front: his captain's heart,\nWhich in the scuffles of great fights hath burst\nThe buckles on his breast, reneges all temper,\nAnd is become the bellows and the fan\nTo cool a gipsy's lust.\n[Flourish. Enter ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, her Ladies,]\nthe Train, with Eunuchs fanning her]\nLook, where they come:\nTake but good note, and you shall see in him.\nThe triple pillar of the world transform'd\nInto a strumpet's fool: behold and see.


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Nay, hear them, Antony:\nFulvia perchance is angry; or, who knows\nIf the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent\nHis powerful mandate to you, 'Do this, or this;\nTake in that kingdom, and enfranchise that;\nPerform 't, or else we damn thee.'


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Perchance! nay, and most like:\nYou must not stay here longer, your dismission\nIs come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony.\nWhere's Fulvia's process? Caesar's I would say? both?\nCall in the messengers. As I am Egypt's queen,\nThou blushest, Antony; and that blood of thine\nIs Caesar's homager: else so thy cheek pays shame\nWhen shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers!


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Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch\nOf the ranged empire fall! Here is my space.\nKingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike\nFeeds beast as man: the nobleness of life\nIs to do thus; when such a mutual pair\n[Embracing]\nAnd such a twain can do't, in which I bind,\nOn pain of punishment, the world to weet\nWe stand up peerless.


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Excellent falsehood!\nWhy did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?\nI'll seem the fool I am not; Antony\nWill be himself.


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But stirr'd by Cleopatra.\nNow, for the love of Love and her soft hours,\nLet's not confound the time with conference harsh:\nThere's not a minute of our lives should stretch\nWithout some pleasure now. What sport tonight?


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Fie, wrangling queen!\nWhom every thing becomes, to chide, to laugh,\nTo weep; whose every passion fully strives\nTo make itself, in thee, fair and admired!\nNo messenger, but thine; and all alone\nTo-night we'll wander through the streets and note\nThe qualities of people. Come, my queen;\nLast night you did desire it: speak not to us.\n[Exeunt MARK ANTONY and CLEOPATRA with]\ntheir train]


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Sir, sometimes, when he is not Antony,\nHe comes too short of that great property\nWhich still should go with Antony.


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I am full sorry\nThat he approves the common liar, who\nThus speaks of him at Rome: but I will hope\nOf better deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy!


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Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most any thing Alexas,\nalmost most absolute Alexas, where's the soothsayer\nthat you praised so to the queen? O, that I knew\nthis husband, which, you say, must charge his horns\nwith garlands!


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Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married\nto three kings in a forenoon, and widow them all:\nlet me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry\nmay do homage: find me to marry me with Octavius\nCaesar, and companion me with my mistress.


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Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful\nprognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear. Prithee,\ntell her but a worky-day fortune.


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Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas,--come,\nhis fortune, his fortune! O, let him marry a woman\nthat cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech thee! and let\nher die too, and give him a worse! and let worst\nfollow worse, till the worst of all follow him\nlaughing to his grave, fifty-fold a cuckold! Good\nIsis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a\nmatter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech thee!


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Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people!\nfor, as it is a heartbreaking to see a handsome man\nloose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow to behold a\nfoul knave uncuckolded: therefore, dear Isis, keep\ndecorum, and fortune him accordingly!


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Lo, now, if it lay in their hands to make me a\ncuckold, they would make themselves whores, but\nthey'ld do't!


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Ay:\nBut soon that war had end, and the time's state\nMade friends of them, joining their force 'gainst Caesar;\nWhose better issue in the war, from Italy,\nUpon the first encounter, drave them.


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When it concerns the fool or coward. On:\nThings that are past are done with me. 'Tis thus:\nWho tells me true, though in his tale lie death,\nI hear him as he flatter'd.


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Labienus--\nThis is stiff news--hath, with his Parthian force,\nExtended Asia from Euphrates;\nHis conquering banner shook from Syria\nTo Lydia and to Ionia; Whilst--


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Speak to me home, mince not the general tongue:\nName Cleopatra as she is call'd in Rome;\nRail thou in Fulvia's phrase; and taunt my faults\nWith such full licence as both truth and malice\nHave power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds,\nWhen our quick minds lie still; and our ills told us\nIs as our earing. Fare thee well awhile.


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Let him appear.\nThese strong Egyptian fetters I must break,\nOr lose myself in dotage.\n[Enter another Messenger]\nWhat are you?


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In Sicyon:\nHer length of sickness, with what else more serious\nImporteth thee to know, this bears.


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Forbear me.\n[Exit Second Messenger]\nThere's a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it:\nWhat our contempt doth often hurl from us,\nWe wish it ours again; the present pleasure,\nBy revolution lowering, does become\nThe opposite of itself: she's good, being gone;\nThe hand could pluck her back that shoved her on.\nI must from this enchanting queen break off:\nTen thousand harms, more than the ills I know,\nMy idleness doth hatch. How now! Enobarbus!


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Why, then, we kill all our women:\nwe see how mortal an unkindness is to them;\nif they suffer our departure, death's the word.


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Under a compelling occasion, let women die; it were\npity to cast them away for nothing; though, between\nthem and a great cause, they should be esteemed\nnothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of\nthis, dies instantly; I have seen her die twenty\ntimes upon far poorer moment: I do think there is\nmettle in death, which commits some loving act upon\nher, she hath such a celerity in dying.


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Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but\nthe finest part of pure love: we cannot call her\nwinds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater\nstorms and tempests than almanacs can report: this\ncannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a\nshower of rain as well as Jove.


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O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece\nof work; which not to have been blest withal would\nhave discredited your travel.


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Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When\nit pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man\nfrom him, it shows to man the tailors of the earth;\ncomforting therein, that when old robes are worn\nout, there are members to make new. If there were\nno more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut,\nand the case to be lamented: this grief is crowned\nwith consolation; your old smock brings forth a new\npetticoat: and indeed the tears live in an onion\nthat should water this sorrow.


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And the business you have broached here cannot be\nwithout you; especially that of Cleopatra's, which\nwholly depends on your abode.


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No more light answers. Let our officers\nHave notice what we purpose. I shall break\nThe cause of our expedience to the queen,\nAnd get her leave to part. For not alone\nThe death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,\nDo strongly speak to us; but the letters too\nOf many our contriving friends in Rome\nPetition us at home: Sextus Pompeius\nHath given the dare to Caesar, and commands\nThe empire of the sea: our slippery people,\nWhose love is never link'd to the deserver\nTill his deserts are past, begin to throw\nPompey the Great and all his dignities\nUpon his son; who, high in name and power,\nHigher than both in blood and life, stands up\nFor the main soldier: whose quality, going on,\nThe sides o' the world may danger: much is breeding,\nWhich, like the courser's hair, hath yet but life,\nAnd not a serpent's poison. Say, our pleasure,\nTo such whose place is under us, requires\nOur quick remove from hence.


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See where he is, who's with him, what he does:\nI did not send you: if you find him sad,\nSay I am dancing; if in mirth, report\nThat I am sudden sick: quick, and return.


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Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,\nYou do not hold the method to enforce\nThe like from him.


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Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear:\nIn time we hate that which we often fear.\nBut here comes Antony.


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Help me away, dear Charmian; I shall fall:\nIt cannot be thus long, the sides of nature\nWill not sustain it.


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I know, by that same eye, there's some good news.\nWhat says the married woman? You may go:\nWould she had never given you leave to come!\nLet her not say 'tis I that keep you here:\nI have no power upon you; hers you are.


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Why should I think you can be mine and true,\nThough you in swearing shake the throned gods,\nWho have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,\nTo be entangled with those mouth-made vows,\nWhich break themselves in swearing!


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Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going,\nBut bid farewell, and go: when you sued staying,\nThen was the time for words: no going then;\nEternity was in our lips and eyes,\nBliss in our brows' bent; none our parts so poor,\nBut was a race of heaven: they are so still,\nOr thou, the greatest soldier of the world,\nArt turn'd the greatest liar.


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Hear me, queen:\nThe strong necessity of time commands\nOur services awhile; but my full heart\nRemains in use with you. Our Italy\nShines o'er with civil swords: Sextus Pompeius\nMakes his approaches to the port of Rome:\nEquality of two domestic powers\nBreed scrupulous faction: the hated, grown to strength,\nAre newly grown to love: the condemn'd Pompey,\nRich in his father's honour, creeps apace,\nInto the hearts of such as have not thrived\nUpon the present state, whose numbers threaten;\nAnd quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge\nBy any desperate change: my more particular,\nAnd that which most with you should safe my going,\nIs Fulvia's death.


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She's dead, my queen:\nLook here, and at thy sovereign leisure read\nThe garboils she awaked; at the last, best:\nSee when and where she died.


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O most false love!\nWhere be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill\nWith sorrowful water? Now I see, I see,\nIn Fulvia's death, how mine received shall be.


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Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know\nThe purposes I bear; which are, or cease,\nAs you shall give the advice. By the fire\nThat quickens Nilus' slime, I go from hence\nThy soldier, servant; making peace or war\nAs thou affect'st.


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So Fulvia told me.\nI prithee, turn aside and weep for her,\nThen bid adieu to me, and say the tears\nBelong to Egypt: good now, play one scene\nOf excellent dissembling; and let it look\nLife perfect honour.


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And target. Still he mends;\nBut this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian,\nHow this Herculean Roman does become\nThe carriage of his chafe.


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Courteous lord, one word.\nSir, you and I must part, but that's not it:\nSir, you and I have loved, but there's not it;\nThat you know well: something it is I would,\nO, my oblivion is a very Antony,\nAnd I am all forgotten.


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'Tis sweating labour\nTo bear such idleness so near the heart\nAs Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me;\nSince my becomings kill me, when they do not\nEye well to you: your honour calls you hence;\nTherefore be deaf to my unpitied folly.\nAnd all the gods go with you! upon your sword\nSit laurel victory! and smooth success\nBe strew'd before your feet!


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Let us go. Come;\nOur separation so abides, and flies,\nThat thou, residing here, go'st yet with me,\nAnd I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee. Away!


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You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,\nIt is not Caesar's natural vice to hate\nOur great competitor: from Alexandria\nThis is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes\nThe lamps of night in revel; is not more man-like\nThan Cleopatra; nor the queen of Ptolemy\nMore womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or\nVouchsafed to think he had partners: you shall find there\nA man who is the abstract of all faults\nThat all men follow.


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I must not think there are\nEvils enow to darken all his goodness:\nHis faults in him seem as the spots of heaven,\nMore fiery by night's blackness; hereditary,\nRather than purchased; what he cannot change,\nThan what he chooses.


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You are too indulgent. Let us grant, it is not\nAmiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy;\nTo give a kingdom for a mirth; to sit\nAnd keep the turn of tippling with a slave;\nTo reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet\nWith knaves that smell of sweat: say this\nbecomes him,--\nAs his composure must be rare indeed\nWhom these things cannot blemish,--yet must Antony\nNo way excuse his soils, when we do bear\nSo great weight in his lightness. If he fill'd\nHis vacancy with his voluptuousness,\nFull surfeits, and the dryness of his bones,\nCall on him for't: but to confound such time,\nThat drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud\nAs his own state and ours,--'tis to be chid\nAs we rate boys, who, being mature in knowledge,\nPawn their experience to their present pleasure,\nAnd so rebel to judgment.


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Thy biddings have been done; and every hour,\nMost noble Caesar, shalt thou have report\nHow 'tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea;\nAnd it appears he is beloved of those\nThat only have fear'd Caesar: to the ports\nThe discontents repair, and men's reports\nGive him much wrong'd.


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I should have known no less.\nIt hath been taught us from the primal state,\nThat he which is was wish'd until he were;\nAnd the ebb'd man, ne'er loved till ne'er worth love,\nComes dear'd by being lack'd. This common body,\nLike to a vagabond flag upon the stream,\nGoes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,\nTo rot itself with motion.


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Caesar, I bring thee word,\nMenecrates and Menas, famous pirates,\nMake the sea serve them, which they ear and wound\nWith keels of every kind: many hot inroads\nThey make in Italy; the borders maritime\nLack blood to think on't, and flush youth revolt:\nNo vessel can peep forth, but 'tis as soon\nTaken as seen; for Pompey's name strikes more\nThan could his war resisted.


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Antony,\nLeave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once\nWast beaten from Modena, where thou slew'st\nHirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel\nDid famine follow; whom thou fought'st against,\nThough daintily brought up, with patience more\nThan savages could suffer: thou didst drink\nThe stale of horses, and the gilded puddle\nWhich beasts would cough at: thy palate then did deign\nThe roughest berry on the rudest hedge;\nYea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets,\nThe barks of trees thou browsed'st; on the Alps\nIt is reported thou didst eat strange flesh,\nWhich some did die to look on: and all this--\nIt wounds thine honour that I speak it now--\nWas borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek\nSo much as lank'd not.


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Let his shames quickly\nDrive him to Rome: 'tis time we twain\nDid show ourselves i' the field; and to that end\nAssemble we immediate council: Pompey\nThrives in our idleness.


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To-morrow, Caesar,\nI shall be furnish'd to inform you rightly\nBoth what by sea and land I can be able\nTo front this present time.


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Farewell, my lord: what you shall know meantime\nOf stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,\nTo let me be partaker.


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Not now to hear thee sing; I take no pleasure\nIn aught an eunuch has: 'tis well for thee,\nThat, being unseminar'd, thy freer thoughts\nMay not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?


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Not in deed, madam; for I can do nothing\nBut what indeed is honest to be done:\nYet have I fierce affections, and think\nWhat Venus did with Mars.


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O Charmian,\nWhere think'st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?\nOr does he walk? or is he on his horse?\nO happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!\nDo bravely, horse! for wot'st thou whom thou movest?\nThe demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm\nAnd burgonet of men. He's speaking now,\nOr murmuring 'Where's my serpent of old Nile?'\nFor so he calls me: now I feed myself\nWith most delicious poison. Think on me,\nThat am with Phoebus' amorous pinches black,\nAnd wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar,\nWhen thou wast here above the ground, I was\nA morsel for a monarch: and great Pompey\nWould stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;\nThere would he anchor his aspect and die\nWith looking on his life.


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How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!\nYet, coming from him, that great medicine hath\nWith his tinct gilded thee.\nHow goes it with my brave Mark Antony?


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Last thing he did, dear queen,\nHe kiss'd,--the last of many doubled kisses,--\nThis orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.


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'Good friend,' quoth he,\n'Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends\nThis treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,\nTo mend the petty present, I will piece\nHer opulent throne with kingdoms; all the east,\nSay thou, shall call her mistress.' So he nodded,\nAnd soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed,\nWho neigh'd so high, that what I would have spoke\nWas beastly dumb'd by him.


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O well-divided disposition! Note him,\nNote him good Charmian, 'tis the man; but note him:\nHe was not sad, for he would shine on those\nThat make their looks by his; he was not merry,\nWhich seem'd to tell them his remembrance lay\nIn Egypt with his joy; but between both:\nO heavenly mingle! Be'st thou sad or merry,\nThe violence of either thee becomes,\nSo does it no man else. Met'st thou my posts?


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Who's born that day\nWhen I forget to send to Antony,\nShall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.\nWelcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian,\nEver love Caesar so?


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My salad days,\nWhen I was green in judgment: cold in blood,\nTo say as I said then! But, come, away;\nGet me ink and paper:\nHe shall have every day a several greeting,\nOr I'll unpeople Egypt.


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We, ignorant of ourselves,\nBeg often our own harms, which the wise powers\nDeny us for our good; so find we profit\nBy losing of our prayers.


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I shall do well:\nThe people love me, and the sea is mine;\nMy powers are crescent, and my auguring hope\nSays it will come to the full. Mark Antony\nIn Egypt sits at dinner, and will make\nNo wars without doors: Caesar gets money where\nHe loses hearts: Lepidus flatters both,\nOf both is flatter'd; but he neither loves,\nNor either cares for him.


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He dreams: I know they are in Rome together,\nLooking for Antony. But all the charms of love,\nSalt Cleopatra, soften thy waned lip!\nLet witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!\nTie up the libertine in a field of feasts,\nKeep his brain fuming; Epicurean cooks\nSharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite;\nThat sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour\nEven till a Lethe'd dulness!\n[Enter VARRIUS]\nHow now, Varrius!


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This is most certain that I shall deliver:\nMark Antony is every hour in Rome\nExpected: since he went from Egypt 'tis\nA space for further travel.


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I could have given less matter\nA better ear. Menas, I did not think\nThis amorous surfeiter would have donn'd his helm\nFor such a petty war: his soldiership\nIs twice the other twain: but let us rear\nThe higher our opinion, that our stirring\nCan from the lap of Egypt's widow pluck\nThe ne'er-lust-wearied Antony.


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I cannot hope\nCaesar and Antony shall well greet together:\nHis wife that's dead did trespasses to Caesar;\nHis brother warr'd upon him; although, I think,\nNot moved by Antony.


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I know not, Menas,\nHow lesser enmities may give way to greater.\nWere't not that we stand up against them all,\n'Twere pregnant they should square between\nthemselves;\nFor they have entertained cause enough\nTo draw their swords: but how the fear of us\nMay cement their divisions and bind up\nThe petty difference, we yet not know.\nBe't as our gods will have't! It only stands\nOur lives upon to use our strongest hands.\nCome, Menas.


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Good Enobarbus, 'tis a worthy deed,\nAnd shall become you well, to entreat your captain\nTo soft and gentle speech.


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I shall entreat him\nTo answer like himself: if Caesar move him,\nLet Antony look over Caesar's head\nAnd speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter,\nWere I the wearer of Antonius' beard,\nI would not shave't to-day.


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Noble friends,\nThat which combined us was most great, and let not\nA leaner action rend us. What's amiss,\nMay it be gently heard: when we debate\nOur trivial difference loud, we do commit\nMurder in healing wounds: then, noble partners,\nThe rather, for I earnestly beseech,\nTouch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,\nNor curstness grow to the matter.


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I must be laugh'd at,\nIf, or for nothing or a little, I\nShould say myself offended, and with you\nChiefly i' the world; more laugh'd at, that I should\nOnce name you derogately, when to sound your name\nIt not concern'd me.


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No more than my residing here at Rome\nMight be to you in Egypt: yet, if you there\nDid practise on my state, your being in Egypt\nMight be my question.


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You may be pleased to catch at mine intent\nBy what did here befal me. Your wife and brother\nMade wars upon me; and their contestation\nWas theme for you, you were the word of war.


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You do mistake your business; my brother never\nDid urge me in his act: I did inquire it;\nAnd have my learning from some true reports,\nThat drew their swords with you. Did he not rather\nDiscredit my authority with yours;\nAnd make the wars alike against my stomach,\nHaving alike your cause? Of this my letters\nBefore did satisfy you. If you'll patch a quarrel,\nAs matter whole you have not to make it with,\nIt must not be with this.


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Not so, not so;\nI know you could not lack, I am certain on't,\nVery necessity of this thought, that I,\nYour partner in the cause 'gainst which he fought,\nCould not with graceful eyes attend those wars\nWhich fronted mine own peace. As for my wife,\nI would you had her spirit in such another:\nThe third o' the world is yours; which with a snaffle\nYou may pace easy, but not such a wife.


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So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar\nMade out of her impatience, which not wanted\nShrewdness of policy too, I grieving grant\nDid you too much disquiet: for that you must\nBut say, I could not help it.


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I wrote to you\nWhen rioting in Alexandria; you\nDid pocket up my letters, and with taunts\nDid gibe my missive out of audience.


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Sir,\nHe fell upon me ere admitted: then\nThree kings I had newly feasted, and did want\nOf what I was i' the morning: but next day\nI told him of myself; which was as much\nAs to have ask'd him pardon. Let this fellow\nBe nothing of our strife; if we contend,\nOut of our question wipe him.


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No,\nLepidus, let him speak:\nThe honour is sacred which he talks on now,\nSupposing that I lack'd it. But, on, Caesar;\nThe article of my oath.


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Neglected, rather;\nAnd then when poison'd hours had bound me up\nFrom mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may,\nI'll play the penitent to you: but mine honesty\nShall not make poor my greatness, nor my power\nWork without it. Truth is, that Fulvia,\nTo have me out of Egypt, made wars here;\nFor which myself, the ignorant motive, do\nSo far ask pardon as befits mine honour\nTo stoop in such a case.


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If it might please you, to enforce no further\nThe griefs between ye: to forget them quite\nWere to remember that the present need\nSpeaks to atone you.


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Or, if you borrow one another's love for the\ninstant, you may, when you hear no more words of\nPompey, return it again: you shall have time to\nwrangle in when you have nothing else to do.


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I do not much dislike the matter, but\nThe manner of his speech; for't cannot be\nWe shall remain in friendship, our conditions\nSo differing in their acts. Yet if I knew\nWhat hoop should hold us stanch, from edge to edge\nO' the world I would pursue it.


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To hold you in perpetual amity,\nTo make you brothers, and to knit your hearts\nWith an unslipping knot, take Antony\nOctavia to his wife; whose beauty claims\nNo worse a husband than the best of men;\nWhose virtue and whose general graces speak\nThat which none else can utter. By this marriage,\nAll little jealousies, which now seem great,\nAnd all great fears, which now import their dangers,\nWould then be nothing: truths would be tales,\nWhere now half tales be truths: her love to both\nWould, each to other and all loves to both,\nDraw after her. Pardon what I have spoke;\nFor 'tis a studied, not a present thought,\nBy duty ruminated.


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May I never\nTo this good purpose, that so fairly shows,\nDream of impediment! Let me have thy hand:\nFurther this act of grace: and from this hour\nThe heart of brothers govern in our loves\nAnd sway our great designs!


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There is my hand.\nA sister I bequeath you, whom no brother\nDid ever love so dearly: let her live\nTo join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never\nFly off our loves again!


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I did not think to draw my sword 'gainst Pompey;\nFor he hath laid strange courtesies and great\nOf late upon me: I must thank him only,\nLest my remembrance suffer ill report;\nAt heel of that, defy him.


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So is the fame.\nWould we had spoke together! Haste we for it:\nYet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we\nThe business we have talk'd of.


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Noble Antony,\nNot sickness should detain me.\n[Flourish. Exeunt OCTAVIUS CAESAR, MARK ANTONY,]\nand LEPIDUS]


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This was but as a fly by an eagle: we had much more\nmonstrous matter of feast, which worthily deserved noting.


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I will tell you.\nThe barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,\nBurn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold;\nPurple the sails, and so perfumed that\nThe winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,\nWhich to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made\nThe water which they beat to follow faster,\nAs amorous of their strokes. For her own person,\nIt beggar'd all description: she did lie\nIn her pavilion--cloth-of-gold of tissue--\nO'er-picturing that Venus where we see\nThe fancy outwork nature: on each side her\nStood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,\nWith divers-colour'd fans, whose wind did seem\nTo glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,\nAnd what they undid did.


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Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,\nSo many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes,\nAnd made their bends adornings: at the helm\nA seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackle\nSwell with the touches of those flower-soft hands,\nThat yarely frame the office. From the barge\nA strange invisible perfume hits the sense\nOf the adjacent wharfs. The city cast\nHer people out upon her; and Antony,\nEnthroned i' the market-place, did sit alone,\nWhistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,\nHad gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,\nAnd made a gap in nature.


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Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,\nInvited her to supper: she replied,\nIt should be better he became her guest;\nWhich she entreated: our courteous Antony,\nWhom ne'er the word of 'No' woman heard speak,\nBeing barber'd ten times o'er, goes to the feast,\nAnd for his ordinary pays his heart\nFor what his eyes eat only.


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I saw her once\nHop forty paces through the public street;\nAnd having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted,\nThat she did make defect perfection,\nAnd, breathless, power breathe forth.


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Never; he will not:\nAge cannot wither her, nor custom stale\nHer infinite variety: other women cloy\nThe appetites they feed: but she makes hungry\nWhere most she satisfies; for vilest things\nBecome themselves in her: that the holy priests\nBless her when she is riggish.


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Good night, sir. My Octavia,\nRead not my blemishes in the world's report:\nI have not kept my square; but that to come\nShall all be done by the rule. Good night, dear lady.\nGood night, sir.


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Caesar's.\nTherefore, O Antony, stay not by his side:\nThy demon, that's thy spirit which keeps thee, is\nNoble, courageous high, unmatchable,\nWhere Caesar's is not; but, near him, thy angel\nBecomes a fear, as being o'erpower'd: therefore\nMake space enough between you.


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To none but thee; no more, but when to thee.\nIf thou dost play with him at any game,\nThou art sure to lose; and, of that natural luck,\nHe beats thee 'gainst the odds: thy lustre thickens,\nWhen he shines by: I say again, thy spirit\nIs all afraid to govern thee near him;\nBut, he away, 'tis noble.


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Get thee gone:\nSay to Ventidius I would speak with him:\n[Exit Soothsayer]\nHe shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap,\nHe hath spoken true: the very dice obey him;\nAnd in our sports my better cunning faints\nUnder his chance: if we draw lots, he speeds;\nHis cocks do win the battle still of mine,\nWhen it is all to nought; and his quails ever\nBeat mine, inhoop'd, at odds. I will to Egypt:\nAnd though I make this marriage for my peace,\nI' the east my pleasure lies.\n[Enter VENTIDIUS]\nO, come, Ventidius,\nYou must to Parthia: your commission's ready;\nFollow me, and receive't.


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And when good will is show'd, though't come\ntoo short,\nThe actor may plead pardon. I'll none now:\nGive me mine angle; we'll to the river: there,\nMy music playing far off, I will betray\nTawny-finn'd fishes; my bended hook shall pierce\nTheir slimy jaws; and, as I draw them up,\nI'll think them every one an Antony,\nAnd say 'Ah, ha! you're caught.'


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'Twas merry when\nYou wager'd on your angling; when your diver\nDid hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he\nWith fervency drew up.


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That time,--O times!--\nI laugh'd him out of patience; and that night\nI laugh'd him into patience; and next morn,\nEre the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed;\nThen put my tires and mantles on him, whilst\nI wore his sword Philippan.\n[Enter a Messenger]\nO, from Italy\nRam thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears,\nThat long time have been barren.


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Antonius dead!--If thou say so, villain,\nThou kill'st thy mistress: but well and free,\nIf thou so yield him, there is gold, and here\nMy bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings\nHave lipp'd, and trembled kissing.


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Why, there's more gold.\nBut, sirrah, mark, we use\nTo say the dead are well: bring it to that,\nThe gold I give thee will I melt and pour\nDown thy ill-uttering throat.


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Well, go to, I will;\nBut there's no goodness in thy face: if Antony\nBe free and healthful,--so tart a favour\nTo trumpet such good tidings! If not well,\nThou shouldst come like a Fury crown'd with snakes,\nNot like a formal man.


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I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st:\nYet if thou say Antony lives, is well,\nOr friends with Caesar, or not captive to him,\nI'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail\nRich pearls upon thee.


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I do not like 'But yet,' it does allay\nThe good precedence; fie upon 'But yet'!\n'But yet' is as a gaoler to bring forth\nSome monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend,\nPour out the pack of matter to mine ear,\nThe good and bad together: he's friends with Caesar:\nIn state of health thou say'st; and thou say'st free.


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What say you? Hence,\n[Strikes him again]\nHorrible villain! or I'll spurn thine eyes\nLike balls before me; I'll unhair thy head:\n[She hales him up and down]\nThou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stew'd in brine,\nSmarting in lingering pickle.


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Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee,\nAnd make thy fortunes proud: the blow thou hadst\nShall make thy peace for moving me to rage;\nAnd I will boot thee with what gift beside\nThy modesty can beg.


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Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.\nMelt Egypt into Nile! and kindly creatures\nTurn all to serpents! Call the slave again:\nThough I am mad, I will not bite him: call.


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I will not hurt him.\n[Exit CHARMIAN]\nThese hands do lack nobility, that they strike\nA meaner than myself; since I myself\nHave given myself the cause.\n[Re-enter CHARMIAN and Messenger]\nCome hither, sir.\nThough it be honest, it is never good\nTo bring bad news: give to a gracious message.\nAn host of tongues; but let ill tidings tell\nThemselves when they be felt.


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O, I would thou didst,\nSo half my Egypt were submerged and made\nA cistern for scaled snakes! Go, get thee hence:\nHadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me\nThou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married?


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Take no offence that I would not offend you:\nTo punish me for what you make me do.\nSeems much unequal: he's married to Octavia.


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O, that his fault should make a knave of thee,\nThat art not what thou'rt sure of! Get thee hence:\nThe merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome\nAre all too dear for me: lie they upon thy hand,\nAnd be undone by 'em!


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I am paid for't now.\nLead me from hence:\nI faint: O Iras, Charmian! 'tis no matter.\nGo to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him\nReport the feature of Octavia, her years,\nHer inclination, let him not leave out\nThe colour of her hair: bring me word quickly.\n[Exit ALEXAS]\nLet him for ever go:--let him not--Charmian,\nThough he be painted one way like a Gorgon,\nThe other way's a Mars. Bid you Alexas\n[To MARDIAN]\nBring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian,\nBut do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.


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[Exeunt]\n[Flourish. Enter POMPEY and MENAS at one door,]\nwith drum and trumpet: at another, OCTAVIUS CAESAR,\nMARK ANTONY, LEPIDUS, DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS, MECAENAS,\nwith Soldiers marching]


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Most meet\nThat first we come to words; and therefore have we\nOur written purposes before us sent;\nWhich, if thou hast consider'd, let us know\nIf 'twill tie up thy discontented sword,\nAnd carry back to Sicily much tall youth\nThat else must perish here.


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To you all three,\nThe senators alone of this great world,\nChief factors for the gods, I do not know\nWherefore my father should revengers want,\nHaving a son and friends; since Julius Caesar,\nWho at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted,\nThere saw you labouring for him. What was't\nThat moved pale Cassius to conspire; and what\nMade the all-honour'd, honest Roman, Brutus,\nWith the arm'd rest, courtiers and beauteous freedom,\nTo drench the Capitol; but that they would\nHave one man but a man? And that is it\nHath made me rig my navy; at whose burthen\nThe anger'd ocean foams; with which I meant\nTo scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Rome\nCast on my noble father.


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Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails;\nWe'll speak with thee at sea: at land, thou know'st\nHow much we do o'er-count thee.


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At land, indeed,\nThou dost o'er-count me of my father's house:\nBut, since the cuckoo builds not for himself,\nRemain in't as thou mayst.


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You have made me offer\nOf Sicily, Sardinia; and I must\nRid all the sea of pirates; then, to send\nMeasures of wheat to Rome; this 'greed upon\nTo part with unhack'd edges, and bear back\nOur targes undinted.


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Know, then,\nI came before you here a man prepared\nTo take this offer: but Mark Antony\nPut me to some impatience: though I lose\nThe praise of it by telling, you must know,\nWhen Caesar and your brother were at blows,\nYour mother came to Sicily and did find\nHer welcome friendly.


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The beds i' the east are soft; and thanks to you,\nThat call'd me timelier than my purpose hither;\nFor I have gain'd by 't.


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Well, I know not\nWhat counts harsh fortune casts upon my face;\nBut in my bosom shall she never come,\nTo make my heart her vassal.


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I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed:\nI crave our composition may be written,\nAnd seal'd between us.


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No, Antony, take the lot: but, first\nOr last, your fine Egyptian cookery\nShall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar\nGrew fat with feasting there.


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Let me shake thy hand;\nI never hated thee: I have seen thee fight,\nWhen I have envied thy behavior.


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Sir,\nI never loved you much; but I ha' praised ye,\nWhen you have well deserved ten times as much\nAs I have said you did.


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Enjoy thy plainness,\nIt nothing ill becomes thee.\nAboard my galley I invite you all:\nWill you lead, lords?


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There I deny my land service. But give me your\nhand, Menas: if our eyes had authority, here they\nmight take two thieves kissing.


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I think so too. But you shall find, the band that\nseems to tie their friendship together will be the\nvery strangler of their amity: Octavia is of a\nholy, cold, and still conversation.


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Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony.\nHe will to his Egyptian dish again: then shall the\nsighs of Octavia blow the fire up in Caesar; and, as\nI said before, that which is the strength of their\namity shall prove the immediate author of their\nvariance. Antony will use his affection where it is:\nhe married but his occasion here.


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Here they'll be, man. Some o' their plants are\nill-rooted already: the least wind i' the world\nwill blow them down.


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As they pinch one another by the disposition, he\ncries out 'No more;' reconciles them to his\nentreaty, and himself to the drink.


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Why, this is to have a name in great men's\nfellowship: I had as lief have a reed that will do\nme no service as a partisan I could not heave.


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To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen\nto move in't, are the holes where eyes should be,\nwhich pitifully disaster the cheeks.\n[A sennet sounded. Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, MARK]\nANTONY, LEPIDUS, POMPEY, AGRIPPA, MECAENAS,\nDOMITIUS ENOBARBUS, MENAS, with other captains]


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[To OCTAVIUS CAESAR] Thus do they, sir: they take\nthe flow o' the Nile\nBy certain scales i' the pyramid; they know,\nBy the height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth\nOr foison follow: the higher Nilus swells,\nThe more it promises: as it ebbs, the seedsman\nUpon the slime and ooze scatters his grain,\nAnd shortly comes to harvest.


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Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies'\npyramises are very goodly things; without\ncontradiction, I have heard that.


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It is shaped, sir, like itself; and it is as broad\nas it hath breadth: it is just so high as it is,\nand moves with its own organs: it lives by that\nwhich nourisheth it; and the elements once out of\nit, it transmigrates.


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[Aside to MENAS] Go hang, sir, hang! Tell me of\nthat? away!\nDo as I bid you. Where's this cup I call'd for?


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Now, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.\nThou art, if thou darest be, the earthly Jove:\nWhate'er the ocean pales, or sky inclips,\nIs thine, if thou wilt ha't.


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These three world-sharers, these competitors,\nAre in thy vessel: let me cut the cable;\nAnd, when we are put off, fall to their throats:\nAll there is thine.


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Ah, this thou shouldst have done,\nAnd not have spoke on't! In me 'tis villany;\nIn thee't had been good service. Thou must know,\n'Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour;\nMine honour, it. Repent that e'er thy tongue\nHath so betray'd thine act: being done unknown,\nI should have found it afterwards well done;\nBut must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.


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[Aside] For this,\nI'll never follow thy pall'd fortunes more.\nWho seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd,\nShall never find it more.


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Ha, my brave emperor!\n[To MARK ANTONY]\nShall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals,\nAnd celebrate our drink?


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Come, let's all take hands,\nTill that the conquering wine hath steep'd our sense\nIn soft and delicate Lethe.


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All take hands.\nMake battery to our ears with the loud music:\nThe while I'll place you: then the boy shall sing;\nThe holding every man shall bear as loud\nAs his strong sides can volley.\n[Music plays. DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS places them]\nhand in hand]\nTHE SONG.\nCome, thou monarch of the vine,\nPlumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!\nIn thy fats our cares be drown'd,\nWith thy grapes our hairs be crown'd:\nCup us, till the world go round,\nCup us, till the world go round!


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What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother,\nLet me request you off: our graver business\nFrowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let's part;\nYou see we have burnt our cheeks: strong Enobarb\nIs weaker than the wine; and mine own tongue\nSplits what it speaks: the wild disguise hath almost\nAntick'd us all. What needs more words? Good night.\nGood Antony, your hand.


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No, to my cabin.\nThese drums! these trumpets, flutes! what!\nLet Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell\nTo these great fellows: sound and be hang'd, sound out!


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter VENTIDIUS as it were in triumph, with SILIUS,]\nand other Romans, Officers, and Soldiers; the dead\nbody of PACORUS borne before him]


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Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck; and now\nPleased fortune does of Marcus Crassus' death\nMake me revenger. Bear the king's son's body\nBefore our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes,\nPays this for Marcus Crassus.


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Noble Ventidius,\nWhilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm,\nThe fugitive Parthians follow; spur through Media,\nMesopotamia, and the shelters whither\nThe routed fly: so thy grand captain Antony\nShall set thee on triumphant chariots and\nPut garlands on thy head.


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O Silius, Silius,\nI have done enough; a lower place, note well,\nMay make too great an act: for learn this, Silius;\nBetter to leave undone, than by our deed\nAcquire too high a fame when him we serve's away.\nCaesar and Antony have ever won\nMore in their officer than person: Sossius,\nOne of my place in Syria, his lieutenant,\nFor quick accumulation of renown,\nWhich he achieved by the minute, lost his favour.\nWho does i' the wars more than his captain can\nBecomes his captain's captain: and ambition,\nThe soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss,\nThan gain which darkens him.\nI could do more to do Antonius good,\nBut 'twould offend him; and in his offence\nShould my performance perish.


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Thou hast, Ventidius,\nthat\nWithout the which a soldier, and his sword,\nGrants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony!


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I'll humbly signify what in his name,\nThat magical word of war, we have effected;\nHow, with his banners and his well-paid ranks,\nThe ne'er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia\nWe have jaded out o' the field.


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He purposeth to Athens: whither, with what haste\nThe weight we must convey with's will permit,\nWe shall appear before him. On there; pass along!


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They have dispatch'd with Pompey, he is gone;\nThe other three are sealing. Octavia weeps\nTo part from Rome; Caesar is sad; and Lepidus,\nSince Pompey's feast, as Menas says, is troubled\nWith the green sickness.


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But he loves Caesar best; yet he loves Antony:\nHo! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards,\npoets, cannot\nThink, speak, cast, write, sing, number, ho!\nHis love to Antony. But as for Caesar,\nKneel down, kneel down, and wonder.


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They are his shards, and he their beetle.\n[Trumpets within]\nSo;\nThis is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.


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You take from me a great part of myself;\nUse me well in 't. Sister, prove such a wife\nAs my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest band\nShall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony,\nLet not the piece of virtue, which is set\nBetwixt us as the cement of our love,\nTo keep it builded, be the ram to batter\nThe fortress of it; for better might we\nHave loved without this mean, if on both parts\nThis be not cherish'd.


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You shall not find,\nThough you be therein curious, the least cause\nFor what you seem to fear: so, the gods keep you,\nAnd make the hearts of Romans serve your ends!\nWe will here part.


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Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well:\nThe elements be kind to thee, and make\nThy spirits all of comfort! fare thee well.


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Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can\nHer heart inform her tongue,--the swan's\ndown-feather,\nThat stands upon the swell at full of tide,\nAnd neither way inclines.


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[Aside to DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS] Why, Enobarbus,\nWhen Antony found Julius Caesar dead,\nHe cried almost to roaring; and he wept\nWhen at Philippi he found Brutus slain.


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[Aside to AGRIPPA] That year, indeed, he was\ntroubled with a rheum;\nWhat willingly he did confound he wail'd,\nBelieve't, till I wept too.


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Come, sir, come;\nI'll wrestle with you in my strength of love:\nLook, here I have you; thus I let you go,\nAnd give you to the gods.


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That Herod's head\nI'll have: but how, when Antony is gone\nThrough whom I might command it? Come thou near.


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I think so, Charmian: dull of tongue, and dwarfish!\nWhat majesty is in her gait? Remember,\nIf e'er thou look'dst on majesty.


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She creeps:\nHer motion and her station are as one;\nShe shows a body rather than a life,\nA statue than a breather.


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There's gold for thee.\nThou must not take my former sharpness ill:\nI will employ thee back again; I find thee\nMost fit for business: go make thee ready;\nOur letters are prepared.


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Indeed, he is so: I repent me much\nThat so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him,\nThis creature's no such thing.


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I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmian:\nBut 'tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me\nWhere I will write. All may be well enough.


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Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,--\nThat were excusable, that, and thousands more\nOf semblable import,--but he hath waged\nNew wars 'gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it\nTo public ear:\nSpoke scantly of me: when perforce he could not\nBut pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly\nHe vented them; most narrow measure lent me:\nWhen the best hint was given him, he not took't,\nOr did it from his teeth.


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O my good lord,\nBelieve not all; or, if you must believe,\nStomach not all. A more unhappy lady,\nIf this division chance, ne'er stood between,\nPraying for both parts:\nThe good gods me presently,\nWhen I shall pray, 'O bless my lord and husband!'\nUndo that prayer, by crying out as loud,\n'O, bless my brother!' Husband win, win brother,\nPrays, and destroys the prayer; no midway\n'Twixt these extremes at all.


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Gentle Octavia,\nLet your best love draw to that point, which seeks\nBest to preserve it: if I lose mine honour,\nI lose myself: better I were not yours\nThan yours so branchless. But, as you requested,\nYourself shall go between 's: the mean time, lady,\nI'll raise the preparation of a war\nShall stain your brother: make your soonest haste;\nSo your desires are yours.


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Thanks to my lord.\nThe Jove of power make me most weak, most weak,\nYour reconciler! Wars 'twixt you twain would be\nAs if the world should cleave, and that slain men\nShould solder up the rift.


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When it appears to you where this begins,\nTurn your displeasure that way: for our faults\nCan never be so equal, that your love\nCan equally move with them. Provide your going;\nChoose your own company, and command what cost\nYour heart has mind to.


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Caesar, having made use of him in the wars 'gainst\nPompey, presently denied him rivality; would not let\nhim partake in the glory of the action: and not\nresting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly\nwrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes him: so\nthe poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine.


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Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, no more;\nAnd throw between them all the food thou hast,\nThey'll grind the one the other. Where's Antony?


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He's walking in the garden--thus; and spurns\nThe rush that lies before him; cries, 'Fool Lepidus!'\nAnd threats the throat of that his officer\nThat murder'd Pompey.


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For Italy and Caesar. More, Domitius;\nMy lord desires you presently: my news\nI might have told hereafter.


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Contemning Rome, he has done all this, and more,\nIn Alexandria: here's the manner of 't:\nI' the market-place, on a tribunal silver'd,\nCleopatra and himself in chairs of gold\nWere publicly enthroned: at the feet sat\nCaesarion, whom they call my father's son,\nAnd all the unlawful issue that their lust\nSince then hath made between them. Unto her\nHe gave the stablishment of Egypt; made her\nOf lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia,\nAbsolute queen.


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I' the common show-place, where they exercise.\nHis sons he there proclaim'd the kings of kings:\nGreat Media, Parthia, and Armenia.\nHe gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assign'd\nSyria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia: she\nIn the habiliments of the goddess Isis\nThat day appear'd; and oft before gave audience,\nAs 'tis reported, so.


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Caesar: and that, having in Sicily\nSextus Pompeius spoil'd, we had not rated him\nHis part o' the isle: then does he say, he lent me\nSome shipping unrestored: lastly, he frets\nThat Lepidus of the triumvirate\nShould be deposed; and, being, that we detain\nAll his revenue.


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'Tis done already, and the messenger gone.\nI have told him, Lepidus was grown too cruel;\nThat he his high authority abused,\nAnd did deserve his change: for what I have conquer'd,\nI grant him part; but then, in his Armenia,\nAnd other of his conquer'd kingdoms, I\nDemand the like.


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Why have you stol'n upon us thus! You come not\nLike Caesar's sister: the wife of Antony\nShould have an army for an usher, and\nThe neighs of horse to tell of her approach\nLong ere she did appear; the trees by the way\nShould have borne men; and expectation fainted,\nLonging for what it had not; nay, the dust\nShould have ascended to the roof of heaven,\nRaised by your populous troops: but you are come\nA market-maid to Rome; and have prevented\nThe ostentation of our love, which, left unshown,\nIs often left unloved; we should have met you\nBy sea and land; supplying every stage\nWith an augmented greeting.


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Good my lord,\nTo come thus was I not constrain'd, but did\nOn my free will. My lord, Mark Antony,\nHearing that you prepared for war, acquainted\nMy grieved ear withal; whereon, I begg'd\nHis pardon for return.


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No, my most wronged sister; Cleopatra\nHath nodded him to her. He hath given his empire\nUp to a whore; who now are levying\nThe kings o' the earth for war; he hath assembled\nBocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus,\nOf Cappadocia; Philadelphos, king\nOf Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas;\nKing Malchus of Arabia; King of Pont;\nHerod of Jewry; Mithridates, king\nOf Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas,\nThe kings of Mede and Lycaonia,\nWith a more larger list of sceptres.


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Welcome hither:\nYour letters did withhold our breaking forth;\nTill we perceived, both how you were wrong led,\nAnd we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart;\nBe you not troubled with the time, which drives\nO'er your content these strong necessities;\nBut let determined things to destiny\nHold unbewail'd their way. Welcome to Rome;\nNothing more dear to me. You are abused\nBeyond the mark of thought: and the high gods,\nTo do you justice, make them ministers\nOf us and those that love you. Best of comfort;\nAnd ever welcome to us.


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Welcome, dear madam.\nEach heart in Rome does love and pity you:\nOnly the adulterous Antony, most large\nIn his abominations, turns you off;\nAnd gives his potent regiment to a trull,\nThat noises it against us.


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[Aside] Well, I could reply:\nIf we should serve with horse and mares together,\nThe horse were merely lost; the mares would bear\nA soldier and his horse.


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Your presence needs must puzzle Antony;\nTake from his heart, take from his brain,\nfrom's time,\nWhat should not then be spared. He is already\nTraduced for levity; and 'tis said in Rome\nThat Photinus an eunuch and your maids\nManage this war.


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Sink Rome, and their tongues rot\nThat speak against us! A charge we bear i' the war,\nAnd, as the president of my kingdom, will\nAppear there for a man. Speak not against it:\nI will not stay behind.


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Is it not strange, Canidius,\nThat from Tarentum and Brundusium\nHe could so quickly cut the Ionian sea,\nAnd take in Toryne? You have heard on't, sweet?


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A good rebuke,\nWhich might have well becomed the best of men,\nTo taunt at slackness. Canidius, we\nWill fight with him by sea.


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Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia.\nWhere Caesar fought with Pompey: but these offers,\nWhich serve not for his vantage, be shakes off;\nAnd so should you.


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Your ships are not well mann'd;\nYour mariners are muleters, reapers, people\nIngross'd by swift impress; in Caesar's fleet\nAre those that often have 'gainst Pompey fought:\nTheir ships are yare; yours, heavy: no disgrace\nShall fall you for refusing him at sea,\nBeing prepared for land.


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Most worthy sir, you therein throw away\nThe absolute soldiership you have by land;\nDistract your army, which doth most consist\nOf war-mark'd footmen; leave unexecuted\nYour own renowned knowledge; quite forego\nThe way which promises assurance; and\nGive up yourself merely to chance and hazard,\nFrom firm security.


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Our overplus of shipping will we burn;\nAnd, with the rest full-mann'd, from the head of Actium\nBeat the approaching Caesar. But if we fail,\nWe then can do't at land.\n[Enter a Messenger]\nThy business?


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Can he be there in person? 'tis impossible;\nStrange that power should be. Canidius,\nOur nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land,\nAnd our twelve thousand horse. We'll to our ship:\nAway, my Thetis!\n[Enter a Soldier]\nHow now, worthy soldier?


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O noble emperor, do not fight by sea;\nTrust not to rotten planks: do you misdoubt\nThis sword and these my wounds? Let the Egyptians\nAnd the Phoenicians go a-ducking; we\nHave used to conquer, standing on the earth,\nAnd fighting foot to foot.


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Soldier, thou art: but his whole action grows\nNot in the power on't: so our leader's led,\nAnd we are women's men.


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Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius,\nPublicola, and Caelius, are for sea:\nBut we keep whole by land. This speed of Caesar's\nCarries beyond belief.


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Strike not by land; keep whole: provoke not battle,\nTill we have done at sea. Do not exceed\nThe prescript of this scroll: our fortune lies\nUpon this jump.


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Set we our squadrons on yond side o' the hill,\nIn eye of Caesar's battle; from which place\nWe may the number of the ships behold,\nAnd so proceed accordingly.


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[Exeunt]\n[CANIDIUS marcheth with his land army one way over]\nthe stage; and TAURUS, the lieutenant of OCTAVIUS\nCAESAR, the other way. After their going in, is\nheard the noise of a sea-fight]


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Naught, naught all, naught! I can behold no longer:\nThe Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral,\nWith all their sixty, fly and turn the rudder:\nTo see't mine eyes are blasted.


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The greater cantle of the world is lost\nWith very ignorance; we have kiss'd away\nKingdoms and provinces.


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On our side like the token'd pestilence,\nWhere death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt,--\nWhom leprosy o'ertake!--i' the midst o' the fight,\nWhen vantage like a pair of twins appear'd,\nBoth as the same, or rather ours the elder,\nThe breese upon her, like a cow in June,\nHoists sails and flies.


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She once being loof'd,\nThe noble ruin of her magic, Antony,\nClaps on his sea-wing, and, like a doting mallard,\nLeaving the fight in height, flies after her:\nI never saw an action of such shame;\nExperience, manhood, honour, ne'er before\nDid violate so itself.


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Our fortune on the sea is out of breath,\nAnd sinks most lamentably. Had our general\nBeen what he knew himself, it had gone well:\nO, he has given example for our flight,\nMost grossly, by his own!


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Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon't;\nIt is ashamed to bear me! Friends, come hither:\nI am so lated in the world, that I\nHave lost my way for ever: I have a ship\nLaden with gold; take that, divide it; fly,\nAnd make your peace with Caesar.


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I have fled myself; and have instructed cowards\nTo run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone;\nI have myself resolved upon a course\nWhich has no need of you; be gone:\nMy treasure's in the harbour, take it. O,\nI follow'd that I blush to look upon:\nMy very hairs do mutiny; for the white\nReprove the brown for rashness, and they them\nFor fear and doting. Friends, be gone: you shall\nHave letters from me to some friends that will\nSweep your way for you. Pray you, look not sad,\nNor make replies of loathness: take the hint\nWhich my despair proclaims; let that be left\nWhich leaves itself: to the sea-side straightway:\nI will possess you of that ship and treasure.\nLeave me, I pray, a little: pray you now:\nNay, do so; for, indeed, I have lost command,\nTherefore I pray you: I'll see you by and by.\n[Sits down]\n[Enter CLEOPATRA led by CHARMIAN and IRAS; EROS]\nfollowing]


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Yes, my lord, yes; he at Philippi kept\nHis sword e'en like a dancer; while I struck\nThe lean and wrinkled Cassius; and 'twas I\nThat the mad Brutus ended: he alone\nDealt on lieutenantry, and no practise had\nIn the brave squares of war: yet now--No matter.


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Most noble sir, arise; the queen approaches:\nHer head's declined, and death will seize her, but\nYour comfort makes the rescue.


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O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See,\nHow I convey my shame out of thine eyes\nBy looking back what I have left behind\n'Stroy'd in dishonour.


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Egypt, thou knew'st too well\nMy heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings,\nAnd thou shouldst tow me after: o'er my spirit\nThy full supremacy thou knew'st, and that\nThy beck might from the bidding of the gods\nCommand me.


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Now I must\nTo the young man send humble treaties, dodge\nAnd palter in the shifts of lowness; who\nWith half the bulk o' the world play'd as I pleased,\nMaking and marring fortunes. You did know\nHow much you were my conqueror; and that\nMy sword, made weak by my affection, would\nObey it on all cause.


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Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates\nAll that is won and lost: give me a kiss;\nEven this repays me. We sent our schoolmaster;\nIs he come back? Love, I am full of lead.\nSome wine, within there, and our viands! Fortune knows\nWe scorn her most when most she offers blows.


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Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster:\nAn argument that he is pluck'd, when hither\nHe sends so poor a pinion off his wing,\nWhich had superfluous kings for messengers\nNot many moons gone by.


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Such as I am, I come from Antony:\nI was of late as petty to his ends\nAs is the morn-dew on the myrtle-leaf\nTo his grand sea.


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Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and\nRequires to live in Egypt: which not granted,\nHe lessens his requests; and to thee sues\nTo let him breathe between the heavens and earth,\nA private man in Athens: this for him.\nNext, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness;\nSubmits her to thy might; and of thee craves\nThe circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs,\nNow hazarded to thy grace.


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For Antony,\nI have no ears to his request. The queen\nOf audience nor desire shall fail, so she\nFrom Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend,\nOr take his life there: this if she perform,\nShe shall not sue unheard. So to them both.


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Bring him through the bands.\n[Exit EUPHRONIUS]\n[To THYREUS] To try eloquence, now 'tis time: dispatch;]\nFrom Antony win Cleopatra: promise,\nAnd in our name, what she requires; add more,\nFrom thine invention, offers: women are not\nIn their best fortunes strong; but want will perjure\nThe ne'er touch'd vestal: try thy cunning, Thyreus;\nMake thine own edict for thy pains, which we\nWill answer as a law.


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Observe how Antony becomes his flaw,\nAnd what thou think'st his very action speaks\nIn every power that moves.


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Antony only, that would make his will\nLord of his reason. What though you fled\nFrom that great face of war, whose several ranges\nFrighted each other? why should he follow?\nThe itch of his affection should not then\nHave nick'd his captainship; at such a point,\nWhen half to half the world opposed, he being\nThe meered question: 'twas a shame no less\nThan was his loss, to course your flying flags,\nAnd leave his navy gazing.


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Let her know't.\nTo the boy Caesar send this grizzled head,\nAnd he will fill thy wishes to the brim\nWith principalities.


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To him again: tell him he wears the rose\nOf youth upon him; from which the world should note\nSomething particular: his coin, ships, legions,\nMay be a coward's; whose ministers would prevail\nUnder the service of a child as soon\nAs i' the command of Caesar: I dare him therefore\nTo lay his gay comparisons apart,\nAnd answer me declined, sword against sword,\nOurselves alone. I'll write it: follow me.


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[Aside] Yes, like enough, high-battled Caesar will\nUnstate his happiness, and be staged to the show,\nAgainst a sworder! I see men's judgments are\nA parcel of their fortunes; and things outward\nDo draw the inward quality after them,\nTo suffer all alike. That he should dream,\nKnowing all measures, the full Caesar will\nAnswer his emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdued\nHis judgment too.


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What, no more ceremony? See, my women!\nAgainst the blown rose may they stop their nose\nThat kneel'd unto the buds. Admit him, sir.


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[Aside] Mine honesty and I begin to square.\nThe loyalty well held to fools does make\nOur faith mere folly: yet he that can endure\nTo follow with allegiance a fall'n lord\nDoes conquer him that did his master conquer\nAnd earns a place i' the story.


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He needs as many, sir, as Caesar has;\nOr needs not us. If Caesar please, our master\nWill leap to be his friend: for us, you know,\nWhose he is we are, and that is, Caesar's.


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So.\nThus then, thou most renown'd: Caesar entreats,\nNot to consider in what case thou stand'st,\nFurther than he is Caesar.


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[Aside] To be sure of that,\nI will ask Antony. Sir, sir, thou art so leaky,\nThat we must leave thee to thy sinking, for\nThy dearest quit thee.


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Shall I say to Caesar\nWhat you require of him? for he partly begs\nTo be desired to give. It much would please him,\nThat of his fortunes you should make a staff\nTo lean upon: but it would warm his spirits,\nTo hear from me you had left Antony,\nAnd put yourself under his shrowd,\nThe universal landlord.


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Most kind messenger,\nSay to great Caesar this: in deputation\nI kiss his conquering hand: tell him, I am prompt\nTo lay my crown at 's feet, and there to kneel:\nTell him from his all-obeying breath I hear\nThe doom of Egypt.


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'Tis your noblest course.\nWisdom and fortune combating together,\nIf that the former dare but what it can,\nNo chance may shake it. Give me grace to lay\nMy duty on your hand.


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Your Caesar's father oft,\nWhen he hath mused of taking kingdoms in,\nBestow'd his lips on that unworthy place,\nAs it rain'd kisses.


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Approach, there! Ah, you kite! Now, gods\nand devils!\nAuthority melts from me: of late, when I cried 'Ho!'\nLike boys unto a muss, kings would start forth,\nAnd cry 'Your will?' Have you no ears? I am\nAntony yet.\n[Enter Attendants]\nTake hence this Jack, and whip him.


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Moon and stars!\nWhip him. Were't twenty of the greatest tributaries\nThat do acknowledge Caesar, should I find them\nSo saucy with the hand of she here,--what's her name,\nSince she was Cleopatra? Whip him, fellows,\nTill, like a boy, you see him cringe his face,\nAnd whine aloud for mercy: take him hence.


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Tug him away: being whipp'd,\nBring him again: this Jack of Caesar's shall\nBear us an errand to him.\n[Exeunt Attendants with THYREUS]\nYou were half blasted ere I knew you: ha!\nHave I my pillow left unpress'd in Rome,\nForborne the getting of a lawful race,\nAnd by a gem of women, to be abused\nBy one that looks on feeders?


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You have been a boggler ever:\nBut when we in our viciousness grow hard--\nO misery on't!--the wise gods seel our eyes;\nIn our own filth drop our clear judgments; make us\nAdore our errors; laugh at's, while we strut\nTo our confusion.


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I found you as a morsel cold upon\nDead Caesar's trencher; nay, you were a fragment\nOf Cneius Pompey's; besides what hotter hours,\nUnregister'd in vulgar fame, you have\nLuxuriously pick'd out: for, I am sure,\nThough you can guess what temperance should be,\nYou know not what it is.


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To let a fellow that will take rewards\nAnd say 'God quit you!' be familiar with\nMy playfellow, your hand; this kingly seal\nAnd plighter of high hearts! O, that I were\nUpon the hill of Basan, to outroar\nThe horned herd! for I have savage cause;\nAnd to proclaim it civilly, were like\nA halter'd neck which does the hangman thank\nFor being yare about him.\n[Re-enter Attendants with THYREUS]\nIs he whipp'd?


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If that thy father live, let him repent\nThou wast not made his daughter; and be thou sorry\nTo follow Caesar in his triumph, since\nThou hast been whipp'd for following him: henceforth\nThe white hand of a lady fever thee,\nShake thou to look on 't. Get thee back to Caesar,\nTell him thy entertainment: look, thou say\nHe makes me angry with him; for he seems\nProud and disdainful, harping on what I am,\nNot what he knew I was: he makes me angry;\nAnd at this time most easy 'tis to do't,\nWhen my good stars, that were my former guides,\nHave empty left their orbs, and shot their fires\nInto the abysm of hell. If he mislike\nMy speech and what is done, tell him he has\nHipparchus, my enfranched bondman, whom\nHe may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture,\nAs he shall like, to quit me: urge it thou:\nHence with thy stripes, begone!


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Ah, dear, if I be so,\nFrom my cold heart let heaven engender hail,\nAnd poison it in the source; and the first stone\nDrop in my neck: as it determines, so\nDissolve my life! The next Caesarion smite!\nTill by degrees the memory of my womb,\nTogether with my brave Egyptians all,\nBy the discandying of this pelleted storm,\nLie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile\nHave buried them for prey!


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I am satisfied.\nCaesar sits down in Alexandria; where\nI will oppose his fate. Our force by land\nHath nobly held; our sever'd navy too\nHave knit again, and fleet, threatening most sea-like.\nWhere hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady?\nIf from the field I shall return once more\nTo kiss these lips, I will appear in blood;\nI and my sword will earn our chronicle:\nThere's hope in't yet.


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I will be treble-sinew'd, hearted, breathed,\nAnd fight maliciously: for when mine hours\nWere nice and lucky, men did ransom lives\nOf me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth,\nAnd send to darkness all that stop me. Come,\nLet's have one other gaudy night: call to me\nAll my sad captains; fill our bowls once more;\nLet's mock the midnight bell.


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It is my birth-day:\nI had thought to have held it poor: but, since my lord\nIs Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.


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Do so, we'll speak to them; and to-night I'll force\nThe wine peep through their scars. Come on, my queen;\nThere's sap in't yet. The next time I do fight,\nI'll make death love me; for I will contend\nEven with his pestilent scythe.


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Now he'll outstare the lightning. To be furious,\nIs to be frighted out of fear; and in that mood\nThe dove will peck the estridge; and I see still,\nA diminution in our captain's brain\nRestores his heart: when valour preys on reason,\nIt eats the sword it fights with. I will seek\nSome way to leave him.


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[Exit]\n[Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, AGRIPPA, and MECAENAS, with]\nhis Army; OCTAVIUS CAESAR reading a letter]


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He calls me boy; and chides, as he had power\nTo beat me out of Egypt; my messenger\nHe hath whipp'd with rods; dares me to personal combat,\nCaesar to Antony: let the old ruffian know\nI have many other ways to die; meantime\nLaugh at his challenge.


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Caesar must think,\nWhen one so great begins to rage, he's hunted\nEven to falling. Give him no breath, but now\nMake boot of his distraction: never anger\nMade good guard for itself.


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Let our best heads\nKnow, that to-morrow the last of many battles\nWe mean to fight: within our files there are,\nOf those that served Mark Antony but late,\nEnough to fetch him in. See it done:\nAnd feast the army; we have store to do't,\nAnd they have earn'd the waste. Poor Antony!


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To-morrow, soldier,\nBy sea and land I'll fight: or I will live,\nOr bathe my dying honour in the blood\nShall make it live again. Woo't thou fight well?


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Well said; come on.\nCall forth my household servants: let's to-night\nBe bounteous at our meal.\n[Enter three or four Servitors]\nGive me thy hand,\nThou hast been rightly honest;--so hast thou;--\nThou,--and thou,--and thou:--you have served me well,\nAnd kings have been your fellows.


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And thou art honest too.\nI wish I could be made so many men,\nAnd all of you clapp'd up together in\nAn Antony, that I might do you service\nSo good as you have done.


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Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night:\nScant not my cups; and make as much of me\nAs when mine empire was your fellow too,\nAnd suffer'd my command.


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Tend me to-night;\nMay be it is the period of your duty:\nHaply you shall not see me more; or if,\nA mangled shadow: perchance to-morrow\nYou'll serve another master. I look on you\nAs one that takes his leave. Mine honest friends,\nI turn you not away; but, like a master\nMarried to your good service, stay till death:\nTend me to-night two hours, I ask no more,\nAnd the gods yield you for't!


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What mean you, sir,\nTo give them this discomfort? Look, they weep;\nAnd I, an ass, am onion-eyed: for shame,\nTransform us not to women.


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Ho, ho, ho!\nNow the witch take me, if I meant it thus!\nGrace grow where those drops fall!\nMy hearty friends,\nYou take me in too dolorous a sense;\nFor I spake to you for your comfort; did desire you\nTo burn this night with torches: know, my hearts,\nI hope well of to-morrow; and will lead you\nWhere rather I'll expect victorious life\nThan death and honour. Let's to supper, come,\nAnd drown consideration.


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No, my chuck. Eros, come; mine armour, Eros!\n[Enter EROS with armour]\nCome good fellow, put mine iron on:\nIf fortune be not ours to-day, it is\nBecause we brave her: come.


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Rarely, rarely:\nHe that unbuckles this, till we do please\nTo daff't for our repose, shall hear a storm.\nThou fumblest, Eros; and my queen's a squire\nMore tight at this than thou: dispatch. O love,\nThat thou couldst see my wars to-day, and knew'st\nThe royal occupation! thou shouldst see\nA workman in't.\n[Enter an armed Soldier]\nGood morrow to thee; welcome:\nThou look'st like him that knows a warlike charge:\nTo business that we love we rise betime,\nAnd go to't with delight.


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'Tis well blown, lads:\nThis morning, like the spirit of a youth\nThat means to be of note, begins betimes.\nSo, so; come, give me that: this way; well said.\nFare thee well, dame, whate'er becomes of me:\nThis is a soldier's kiss: rebukeable\n[Kisses her]\nAnd worthy shameful cheque it were, to stand\nOn more mechanic compliment; I'll leave thee\nNow, like a man of steel. You that will fight,\nFollow me close; I'll bring you to't. Adieu.


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Lead me.\nHe goes forth gallantly. That he and Caesar might\nDetermine this great war in single fight!\nThen Antony,--but now--Well, on.


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Hadst thou done so,\nThe kings that have revolted, and the soldier\nThat has this morning left thee, would have still\nFollow'd thy heels.


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Who!\nOne ever near thee: call for Enobarbus,\nHe shall not hear thee; or from Caesar's camp\nSay 'I am none of thine.'


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Go, Eros, send his treasure after; do it;\nDetain no jot, I charge thee: write to him--\nI will subscribe--gentle adieus and greetings;\nSay that I wish he never find more cause\nTo change a master. O, my fortunes have\nCorrupted honest men! Dispatch.--Enobarbus!


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The time of universal peace is near:\nProve this a prosperous day, the three-nook'd world\nShall bear the olive freely.


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Go charge Agrippa\nPlant those that have revolted in the van,\nThat Antony may seem to spend his fury\nUpon himself.


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Alexas did revolt; and went to Jewry on\nAffairs of Antony; there did persuade\nGreat Herod to incline himself to Caesar,\nAnd leave his master Antony: for this pains\nCaesar hath hang'd him. Canidius and the rest\nThat fell away have entertainment, but\nNo honourable trust. I have done ill;\nOf which I do accuse myself so sorely,\nThat I will joy no more.


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Enobarbus, Antony\nHath after thee sent all thy treasure, with\nHis bounty overplus: the messenger\nCame on my guard; and at thy tent is now\nUnloading of his mules.


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Mock not, Enobarbus.\nI tell you true: best you safed the bringer\nOut of the host; I must attend mine office,\nOr would have done't myself. Your emperor\nContinues still a Jove.


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I am alone the villain of the earth,\nAnd feel I am so most. O Antony,\nThou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have paid\nMy better service, when my turpitude\nThou dost so crown with gold! This blows my heart:\nIf swift thought break it not, a swifter mean\nShall outstrike thought: but thought will do't, I feel.\nI fight against thee! No: I will go seek\nSome ditch wherein to die; the foul'st best fits\nMy latter part of life.


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Retire, we have engaged ourselves too far:\nCaesar himself has work, and our oppression\nExceeds what we expected.


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O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed!\nHad we done so at first, we had droven them home\nWith clouts about their heads.


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Let us score their backs,\nAnd snatch 'em up, as we take hares, behind:\n'Tis sport to maul a runner.


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We have beat him to his camp: run one before,\nAnd let the queen know of our gests. To-morrow,\nBefore the sun shall see 's, we'll spill the blood\nThat has to-day escaped. I thank you all;\nFor doughty-handed are you, and have fought\nNot as you served the cause, but as 't had been\nEach man's like mine; you have shown all Hectors.\nEnter the city, clip your wives, your friends,\nTell them your feats; whilst they with joyful tears\nWash the congealment from your wounds, and kiss\nThe honour'd gashes whole.\n[To SCARUS]\nGive me thy hand\n[Enter CLEOPATRA, attended]\nTo this great fairy I'll commend thy acts,\nMake her thanks bless thee.\n[To CLEOPATRA]\nO thou day o' the world,\nChain mine arm'd neck; leap thou, attire and all,\nThrough proof of harness to my heart, and there\nRide on the pants triumphing!


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My nightingale,\nWe have beat them to their beds. What, girl!\nthough grey\nDo something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha' we\nA brain that nourishes our nerves, and can\nGet goal for goal of youth. Behold this man;\nCommend unto his lips thy favouring hand:\nKiss it, my warrior: he hath fought to-day\nAs if a god, in hate of mankind, had\nDestroy'd in such a shape.


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He has deserved it, were it carbuncled\nLike holy Phoebus' car. Give me thy hand:\nThrough Alexandria make a jolly march;\nBear our hack'd targets like the men that owe them:\nHad our great palace the capacity\nTo camp this host, we all would sup together,\nAnd drink carouses to the next day's fate,\nWhich promises royal peril. Trumpeters,\nWith brazen din blast you the city's ear;\nMake mingle with rattling tabourines;\nThat heaven and earth may strike their sounds together,\nApplauding our approach.


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If we be not relieved within this hour,\nWe must return to the court of guard: the night\nIs shiny; and they say we shall embattle\nBy the second hour i' the morn.


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Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon,\nWhen men revolted shall upon record\nBear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did\nBefore thy face repent!


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O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,\nThe poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,\nThat life, a very rebel to my will,\nMay hang no longer on me: throw my heart\nAgainst the flint and hardness of my fault:\nWhich, being dried with grief, will break to powder,\nAnd finish all foul thoughts. O Antony,\nNobler than my revolt is infamous,\nForgive me in thine own particular;\nBut let the world rank me in register\nA master-leaver and a fugitive:\nO Antony! O Antony!


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The hand of death hath raught him.\n[Drums afar off]\nHark! the drums\nDemurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him\nTo the court of guard; he is of note: our hour\nIs fully out.


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I would they'ld fight i' the fire or i' the air;\nWe'ld fight there too. But this it is; our foot\nUpon the hills adjoining to the city\nShall stay with us: order for sea is given;\nThey have put forth the haven [--]\nWhere their appointment we may best discover,\nAnd look on their endeavour.


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But being charged, we will be still by land,\nWhich, as I take't, we shall; for his best force\nIs forth to man his galleys. To the vales,\nAnd hold our best advantage.


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Yet they are not join'd: where yond pine\ndoes stand,\nI shall discover all: I'll bring thee word\nStraight, how 'tis like to go.


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Swallows have built\nIn Cleopatra's sails their nests: the augurers\nSay they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly,\nAnd dare not speak their knowledge. Antony\nIs valiant, and dejected; and, by starts,\nHis fretted fortunes give him hope, and fear,\nOf what he has, and has not.


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All is lost;\nThis foul Egyptian hath betrayed me:\nMy fleet hath yielded to the foe; and yonder\nThey cast their caps up and carouse together\nLike friends long lost. Triple-turn'd whore!\n'tis thou\nHast sold me to this novice; and my heart\nMakes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly;\nFor when I am revenged upon my charm,\nI have done all. Bid them all fly; begone.\n[Exit SCARUS]\nO sun, thy uprise shall I see no more:\nFortune and Antony part here; even here\nDo we shake hands. All come to this? The hearts\nThat spaniel'd me at heels, to whom I gave\nTheir wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets\nOn blossoming Caesar; and this pine is bark'd,\nThat overtopp'd them all. Betray'd I am:\nO this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,--\nWhose eye beck'd forth my wars, and call'd them home;\nWhose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,--\nLike a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose,\nBeguiled me to the very heart of loss.\nWhat, Eros, Eros!\n[Enter CLEOPATRA]\nAh, thou spell! Avaunt!


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Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving,\nAnd blemish Caesar's triumph. Let him take thee,\nAnd hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians:\nFollow his chariot, like the greatest spot\nOf all thy sex; most monster-like, be shown\nFor poor'st diminutives, for doits; and let\nPatient Octavia plough thy visage up\nWith her prepared nails.\n[Exit CLEOPATRA]\n'Tis well thou'rt gone,\nIf it be well to live; but better 'twere\nThou fell'st into my fury, for one death\nMight have prevented many. Eros, ho!\nThe shirt of Nessus is upon me: teach me,\nAlcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage:\nLet me lodge Lichas on the horns o' the moon;\nAnd with those hands, that grasp'd the heaviest club,\nSubdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die:\nTo the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall\nUnder this plot; she dies for't. Eros, ho!


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Help me, my women! O, he is more mad\nThan Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly\nWas never so emboss'd.


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To the monument!\nThere lock yourself, and send him word you are dead.\nThe soul and body rive not more in parting\nThan greatness going off.


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To the monument!\nMardian, go tell him I have slain myself;\nSay, that the last I spoke was 'Antony,'\nAnd word it, prithee, piteously: hence, Mardian,\nAnd bring me how he takes my death.\nTo the monument!


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Sometimes we see a cloud that's dragonish;\nA vapour sometime like a bear or lion,\nA tower'd citadel, a pendent rock,\nA forked mountain, or blue promontory\nWith trees upon't, that nod unto the world,\nAnd mock our eyes with air: thou hast seen\nthese signs;\nThey are black vesper's pageants.


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That which is now a horse, even with a thought\nThe rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,\nAs water is in water.


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My good knave Eros, now thy captain is\nEven such a body: here I am Antony:\nYet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave.\nI made these wars for Egypt: and the queen,--\nWhose heart I thought I had, for she had mine;\nWhich whilst it was mine had annex'd unto't\nA million more, now lost,--she, Eros, has\nPack'd cards with Caesar, and false-play'd my glory\nUnto an enemy's triumph.\nNay, weep not, gentle Eros; there is left us\nOurselves to end ourselves.\n[Enter MARDIAN]\nO! thy vile lady!\nShe has robb'd me of my sword.


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Death of one person can be paid but once,\nAnd that she has discharged: what thou wouldst do\nIs done unto thy hand: the last she spake\nWas 'Antony! most noble Antony!'\nThen in the midst a tearing groan did break\nThe name of Antony; it was divided\nBetween her heart and lips: she render'd life,\nThy name so buried in her.


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Unarm, Eros; the long day's task is done,\nAnd we must sleep.\n[To MARDIAN]\nThat thou depart'st hence safe,\nDoes pay thy labour richly; go.\n[Exit MARDIAN]\nOff, pluck off:\nThe seven-fold shield of Ajax cannot keep\nThe battery from my heart. O, cleave, my sides!\nHeart, once be stronger than thy continent,\nCrack thy frail case! Apace, Eros, apace.\nNo more a soldier: bruised pieces, go;\nYou have been nobly borne. From me awhile.\n[Exit EROS]\nI will o'ertake thee, Cleopatra, and\nWeep for my pardon. So it must be, for now\nAll length is torture: since the torch is out,\nLie down, and stray no farther: now all labour\nMars what it does; yea, very force entangles\nItself with strength: seal then, and all is done.\nEros!--I come, my queen:--Eros!--Stay for me:\nWhere souls do couch on flowers, we'll hand in hand,\nAnd with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze:\nDido and her AEneas shall want troops,\nAnd all the haunt be ours. Come, Eros, Eros!


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Since Cleopatra died,\nI have lived in such dishonour, that the gods\nDetest my baseness. I, that with my sword\nQuarter'd the world, and o'er green Neptune's back\nWith ships made cities, condemn myself to lack\nThe courage of a woman; less noble mind\nThan she which by her death our Caesar tells\n'I am conqueror of myself.' Thou art sworn, Eros,\nThat, when the exigent should come, which now\nIs come indeed, when I should see behind me\nThe inevitable prosecution of\nDisgrace and horror, that, on my command,\nThou then wouldst kill me: do't; the time is come:\nThou strikest not me, 'tis Caesar thou defeat'st.\nPut colour in thy cheek.


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The gods withhold me!\nShall I do that which all the Parthian darts,\nThough enemy, lost aim, and could not?


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Eros,\nWouldst thou be window'd in great Rome and see\nThy master thus with pleach'd arms, bending down\nHis corrigible neck, his face subdued\nTo penetrative shame, whilst the wheel'd seat\nOf fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded\nHis baseness that ensued?


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Come, then; for with a wound I must be cured.\nDraw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn\nMost useful for thy country.


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When I did make thee free, sworest thou not then\nTo do this when I bade thee? Do it at once;\nOr thy precedent services are all\nBut accidents unpurposed. Draw, and come.


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My dear master,\nMy captain, and my emperor, let me say,\nBefore I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.


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Thrice-nobler than myself!\nThou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what\nI should, and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros\nHave by their brave instruction got upon me\nA nobleness in record: but I will be\nA bridegroom in my death, and run into't\nAs to a lover's bed. Come, then; and, Eros,\nThy master dies thy scholar: to do thus\n[Falling on his sword]\nI learn'd of thee. How! not dead? not dead?\nThe guard, ho! O, dispatch me!


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Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly.\nThis sword but shown to Caesar, with this tidings,\nShall enter me with him.


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Lock'd in her monument. She had a prophesying fear\nOf what hath come to pass: for when she saw--\nWhich never shall be found--you did suspect\nShe had disposed with Caesar, and that your rage\nWould not be purged, she sent you word she was dead;\nBut, fearing since how it might work, hath sent\nMe to proclaim the truth; and I am come,\nI dread, too late.


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Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate\nTo grace it with your sorrows: bid that welcome\nWhich comes to punish us, and we punish it\nSeeming to bear it lightly. Take me up:\nI have led you oft: carry me now, good friends,\nAnd have my thanks for all.


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No, I will not:\nAll strange and terrible events are welcome,\nBut comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,\nProportion'd to our cause, must be as great\nAs that which makes it.\n[Enter, below, DIOMEDES]\nHow now! is he dead?


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His death's upon him, but not dead.\nLook out o' the other side your monument;\nHis guard have brought him thither.


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O sun,\nBurn the great sphere thou movest in!\ndarkling stand\nThe varying shore o' the world. O Antony,\nAntony, Antony! Help, Charmian, help, Iras, help;\nHelp, friends below; let's draw him hither.


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I am dying, Egypt, dying; only\nI here importune death awhile, until\nOf many thousand kisses the poor last\nI lay up thy lips.


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I dare not, dear,--\nDear my lord, pardon,--I dare not,\nLest I be taken: not the imperious show\nOf the full-fortuned Caesar ever shall\nBe brooch'd with me; if knife, drugs,\nserpents, have\nEdge, sting, or operation, I am safe:\nYour wife Octavia, with her modest eyes\nAnd still conclusion, shall acquire no honour\nDemuring upon me. But come, come, Antony,--\nHelp me, my women,--we must draw thee up:\nAssist, good friends.


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Here's sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord!\nOur strength is all gone into heaviness,\nThat makes the weight: had I great Juno's power,\nThe strong-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up,\nAnd set thee by Jove's side. Yet come a little,--\nWishes were ever fools,--O, come, come, come;\n[They heave MARK ANTONY aloft to CLEOPATRA]\nAnd welcome, welcome! die where thou hast lived:\nQuicken with kissing: had my lips that power,\nThus would I wear them out.


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No, let me speak; and let me rail so high,\nThat the false housewife Fortune break her wheel,\nProvoked by my offence.


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The miserable change now at my end\nLament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts\nIn feeding them with those my former fortunes\nWherein I lived, the greatest prince o' the world,\nThe noblest; and do now not basely die,\nNot cowardly put off my helmet to\nMy countryman,--a Roman by a Roman\nValiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going;\nI can no more.


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Noblest of men, woo't die?\nHast thou no care of me? shall I abide\nIn this dull world, which in thy absence is\nNo better than a sty? O, see, my women,\n[MARK ANTONY dies]\nThe crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord!\nO, wither'd is the garland of the war,\nThe soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls\nAre level now with men; the odds is gone,\nAnd there is nothing left remarkable\nBeneath the visiting moon.


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No more, but e'en a woman, and commanded\nBy such poor passion as the maid that milks\nAnd does the meanest chares. It were for me\nTo throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;\nTo tell them that this world did equal theirs\nTill they had stol'n our jewel. All's but naught;\nPatience is scottish, and impatience does\nBecome a dog that's mad: then is it sin\nTo rush into the secret house of death,\nEre death dare come to us? How do you, women?\nWhat, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian!\nMy noble girls! Ah, women, women, look,\nOur lamp is spent, it's out! Good sirs, take heart:\nWe'll bury him; and then, what's brave,\nwhat's noble,\nLet's do it after the high Roman fashion,\nAnd make death proud to take us. Come, away:\nThis case of that huge spirit now is cold:\nAh, women, women! come; we have no friend\nBut resolution, and the briefest end.


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[Exeunt; those above bearing off MARK ANTONY's body]\n[Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, MECAENAS,]\nGALLUS, PROCULEIUS, and others, his council of war]


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Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield;\nBeing so frustrate, tell him he mocks\nThe pauses that he makes.


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I am call'd Dercetas;\nMark Antony I served, who best was worthy\nBest to be served: whilst he stood up and spoke,\nHe was my master; and I wore my life\nTo spend upon his haters. If thou please\nTo take me to thee, as I was to him\nI'll be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not,\nI yield thee up my life.


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The breaking of so great a thing should make\nA greater crack: the round world\nShould have shook lions into civil streets,\nAnd citizens to their dens: the death of Antony\nIs not a single doom; in the name lay\nA moiety of the world.


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He is dead, Caesar:\nNot by a public minister of justice,\nNor by a hired knife; but that self hand,\nWhich writ his honour in the acts it did,\nHath, with the courage which the heart did lend it,\nSplitted the heart. This is his sword;\nI robb'd his wound of it; behold it stain'd\nWith his most noble blood.


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A rarer spirit never\nDid steer humanity: but you, gods, will give us\nSome faults to make us men. Caesar is touch'd.


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O Antony!\nI have follow'd thee to this; but we do lance\nDiseases in our bodies: I must perforce\nHave shown to thee such a declining day,\nOr look on thine; we could not stall together\nIn the whole world: but yet let me lament,\nWith tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,\nThat thou, my brother, my competitor\nIn top of all design, my mate in empire,\nFriend and companion in the front of war,\nThe arm of mine own body, and the heart\nWhere mine his thoughts did kindle,--that our stars,\nUnreconciliable, should divide\nOur equalness to this. Hear me, good friends--\nBut I will tell you at some meeter season:\n[Enter an Egyptian]\nThe business of this man looks out of him;\nWe'll hear him what he says. Whence are you?


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A poor Egyptian yet. The queen my mistress,\nConfined in all she has, her monument,\nOf thy intents desires instruction,\nThat she preparedly may frame herself\nTo the way she's forced to.


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Bid her have good heart:\nShe soon shall know of us, by some of ours,\nHow honourable and how kindly we\nDetermine for her; for Caesar cannot live\nTo be ungentle.


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Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say,\nWe purpose her no shame: give her what comforts\nThe quality of her passion shall require,\nLest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke\nShe do defeat us; for her life in Rome\nWould be eternal in our triumph: go,\nAnd with your speediest bring us what she says,\nAnd how you find of her.


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Let him alone, for I remember now\nHow he's employ'd: he shall in time be ready.\nGo with me to my tent; where you shall see\nHow hardly I was drawn into this war;\nHow calm and gentle I proceeded still\nIn all my writings: go with me, and see\nWhat I can show in this.


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My desolation does begin to make\nA better life. 'Tis paltry to be Caesar;\nNot being Fortune, he's but Fortune's knave,\nA minister of her will: and it is great\nTo do that thing that ends all other deeds;\nWhich shackles accidents and bolts up change;\nWhich sleeps, and never palates more the dug,\nThe beggar's nurse and Caesar's.\n[Enter, to the gates of the monument, PROCULEIUS,]\nGALLUS and Soldiers]


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Caesar sends greeting to the Queen of Egypt;\nAnd bids thee study on what fair demands\nThou mean'st to have him grant thee.


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Antony\nDid tell me of you, bade me trust you; but\nI do not greatly care to be deceived,\nThat have no use for trusting. If your master\nWould have a queen his beggar, you must tell him,\nThat majesty, to keep decorum, must\nNo less beg than a kingdom: if he please\nTo give me conquer'd Egypt for my son,\nHe gives me so much of mine own, as I\nWill kneel to him with thanks.


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Be of good cheer;\nYou're fall'n into a princely hand, fear nothing:\nMake your full reference freely to my lord,\nWho is so full of grace, that it flows over\nOn all that need: let me report to him\nYour sweet dependency; and you shall find\nA conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness,\nWhere he for grace is kneel'd to.


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Pray you, tell him\nI am his fortune's vassal, and I send him\nThe greatness he has got. I hourly learn\nA doctrine of obedience; and would gladly\nLook him i' the face.


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This I'll report, dear lady.\nHave comfort, for I know your plight is pitied\nOf him that caused it.


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You see how easily she may be surprised:\n[Here PROCULEIUS and two of the Guard ascend the]\nmonument by a ladder placed against a window, and,\nhaving descended, come behind CLEOPATRA. Some of\nthe Guard unbar and open the gates]\n[To PROCULEIUS and the Guard]\nGuard her till Caesar come.


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Hold, worthy lady, hold:\n[Seizes and disarms her]\nDo not yourself such wrong, who are in this\nRelieved, but not betray'd.


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Cleopatra,\nDo not abuse my master's bounty by\nThe undoing of yourself: let the world see\nHis nobleness well acted, which your death\nWill never let come forth.


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Where art thou, death?\nCome hither, come! come, come, and take a queen\nWorthy many babes and beggars!


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Sir, I will eat no meat, I'll not drink, sir;\nIf idle talk will once be necessary,\nI'll not sleep neither: this mortal house I'll ruin,\nDo Caesar what he can. Know, sir, that I\nWill not wait pinion'd at your master's court;\nNor once be chastised with the sober eye\nOf dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up\nAnd show me to the shouting varletry\nOf censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt\nBe gentle grave unto me! rather on Nilus' mud\nLay me stark naked, and let the water-flies\nBlow me into abhorring! rather make\nMy country's high pyramides my gibbet,\nAnd hang me up in chains!


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Proculeius,\nWhat thou hast done thy master Caesar knows,\nAnd he hath sent for thee: for the queen,\nI'll take her to my guard.


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So, Dolabella,\nIt shall content me best: be gentle to her.\n[To CLEOPATRA]\nTo Caesar I will speak what you shall please,\nIf you'll employ me to him.


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No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.\nYou laugh when boys or women tell their dreams;\nIs't not your trick?


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I dream'd there was an Emperor Antony:\nO, such another sleep, that I might see\nBut such another man!


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His face was as the heavens; and therein stuck\nA sun and moon, which kept their course,\nand lighted\nThe little O, the earth.


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His legs bestrid the ocean: his rear'd arm\nCrested the world: his voice was propertied\nAs all the tuned spheres, and that to friends;\nBut when he meant to quail and shake the orb,\nHe was as rattling thunder. For his bounty,\nThere was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas\nThat grew the more by reaping: his delights\nWere dolphin-like; they show'd his back above\nThe element they lived in: in his livery\nWalk'd crowns and crownets; realms and islands were\nAs plates dropp'd from his pocket.


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You lie, up to the hearing of the gods.\nBut, if there be, or ever were, one such,\nIt's past the size of dreaming: nature wants stuff\nTo vie strange forms with fancy; yet, to imagine\nAnd Antony, were nature's piece 'gainst fancy,\nCondemning shadows quite.


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Hear me, good madam.\nYour loss is as yourself, great; and you bear it\nAs answering to the weight: would I might never\nO'ertake pursued success, but I do feel,\nBy the rebound of yours, a grief that smites\nMy very heart at root.


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Madam, he will; I know't.\n[Flourish, and shout within, 'Make way there:]\nOctavius Caesar!']\n[Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, GALLUS, PROCULEIUS,]\nMECAENAS, SELEUCUS, and others of his Train]


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Take to you no hard thoughts:\nThe record of what injuries you did us,\nThough written in our flesh, we shall remember\nAs things but done by chance.


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Sole sir o' the world,\nI cannot project mine own cause so well\nTo make it clear; but do confess I have\nBeen laden with like frailties which before\nHave often shamed our sex.


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Cleopatra, know,\nWe will extenuate rather than enforce:\nIf you apply yourself to our intents,\nWhich towards you are most gentle, you shall find\nA benefit in this change; but if you seek\nTo lay on me a cruelty, by taking\nAntony's course, you shall bereave yourself\nOf my good purposes, and put your children\nTo that destruction which I'll guard them from,\nIf thereon you rely. I'll take my leave.


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And may, through all the world: 'tis yours; and we,\nYour scutcheons and your signs of conquest, shall\nHang in what place you please. Here, my good lord.


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This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels,\nI am possess'd of: 'tis exactly valued;\nNot petty things admitted. Where's Seleucus?


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This is my treasurer: let him speak, my lord,\nUpon his peril, that I have reserved\nTo myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus.


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See, Caesar! O, behold,\nHow pomp is follow'd! mine will now be yours;\nAnd, should we shift estates, yours would be mine.\nThe ingratitude of this Seleucus does\nEven make me wild: O slave, of no more trust\nThan love that's hired! What, goest thou back? thou shalt\nGo back, I warrant thee; but I'll catch thine eyes,\nThough they had wings: slave, soulless villain, dog!\nO rarely base!


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O Caesar, what a wounding shame is this,\nThat thou, vouchsafing here to visit me,\nDoing the honour of thy lordliness\nTo one so meek, that mine own servant should\nParcel the sum of my disgraces by\nAddition of his envy! Say, good Caesar,\nThat I some lady trifles have reserved,\nImmoment toys, things of such dignity\nAs we greet modern friends withal; and say,\nSome nobler token I have kept apart\nFor Livia and Octavia, to induce\nTheir mediation; must I be unfolded\nWith one that I have bred? The gods! it smites me\nBeneath the fall I have.\n[To SELEUCUS]\nPrithee, go hence;\nOr I shall show the cinders of my spirits\nThrough the ashes of my chance: wert thou a man,\nThou wouldst have mercy on me.


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Be it known, that we, the greatest, are misthought\nFor things that others do; and, when we fall,\nWe answer others' merits in our name,\nAre therefore to be pitied.


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Cleopatra,\nNot what you have reserved, nor what acknowledged,\nPut we i' the roll of conquest: still be't yours,\nBestow it at your pleasure; and believe,\nCaesar's no merchant, to make prize with you\nOf things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheer'd;\nMake not your thoughts your prisons: no, dear queen;\nFor we intend so to dispose you as\nYourself shall give us counsel. Feed, and sleep:\nOur care and pity is so much upon you,\nThat we remain your friend; and so, adieu.


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Madam, as thereto sworn by your command,\nWhich my love makes religion to obey,\nI tell you this: Caesar through Syria\nIntends his journey; and within three days\nYou with your children will he send before:\nMake your best use of this: I have perform'd\nYour pleasure and my promise.


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Farewell, and thanks.\n[Exit DOLABELLA]\nNow, Iras, what think'st thou?\nThou, an Egyptian puppet, shalt be shown\nIn Rome, as well as I. mechanic slaves\nWith greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall\nUplift us to the view; in their thick breaths,\nRank of gross diet, shall be enclouded,\nAnd forced to drink their vapour.


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Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras: saucy lictors\nWill catch at us, like strumpets; and scald rhymers\nBallad us out o' tune: the quick comedians\nExtemporally will stage us, and present\nOur Alexandrian revels; Antony\nShall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see\nSome squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness\nI' the posture of a whore.


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Why, that's the way\nTo fool their preparation, and to conquer\nTheir most absurd intents.\n[Re-enter CHARMIAN]\nNow, Charmian!\nShow me, my women, like a queen: go fetch\nMy best attires: I am again for Cydnus,\nTo meet Mark Antony: sirrah Iras, go.\nNow, noble Charmian, we'll dispatch indeed;\nAnd, when thou hast done this chare, I'll give thee leave\nTo play till doomsday. Bring our crown and all.\nWherefore's this noise?


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Let him come in.\n[Exit Guardsman]\nWhat poor an instrument\nMay do a noble deed! he brings me liberty.\nMy resolution's placed, and I have nothing\nOf woman in me: now from head to foot\nI am marble-constant; now the fleeting moon\nNo planet is of mine.


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Avoid, and leave him.\n[Exit Guardsman]\nHast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there,\nThat kills and pains not?


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Truly, I have him: but I would not be the party\nthat should desire you to touch him, for his biting\nis immortal; those that do die of it do seldom or\nnever recover.


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Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of\nthem no longer than yesterday: a very honest woman,\nbut something given to lie; as a woman should not\ndo, but in the way of honesty: how she died of the\nbiting of it, what pain she felt: truly, she makes\na very good report o' the worm; but he that will\nbelieve all that they say, shall never be saved by\nhalf that they do: but this is most fallible, the\nworm's an odd worm.


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Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the\nkeeping of wise people; for, indeed, there is no\ngoodness in worm.


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You must not think I am so simple but I know the\ndevil himself will not eat a woman: I know that a\nwoman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her\nnot. But, truly, these same whoreson devils do the\ngods great harm in their women; for in every ten\nthat they make, the devils mar five.


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Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have\nImmortal longings in me: now no more\nThe juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip:\nYare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear\nAntony call; I see him rouse himself\nTo praise my noble act; I hear him mock\nThe luck of Caesar, which the gods give men\nTo excuse their after wrath: husband, I come:\nNow to that name my courage prove my title!\nI am fire and air; my other elements\nI give to baser life. So; have you done?\nCome then, and take the last warmth of my lips.\nFarewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell.\n[Kisses them. IRAS falls and dies]\nHave I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?\nIf thou and nature can so gently part,\nThe stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,\nWhich hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still?\nIf thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world\nIt is not worth leave-taking.


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This proves me base:\nIf she first meet the curled Antony,\nHe'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss\nWhich is my heaven to have. Come, thou\nmortal wretch,\n[To an asp, which she applies to her breast]\nWith thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate\nOf life at once untie: poor venomous fool\nBe angry, and dispatch. O, couldst thou speak,\nThat I might hear thee call great Caesar ass\nUnpolicied!


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As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,--\nO Antony!--Nay, I will take thee too.\n[Applying another asp to her arm]\nWhat should I stay--


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In this vile world? So, fare thee well.\nNow boast thee, death, in thy possession lies\nA lass unparallel'd. Downy windows, close;\nAnd golden Phoebus never be beheld\nOf eyes again so royal! Your crown's awry;\nI'll mend it, and then play.


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Caesar, thy thoughts\nTouch their effects in this: thyself art coming\nTo see perform'd the dreaded act which thou\nSo sought'st to hinder.


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Bravest at the last,\nShe levell'd at our purposes, and, being royal,\nTook her own way. The manner of their deaths?\nI do not see them bleed.


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O Caesar,\nThis Charmian lived but now; she stood and spake:\nI found her trimming up the diadem\nOn her dead mistress; tremblingly she stood\nAnd on the sudden dropp'd.


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O noble weakness!\nIf they had swallow'd poison, 'twould appear\nBy external swelling: but she looks like sleep,\nAs she would catch another Antony\nIn her strong toil of grace.


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This is an aspic's trail: and these fig-leaves\nHave slime upon them, such as the aspic leaves\nUpon the caves of Nile.


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Most probable\nThat so she died; for her physician tells me\nShe hath pursued conclusions infinite\nOf easy ways to die. Take up her bed;\nAnd bear her women from the monument:\nShe shall be buried by her Antony:\nNo grave upon the earth shall clip in it\nA pair so famous. High events as these\nStrike those that make them; and their story is\nNo less in pity than his glory which\nBrought them to be lamented. Our army shall\nIn solemn show attend this funeral;\nAnd then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see\nHigh order in this great solemnity.


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As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed\nme by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st,\ncharged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well; and there\nbegins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and\nreport speaks goldenly of his profit. For my part, he keeps me\nrustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at\nhome unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my\nbirth that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are\nbred better; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding,\nthey are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly\nhir'd; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for\nthe which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him\nas I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the\nsomething that nature gave me his countenance seems to take from\nme. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a\nbrother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my\neducation. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of\nmy father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against\nthis servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no\nwise remedy how to avoid it.


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Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a\npoor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.


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Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What\nprodigal portion have I spent that I should come to such penury?


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Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are\nmy eldest brother; and in the gentle condition of blood, you\nshould so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better\nin that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not\naway my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as\nmuch of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming\nbefore me is nearer to his reverence.


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I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de\nBoys. He was my father; and he is thrice a villain that says such\na father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not\ntake this hand from thy throat till this other had pull'd out thy\ntongue for saying so. Thou has rail'd on thyself.


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I will not, till I please; you shall hear me. My father\ncharg'd you in his will to give me good education: you have\ntrain'd me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all\ngentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in\nme, and I will no longer endure it; therefore allow me such\nexercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor\nallottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go buy\nmy fortunes.


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And what wilt thou do? Beg, when that is spent? Well, sir,\nget you in. I will not long be troubled with you; you shall have\nsome part of your will. I pray you leave me.


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Is 'old dog' my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in\nyour service. God be with my old master! He would not have spoke\nsuch a word.\n                                     Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM


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Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic\nyour rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla,\nDennis!


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There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news; that\nis, the old Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke;\nand three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary\nexile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke;\ntherefore he gives them good leave to wander.


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O, no; for the Duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her,\nbeing ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have\nfollowed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at\nthe court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own\ndaughter; and never two ladies loved as they do.


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They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many\nmerry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood\nof England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day,\nand fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.


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Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a\nmatter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger\nbrother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against\nme to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he\nthat escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well.\nYour brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would\nbe loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come\nin; therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint\nyou withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment,\nor brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is\nthing of his own search and altogether against my will.


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Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt\nfind I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my\nbrother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to\ndissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee,\nCharles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of\nambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret\nand villainous contriver against me his natural brother.\nTherefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break his\nneck as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thou\ndost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace\nhimself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap\nthee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he\nhath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I\nassure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one\nso young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly\nof him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush\nand weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.


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I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come\nto-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again,\nI'll never wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep your worship!  Exit


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Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. I\nhope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why,\nhates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle; never school'd and\nyet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly\nbeloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and\nespecially of my own people, who best know him, that I am\naltogether misprised. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler\nshall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy\nthither, which now I'll go about.                  Exit


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Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and\nwould you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget\na banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any\nextraordinary pleasure.


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Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight that I\nlove thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy\nuncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I\ncould have taught my love to take thy father for mine; so wouldst\nthou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously temper'd\nas mine is to thee.


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You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to\nhave; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir; for what\nhe hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee\nagain in affection. By mine honour, I will; and when I break that\noath, let me turn monster; therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear\nRose, be merry.


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Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal; but love no man\nin good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety\nof a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.


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Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her\nwheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.


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I would we could do so; for her benefits are mightily\nmisplaced; and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her\ngifts to women.


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'Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes\nhonest; and those that she makes honest she makes very\nill-favouredly.


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Nay; now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's:\nFortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of\nNature.


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No; when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by\nFortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to\nflout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off\nthe argument?


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Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when\nFortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit.


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Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but\nNature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of\nsuch goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for\nalways the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How\nnow, wit! Whither wander you?


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Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were\ngood pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught.\nNow I'll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard\nwas good, and yet was not the knight forsworn.


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By my knavery, if I had it, then I were. But if you\nswear by that that is not, you are not forsworn; no more was this\nknight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he\nhad, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or\nthat mustard.


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My father's love is enough to honour him. Enough, speak no\nmore of him; you'll be whipt for taxation one of these days.


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By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that\nfools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have\nmakes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.


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I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please your\nladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do; and\nhere, where you are, they are coming to perform it.


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The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke's\nwrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of\nhis ribs, that there is little hope of life in him. So he serv'd\nthe second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man,\ntheir father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the\nbeholders take his part with weeping.


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Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is the first time\nthat ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.


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But is there any else longs to see this broken music in\nhis sides? Is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we\nsee this wrestling, cousin?


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You must, if you stay here; for here is the place\nappointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.


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You will take little delight in it, I can tell you,\nthere is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger's youth\nI would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to\nhim, ladies; see if you can move him.


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No, fair Princess; he is the general challenger. I come\nbut in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth.


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Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years.\nYou have seen cruel proof of this man's strength; if you saw\nyourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgment, the\nfear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal\nenterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own\nsafety and give over this attempt.


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Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be\nmisprised: we will make it our suit to the Duke that the\nwrestling might not go forward.


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I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts,\nwherein I confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent\nladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go\nwith me to my trial; wherein if I be foil'd there is but one\nsham'd that was never gracious; if kill'd, but one dead that is\nwilling to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none\nto lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only\nin the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when\nI have made it empty.


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No, I warrant your Grace, you shall not entreat him to a\nsecond, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.


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I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the\nleg.                                     [They wrestle]


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I would thou hadst been son to some man else.\nThe world esteem'd thy father honourable,\nBut I did find him still mine enemy.\nThou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed,\nHadst thou descended from another house.\nBut fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth;\nI would thou hadst told me of another father.


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I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son,\nHis youngest son- and would not change that calling\nTo be adopted heir to Frederick.


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My father lov'd Sir Rowland as his soul,\nAnd all the world was of my father's mind;\nHad I before known this young man his son,\nI should have given him tears unto entreaties\nEre he should thus have ventur'd.


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Gentle cousin,\nLet us go thank him, and encourage him;\nMy father's rough and envious disposition\nSticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv'd;\nIf you do keep your promises in love\nBut justly as you have exceeded all promise,\nYour mistress shall be happy.


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Gentleman,        [Giving him a chain from her neck]\nWear this for me; one out of suits with fortune,\nThat could give more, but that her hand lacks means.\nShall we go, coz?


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Can I not say 'I thank you'? My better parts\nAre all thrown down; and that which here stands up\nIs but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.


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He calls us back. My pride fell with my fortunes;\nI'll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir?\nSir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown\nMore than your enemies.


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What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?\nI cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference.\nO poor Orlando, thou art overthrown!\nOr Charles or something weaker masters thee.


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Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you\nTo leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd\nHigh commendation, true applause, and love,\nYet such is now the Duke's condition\nThat he misconstrues all that you have done.\nThe Duke is humorous; what he is, indeed,\nMore suits you to conceive than I to speak of.


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I thank you, sir; and pray you tell me this:\nWhich of the two was daughter of the Duke\nThat here was at the wrestling?


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Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners;\nBut yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter;\nThe other is daughter to the banish'd Duke,\nAnd here detain'd by her usurping uncle,\nTo keep his daughter company; whose loves\nAre dearer than the natural bond of sisters.\nBut I can tell you that of late this Duke\nHath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,\nGrounded upon no other argument\nBut that the people praise her for her virtues\nAnd pity her for her good father's sake;\nAnd, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady\nWill suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well.\nHereafter, in a better world than this,\nI shall desire more love and knowledge of you.


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I rest much bounden to you; fare you well.\n[Exit LE BEAU]\nThus must I from the smoke into the smother;\nFrom tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother.\nBut heavenly Rosalind!                                  Exit


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No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs;\nthrow some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.


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Then there were two cousins laid up, when the one should\nbe lam'd with reasons and the other mad without any.


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They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday\nfoolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats\nwill catch them.


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O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time, in despite of\na fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in\ngood earnest. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall\ninto so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?


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Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly?\nBy this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated his\nfather dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.


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You, cousin.\nWithin these ten days if that thou beest found\nSo near our public court as twenty miles,\nThou diest for it.


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I do beseech your Grace,\nLet me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.\nIf with myself I hold intelligence,\nOr have acquaintance with mine own desires;\nIf that I do not dream, or be not frantic-\nAs I do trust I am not- then, dear uncle,\nNever so much as in a thought unborn\nDid I offend your Highness.


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Thus do all traitors;\nIf their purgation did consist in words,\nThey are as innocent as grace itself.\nLet it suffice thee that I trust thee not.


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So was I when your Highness took his dukedom;\nSo was I when your Highness banish'd him.\nTreason is not inherited, my lord;\nOr, if we did derive it from our friends,\nWhat's that to me? My father was no traitor.\nThen, good my liege, mistake me not so much\nTo think my poverty is treacherous.


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I did not then entreat to have her stay;\nIt was your pleasure, and your own remorse;\nI was too young that time to value her,\nBut now I know her. If she be a traitor,\nWhy so am I: we still have slept together,\nRose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;\nAnd wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,\nStill we went coupled and inseparable.


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She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,\nHer very silence and her patience,\nSpeak to the people, and they pity her.\nThou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name;\nAnd thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous\nWhen she is gone. Then open not thy lips.\nFirm and irrevocable is my doom\nWhich I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd.


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You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself.\nIf you outstay the time, upon mine honour,\nAnd in the greatness of my word, you die.


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O my poor Rosalind! Whither wilt thou go?\nWilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.\nI charge thee be not thou more griev'd than I am.


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Thou hast not, cousin.\nPrithee be cheerful. Know'st thou not the Duke\nHath banish'd me, his daughter?


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No, hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love\nWhich teacheth thee that thou and I am one.\nShall we be sund'red? Shall we part, sweet girl?\nNo; let my father seek another heir.\nTherefore devise with me how we may fly,\nWhither to go, and what to bear with us;\nAnd do not seek to take your charge upon you,\nTo bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;\nFor, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,\nSay what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.


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Alas, what danger will it be to us,\nMaids as we are, to travel forth so far!\nBeauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.


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I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,\nAnd with a kind of umber smirch my face;\nThe like do you; so shall we pass along,\nAnd never stir assailants.


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Were it not better,\nBecause that I am more than common tall,\nThat I did suit me all points like a man?\nA gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,\nA boar spear in my hand; and- in my heart\nLie there what hidden woman's fear there will-\nWe'll have a swashing and a martial outside,\nAs many other mannish cowards have\nThat do outface it with their semblances.


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I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page,\nAnd therefore look you call me Ganymede.\nBut what will you be call'd?


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But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal\nThe clownish fool out of your father's court?\nWould he not be a comfort to our travel?


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He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;\nLeave me alone to woo him. Let's away,\nAnd get our jewels and our wealth together;\nDevise the fittest time and safest way\nTo hide us from pursuit that will be made\nAfter my flight. Now go we in content\nTo liberty, and not to banishment.               Exeunt


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Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,\nHath not old custom made this life more sweet\nThan that of painted pomp? Are not these woods\nMore free from peril than the envious court?\nHere feel we not the penalty of Adam,\nThe seasons' difference; as the icy fang\nAnd churlish chiding of the winter's wind,\nWhich when it bites and blows upon my body,\nEven till I shrink with cold, I smile and say\n'This is no flattery; these are counsellors\nThat feelingly persuade me what I am.'\nSweet are the uses of adversity,\nWhich, like the toad, ugly and venomous,\nWears yet a precious jewel in his head;\nAnd this our life, exempt from public haunt,\nFinds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,\nSermons in stones, and good in everything.\nI would not change it.


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Happy is your Grace,\nThat can translate the stubbornness of fortune\nInto so quiet and so sweet a style.


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Come, shall we go and kill us venison?\nAnd yet it irks me the poor dappled fools,\nBeing native burghers of this desert city,\nShould, in their own confines, with forked heads\nHave their round haunches gor'd.


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Indeed, my lord,\nThe melancholy Jaques grieves at that;\nAnd, in that kind, swears you do more usurp\nThan doth your brother that hath banish'd you.\nTo-day my Lord of Amiens and myself\nDid steal behind him as he lay along\nUnder an oak whose antique root peeps out\nUpon the brook that brawls along this wood!\nTo the which place a poor sequest'red stag,\nThat from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,\nDid come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,\nThe wretched animal heav'd forth such groans\nThat their discharge did stretch his leathern coat\nAlmost to bursting; and the big round tears\nCours'd one another down his innocent nose\nIn piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,\nMuch marked of the melancholy Jaques,\nStood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook,\nAugmenting it with tears.


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O, yes, into a thousand similes.\nFirst, for his weeping into the needless stream:\n'Poor deer,' quoth he 'thou mak'st a testament\nAs worldlings do, giving thy sum of more\nTo that which had too much.' Then, being there alone,\nLeft and abandoned of his velvet friends:\n''Tis right'; quoth he 'thus misery doth part\nThe flux of company.' Anon, a careless herd,\nFull of the pasture, jumps along by him\nAnd never stays to greet him. 'Ay,' quoth Jaques\n'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;\n'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look\nUpon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'\nThus most invectively he pierceth through\nThe body of the country, city, court,\nYea, and of this our life; swearing that we\nAre mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,\nTo fright the animals, and to kill them up\nIn their assign'd and native dwelling-place.


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Can it be possible that no man saw them?\nIt cannot be; some villains of my court\nAre of consent and sufferance in this.


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I cannot hear of any that did see her.\nThe ladies, her attendants of her chamber,\nSaw her abed, and in the morning early\nThey found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.


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My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft\nYour Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.\nHisperia, the Princess' gentlewoman,\nConfesses that she secretly o'erheard\nYour daughter and her cousin much commend\nThe parts and graces of the wrestler\nThat did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;\nAnd she believes, wherever they are gone,\nThat youth is surely in their company.


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Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither.\nIf he be absent, bring his brother to me;\nI'll make him find him. Do this suddenly;\nAnd let not search and inquisition quail\nTo bring again these foolish runaways.           Exeunt


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What, my young master? O my gentle master!\nO my sweet master! O you memory\nOf old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here?\nWhy are you virtuous? Why do people love you?\nAnd wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?\nWhy would you be so fond to overcome\nThe bonny prizer of the humorous Duke?\nYour praise is come too swiftly home before you.\nKnow you not, master, to some kind of men\nTheir graces serve them but as enemies?\nNo more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master,\nAre sanctified and holy traitors to you.\nO, what a world is this, when what is comely\nEnvenoms him that bears it!


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O unhappy youth!\nCome not within these doors; within this roof\nThe enemy of all your graces lives.\nYour brother- no, no brother; yet the son-\nYet not the son; I will not call him son\nOf him I was about to call his father-\nHath heard your praises; and this night he means\nTo burn the lodging where you use to lie,\nAnd you within it. If he fail of that,\nHe will have other means to cut you off;\nI overheard him and his practices.\nThis is no place; this house is but a butchery;\nAbhor it, fear it, do not enter it.


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What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food,\nOr with a base and boist'rous sword enforce\nA thievish living on the common road?\nThis I must do, or know not what to do;\nYet this I will not do, do how I can.\nI rather will subject me to the malice\nOf a diverted blood and bloody brother.


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But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,\nThe thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,\nWhich I did store to be my foster-nurse,\nWhen service should in my old limbs lie lame,\nAnd unregarded age in corners thrown.\nTake that, and He that doth the ravens feed,\nYea, providently caters for the sparrow,\nBe comfort to my age! Here is the gold;\nAll this I give you. Let me be your servant;\nThough I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;\nFor in my youth I never did apply\nHot and rebellious liquors in my blood,\nNor did not with unbashful forehead woo\nThe means of weakness and debility;\nTherefore my age is as a lusty winter,\nFrosty, but kindly. Let me go with you;\nI'll do the service of a younger man\nIn all your business and necessities.


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O good old man, how well in thee appears\nThe constant service of the antique world,\nWhen service sweat for duty, not for meed!\nThou art not for the fashion of these times,\nWhere none will sweat but for promotion,\nAnd having that do choke their service up\nEven with the having; it is not so with thee.\nBut, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree\nThat cannot so much as a blossom yield\nIn lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.\nBut come thy ways, we'll go along together,\nAnd ere we have thy youthful wages spent\nWe'll light upon some settled low content.


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Master, go on; and I will follow thee\nTo the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.\nFrom seventeen years till now almost four-score\nHere lived I, but now live here no more.\nAt seventeen years many their fortunes seek,\nBut at fourscore it is too late a week;\nYet fortune cannot recompense me better\nThan to die well and not my master's debtor.     Exeunt


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I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel,\nand to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as\ndoublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat;\ntherefore, courage, good Aliena.


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For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you;\nyet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you\nhave no money in your purse.


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Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at\nhome I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.


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No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,\nThough in thy youth thou wast as true a lover\nAs ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow.\nBut if thy love were ever like to mine,\nAs sure I think did never man love so,\nHow many actions most ridiculous\nHast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?


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O, thou didst then never love so heartily!\nIf thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly\nThat ever love did make thee run into,\nThou hast not lov'd;\nOr if thou hast not sat as I do now,\nWearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,\nThou hast not lov'd;\nOr if thou hast not broke from company\nAbruptly, as my passion now makes me,\nThou hast not lov'd.\nO Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!                          Exit Silvius


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And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my\nsword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to\nJane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the\ncow's dugs that her pretty chapt hands had milk'd; and I remember\nthe wooing of peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods,\nand giving her them again, said with weeping tears 'Wear these\nfor my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers;\nbut as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal\nin folly.


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I pray you, one of you question yond man\nIf he for gold will give us any food;\nI faint almost to death.


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I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold\nCan in this desert place buy entertainment,\nBring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.\nHere's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,\nAnd faints for succour.


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Fair sir, I pity her,\nAnd wish, for her sake more than for mine own,\nMy fortunes were more able to relieve her;\nBut I am shepherd to another man,\nAnd do not shear the fleeces that I graze.\nMy master is of churlish disposition,\nAnd little recks to find the way to heaven\nBy doing deeds of hospitality.\nBesides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed,\nAre now on sale; and at our sheepcote now,\nBy reason of his absence, there is nothing\nThat you will feed on; but what is, come see,\nAnd in my voice most welcome shall you be.


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I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,\nBuy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,\nAnd thou shalt have to pay for it of us.


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Assuredly the thing is to be sold.\nGo with me; if you like upon report\nThe soil, the profit, and this kind of life,\nI will your very faithful feeder be,\nAnd buy it with your gold right suddenly.        Exeunt


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Under the greenwood tree\n           Who loves to lie with me,\n           And turn his merry note\n           Unto the sweet bird's throat,\n         Come hither, come hither, come hither.\n           Here shall he see\n           No enemy\n         But winter and rough weather.


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I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy\nout of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.


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I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing.\nCome, more; another stanzo. Call you 'em stanzos?


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Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you; but\nthat they call compliment is like th' encounter of two dog-apes;\nand when a man thanks me heartily, methinks have given him a\npenny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you\nthat will not, hold your tongues.


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Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the Duke\nwill drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look\nyou.


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And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too\ndisputable for my company. I think of as many matters as he; but\nI give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come.\n                   SONG\n          [All together here]\n       Who doth ambition shun,\n       And loves to live i' th' sun,\n       Seeking the food he eats,\n       And pleas'd with what he gets,\n     Come hither, come hither, come hither.\n       Here shall he see\n       No enemy\n       But winter and rough weather.


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Thus it goes:\n         If it do come to pass\n         That any man turn ass,\n         Leaving his wealth and ease\n         A stubborn will to please,\n       Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;\n         Here shall he see\n         Gross fools as he,\n         An if he will come to me.


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'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. I'll\ngo sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the\nfirst-born of Egypt.


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Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for food! Here lie\nI down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.


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Why, how now, Adam! No greater heart in thee? Live a\nlittle; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth\nforest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it or\nbring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy\npowers. For my sake be comfortable; hold death awhile at the\narm's end. I will here be with thee presently; and if I bring thee\nnot something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou\ndiest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said!\nthou look'st cheerly; and I'll be with thee quickly. Yet thou\nliest in the bleak air. Come, I will bear thee to some shelter;\nand thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live\nanything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam!          Exeunt


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If he, compact of jars, grow musical,\nWe shall have shortly discord in the spheres.\nGo seek him; tell him I would speak with him.


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Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,\nThat your poor friends must woo your company?\nWhat, you look merrily!


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A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' th' forest,\nA motley fool. A miserable world!\nAs I do live by food, I met a fool,\nWho laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,\nAnd rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,\nIn good set terms- and yet a motley fool.\n'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I; 'No, sir,' quoth he,\n'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.'\nAnd then he drew a dial from his poke,\nAnd, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,\nSays very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock;\nThus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags;\n'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;\nAnd after one hour more 'twill be eleven;\nAnd so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,\nAnd then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;\nAnd thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear\nThe motley fool thus moral on the time,\nMy lungs began to crow like chanticleer\nThat fools should be so deep contemplative;\nAnd I did laugh sans intermission\nAn hour by his dial. O noble fool!\nA worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.


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O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier,\nAnd says, if ladies be but young and fair,\nThey have the gift to know it; and in his brain,\nWhich is as dry as the remainder biscuit\nAfter a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd\nWith observation, the which he vents\nIn mangled forms. O that I were a fool!\nI am ambitious for a motley coat.


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It is my only suit,\nProvided that you weed your better judgments\nOf all opinion that grows rank in them\nThat I am wise. I must have liberty\nWithal, as large a charter as the wind,\nTo blow on whom I please, for so fools have;\nAnd they that are most galled with my folly,\nThey most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?\nThe why is plain as way to parish church:\nHe that a fool doth very wisely hit\nDoth very foolishly, although he smart,\nNot to seem senseless of the bob; if not,\nThe wise man's folly is anatomiz'd\nEven by the squand'ring glances of the fool.\nInvest me in my motley; give me leave\nTo speak my mind, and I will through and through\nCleanse the foul body of th' infected world,\nIf they will patiently receive my medicine.


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Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin;\nFor thou thyself hast been a libertine,\nAs sensual as the brutish sting itself;\nAnd all th' embossed sores and headed evils\nThat thou with license of free foot hast caught\nWouldst thou disgorge into the general world.


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Why, who cries out on pride\nThat can therein tax any private party?\nDoth it not flow as hugely as the sea,\nTill that the wearer's very means do ebb?\nWhat woman in the city do I name\nWhen that I say the city-woman bears\nThe cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?\nWho can come in and say that I mean her,\nWhen such a one as she such is her neighbour?\nOr what is he of basest function\nThat says his bravery is not on my cost,\nThinking that I mean him, but therein suits\nHis folly to the mettle of my speech?\nThere then! how then? what then? Let me see wherein\nMy tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,\nThen he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,\nWhy then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,\nUnclaim'd of any man. But who comes here?


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Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress?\nOr else a rude despiser of good manners,\nThat in civility thou seem'st so empty?


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You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point\nOf bare distress hath ta'en from me the show\nOf smooth civility; yet am I inland bred,\nAnd know some nurture. But forbear, I say;\nHe dies that touches any of this fruit\nTill I and my affairs are answered.


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Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you;\nI thought that all things had been savage here,\nAnd therefore put I on the countenance\nOf stern commandment. But whate'er you are\nThat in this desert inaccessible,\nUnder the shade of melancholy boughs,\nLose and neglect the creeping hours of time;\nIf ever you have look'd on better days,\nIf ever been where bells have knoll'd to church,\nIf ever sat at any good man's feast,\nIf ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear,\nAnd know what 'tis to pity and be pitied,\nLet gentleness my strong enforcement be;\nIn the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.


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True is it that we have seen better days,\nAnd have with holy bell been knoll'd to church,\nAnd sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes\nOf drops that sacred pity hath engend'red;\nAnd therefore sit you down in gentleness,\nAnd take upon command what help we have\nThat to your wanting may be minist'red.


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Then but forbear your food a little while,\nWhiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,\nAnd give it food. There is an old poor man\nWho after me hath many a weary step\nLimp'd in pure love; till he be first suffic'd,\nOppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,\nI will not touch a bit.


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Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:\nThis wide and universal theatre\nPresents more woeful pageants than the scene\nWherein we play in.


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All the world's a stage,\nAnd all the men and women merely players;\nThey have their exits and their entrances;\nAnd one man in his time plays many parts,\nHis acts being seven ages. At first the infant,\nMewling and puking in the nurse's arms;\nThen the whining school-boy, with his satchel\nAnd shining morning face, creeping like snail\nUnwillingly to school. And then the lover,\nSighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad\nMade to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,\nFull of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,\nJealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,\nSeeking the bubble reputation\nEven in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,\nIn fair round belly with good capon lin'd,\nWith eyes severe and beard of formal cut,\nFull of wise saws and modern instances;\nAnd so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts\nInto the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,\nWith spectacles on nose and pouch on side,\nHis youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide\nFor his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,\nTurning again toward childish treble, pipes\nAnd whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,\nThat ends this strange eventful history,\nIs second childishness and mere oblivion;\nSans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.


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Welcome; fall to. I will not trouble you\nAs yet to question you about your fortunes.\nGive us some music; and, good cousin, sing.\n                     SONG\n        Blow, blow, thou winter wind,\n        Thou art not so unkind\n          As man's ingratitude;\n        Thy tooth is not so keen,\n        Because thou art not seen,\n          Although thy breath be rude.\nHeigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly.\nMost friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.\n        Then, heigh-ho, the holly!\n          This life is most jolly.\n        Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,\n        That dost not bite so nigh\n          As benefits forgot;\n        Though thou the waters warp,\n        Thy sting is not so sharp\n          As friend rememb'red not.\nHeigh-ho! sing, &c.


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If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son,\nAs you have whisper'd faithfully you were,\nAnd as mine eye doth his effigies witness\nMost truly limn'd and living in your face,\nBe truly welcome hither. I am the Duke\nThat lov'd your father. The residue of your fortune,\nGo to my cave and tell me. Good old man,\nThou art right welcome as thy master is.\nSupport him by the arm. Give me your hand,\nAnd let me all your fortunes understand.         Exeunt


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Not see him since! Sir, sir, that cannot be.\nBut were I not the better part made mercy,\nI should not seek an absent argument\nOf my revenge, thou present. But look to it:\nFind out thy brother wheresoe'er he is;\nSeek him with candle; bring him dead or living\nWithin this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more\nTo seek a living in our territory.\nThy lands and all things that thou dost call thine\nWorth seizure do we seize into our hands,\nTill thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth\nOf what we think against thee.


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More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors;\nAnd let my officers of such a nature\nMake an extent upon his house and lands.\nDo this expediently, and turn him going.         Exeunt


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Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;\nAnd thou, thrice-crowned Queen of Night, survey\nWith thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,\nThy huntress' name that my full life doth sway.\nO Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,\nAnd in their barks my thoughts I'll character,\nThat every eye which in this forest looks\nShall see thy virtue witness'd every where.\nRun, run, Orlando; carve on every tree,\nThe fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.        Exit


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Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good\nlife; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is nought.\nIn respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in\nrespect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in\nrespect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect\nit is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life,\nlook you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty\nin it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in\nthee, shepherd?


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No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at\nease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is\nwithout three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet,\nand fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a\ngreat cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath\nlearned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding,\nor comes of a very dull kindred.


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Why, if thou never wast at court thou never saw'st good\nmanners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must\nbe wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art\nin a parlous state, shepherd.


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Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the\ncourt are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the\ncountry is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not\nat the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be\nuncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.


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Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? And is not the\ngrease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow,\nshallow. A better instance, I say; come.


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And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery of our\nsheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are\nperfum'd with civet.


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Most shallow man! thou worm's meat in respect of a good\npiece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is\nof a baser birth than tar- the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend\nthe instance, shepherd.


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Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I\nwear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other\nmen's good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is\nto see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.


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That is another simple sin in you: to bring the ewes\nand the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the\ncopulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray\na she-lamb of a twelvemonth to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,\nout of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damn'd for this,\nthe devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how\nthou shouldst scape.


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'From the east to western Inde,\n          No jewel is like Rosalinde.\n          Her worth, being mounted on the wind,\n          Through all the world bears Rosalinde.\n          All the pictures fairest lin'd\n          Are but black to Rosalinde.\n          Let no face be kept in mind\n          But the fair of Rosalinde.'


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I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, and\nsuppers, and sleeping hours, excepted. It is the right\nbutter-women's rank to market.


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For a taste:\n            If a hart do lack a hind,\n            Let him seek out Rosalinde.\n            If the cat will after kind,\n            So be sure will Rosalinde.\n            Winter garments must be lin'd,\n            So must slender Rosalinde.\n            They that reap must sheaf and bind,\n            Then to cart with Rosalinde.\n            Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,\n            Such a nut is Rosalinde.\n            He that sweetest rose will find\n            Must find love's prick and Rosalinde.\nThis is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect\nyourself with them?


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I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a\nmedlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i' th' country; for\nyou'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right\nvirtue of the medlar.


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You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest\njudge.\n                  Enter CELIA, with a writing


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'Why should this a desert be?\n         For it is unpeopled? No;\n       Tongues I'll hang on every tree\n         That shall civil sayings show.\n       Some, how brief the life of man\n         Runs his erring pilgrimage,\n       That the streching of a span\n         Buckles in his sum of age;\n       Some, of violated vows\n         'Twixt the souls of friend and friend;\n       But upon the fairest boughs,\n         Or at every sentence end,\n       Will I Rosalinda write,\n         Teaching all that read to know\n       The quintessence of every sprite\n         Heaven would in little show.\n       Therefore heaven Nature charg'd\n         That one body should be fill'd\n       With all graces wide-enlarg'd.\n         Nature presently distill'd\n       Helen's cheek, but not her heart,\n         Cleopatra's majesty,\n       Atalanta's better part,\n         Sad Lucretia's modesty.\n       Thus Rosalinde of many parts\n         By heavenly synod was devis'd,\n       Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,\n         To have the touches dearest priz'd.\n       Heaven would that she these gifts should have,\n       And I to live and die her slave.'


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O most gentle Jupiter! What tedious homily of love have\nyou wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried 'Have\npatience, good people.'


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Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat;\nthough not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.


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O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them\nhad in them more feet than the verses would bear.


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Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves\nwithout the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.


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I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you\ncame; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so\nberhym'd since Pythagoras' time that I was an Irish rat, which I\ncan hardly remember.


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O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but\nmountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter.


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O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet\nagain wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!


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Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am\ncaparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my\ndisposition? One inch of delay more is a South Sea of discovery.\nI prithee tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would\nthou could'st stammer, that thou mightst pour this conceal'd man\nout of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd bottle-\neither too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the cork\nout of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.


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Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful. Let\nme stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the\nknowledge of his chin.


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Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose?\nWhat did he when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he?\nWherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where\nremains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him\nagain? Answer me in one word.


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You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first; 'tis a word too\ngreat for any mouth of this age's size. To say ay and no to these\nparticulars is more than to answer in a catechism.


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But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's\napparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?


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It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the\npropositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him, and\nrelish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a\ndropp'd acorn.


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You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been\nacquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conn'd them out of rings?


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You have a nimble wit; I think 'twas made of Atalanta's\nheels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against\nour mistress the world, and all our misery.


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[Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey,\nand under that habit play the knave with him.- Do you hear,\nforester?


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Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing\nevery minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot\nof Time as well as a clock.


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By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with\ndivers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time\ntrots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still\nwithal.


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Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the\ncontract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the\ninterim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems\nthe length of seven year.


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With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath\nnot the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study,\nand the other lives merrily because he feels no pain; the one\nlacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other\nknowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles\nwithal.


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With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly\nas foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.


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With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term\nand term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.


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I have been told so of many; but indeed an old religious\nuncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland\nman; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love.\nI have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I\nam not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as he\nhath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.


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There were none principal; they were all like one another\nas halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his\nfellow-fault came to match it.


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No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that are\nsick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young\nplants with carving 'Rosalind' on their barks; hangs odes upon\nhawthorns and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the\nname of Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give\nhim some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love\nupon him.


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There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me\nhow to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you\nare not prisoner.


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A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken,\nwhich you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not;\na beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for that,\nfor simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue.\nThen your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your\nsleeve unbutton'd, your shoe untied, and every thing about you\ndemonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you\nare rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself\nthan seeming the lover of any other.


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Me believe it! You may as soon make her that you love\nbelieve it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess\nshe does. That is one of the points in the which women still give\nthe lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that\nhangs the verses on the trees wherein Rosalind is so admired?


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Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as\nwell a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why\nthey are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so\nordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing\nit by counsel.


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Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his\nlove, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me; at which\ntime would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate,\nchangeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish,\nshallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every\npassion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys and\nwomen are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like\nhim, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now\nweep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his\nmad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to\nforswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook\nmerely monastic. And thus I cur'd him; and this way will I take\nupon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart,\nthat there shall not be one spot of love in 't.


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Go with me to it, and I'll show it you; and, by the way,\nyou shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?


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Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you\ngo?                                                   Exeunt


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Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up your goats,\nAudrey. And how, Audrey, am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature\ncontent you?


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When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's\ngood wit seconded with the forward child understanding, it\nstrikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room.\nTruly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.


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No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning,\nand lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry may\nbe said as lovers they do feign.


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I do, truly, for thou swear'st to me thou art honest;\nnow, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst\nfeign.


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No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for honesty\ncoupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.


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Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness;\nsluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will\nmarry thee; and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext,\nthe vicar of the next village, who hath promis'd to meet me in\nthis place of the forest, and to couple us.


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Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger\nin this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no\nassembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are\nodious, they are necessary. It is said: 'Many a man knows no end\nof his goods.' Right! Many a man has good horns and knows no end\nof them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis none of his\nown getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest\ndeer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore\nblessed? No; as a wall'd town is more worthier than a village, so\nis the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare\nbrow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no\nskill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Here comes\nSir Oliver.\n[Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT]\nSir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here\nunder this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?


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Good even, good Master What-ye-call't; how do you, sir?\nYou are very well met. Goddild you for your last company. I am\nvery glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay; pray be\ncover'd.


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As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and\nthe falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons\nbill, so wedlock would be nibbling.


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And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married\nunder a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church and have a good\npriest that can tell you what marriage is; this fellow will but\njoin you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will\nprove a shrunk panel, and like green timber warp, warp.


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[Aside] I am not in the mind but I were better to be\nmarried of him than of another; for he is not like to marry me\nwell; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me\nhereafter to leave my wife.


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Come, sweet Audrey;\nWe must be married or we must live in bawdry.\nFarewell, good Master Oliver. Not-\n           O sweet Oliver,\n           O brave Oliver,\n       Leave me not behind thee.\nBut-\n             Wind away,\n           Begone, I say,\n       I will not to wedding with thee.\n                       Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY


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'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all\nshall flout me out of my calling.                  Exit


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He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of\nwinter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of\nchastity is in them.


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Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; but\nfor his verity in love, I do think him as concave as covered\ngoblet or a worm-eaten nut.


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'Was' is not 'is'; besides, the oath of a lover is no\nstronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer\nof false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke,\nyour father.


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I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him.\nHe asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as\nhe; so he laugh'd and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when\nthere is such a man as Orlando?


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O, that's a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave\nwords, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite\ntraverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that\nspurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble\ngoose. But all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who\ncomes here?


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Mistress and master, you have oft enquired\nAfter the shepherd that complain'd of love,\nWho you saw sitting by me on the turf,\nPraising the proud disdainful shepherdess\nThat was his mistress.


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If you will see a pageant truly play'd\nBetween the pale complexion of true love\nAnd the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,\nGo hence a little, and I shall conduct you,\nIf you will mark it.


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O, come, let us remove!\nThe sight of lovers feedeth those in love.\nBring us to this sight, and you shall say\nI'll prove a busy actor in their play.           Exeunt


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Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe.\nSay that you love me not; but say not so\nIn bitterness. The common executioner,\nWhose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hard,\nFalls not the axe upon the humbled neck\nBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner be\nThan he that dies and lives by bloody drops?


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I would not be thy executioner;\nI fly thee, for I would not injure thee.\nThou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye.\n'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,\nThat eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,\nWho shut their coward gates on atomies,\nShould be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!\nNow I do frown on thee with all my heart;\nAnd if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.\nNow counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;\nOr, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,\nLie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.\nNow show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.\nScratch thee but with a pin, and there remains\nSome scar of it; lean upon a rush,\nThe cicatrice and capable impressure\nThy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,\nWhich I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;\nNor, I am sure, there is not force in eyes\nThat can do hurt.


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O dear Phebe,\nIf ever- as that ever may be near-\nYou meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,\nThen shall you know the wounds invisible\nThat love's keen arrows make.


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But till that time\nCome not thou near me; and when that time comes,\nAfflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;\nAs till that time I shall not pity thee.


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[Advancing] And why, I pray you? Who might be your\n  mother,\nThat you insult, exult, and all at once,\nOver the wretched? What though you have no beauty-\nAs, by my faith, I see no more in you\nThan without candle may go dark to bed-\nMust you be therefore proud and pitiless?\nWhy, what means this? Why do you look on me?\nI see no more in you than in the ordinary\nOf nature's sale-work. 'Od's my little life,\nI think she means to tangle my eyes too!\nNo faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;\n'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,\nYour bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,\nThat can entame my spirits to your worship.\nYou foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,\nLike foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?\nYou are a thousand times a properer man\nThan she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you\nThat makes the world full of ill-favour'd children.\n'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;\nAnd out of you she sees herself more proper\nThan any of her lineaments can show her.\nBut, mistress, know yourself. Down on your knees,\nAnd thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love;\nFor I must tell you friendly in your ear:\nSell when you can; you are not for all markets.\nCry the man mercy, love him, take his offer;\nFoul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.\nSo take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.


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He's fall'n in love with your foulness, and she'll fall\nin love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee\nwith frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. Why look\nyou so upon me?


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I pray you do not fall in love with me,\nFor I am falser than vows made in wine;\nBesides, I like you not. If you will know my house,\n'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.\nWill you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard.\nCome, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,\nAnd be not proud; though all the world could see,\nNone could be so abus'd in sight as he.\nCome, to our flock.   Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN


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Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.\nIf you do sorrow at my grief in love,\nBy giving love, your sorrow and my grief\nWere both extermin'd.


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Why, that were covetousness.\nSilvius, the time was that I hated thee;\nAnd yet it is not that I bear thee love;\nBut since that thou canst talk of love so well,\nThy company, which erst was irksome to me,\nI will endure; and I'll employ thee too.\nBut do not look for further recompense\nThan thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.


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So holy and so perfect is my love,\nAnd I in such a poverty of grace,\nThat I shall think it a most plenteous crop\nTo glean the broken ears after the man\nThat the main harvest reaps; loose now and then\nA scatt'red smile, and that I'll live upon.


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Not very well; but I have met him oft;\nAnd he hath bought the cottage and the bounds\nThat the old carlot once was master of.


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Think not I love him, though I ask for him;\n'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well.\nBut what care I for words? Yet words do well\nWhen he that speaks them pleases those that hear.\nIt is a pretty youth- not very pretty;\nBut, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him.\nHe'll make a proper man. The best thing in him\nIs his complexion; and faster than his tongue\nDid make offence, his eye did heal it up.\nHe is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall;\nHis leg is but so-so; and yet 'tis well.\nThere was a pretty redness in his lip,\nA little riper and more lusty red\nThan that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference\nBetwixt the constant red and mingled damask.\nThere be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him\nIn parcels as I did, would have gone near\nTo fall in love with him; but, for my part,\nI love him not, nor hate him not; and yet\nI have more cause to hate him than to love him;\nFor what had he to do to chide at me?\nHe said mine eyes were black, and my hair black,\nAnd, now I am rememb'red, scorn'd at me.\nI marvel why I answer'd not again;\nBut that's all one: omittance is no quittance.\nI'll write to him a very taunting letter,\nAnd thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius?


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I'll write it straight;\nThe matter's in my head and in my heart;\nI will be bitter with him and passing short.\nGo with me, Silvius.                             Exeunt


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Those that are in extremity of either are abominable\nfellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than\ndrunkards.


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I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is\nemulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the\ncourtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is\nambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's,\nwhich is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these; but it is a\nmelancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted\nfrom many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my\ntravels; in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous\nsadness.


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A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be\nsad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's; then\nto have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and\npoor hands.


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And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a\nfool to make me merry than experience to make me sad- and to\ntravel for it too.


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Farewell, Monsieur Traveller; look you lisp and wear\nstrange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be\nout of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making\nyou that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have\nswam in a gondola. [Exit JAQUES] Why, how now, Orlando! where\nhave you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such\nanother trick, never come in my sight more.


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Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide a\nminute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the\nthousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said\nof him that Cupid hath clapp'd him o' th' shoulder, but I'll\nwarrant him heart-whole.


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Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries\nhis house on his head- a better jointure, I think, than you make\na woman; besides, he brings his destiny with him.


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Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholding to\nyour wives for; but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents\nthe slander of his wife.


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Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour,\nand like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I\nwere your very very Rosalind?


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Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were\ngravell'd for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss.\nVery good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for\nlovers lacking- God warn us!- matter, the cleanliest shift is to\nkiss.


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No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six\nthousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man\ndied in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had\nhis brains dash'd out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he\ncould to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love.\nLeander, he would have liv'd many a fair year, though Hero had\nturn'd nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for,\ngood youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and,\nbeing taken with the cramp, was drown'd; and the foolish\nchroniclers of that age found it was- Hero of Sestos. But these\nare all lies: men have died from time to time, and worms have\neaten them, but not for love.


plain_text:
By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I\nwill be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me\nwhat you will, I will grant it.


plain_text:
Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? Come,\nsister, you shall be the priest, and marry us. Give me your hand,\nOrlando. What do you say, sister?


plain_text:
I might ask you for your commission; but- I do take thee,\nOrlando, for my husband. There's a girl goes before the priest;\nand, certainly, a woman's thought runs before her actions.


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Say 'a day' without the 'ever.' No, no, Orlando; men are\nApril when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when\nthey are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will\nbe more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen,\nmore clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than\nan ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for\nnothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you\nare dispos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when\nthou are inclin'd to sleep.


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Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser,\nthe waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out\nat the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop\nthat, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.


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Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never\ntake her without her answer, unless you take her without her\ntongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband's\noccasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will\nbreed it like a fool!


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Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you would\nprove; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less. That\nflattering tongue of yours won me. 'Tis but one cast away, and\nso, come death! Two o'clock is your hour?


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


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Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such\noffenders, and let Time try. Adieu.        Exit ORLANDO


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You have simply misus'd our sex in your love-prate. We must\nhave your doublet and hose pluck'd over your head, and show the\nworld what the bird hath done to her own nest.


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


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No; that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of\nthought, conceiv'd of spleen, and born of madness; that blind\nrascally boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because his own are\nout- let him be judge how deep I am in love. I'll tell thee,\nAliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando. I'll go find a\nshadow, and sigh till he come.


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Let's present him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror; and\nit would do well to set the deer's horns upon his head for a\nbranch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose?


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Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise\nenough.\n                SONG.\n  What shall he have that kill'd the deer?\n  His leather skin and horns to wear.\n                          [The rest shall hear this burden:]\n       Then sing him home.\n  Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;\n  It was a crest ere thou wast born.\n       Thy father's father wore it;\n       And thy father bore it.\n  The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,\n  Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.              Exeunt


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I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath\nta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth- to sleep. Look, who\ncomes here.


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My errand is to you, fair youth;\nMy gentle Phebe did bid me give you this.\nI know not the contents; but, as I guess\nBy the stern brow and waspish action\nWhich she did use as she was writing of it,\nIt bears an angry tenour. Pardon me,\nI am but as a guiltless messenger.


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Patience herself would startle at this letter,\nAnd play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all.\nShe says I am not fair, that I lack manners;\nShe calls me proud, and that she could not love me,\nWere man as rare as Phoenix. 'Od's my will!\nHer love is not the hare that I do hunt;\nWhy writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,\nThis is a letter of your own device.


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Come, come, you are a fool,\nAnd turn'd into the extremity of love.\nI saw her hand; she has a leathern hand,\nA freestone-colour'd hand; I verily did think\nThat her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;\nShe has a huswife's hand- but that's no matter.\nI say she never did invent this letter:\nThis is a man's invention, and his hand.


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Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style;\nA style for challengers. Why, she defies me,\nLike Turk to Christian. Women's gentle brain\nCould not drop forth such giant-rude invention,\nSuch Ethiope words, blacker in their effect\nThan in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?


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She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes.                                                 [Reads]\n        'Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,\n        That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?'\nCan a woman rail thus?


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


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Do you pity him? No, he deserves no pity. Wilt thou love\nsuch a woman? What, to make thee an instrument, and play false\nstrains upon thee! Not to be endur'd! Well, go your way to her,\nfor I see love hath made thee tame snake, and say this to her-\nthat if she love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will not,\nI will never have her unless thou entreat for her. If you be a\ntrue lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more company.


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Good morrow, fair ones; pray you, if you know,\nWhere in the purlieus of this forest stands\nA sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?


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West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom.\nThe rank of osiers by the murmuring stream\nLeft on your right hand brings you to the place.\nBut at this hour the house doth keep itself;\nThere's none within.


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If that an eye may profit by a tongue,\nThen should I know you by description-\nSuch garments, and such years: 'The boy is fair,\nOf female favour, and bestows himself\nLike a ripe sister; the woman low,\nAnd browner than her brother.' Are not you\nThe owner of the house I did inquire for?


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Orlando doth commend him to you both;\nAnd to that youth he calls his Rosalind\nHe sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?


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Some of my shame; if you will know of me\nWhat man I am, and how, and why, and where,\nThis handkercher was stain'd.


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When last the young Orlando parted from you,\nHe left a promise to return again\nWithin an hour; and, pacing through the forest,\nChewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,\nLo, what befell! He threw his eye aside,\nAnd mark what object did present itself.\nUnder an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age,\nAnd high top bald with dry antiquity,\nA wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,\nLay sleeping on his back. About his neck\nA green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,\nWho with her head nimble in threats approach'd\nThe opening of his mouth; but suddenly,\nSeeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,\nAnd with indented glides did slip away\nInto a bush; under which bush's shade\nA lioness, with udders all drawn dry,\nLay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,\nWhen that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis\nThe royal disposition of that beast\nTo prey on nothing that doth seem as dead.\nThis seen, Orlando did approach the man,\nAnd found it was his brother, his elder brother.


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O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;\nAnd he did render him the most unnatural\nThat liv'd amongst men.


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Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so;\nBut kindness, nobler ever than revenge,\nAnd nature, stronger than his just occasion,\nMade him give battle to the lioness,\nWho quickly fell before him; in which hurtling\nFrom miserable slumber I awak'd.


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'Twas I; but 'tis not I. I do not shame\nTo tell you what I was, since my conversion\nSo sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.


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By and by.\nWhen from the first to last, betwixt us two,\nTears our recountments had most kindly bath'd,\nAs how I came into that desert place-\nIn brief, he led me to the gentle Duke,\nWho gave me fresh array and entertainment,\nCommitting me unto my brother's love;\nWho led me instantly unto his cave,\nThere stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm\nThe lioness had torn some flesh away,\nWhich all this while had bled; and now he fainted,\nAnd cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.\nBrief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound,\nAnd, after some small space, being strong at heart,\nHe sent me hither, stranger as I am,\nTo tell this story, that you might excuse\nHis broken promise, and to give this napkin,\nDy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd youth\nThat he in sport doth call his Rosalind.


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


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This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in\nyour complexion that it was a passion of earnest.


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A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext.\nBut, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to\nyou.


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


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Good ev'n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy\nhead; nay, prithee be cover'd. How old are you, friend?


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'So so' is good, very good, very excellent good; and\nyet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou wise?


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Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying: 'The\nfool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be\na fool.' The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a\ngrape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth; meaning\nthereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do\nlove this maid?


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Then learn this of me: to have is to have; for it is a\nfigure in rhetoric that drink, being pour'd out of cup into a\nglass, by filling the one doth empty the other; for all your\nwriters do consent that ipse is he; now, you are not ipse, for I\nam he.


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He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you\nclown, abandon- which is in the vulgar leave- the society- which\nin the boorish is company- of this female- which in the common is\nwoman- which together is: abandon the society of this female; or,\nclown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest;\nor, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into\ndeath, thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with thee,\nor in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction;\nwill o'er-run thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and\nfifty ways; therefore tremble and depart.


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Is't possible that on so little acquaintance you should\nlike her? that but seeing you should love her? and loving woo?\nand, wooing, she should grant? and will you persever to enjoy\nher?


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Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty\nof her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden\nconsenting; but say with me, I love Aliena; say with her that she\nloves me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other. It\nshall be to your good; for my father's house and all the revenue\nthat was old Sir Rowland's will I estate upon you, and here live\nand die a shepherd.


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You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow.\nThither will I invite the Duke and all's contented followers. Go\nyou and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.


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O, I know where you are. Nay, 'tis true. There was never\nany thing so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caesar's\nthrasonical brag of 'I came, saw, and overcame.' For your brother\nand my sister no sooner met but they look'd; no sooner look'd but\nthey lov'd; no sooner lov'd but they sigh'd; no sooner sigh'd but\nthey ask'd one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but\nthey sought the remedy- and in these degrees have they made pair\nof stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else\nbe incontinent before marriage. They are in the very wrath of\nlove, and they will together. Clubs cannot part them.


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


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I will weary you, then, no longer with idle talking. Know\nof me then- for now I speak to some purpose- that I know you are\na gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this that you should\nbear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you\nare; neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some\nlittle measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and\nnot to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do\nstrange things. I have, since I was three year old, convers'd\nwith a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable.\nIf you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture cries\nit out, when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry her. I\nknow into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is not\nimpossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set\nher before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without any\ndanger.


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By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say I\nam a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, bid your\nfriends; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to\nRosalind, if you will.\n[Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE]\nLook, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.


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I care not if I have. It is my study\nTo seem despiteful and ungentle to you.\nYou are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd;\nLook upon him, love him; he worships you.


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It is to be all made of fantasy,\nAll made of passion, and all made of wishes;\nAll adoration, duty, and observance,\nAll humbleness, all patience, and impatience,\nAll purity, all trial, all obedience;\nAnd so am I for Phebe.


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Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irish\nwolves against the moon. [To SILVIUS] I will help you if I can.\n[To PHEBE] I would love you if I could.- To-morrow meet me all\ntogether. [ To PHEBE ] I will marry you if ever I marry woman,\nand I'll be married to-morrow. [To ORLANDO] I will satisfy you if\never I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To\nSilvius] I will content you if what pleases you contents you, and\nyou shall be married to-morrow. [To ORLANDO] As you love\nRosalind, meet. [To SILVIUS] As you love Phebe, meet;- and as I\nlove no woman, I'll meet. So, fare you well; I have left you\ncommands.


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I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no\ndishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here come\ntwo of the banish'd Duke's pages.


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Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking, or\nspitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues\nto a bad voice?


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I'faith, i'faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies\non a horse.\n SONG.\n It was a lover and his lass,\n With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,\n That o'er the green corn-field did pass\n In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,\n When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.\n Sweet lovers love the spring.\n Between the acres of the rye,\n With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,\n These pretty country folks would lie,\n In the spring time, &c.\n This carol they began that hour,\n With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,\n How that a life was but a flower,\n In the spring time, &c.\n And therefore take the present time,\n With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,\n For love is crowned with the prime,\n In the spring time, &c.


plain_text:
Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great\nmatter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.


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By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such\na foolish song. God buy you; and God mend your voices. Come,\nAudrey. Exeunt


plain_text:
Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd:\nYou say, if I bring in your Rosalind,\nYou will bestow her on Orlando here?


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I have promis'd to make all this matter even.\nKeep you your word, O Duke, to give your daughter;\nYou yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter;\nKeep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me,\nOr else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd;\nKeep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry her\nIf she refuse me; and from hence I go,\nTo make these doubts all even.


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My lord, the first time that I ever saw him\nMethought he was a brother to your daughter.\nBut, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,\nAnd hath been tutor'd in the rudiments\nOf many desperate studies by his uncle,\nWhom he reports to be a great magician,\nObscured in the circle of this forest.


plain_text:
There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are\ncoming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts which\nin all tongues are call'd fools.


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


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If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation.\nI have trod a measure; I have flatt'red a lady; I have been\npolitic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone\nthree tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought\none.


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God 'ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I press in\nhere, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear\nand to forswear, according as marriage binds and blood breaks. A\npoor virgin, sir, an ill-favour'd thing, sir, but mine own; a\npoor humour of mine, sir, to take that that man else will. Rich\nhonesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house; as your pearl\nin your foul oyster.


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Upon a lie seven times removed- bear your body more\nseeming, Audrey- as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain\ncourtier's beard; he sent me word, if I said his beard was not\ncut well, he was in the mind it was. This is call'd the Retort\nCourteous. If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he would\nsend me word he cut it to please himself. This is call'd the Quip\nModest. If again it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment.\nThis is call'd the Reply Churlish. If again it was not well cut,\nhe would answer I spake not true. This is call'd the Reproof\nValiant. If again it was not well cut, he would say I lie. This\nis call'd the Countercheck Quarrelsome. And so to the Lie\nCircumstantial and the Lie Direct.


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I durst go no further than the Lie Circumstantial, nor\nhe durst not give me the Lie Direct; and so we measur'd swords\nand parted.


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O, sir, we quarrel in print by the book, as you have\nbooks for good manners. I will name you the degrees. The first,\nthe Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the\nReply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the\nCountercheck Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance;\nthe seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie\nDirect; and you may avoid that too with an If. I knew when seven\njustices could not take up a quarrel; but when the parties were\nmet themselves, one of them thought but of an If, as: 'If you\nsaid so, then I said so.' And they shook hands, and swore\nbrothers. Your If is the only peace-maker; much virtue in If.


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He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the\npresentation of that he shoots his wit.\n[Enter HYMEN, ROSALIND, and CELIA. Still MUSIC]\nHYMEN. Then is there mirth in heaven,\n When earthly things made even\n Atone together.\n Good Duke, receive thy daughter;\n Hymen from heaven brought her,\n Yea, brought her hither,\n That thou mightst join her hand with his,\n Whose heart within his bosom is.


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I'll have no father, if you be not he;\nI'll have no husband, if you be not he;\nNor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.


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Peace, ho! I bar confusion;\n 'Tis I must make conclusion\n Of these most strange events.\n Here's eight that must take hands\n To join in Hymen's bands,\n If truth holds true contents.\n You and you no cross shall part;\n You and you are heart in heart;\n You to his love must accord,\n Or have a woman to your lord;\n You and you are sure together,\n As the winter to foul weather.\n Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,\n Feed yourselves with questioning,\n That reason wonder may diminish,\n How thus we met, and these things finish.\n SONG\n Wedding is great Juno's crown;\n O blessed bond of board and bed!\n 'Tis Hymen peoples every town;\n High wedlock then be honoured.\n Honour, high honour, and renown,\n To Hymen, god of every town!


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I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;\nThy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.\n Enter JAQUES DE BOYS


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Let me have audience for a word or two.\nI am the second son of old Sir Rowland,\nThat bring these tidings to this fair assembly.\nDuke Frederick, hearing how that every day\nMen of great worth resorted to this forest,\nAddress'd a mighty power; which were on foot,\nIn his own conduct, purposely to take\nHis brother here, and put him to the sword;\nAnd to the skirts of this wild wood he came,\nWhere, meeting with an old religious man,\nAfter some question with him, was converted\nBoth from his enterprise and from the world;\nHis crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother,\nAnd all their lands restor'd to them again\nThat were with him exil'd. This to be true\nI do engage my life.


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Welcome, young man.\nThou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding:\nTo one, his lands withheld; and to the other,\nA land itself at large, a potent dukedom.\nFirst, in this forest let us do those ends\nThat here were well begun and well begot;\nAnd after, every of this happy number,\nThat have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us,\nShall share the good of our returned fortune,\nAccording to the measure of their states.\nMeantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity,\nAnd fall into our rustic revelry.\nPlay, music; and you brides and bridegrooms all,\nWith measure heap'd in joy, to th' measures fall.


plain_text:
Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,\nThe Duke hath put on a religious life,\nAnd thrown into neglect the pompous court.


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To him will I. Out of these convertites\nThere is much matter to be heard and learn'd.\n[To DUKE] You to your former honour I bequeath;\nYour patience and your virtue well deserves it.\n[To ORLANDO] You to a love that your true faith doth merit;\n[To OLIVER] You to your land, and love, and great allies\n[To SILVIUS] You to a long and well-deserved bed;\n[To TOUCHSTONE] And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage\nIs but for two months victuall'd.- So to your pleasures;\nI am for other than for dancing measures.


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Proceed, proceed. We will begin these rites,\nAs we do trust they'll end, in true delights. [A dance] Exeunt EPILOGUE


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It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; but\nit is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it\nbe true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play\nneeds no epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes; and\ngood plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a\ncase am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue, nor cannot\ninsinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not\nfurnish'd like a beggar; therefore to beg will not become me. My\nway is to conjure you; and I'll begin with the women. I charge\nyou, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of\nthis play as please you; and I charge you, O men, for the love\nyou bear to women- as I perceive by your simp'ring none of you\nhates them- that between you and the women the play may please.\nIf I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that\npleas'd me, complexions that lik'd me, and breaths that I defied\nnot; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces,\nor sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy,\nbid me farewell.


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Merchant of Syracuse, plead no more;\nI am not partial to infringe our laws:\nThe enmity and discord which of late\nSprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke\nTo merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,\nWho wanting guilders to redeem their lives\nHave seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods,\nExcludes all pity from our threatening looks.\nFor, since the mortal and intestine jars\n'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,\nIt hath in solemn synods been decreed\nBoth by the Syracusians and ourselves,\nTo admit no traffic to our adverse towns Nay, more,\nIf any born at Ephesus be seen\nAt any Syracusian marts and fairs;\nAgain: if any Syracusian born\nCome to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,\nHis goods confiscate to the duke's dispose,\nUnless a thousand marks be levied,\nTo quit the penalty and to ransom him.\nThy substance, valued at the highest rate,\nCannot amount unto a hundred marks;\nTherefore by law thou art condemned to die.


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Well, Syracusian, say in brief the cause\nWhy thou departed'st from thy native home\nAnd for what cause thou camest to Ephesus.


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A heavier task could not have been imposed\nThan I to speak my griefs unspeakable:\nYet, that the world may witness that my end\nWas wrought by nature, not by vile offence,\nI'll utter what my sorrows give me leave.\nIn Syracusa was I born, and wed\nUnto a woman, happy but for me,\nAnd by me, had not our hap been bad.\nWith her I lived in joy; our wealth increased\nBy prosperous voyages I often made\nTo Epidamnum; till my factor's death\nAnd the great care of goods at random left\nDrew me from kind embracements of my spouse:\nFrom whom my absence was not six months old\nBefore herself, almost at fainting under\nThe pleasing punishment that women bear,\nHad made provision for her following me\nAnd soon and safe arrived where I was.\nThere had she not been long, but she became\nA joyful mother of two goodly sons;\nAnd, which was strange, the one so like the other,\nAs could not be distinguish'd but by names.\nThat very hour, and in the self-same inn,\nA meaner woman was delivered\nOf such a burden, male twins, both alike:\nThose,--for their parents were exceeding poor,--\nI bought and brought up to attend my sons.\nMy wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,\nMade daily motions for our home return:\nUnwilling I agreed. Alas! too soon,\nWe came aboard.\nA league from Epidamnum had we sail'd,\nBefore the always wind-obeying deep\nGave any tragic instance of our harm:\nBut longer did we not retain much hope;\nFor what obscured light the heavens did grant\nDid but convey unto our fearful minds\nA doubtful warrant of immediate death;\nWhich though myself would gladly have embraced,\nYet the incessant weepings of my wife,\nWeeping before for what she saw must come,\nAnd piteous plainings of the pretty babes,\nThat mourn'd for fashion, ignorant what to fear,\nForced me to seek delays for them and me.\nAnd this it was, for other means was none:\nThe sailors sought for safety by our boat,\nAnd left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us:\nMy wife, more careful for the latter-born,\nHad fasten'd him unto a small spare mast,\nSuch as seafaring men provide for storms;\nTo him one of the other twins was bound,\nWhilst I had been like heedful of the other:\nThe children thus disposed, my wife and I,\nFixing our eyes on whom our care was fix'd,\nFasten'd ourselves at either end the mast;\nAnd floating straight, obedient to the stream,\nWas carried towards Corinth, as we thought.\nAt length the sun, gazing upon the earth,\nDispersed those vapours that offended us;\nAnd by the benefit of his wished light,\nThe seas wax'd calm, and we discovered\nTwo ships from far making amain to us,\nOf Corinth that, of Epidaurus this:\nBut ere they came,--O, let me say no more!\nGather the sequel by that went before.


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O, had the gods done so, I had not now\nWorthily term'd them merciless to us!\nFor, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues,\nWe were encounterd by a mighty rock;\nWhich being violently borne upon,\nOur helpful ship was splitted in the midst;\nSo that, in this unjust divorce of us,\nFortune had left to both of us alike\nWhat to delight in, what to sorrow for.\nHer part, poor soul! seeming as burdened\nWith lesser weight but not with lesser woe,\nWas carried with more speed before the wind;\nAnd in our sight they three were taken up\nBy fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.\nAt length, another ship had seized on us;\nAnd, knowing whom it was their hap to save,\nGave healthful welcome to their shipwreck'd guests;\nAnd would have reft the fishers of their prey,\nHad not their bark been very slow of sail;\nAnd therefore homeward did they bend their course.\nThus have you heard me sever'd from my bliss;\nThat by misfortunes was my life prolong'd,\nTo tell sad stories of my own mishaps.


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And for the sake of them thou sorrowest for,\nDo me the favour to dilate at full\nWhat hath befall'n of them and thee till now.


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My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,\nAt eighteen years became inquisitive\nAfter his brother: and importuned me\nThat his attendant--so his case was like,\nReft of his brother, but retain'd his name--\nMight bear him company in the quest of him:\nWhom whilst I labour'd of a love to see,\nI hazarded the loss of whom I loved.\nFive summers have I spent in furthest Greece,\nRoaming clean through the bounds of Asia,\nAnd, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus;\nHopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought\nOr that or any place that harbours men.\nBut here must end the story of my life;\nAnd happy were I in my timely death,\nCould all my travels warrant me they live.


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Hapless AEgeon, whom the fates have mark'd\nTo bear the extremity of dire mishap!\nNow, trust me, were it not against our laws,\nAgainst my crown, my oath, my dignity,\nWhich princes, would they, may not disannul,\nMy soul would sue as advocate for thee.\nBut, though thou art adjudged to the death\nAnd passed sentence may not be recall'd\nBut to our honour's great disparagement,\nYet I will favour thee in what I can.\nTherefore, merchant, I'll limit thee this day\nTo seek thy life by beneficial help:\nTry all the friends thou hast in Ephesus;\nBeg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,\nAnd live; if no, then thou art doom'd to die.\nGaoler, take him to thy custody.


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Therefore give out you are of Epidamnum,\nLest that your goods too soon be confiscate.\nThis very day a Syracusian merchant\nIs apprehended for arrival here;\nAnd not being able to buy out his life\nAccording to the statute of the town,\nDies ere the weary sun set in the west.\nThere is your money that I had to keep.


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Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,\nAnd stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee.\nWithin this hour it will be dinner-time:\nTill that, I'll view the manners of the town,\nPeruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings,\nAnd then return and sleep within mine inn,\nFor with long travel I am stiff and weary.\nGet thee away.


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A trusty villain, sir, that very oft,\nWhen I am dull with care and melancholy,\nLightens my humour with his merry jests.\nWhat, will you walk with me about the town,\nAnd then go to my inn and dine with me?


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I am invited, sir, to certain merchants,\nOf whom I hope to make much benefit;\nI crave your pardon. Soon at five o'clock,\nPlease you, I'll meet with you upon the mart\nAnd afterward consort you till bed-time:\nMy present business calls me from you now.


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He that commends me to mine own content\nCommends me to the thing I cannot get.\nI to the world am like a drop of water\nThat in the ocean seeks another drop,\nWho, falling there to find his fellow forth,\nUnseen, inquisitive, confounds himself:\nSo I, to find a mother and a brother,\nIn quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.\n[Enter DROMIO of Ephesus]\nHere comes the almanac of my true date.\nWhat now? how chance thou art return'd so soon?


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Return'd so soon! rather approach'd too late:\nThe capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,\nThe clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell;\nMy mistress made it one upon my cheek:\nShe is so hot because the meat is cold;\nThe meat is cold because you come not home;\nYou come not home because you have no stomach;\nYou have no stomach having broke your fast;\nBut we that know what 'tis to fast and pray\nAre penitent for your default to-day.


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O,--sixpence, that I had o' Wednesday last\nTo pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper?\nThe saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.


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I am not in a sportive humour now:\nTell me, and dally not, where is the money?\nWe being strangers here, how darest thou trust\nSo great a charge from thine own custody?


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I pray you, air, as you sit at dinner:\nI from my mistress come to you in post;\nIf I return, I shall be post indeed,\nFor she will score your fault upon my pate.\nMethinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock,\nAnd strike you home without a messenger.


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Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season;\nReserve them till a merrier hour than this.\nWhere is the gold I gave in charge to thee?


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My charge was but to fetch you from the mart\nHome to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner:\nMy mistress and her sister stays for you.


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In what safe place you have bestow'd my money,\nOr I shall break that merry sconce of yours\nThat stands on tricks when I am undisposed:\nWhere is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?


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I have some marks of yours upon my pate,\nSome of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders,\nBut not a thousand marks between you both.\nIf I should pay your worship those again,\nPerchance you will not bear them patiently.


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Your worship's wife, my mistress at the Phoenix;\nShe that doth fast till you come home to dinner,\nAnd prays that you will hie you home to dinner.


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What mean you, sir? for God's sake, hold your hands!\nNay, and you will not, sir, I'll take my heels.


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Upon my life, by some device or other\nThe villain is o'er-raught of all my money.\nThey say this town is full of cozenage,\nAs, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,\nDark-working sorcerers that change the mind,\nSoul-killing witches that deform the body,\nDisguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,\nAnd many such-like liberties of sin:\nIf it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.\nI'll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave:\nI greatly fear my money is not safe.


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Neither my husband nor the slave return'd,\nThat in such haste I sent to seek his master!\nSure, Luciana, it is two o'clock.


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Perhaps some merchant hath invited him,\nAnd from the mart he's somewhere gone to dinner.\nGood sister, let us dine and never fret:\nA man is master of his liberty:\nTime is their master, and, when they see time,\nThey'll go or come: if so, be patient, sister.


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Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe.\nThere's nothing situate under heaven's eye\nBut hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:\nThe beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,\nAre their males' subjects and at their controls:\nMen, more divine, the masters of all these,\nLords of the wide world and wild watery seas,\nIndued with intellectual sense and souls,\nOf more preeminence than fish and fowls,\nAre masters to their females, and their lords:\nThen let your will attend on their accords.


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Patience unmoved! no marvel though she pause;\nThey can be meek that have no other cause.\nA wretched soul, bruised with adversity,\nWe bid be quiet when we hear it cry;\nBut were we burdened with like weight of pain,\nAs much or more would we ourselves complain:\nSo thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee,\nWith urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me,\nBut, if thou live to see like right bereft,\nThis fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left.


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Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his\nblows; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce\nunderstand them.


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I mean not cuckold-mad;\nBut, sure, he is stark mad.\nWhen I desired him to come home to dinner,\nHe ask'd me for a thousand marks in gold:\n''Tis dinner-time,' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he;\n'Your meat doth burn,' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he:\n'Will you come home?' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he.\n'Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?'\n'The pig,' quoth I, 'is burn'd;' 'My gold!' quoth he:\n'My mistress, sir' quoth I; 'Hang up thy mistress!\nI know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress!'


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Quoth my master:\n'I know,' quoth he, 'no house, no wife, no mistress.'\nSo that my errand, due unto my tongue,\nI thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders;\nFor, in conclusion, he did beat me there.


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Am I so round with you as you with me,\nThat like a football you do spurn me thus?\nYou spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:\nIf I last in this service, you must case me in leather.


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His company must do his minions grace,\nWhilst I at home starve for a merry look.\nHath homely age the alluring beauty took\nFrom my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it:\nAre my discourses dull? barren my wit?\nIf voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd,\nUnkindness blunts it more than marble hard:\nDo their gay vestments his affections bait?\nThat's not my fault: he's master of my state:\nWhat ruins are in me that can be found,\nBy him not ruin'd? then is he the ground\nOf my defeatures. My decayed fair\nA sunny look of his would soon repair\nBut, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale\nAnd feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.


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Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense.\nI know his eye doth homage otherwhere,\nOr else what lets it but he would be here?\nSister, you know he promised me a chain;\nWould that alone, alone he would detain,\nSo he would keep fair quarter with his bed!\nI see the jewel best enamelled\nWill lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still,\nThat others touch, and often touching will\nWear gold: and no man that hath a name,\nBy falsehood and corruption doth it shame.\nSince that my beauty cannot please his eye,\nI'll weep what's left away, and weeping die.


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The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up\nSafe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave\nIs wander'd forth, in care to seek me out\nBy computation and mine host's report.\nI could not speak with Dromio since at first\nI sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.\n[Enter DROMIO of Syracuse]\nHow now sir! is your merry humour alter'd?\nAs you love strokes, so jest with me again.\nYou know no Centaur? you received no gold?\nYour mistress sent to have me home to dinner?\nMy house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad,\nThat thus so madly thou didst answer me?


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Villain, thou didst deny the gold's receipt,\nAnd told'st me of a mistress and a dinner;\nFor which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeased.


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Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?\nThink'st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.


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Because that I familiarly sometimes\nDo use you for my fool and chat with you,\nYour sauciness will jest upon my love\nAnd make a common of my serious hours.\nWhen the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,\nBut creep in crannies when he hides his beams.\nIf you will jest with me, know my aspect,\nAnd fashion your demeanor to my looks,\nOr I will beat this method in your sconce.


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Sconce call you it? so you would leave battering, I\nhad rather have it a head: an you use these blows\nlong, I must get a sconce for my head and ensconce\nit too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders.\nBut, I pray, sir why am I beaten?


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Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season,\nWhen in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme\nnor reason?\nWell, sir, I thank you.


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Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts;\nand what he hath scanted men in hair he hath given them in wit.


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The one, to save the money that he spends in\ntrimming; the other, that at dinner they should not\ndrop in his porridge.


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Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown:\nSome other mistress hath thy sweet aspects;\nI am not Adriana nor thy wife.\nThe time was once when thou unurged wouldst vow\nThat never words were music to thine ear,\nThat never object pleasing in thine eye,\nThat never touch well welcome to thy hand,\nThat never meat sweet-savor'd in thy taste,\nUnless I spake, or look'd, or touch'd, or carved to thee.\nHow comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it,\nThat thou art thus estranged from thyself?\nThyself I call it, being strange to me,\nThat, undividable, incorporate,\nAm better than thy dear self's better part.\nAh, do not tear away thyself from me!\nFor know, my love, as easy mayest thou fall\nA drop of water in the breaking gulf,\nAnd take unmingled that same drop again,\nWithout addition or diminishing,\nAs take from me thyself and not me too.\nHow dearly would it touch me to the quick,\nShouldst thou but hear I were licentious\nAnd that this body, consecrate to thee,\nBy ruffian lust should be contaminate!\nWouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me\nAnd hurl the name of husband in my face\nAnd tear the stain'd skin off my harlot-brow\nAnd from my false hand cut the wedding-ring\nAnd break it with a deep-divorcing vow?\nI know thou canst; and therefore see thou do it.\nI am possess'd with an adulterate blot;\nMy blood is mingled with the crime of lust:\nFor if we too be one and thou play false,\nI do digest the poison of thy flesh,\nBeing strumpeted by thy contagion.\nKeep then far league and truce with thy true bed;\nI live unstain'd, thou undishonoured.


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Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not:\nIn Ephesus I am but two hours old,\nAs strange unto your town as to your talk;\nWho, every word by all my wit being scann'd,\nWant wit in all one word to understand.


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Fie, brother! how the world is changed with you!\nWhen were you wont to use my sister thus?\nShe sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.


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By thee; and this thou didst return from him,\nThat he did buffet thee, and, in his blows,\nDenied my house for his, me for his wife.


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How ill agrees it with your gravity\nTo counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,\nAbetting him to thwart me in my mood!\nBe it my wrong you are from me exempt,\nBut wrong not that wrong with a more contempt.\nCome, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine:\nThou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,\nWhose weakness, married to thy stronger state,\nMakes me with thy strength to communicate:\nIf aught possess thee from me, it is dross,\nUsurping ivy, brier, or idle moss;\nWho, all for want of pruning, with intrusion\nInfect thy sap and live on thy confusion.


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To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme:\nWhat, was I married to her in my dream?\nOr sleep I now and think I hear all this?\nWhat error drives our eyes and ears amiss?\nUntil I know this sure uncertainty,\nI'll entertain the offer'd fallacy.


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O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner.\nThis is the fairy land: O spite of spites!\nWe talk with goblins, owls and sprites:\nIf we obey them not, this will ensue,\nThey'll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.


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Why pratest thou to thyself and answer'st not?\nDromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!


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'Tis true; she rides me and I long for grass.\n'Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be\nBut I should know her as well as she knows me.


