# paragraphs

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Come, come, no longer will I be a fool,\nTo put the finger in the eye and weep,\nWhilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn.\nCome, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate.\nHusband, I'll dine above with you to-day\nAnd shrive you of a thousand idle pranks.\nSirrah, if any ask you for your master,\nSay he dines forth, and let no creature enter.\nCome, sister. Dromio, play the porter well.


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Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?\nSleeping or waking? mad or well-advised?\nKnown unto these, and to myself disguised!\nI'll say as they say and persever so,\nAnd in this mist at all adventures go.


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Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all;\nMy wife is shrewish when I keep not hours:\nSay that I linger'd with you at your shop\nTo see the making of her carcanet,\nAnd that to-morrow you will bring it home.\nBut here's a villain that would face me down\nHe met me on the mart, and that I beat him,\nAnd charged him with a thousand marks in gold,\nAnd that I did deny my wife and house.\nThou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this?


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Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know;\nThat you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show:\nIf the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink,\nYour own handwriting would tell you what I think.


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Marry, so it doth appear\nBy the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear.\nI should kick, being kick'd; and, being at that pass,\nYou would keep from my heels and beware of an ass.


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You're sad, Signior Balthazar: pray God our cheer\nMay answer my good will and your good welcome here.


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O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish,\nA table full of welcome make scarce one dainty dish.


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Ay, to a niggardly host, and more sparing guest:\nBut though my cates be mean, take them in good part;\nBetter cheer may you have, but not with better heart.\nBut, soft! my door is lock'd. Go bid them let us in.


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[Within] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb,\nidiot, patch!\nEither get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch.\nDost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call'st\nfor such store,\nWhen one is one too many? Go, get thee from the door.


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O villain! thou hast stolen both mine office and my name.\nThe one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame.\nIf thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place,\nThou wouldst have changed thy face for a name or thy\nname for an ass.


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You would say so, master, if your garments were thin.\nYour cake there is warm within; you stand here in the cold:\nIt would make a man mad as a buck, to be so bought and sold.


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A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind,\nAy, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind.


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A crow without feather? Master, mean you so?\nFor a fish without a fin, there's a fowl without a feather;\nIf a crow help us in, sirrah, we'll pluck a crow together.


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Have patience, sir; O, let it not be so!\nHerein you war against your reputation\nAnd draw within the compass of suspect\nThe unviolated honour of your wife.\nOnce this,--your long experience of her wisdom,\nHer sober virtue, years and modesty,\nPlead on her part some cause to you unknown:\nAnd doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse\nWhy at this time the doors are made against you.\nBe ruled by me: depart in patience,\nAnd let us to the Tiger all to dinner,\nAnd about evening come yourself alone\nTo know the reason of this strange restraint.\nIf by strong hand you offer to break in\nNow in the stirring passage of the day,\nA vulgar comment will be made of it,\nAnd that supposed by the common rout\nAgainst your yet ungalled estimation\nThat may with foul intrusion enter in\nAnd dwell upon your grave when you are dead;\nFor slander lives upon succession,\nFor ever housed where it gets possession.


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You have prevailed: I will depart in quiet,\nAnd, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry.\nI know a wench of excellent discourse,\nPretty and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle:\nThere will we dine. This woman that I mean,\nMy wife--but, I protest, without desert--\nHath oftentimes upbraided me withal:\nTo her will we to dinner.\n[To Angelo]\nGet you home\nAnd fetch the chain; by this I know 'tis made:\nBring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine;\nFor there's the house: that chain will I bestow--\nBe it for nothing but to spite my wife--\nUpon mine hostess there: good sir, make haste.\nSince mine own doors refuse to entertain me,\nI'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me.


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And may it be that you have quite forgot\nA husband's office? shall, Antipholus.\nEven in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?\nShall love, in building, grow so ruinous?\nIf you did wed my sister for her wealth,\nThen for her wealth's sake use her with more kindness:\nOr if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;\nMuffle your false love with some show of blindness:\nLet not my sister read it in your eye;\nBe not thy tongue thy own shame's orator;\nLook sweet, be fair, become disloyalty;\nApparel vice like virtue's harbinger;\nBear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;\nTeach sin the carriage of a holy saint;\nBe secret-false: what need she be acquainted?\nWhat simple thief brags of his own attaint?\n'Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed\nAnd let her read it in thy looks at board:\nShame hath a bastard fame, well managed;\nIll deeds are doubled with an evil word.\nAlas, poor women! make us but believe,\nBeing compact of credit, that you love us;\nThough others have the arm, show us the sleeve;\nWe in your motion turn and you may move us.\nThen, gentle brother, get you in again;\nComfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:\n'Tis holy sport to be a little vain,\nWhen the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.


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Sweet mistress--what your name is else, I know not,\nNor by what wonder you do hit of mine,--\nLess in your knowledge and your grace you show not\nThan our earth's wonder, more than earth divine.\nTeach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;\nLay open to my earthy-gross conceit,\nSmother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,\nThe folded meaning of your words' deceit.\nAgainst my soul's pure truth why labour you\nTo make it wander in an unknown field?\nAre you a god? would you create me new?\nTransform me then, and to your power I'll yield.\nBut if that I am I, then well I know\nYour weeping sister is no wife of mine,\nNor to her bed no homage do I owe\nFar more, far more to you do I decline.\nO, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,\nTo drown me in thy sister's flood of tears:\nSing, siren, for thyself and I will dote:\nSpread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,\nAnd as a bed I'll take them and there lie,\nAnd in that glorious supposition think\nHe gains by death that hath such means to die:\nLet Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!


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No;\nIt is thyself, mine own self's better part,\nMine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart,\nMy food, my fortune and my sweet hope's aim,\nMy sole earth's heaven and my heaven's claim.


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Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee.\nThee will I love and with thee lead my life:\nThou hast no husband yet nor I no wife.\nGive me thy hand.


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Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman; one\nthat claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me.


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Marry sir, such claim as you would lay to your\nhorse; and she would have me as a beast: not that, I\nbeing a beast, she would have me; but that she,\nbeing a very beastly creature, lays claim to me.


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A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may\nnot speak of without he say 'Sir-reverence.' I have\nbut lean luck in the match, and yet is she a\nwondrous fat marriage.


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Marry, sir, she's the kitchen wench and all grease;\nand I know not what use to put her to but to make a\nlamp of her and run from her by her own light. I\nwarrant, her rags and the tallow in them will burn a\nPoland winter: if she lives till doomsday,\nshe'll burn a week longer than the whole world.


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Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing half so\nclean kept: for why, she sweats; a man may go over\nshoes in the grime of it.


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Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters, that's\nan ell and three quarters, will not measure her from\nhip to hip.


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No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip:\nshe is spherical, like a globe; I could find out\ncountries in her.


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I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no\nwhiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her chin,\nby the salt rheum that ran between France and it.


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Oh, sir, upon her nose all o'er embellished with\nrubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich\naspect to the hot breath of Spain; who sent whole\narmadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose.


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Oh, sir, I did not look so low. To conclude, this\ndrudge, or diviner, laid claim to me, call'd me\nDromio; swore I was assured to her; told me what\nprivy marks I had about me, as, the mark of my\nshoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my\nleft arm, that I amazed ran from her as a witch:\nAnd, I think, if my breast had not been made of\nfaith and my heart of steel,\nShe had transform'd me to a curtal dog and made\nme turn i' the wheel.


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Go hie thee presently, post to the road:\nAn if the wind blow any way from shore,\nI will not harbour in this town to-night:\nIf any bark put forth, come to the mart,\nWhere I will walk till thou return to me.\nIf every one knows us and we know none,\n'Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone.


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There's none but witches do inhabit here;\nAnd therefore 'tis high time that I were hence.\nShe that doth call me husband, even my soul\nDoth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister,\nPossess'd with such a gentle sovereign grace,\nOf such enchanting presence and discourse,\nHath almost made me traitor to myself:\nBut, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,\nI'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's song.


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I know it well, sir, lo, here is the chain.\nI thought to have ta'en you at the Porpentine:\nThe chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long.


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Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have.\nGo home with it and please your wife withal;\nAnd soon at supper-time I'll visit you\nAnd then receive my money for the chain.


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What I should think of this, I cannot tell:\nBut this I think, there's no man is so vain\nThat would refuse so fair an offer'd chain.\nI see a man here needs not live by shifts,\nWhen in the streets he meets such golden gifts.\nI'll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay\nIf any ship put out, then straight away.


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You know since Pentecost the sum is due,\nAnd since I have not much importuned you;\nNor now I had not, but that I am bound\nTo Persia, and want guilders for my voyage:\nTherefore make present satisfaction,\nOr I'll attach you by this officer.


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Even just the sum that I do owe to you\nIs growing to me by Antipholus,\nAnd in the instant that I met with you\nHe had of me a chain: at five o'clock\nI shall receive the money for the same.\nPleaseth you walk with me down to his house,\nI will discharge my bond and thank you too.\n[Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of Ephesus]\nfrom the courtezan's]


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While I go to the goldsmith's house, go thou\nAnd buy a rope's end: that will I bestow\nAmong my wife and her confederates,\nFor locking me out of my doors by day.\nBut, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;\nBuy thou a rope and bring it home to me.


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A man is well holp up that trusts to you:\nI promised your presence and the chain;\nBut neither chain nor goldsmith came to me.\nBelike you thought our love would last too long,\nIf it were chain'd together, and therefore came not.


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Saving your merry humour, here's the note\nHow much your chain weighs to the utmost carat,\nThe fineness of the gold and chargeful fashion.\nWhich doth amount to three odd ducats more\nThan I stand debted to this gentleman:\nI pray you, see him presently discharged,\nFor he is bound to sea and stays but for it.


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I am not furnish'd with the present money;\nBesides, I have some business in the town.\nGood signior, take the stranger to my house\nAnd with you take the chain and bid my wife\nDisburse the sum on the receipt thereof:\nPerchance I will be there as soon as you.


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Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain:\nBoth wind and tide stays for this gentleman,\nAnd I, to blame, have held him here too long.


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Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse\nYour breach of promise to the Porpentine.\nI should have chid you for not bringing it,\nBut, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.


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My business cannot brook this dalliance.\nGood sir, say whether you'll answer me or no:\nIf not, I'll leave him to the officer.


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This touches me in reputation.\nEither consent to pay this sum for me\nOr I attach you by this officer.


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


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I do obey thee till I give thee bail.\nBut, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear\nAs all the metal in your shop will answer.


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Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum\nThat stays but till her owner comes aboard,\nAnd then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,\nI have convey'd aboard; and I have bought\nThe oil, the balsamum and aqua-vitae.\nThe ship is in her trim; the merry wind\nBlows fair from land: they stay for nought at all\nBut for their owner, master, and yourself.


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I will debate this matter at more leisure\nAnd teach your ears to list me with more heed.\nTo Adriana, villain, hie thee straight:\nGive her this key, and tell her, in the desk\nThat's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry,\nThere is a purse of ducats; let her send it:\nTell her I am arrested in the street\nAnd that shall bail me; hie thee, slave, be gone!\nOn, officer, to prison till it come.\n[Exeunt Second Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and]\nAntipholus of Ephesus]


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To Adriana! that is where we dined,\nWhere Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:\nShe is too big, I hope, for me to compass.\nThither I must, although against my will,\nFor servants must their masters' minds fulfil.


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Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so?\nMightst thou perceive austerely in his eye\nThat he did plead in earnest? yea or no?\nLook'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily?\nWhat observation madest thou in this case\nOf his heart's meteors tilting in his face?


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I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still;\nMy tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.\nHe is deformed, crooked, old and sere,\nIll-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere;\nVicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;\nStigmatical in making, worse in mind.


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Ah, but I think him better than I say,\nAnd yet would herein others' eyes were worse.\nFar from her nest the lapwing cries away:\nMy heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.


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


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I know not at whose suit he is arrested well;\nBut he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell.\nWill you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?


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Go fetch it, sister.\n[Exit Luciana]\nThis I wonder at,\nThat he, unknown to me, should be in debt.\nTell me, was he arrested on a band?


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No, no, the bell: 'tis time that I were gone:\nIt was two ere I left him, and now the clock\nstrikes one.


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Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's\nworth, to season.\nNay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say\nThat Time comes stealing on by night and day?\nIf Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,\nHath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?


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Go, Dromio; there's the money, bear it straight;\nAnd bring thy master home immediately.\nCome, sister: I am press'd down with conceit--\nConceit, my comfort and my injury.


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There's not a man I meet but doth salute me\nAs if I were their well-acquainted friend;\nAnd every one doth call me by my name.\nSome tender money to me; some invite me;\nSome other give me thanks for kindnesses;\nSome offer me commodities to buy:\nEven now a tailor call'd me in his shop\nAnd show'd me silks that he had bought for me,\nAnd therewithal took measure of my body.\nSure, these are but imaginary wiles\nAnd Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.


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Master, here's the gold you sent me for. What, have\nyou got the picture of old Adam new-apparelled?


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Not that Adam that kept the Paradise but that Adam\nthat keeps the prison: he that goes in the calf's\nskin that was killed for the Prodigal; he that came\nbehind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you\nforsake your liberty.


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No? why, 'tis a plain case: he that went, like a\nbass-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir,\nthat, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a sob\nand 'rests them; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed\nmen and gives them suits of durance; he that sets up\nhis rest to do more exploits with his mace than a\nmorris-pike.


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Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band, he that brings\nany man to answer it that breaks his band; one that\nthinks a man always going to bed, and says, 'God\ngive you good rest!'


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Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the\nbark Expedition put forth to-night; and then were\nyou hindered by the sergeant, to tarry for the hoy\nDelay. Here are the angels that you sent for to\ndeliver you.


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The fellow is distract, and so am I;\nAnd here we wander in illusions:\nSome blessed power deliver us from hence!


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Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.\nI see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:\nIs that the chain you promised me to-day?


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Nay, she is worse, she is the devil's dam; and here\nshe comes in the habit of a light wench: and thereof\ncomes that the wenches say 'God damn me;' that's as\nmuch to say 'God make me a light wench.' It is\nwritten, they appear to men like angels of light:\nlight is an effect of fire, and fire will burn;\nergo, light wenches will burn. Come not near her.


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Avoid then, fiend! what tell'st thou me of supping?\nThou art, as you are all, a sorceress:\nI conjure thee to leave me and be gone.


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Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,\nOr, for my diamond, the chain you promised,\nAnd I'll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.


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Some devils ask but the parings of one's nail,\nA rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,\nA nut, a cherry-stone;\nBut she, more covetous, would have a chain.\nMaster, be wise: an if you give it her,\nThe devil will shake her chain and fright us with it.


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Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad,\nElse would he never so demean himself.\nA ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats,\nAnd for the same he promised me a chain:\nBoth one and other he denies me now.\nThe reason that I gather he is mad,\nBesides this present instance of his rage,\nIs a mad tale he told to-day at dinner,\nOf his own doors being shut against his entrance.\nBelike his wife, acquainted with his fits,\nOn purpose shut the doors against his way.\nMy way is now to hie home to his house,\nAnd tell his wife that, being lunatic,\nHe rush'd into my house and took perforce\nMy ring away. This course I fittest choose;\nFor forty ducats is too much to lose.


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Fear me not, man; I will not break away:\nI'll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money,\nTo warrant thee, as I am 'rested for.\nMy wife is in a wayward mood to-day,\nAnd will not lightly trust the messenger\nThat I should be attach'd in Ephesus,\nI tell you, 'twill sound harshly in her ears.\n[Enter DROMIO of Ephesus with a rope's-end]\nHere comes my man; I think he brings the money.\nHow now, sir! have you that I sent you for?


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I am an ass, indeed; you may prove it by my long\nears. I have served him from the hour of my\nnativity to this instant, and have nothing at his\nhands for my service but blows. When I am cold, he\nheats me with beating; when I am warm, he cools me\nwith beating; I am waked with it when I sleep;\nraised with it when I sit; driven out of doors with\nit when I go from home; welcomed home with it when\nI return; nay, I bear it on my shoulders, as a\nbeggar wont her brat; and, I think when he hath\nlamed me, I shall beg with it from door to door.


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Mistress, 'respice finem,' respect your end; or\nrather, the prophecy like the parrot, 'beware the\nrope's-end.'


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His incivility confirms no less.\nGood Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer;\nEstablish him in his true sense again,\nAnd I will please you what you will demand.


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I charge thee, Satan, housed within this man,\nTo yield possession to my holy prayers\nAnd to thy state of darkness hie thee straight:\nI conjure thee by all the saints in heaven!


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You minion, you, are these your customers?\nDid this companion with the saffron face\nRevel and feast it at my house to-day,\nWhilst upon me the guilty doors were shut\nAnd I denied to enter in my house?


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O husband, God doth know you dined at home;\nWhere would you had remain'd until this time,\nFree from these slanders and this open shame!


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Mistress, both man and master is possess'd;\nI know it by their pale and deadly looks:\nThey must be bound and laid in some dark room.


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Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all;\nAnd art confederate with a damned pack\nTo make a loathsome abject scorn of me:\nBut with these nails I'll pluck out these false eyes\nThat would behold in me this shameful sport.\n[Enter three or four, and offer to bind him.]\nHe strives]


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What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, thou,\nI am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them\nTo make a rescue?


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What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer?\nHast thou delight to see a wretched man\nDo outrage and displeasure to himself?


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I will discharge thee ere I go from thee:\nBear me forthwith unto his creditor,\nAnd, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it.\nGood master doctor, see him safe convey'd\nHome to my house. O most unhappy day!


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Go bear him hence. Sister, go you with me.\n[Exeunt all but Adriana, Luciana, Officer and]\nCourtezan]\nSay now, whose suit is he arrested at?


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When as your husband all in rage to-day\nCame to my house and took away my ring--\nThe ring I saw upon his finger now--\nStraight after did I meet him with a chain.


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It may be so, but I did never see it.\nCome, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is:\nI long to know the truth hereof at large.\n[Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse with his rapier drawn,]\nand DROMIO of Syracuse]


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Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us\nno harm: you saw they speak us fair, give us gold:\nmethinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for\nthe mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of\nme, I could find in my heart to stay here still and\nturn witch.


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I am sorry, sir, that I have hinder'd you;\nBut, I protest, he had the chain of me,\nThough most dishonestly he doth deny it.


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Of very reverend reputation, sir,\nOf credit infinite, highly beloved,\nSecond to none that lives here in the city:\nHis word might bear my wealth at any time.


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'Tis so; and that self chain about his neck\nWhich he forswore most monstrously to have.\nGood sir, draw near to me, I'll speak to him.\nSignior Antipholus, I wonder much\nThat you would put me to this shame and trouble;\nAnd, not without some scandal to yourself,\nWith circumstance and oaths so to deny\nThis chain which now you wear so openly:\nBeside the charge, the shame, imprisonment,\nYou have done wrong to this my honest friend,\nWho, but for staying on our controversy,\nHad hoisted sail and put to sea to-day:\nThis chain you had of me; can you deny it?


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These ears of mine, thou know'st did hear thee.\nFie on thee, wretch! 'tis pity that thou livest\nTo walk where any honest man resort.


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Thou art a villain to impeach me thus:\nI'll prove mine honour and mine honesty\nAgainst thee presently, if thou darest stand.


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Hold, hurt him not, for God's sake! he is mad.\nSome get within him, take his sword away:\nBind Dromio too, and bear them to my house.


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Run, master, run; for God's sake, take a house!\nThis is some priory. In, or we are spoil'd!\n[Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse]\nto the Priory]


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To fetch my poor distracted husband hence.\nLet us come in, that we may bind him fast\nAnd bear him home for his recovery.


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This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad,\nAnd much different from the man he was;\nBut till this afternoon his passion\nNe'er brake into extremity of rage.


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Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck of sea?\nBuried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye\nStray'd his affection in unlawful love?\nA sin prevailing much in youthful men,\nWho give their eyes the liberty of gazing.\nWhich of these sorrows is he subject to?


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It was the copy of our conference:\nIn bed he slept not for my urging it;\nAt board he fed not for my urging it;\nAlone, it was the subject of my theme;\nIn company I often glanced it;\nStill did I tell him it was vile and bad.


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And thereof came it that the man was mad.\nThe venom clamours of a jealous woman\nPoisons more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.\nIt seems his sleeps were hinder'd by thy railing,\nAnd therefore comes it that his head is light.\nThou say'st his meat was sauced with thy upbraidings:\nUnquiet meals make ill digestions;\nThereof the raging fire of fever bred;\nAnd what's a fever but a fit of madness?\nThou say'st his sports were hinderd by thy brawls:\nSweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue\nBut moody and dull melancholy,\nKinsman to grim and comfortless despair,\nAnd at her heels a huge infectious troop\nOf pale distemperatures and foes to life?\nIn food, in sport and life-preserving rest\nTo be disturb'd, would mad or man or beast:\nThe consequence is then thy jealous fits\nHave scared thy husband from the use of wits.


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She never reprehended him but mildly,\nWhen he demean'd himself rough, rude and wildly.\nWhy bear you these rebukes and answer not?


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Neither: he took this place for sanctuary,\nAnd it shall privilege him from your hands\nTill I have brought him to his wits again,\nOr lose my labour in assaying it.


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


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Be patient; for I will not let him stir\nTill I have used the approved means I have,\nWith wholesome syrups, drugs and holy prayers,\nTo make of him a formal man again:\nIt is a branch and parcel of mine oath,\nA charitable duty of my order.\nTherefore depart and leave him here with me.


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I will not hence and leave my husband here:\nAnd ill it doth beseem your holiness\nTo separate the husband and the wife.


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


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By this, I think, the dial points at five:\nAnon, I'm sure, the duke himself in person\nComes this way to the melancholy vale,\nThe place of death and sorry execution,\nBehind the ditches of the abbey here.


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To see a reverend Syracusian merchant,\nWho put unluckily into this bay\nAgainst the laws and statutes of this town,\nBeheaded publicly for his offence.


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Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey.\n[Enter DUKE SOLINUS, attended; AEGEON bareheaded; with the]\nHeadsman and other Officers]


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


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May it please your grace, Antipholus, my husband,\nWhom I made lord of me and all I had,\nAt your important letters,--this ill day\nA most outrageous fit of madness took him;\nThat desperately he hurried through the street,\nWith him his bondman, all as mad as he--\nDoing displeasure to the citizens\nBy rushing in their houses, bearing thence\nRings, jewels, any thing his rage did like.\nOnce did I get him bound and sent him home,\nWhilst to take order for the wrongs I went,\nThat here and there his fury had committed.\nAnon, I wot not by what strong escape,\nHe broke from those that had the guard of him;\nAnd with his mad attendant and himself,\nEach one with ireful passion, with drawn swords,\nMet us again and madly bent on us,\nChased us away; till, raising of more aid,\nWe came again to bind them. Then they fled\nInto this abbey, whither we pursued them:\nAnd here the abbess shuts the gates on us\nAnd will not suffer us to fetch him out,\nNor send him forth that we may bear him hence.\nTherefore, most gracious duke, with thy command\nLet him be brought forth and borne hence for help.


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Long since thy husband served me in my wars,\nAnd I to thee engaged a prince's word,\nWhen thou didst make him master of thy bed,\nTo do him all the grace and good I could.\nGo, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate\nAnd bid the lady abbess come to me.\nI will determine this before I stir.


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O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself!\nMy master and his man are both broke loose,\nBeaten the maids a-row and bound the doctor\nWhose beard they have singed off with brands of fire;\nAnd ever, as it blazed, they threw on him\nGreat pails of puddled mire to quench the hair:\nMy master preaches patience to him and the while\nHis man with scissors nicks him like a fool,\nAnd sure, unless you send some present help,\nBetween them they will kill the conjurer.


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Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true;\nI have not breathed almost since I did see it.\nHe cries for you, and vows, if he can take you,\nTo scorch your face and to disfigure you.\n[Cry within]\nHark, hark! I hear him, mistress. fly, be gone!


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Ay me, it is my husband! Witness you,\nThat he is borne about invisible:\nEven now we housed him in the abbey here;\nAnd now he's there, past thought of human reason.


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Justice, most gracious duke, O, grant me justice!\nEven for the service that long since I did thee,\nWhen I bestrid thee in the wars and took\nDeep scars to save thy life; even for the blood\nThat then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.


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Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there!\nShe whom thou gavest to me to be my wife,\nThat hath abused and dishonour'd me\nEven in the strength and height of injury!\nBeyond imagination is the wrong\nThat she this day hath shameless thrown on me.


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No, my good lord: myself, he and my sister\nTo-day did dine together. So befall my soul\nAs this is false he burdens me withal!


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My liege, I am advised what I say,\nNeither disturbed with the effect of wine,\nNor heady-rash, provoked with raging ire,\nAlbeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.\nThis woman lock'd me out this day from dinner:\nThat goldsmith there, were he not pack'd with her,\nCould witness it, for he was with me then;\nWho parted with me to go fetch a chain,\nPromising to bring it to the Porpentine,\nWhere Balthazar and I did dine together.\nOur dinner done, and he not coming thither,\nI went to seek him: in the street I met him\nAnd in his company that gentleman.\nThere did this perjured goldsmith swear me down\nThat I this day of him received the chain,\nWhich, God he knows, I saw not: for the which\nHe did arrest me with an officer.\nI did obey, and sent my peasant home\nFor certain ducats: he with none return'd\nThen fairly I bespoke the officer\nTo go in person with me to my house.\nBy the way we met\nMy wife, her sister, and a rabble more\nOf vile confederates. Along with them\nThey brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced villain,\nA mere anatomy, a mountebank,\nA threadbare juggler and a fortune-teller,\nA needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch,\nA dead-looking man: this pernicious slave,\nForsooth, took on him as a conjurer,\nAnd, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse,\nAnd with no face, as 'twere, outfacing me,\nCries out, I was possess'd. Then all together\nThey fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence\nAnd in a dark and dankish vault at home\nThere left me and my man, both bound together;\nTill, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder,\nI gain'd my freedom, and immediately\nRan hither to your grace; whom I beseech\nTo give me ample satisfaction\nFor these deep shames and great indignities.


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Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine\nHeard you confess you had the chain of him\nAfter you first forswore it on the mart:\nAnd thereupon I drew my sword on you;\nAnd then you fled into this abbey here,\nFrom whence, I think, you are come by miracle.


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I never came within these abbey-walls,\nNor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me:\nI never saw the chain, so help me Heaven!\nAnd this is false you burden me withal.


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Why, what an intricate impeach is this!\nI think you all have drunk of Circe's cup.\nIf here you housed him, here he would have been;\nIf he were mad, he would not plead so coldly:\nYou say he dined at home; the goldsmith here\nDenies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?


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Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a word:\nHaply I see a friend will save my life\nAnd pay the sum that may deliver me.


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Within this hour I was his bondman sir,\nBut he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords:\nNow am I Dromio and his man unbound.


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Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you;\nFor lately we were bound, as you are now\nYou are not Pinch's patient, are you, sir?


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O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last,\nAnd careful hours with time's deformed hand\nHave written strange defeatures in my face:\nBut tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?


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Not know my voice! O time's extremity,\nHast thou so crack'd and splitted my poor tongue\nIn seven short years, that here my only son\nKnows not my feeble key of untuned cares?\nThough now this grained face of mine be hid\nIn sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow,\nAnd all the conduits of my blood froze up,\nYet hath my night of life some memory,\nMy wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,\nMy dull deaf ears a little use to hear:\nAll these old witnesses--I cannot err--\nTell me thou art my son Antipholus.


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But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,\nThou know'st we parted: but perhaps, my son,\nThou shamest to acknowledge me in misery.


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The duke and all that know me in the city\nCan witness with me that it is not so\nI ne'er saw Syracusa in my life.


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I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years\nHave I been patron to Antipholus,\nDuring which time he ne'er saw Syracusa:\nI see thy age and dangers make thee dote.\n[Re-enter AEMILIA, with ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and]\nDROMIO of Syracuse]


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One of these men is Genius to the other;\nAnd so of these. Which is the natural man,\nAnd which the spirit? who deciphers them?


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Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds\nAnd gain a husband by his liberty.\nSpeak, old AEgeon, if thou be'st the man\nThat hadst a wife once call'd AEmilia\nThat bore thee at a burden two fair sons:\nO, if thou be'st the same AEgeon, speak,\nAnd speak unto the same AEmilia!


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If I dream not, thou art AEmilia:\nIf thou art she, tell me where is that son\nThat floated with thee on the fatal raft?


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By men of Epidamnum he and I\nAnd the twin Dromio all were taken up;\nBut by and by rude fishermen of Corinth\nBy force took Dromio and my son from them\nAnd me they left with those of Epidamnum.\nWhat then became of them I cannot tell\nI to this fortune that you see me in.


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Why, here begins his morning story right;\nThese two Antipholuses, these two so like,\nAnd these two Dromios, one in semblance,--\nBesides her urging of her wreck at sea,--\nThese are the parents to these children,\nWhich accidentally are met together.\nAntipholus, thou camest from Corinth first?


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And so do I; yet did she call me so:\nAnd this fair gentlewoman, her sister here,\nDid call me brother.\n[To Luciana]\nWhat I told you then,\nI hope I shall have leisure to make good;\nIf this be not a dream I see and hear.


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This purse of ducats I received from you,\nAnd Dromio, my man, did bring them me.\nI see we still did meet each other's man,\nAnd I was ta'en for him, and he for me,\nAnd thereupon these errors are arose.


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Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains\nTo go with us into the abbey here\nAnd hear at large discoursed all our fortunes:\nAnd all that are assembled in this place,\nThat by this sympathized one day's error\nHave suffer'd wrong, go keep us company,\nAnd we shall make full satisfaction.\nThirty-three years have I but gone in travail\nOf you, my sons; and till this present hour\nMy heavy burden ne'er delivered.\nThe duke, my husband and my children both,\nAnd you the calendars of their nativity,\nGo to a gossips' feast and go with me;\nAfter so long grief, such festivity!


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With all my heart, I'll gossip at this feast.\n[Exeunt all but Antipholus of Syracuse, Antipholus]\nof Ephesus, Dromio of Syracuse and Dromio of Ephesus]


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He speaks to me. I am your master, Dromio:\nCome, go with us; we'll look to that anon:\nEmbrace thy brother there; rejoice with him.


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There is a fat friend at your master's house,\nThat kitchen'd me for you to-day at dinner:\nShe now shall be my sister, not my wife.


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Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother:\nI see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.\nWill you walk in to see their gossiping?


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Nay, then, thus:\nWe came into the world like brother and brother;\nAnd now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.


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We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good.\nWhat authority surfeits on would relieve us: if they\nwould yield us but the superfluity, while it were\nwholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely;\nbut they think we are too dear: the leanness that\nafflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an\ninventory to particularise their abundance; our\nsufferance is a gain to them Let us revenge this with\nour pikes, ere we become rakes: for the gods know I\nspeak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge.


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Very well; and could be content to give him good\nreport fort, but that he pays himself with being proud.


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I say unto you, what he hath done famously, he did\nit to that end: though soft-conscienced men can be\ncontent to say it was for his country he did it to\nplease his mother and to be partly proud; which he\nis, even till the altitude of his virtue.


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What he cannot help in his nature, you account a\nvice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous.


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If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations;\nhe hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition.\n[Shouts within]\nWhat shouts are these? The other side o' the city\nis risen: why stay we prating here? to the Capitol!


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What work's, my countrymen, in hand? where go you\nWith bats and clubs? The matter? speak, I pray you.


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Our business is not unknown to the senate; they have\nhad inkling this fortnight what we intend to do,\nwhich now we'll show 'em in deeds. They say poor\nsuitors have strong breaths: they shall know we\nhave strong arms too.


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I tell you, friends, most charitable care\nHave the patricians of you. For your wants,\nYour suffering in this dearth, you may as well\nStrike at the heaven with your staves as lift them\nAgainst the Roman state, whose course will on\nThe way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs\nOf more strong link asunder than can ever\nAppear in your impediment. For the dearth,\nThe gods, not the patricians, make it, and\nYour knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack,\nYou are transported by calamity\nThither where more attends you, and you slander\nThe helms o' the state, who care for you like fathers,\nWhen you curse them as enemies.


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Care for us! True, indeed! They ne'er cared for us\nyet: suffer us to famish, and their store-houses\ncrammed with grain; make edicts for usury, to\nsupport usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act\nestablished against the rich, and provide more\npiercing statutes daily, to chain up and restrain\nthe poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and\nthere's all the love they bear us.


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Either you must\nConfess yourselves wondrous malicious,\nOr be accused of folly. I shall tell you\nA pretty tale: it may be you have heard it;\nBut, since it serves my purpose, I will venture\nTo stale 't a little more.


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Well, I'll hear it, sir: yet you must not think to\nfob off our disgrace with a tale: but, an 't please\nyou, deliver.


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There was a time when all the body's members\nRebell'd against the belly, thus accused it:\nThat only like a gulf it did remain\nI' the midst o' the body, idle and unactive,\nStill cupboarding the viand, never bearing\nLike labour with the rest, where the other instruments\nDid see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel,\nAnd, mutually participate, did minister\nUnto the appetite and affection common\nOf the whole body. The belly answer'd--


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Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile,\nWhich ne'er came from the lungs, but even thus--\nFor, look you, I may make the belly smile\nAs well as speak--it tauntingly replied\nTo the discontented members, the mutinous parts\nThat envied his receipt; even so most fitly\nAs you malign our senators for that\nThey are not such as you.


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Your belly's answer? What!\nThe kingly-crowned head, the vigilant eye,\nThe counsellor heart, the arm our soldier,\nOur steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter.\nWith other muniments and petty helps\nIn this our fabric, if that they--


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I will tell you\nIf you'll bestow a small--of what you have little--\nPatience awhile, you'll hear the belly's answer.


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Note me this, good friend;\nYour most grave belly was deliberate,\nNot rash like his accusers, and thus answer'd:\n'True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he,\n'That I receive the general food at first,\nWhich you do live upon; and fit it is,\nBecause I am the store-house and the shop\nOf the whole body: but, if you do remember,\nI send it through the rivers of your blood,\nEven to the court, the heart, to the seat o' the brain;\nAnd, through the cranks and offices of man,\nThe strongest nerves and small inferior veins\nFrom me receive that natural competency\nWhereby they live: and though that all at once,\nYou, my good friends,'--this says the belly, mark me,--


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'Though all at once cannot\nSee what I do deliver out to each,\nYet I can make my audit up, that all\nFrom me do back receive the flour of all,\nAnd leave me but the bran.' What say you to't?


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The senators of Rome are this good belly,\nAnd you the mutinous members; for examine\nTheir counsels and their cares, digest things rightly\nTouching the weal o' the common, you shall find\nNo public benefit which you receive\nBut it proceeds or comes from them to you\nAnd no way from yourselves. What do you think,\nYou, the great toe of this assembly?


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For that, being one o' the lowest, basest, poorest,\nOf this most wise rebellion, thou go'st foremost:\nThou rascal, that art worst in blood to run,\nLead'st first to win some vantage.\nBut make you ready your stiff bats and clubs:\nRome and her rats are at the point of battle;\nThe one side must have bale.\n[Enter CAIUS CORIOLANUS]\nHail, noble CORIOLANUS!


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Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues,\nThat, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,\nMake yourselves scabs?


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He that will give good words to thee will flatter\nBeneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs,\nThat like nor peace nor war? the one affrights you,\nThe other makes you proud. He that trusts to you,\nWhere he should find you lions, finds you hares;\nWhere foxes, geese: you are no surer, no,\nThan is the coal of fire upon the ice,\nOr hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is\nTo make him worthy whose offence subdues him\nAnd curse that justice did it.\nWho deserves greatness\nDeserves your hate; and your affections are\nA sick man's appetite, who desires most that\nWhich would increase his evil. He that depends\nUpon your favours swims with fins of lead\nAnd hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust Ye?\nWith every minute you do change a mind,\nAnd call him noble that was now your hate,\nHim vile that was your garland. What's the matter,\nThat in these several places of the city\nYou cry against the noble senate, who,\nUnder the gods, keep you in awe, which else\nWould feed on one another? What's their seeking?


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Hang 'em! They say!\nThey'll sit by the fire, and presume to know\nWhat's done i' the Capitol; who's like to rise,\nWho thrives and who declines; side factions\nand give out\nConjectural marriages; making parties strong\nAnd feebling such as stand not in their liking\nBelow their cobbled shoes. They say there's\ngrain enough!\nWould the nobility lay aside their ruth,\nAnd let me use my sword, I'll make a quarry\nWith thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high\nAs I could pick my lance.


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Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded;\nFor though abundantly they lack discretion,\nYet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you,\nWhat says the other troop?


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They are dissolved: hang 'em!\nThey said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs,\nThat hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat,\nThat meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not\nCorn for the rich men only: with these shreds\nThey vented their complainings; which being answer'd,\nAnd a petition granted them, a strange one--\nTo break the heart of generosity,\nAnd make bold power look pale--they threw their caps\nAs they would hang them on the horns o' the moon,\nShouting their emulation.


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Five tribunes to defend their vulgar wisdoms,\nOf their own choice: one's Junius Brutus,\nSicinius Velutus, and I know not--'Sdeath!\nThe rabble should have first unroof'd the city,\nEre so prevail'd with me: it will in time\nWin upon power and throw forth greater themes\nFor insurrection's arguing.


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I am glad on 't: then we shall ha' means to vent\nOur musty superfluity. See, our best elders.\n[Enter COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, and other Senators;]\nJUNIUS BRUTUS and SICINIUS VELUTUS]


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They have a leader,\nTullus Aufidius, that will put you to 't.\nI sin in envying his nobility,\nAnd were I any thing but what I am,\nI would wish me only he.


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Were half to half the world by the ears and he.\nUpon my party, I'ld revolt to make\nOnly my wars with him: he is a lion\nThat I am proud to hunt.


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Sir, it is;\nAnd I am constant. Titus TITUS, thou\nShalt see me once more strike at Tullus' face.\nWhat, art thou stiff? stand'st out?


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No, Caius CORIOLANUS;\nI'll lean upon one crutch and fight with t'other,\nEre stay behind this business.


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[To COMINIUS] Lead you on.\n[To CORIOLANUS] Follow Cominius; we must follow you;]\nRight worthy you priority.


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Nay, let them follow:\nThe Volsces have much corn; take these rats thither\nTo gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutiners,\nYour valour puts well forth: pray, follow.\n[Citizens steal away. Exeunt all but SICINIUS]\nand BRUTUS]


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Such a nature,\nTickled with good success, disdains the shadow\nWhich he treads on at noon: but I do wonder\nHis insolence can brook to be commanded\nUnder Cominius.


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Fame, at the which he aims,\nIn whom already he's well graced, can not\nBetter be held nor more attain'd than by\nA place below the first: for what miscarries\nShall be the general's fault, though he perform\nTo the utmost of a man, and giddy censure\nWill then cry out of CORIOLANUS 'O if he\nHad borne the business!'


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Besides, if things go well,\nOpinion that so sticks on CORIOLANUS shall\nOf his demerits rob Cominius.


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Come:\nHalf all Cominius' honours are to CORIOLANUS.\nThough CORIOLANUS earned them not, and all his faults\nTo CORIOLANUS shall be honours, though indeed\nIn aught he merit not.


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Let's hence, and hear\nHow the dispatch is made, and in what fashion,\nMore than his singularity, he goes\nUpon this present action.


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So, your opinion is, Aufidius,\nThat they of Rome are entered in our counsels\nAnd know how we proceed.


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Is it not yours?\nWhat ever have been thought on in this state,\nThat could be brought to bodily act ere Rome\nHad circumvention? 'Tis not four days gone\nSince I heard thence; these are the words: I think\nI have the letter here; yes, here it is.\n[Reads]\n'They have press'd a power, but it is not known\nWhether for east or west: the dearth is great;\nThe people mutinous; and it is rumour'd,\nCominius, CORIOLANUS your old enemy,\nWho is of Rome worse hated than of you,\nAnd Titus TITUS, a most valiant Roman,\nThese three lead on this preparation\nWhither 'tis bent: most likely 'tis for you:\nConsider of it.'


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Nor did you think it folly\nTo keep your great pretences veil'd till when\nThey needs must show themselves; which\nin the hatching,\nIt seem'd, appear'd to Rome. By the discovery.\nWe shall be shorten'd in our aim, which was\nTo take in many towns ere almost Rome\nShould know we were afoot.


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Noble Aufidius,\nTake your commission; hie you to your bands:\nLet us alone to guard Corioli:\nIf they set down before 's, for the remove\nBring your army; but, I think, you'll find\nThey've not prepared for us.


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O, doubt not that;\nI speak from certainties. Nay, more,\nSome parcels of their power are forth already,\nAnd only hitherward. I leave your honours.\nIf we and Caius CORIOLANUS chance to meet,\n'Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike\nTill one can do no more.


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I pray you, daughter, sing; or express yourself in a\nmore comfortable sort: if my son were my husband, I\nshould freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he\nwon honour than in the embracements of his bed where\nhe would show most love. When yet he was but\ntender-bodied and the only son of my womb, when\nyouth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way, when\nfor a day of kings' entreaties a mother should not\nsell him an hour from her beholding, I, considering\nhow honour would become such a person. that it was\nno better than picture-like to hang by the wall, if\nrenown made it not stir, was pleased to let him seek\ndanger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel\nwar I sent him; from whence he returned, his brows\nbound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not\nmore in joy at first hearing he was a man-child\nthan now in first seeing he had proved himself a\nman.


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Then his good report should have been my son; I\ntherein would have found issue. Hear me profess\nsincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love\nalike and none less dear than thine and my good\nCORIOLANUS, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their\ncountry than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.


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Indeed, you shall not.\nMethinks I hear hither your husband's drum,\nSee him pluck Aufidius down by the hair,\nAs children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him:\nMethinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus:\n'Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear,\nThough you were born in Rome:' his bloody brow\nWith his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes,\nLike to a harvest-man that's task'd to mow\nOr all or lose his hire.


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Away, you fool! it more becomes a man\nThan gilt his trophy: the breasts of Hecuba,\nWhen she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier\nThan Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood\nAt Grecian sword, contemning. Tell Valeria,\nWe are fit to bid her welcome.


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How do you both? you are manifest house-keepers.\nWhat are you sewing here? A fine spot, in good\nfaith. How does your little son?


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O' my word, the father's son: I'll swear,'tis a\nvery pretty boy. O' my troth, I looked upon him o'\nWednesday half an hour together: has such a\nconfirmed countenance. I saw him run after a gilded\nbutterfly: and when he caught it, he let it go\nagain; and after it again; and over and over he\ncomes, and again; catched it again; or whether his\nfall enraged him, or how 'twas, he did so set his\nteeth and tear it; O, I warrant it, how he mammocked\nit!


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You would be another Penelope: yet, they say, all\nthe yarn she spun in Ulysses' absence did but fill\nIthaca full of moths. Come; I would your cambric\nwere sensible as your finger, that you might leave\npricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us.


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In earnest, it's true; I heard a senator speak it.\nThus it is: the Volsces have an army forth; against\nwhom Cominius the general is gone, with one part of\nour Roman power: your lord and Titus TITUS are set\ndown before their city Corioli; they nothing doubt\nprevailing and to make it brief wars. This is true,\non mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us.


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In troth, I think she would. Fare you well, then.\nCome, good sweet lady. Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy\nsolemness out o' door. and go along with us.


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[Enter, with drum and colours, CORIOLANUS, TITUS LARTIUS, Captains and Soldiers. To them a Messenger]


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Then shall we hear their 'larum, and they ours.\nNow, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work,\nThat we with smoking swords may march from hence,\nTo help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy blast.\n[They sound a parley. Enter two Senators with others]\non the walls]\nTutus Aufidius, is he within your walls?


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No, nor a man that fears you less than he,\nThat's lesser than a little.\n[Drums afar off]\nHark! our drums\nAre bringing forth our youth. We'll break our walls,\nRather than they shall pound us up: our gates,\nWhich yet seem shut, we, have but pinn'd with rushes;\nThey'll open of themselves.\n[Alarum afar off]\nHark you. far off!\nThere is Aufidius; list, what work he makes\nAmongst your cloven army.


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They fear us not, but issue forth their city.\nNow put your shields before your hearts, and fight\nWith hearts more proof than shields. Advance,\nbrave Titus:\nThey do disdain us much beyond our thoughts,\nWhich makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows:\nHe that retires I'll take him for a Volsce,\nAnd he shall feel mine edge.\n[Alarum. The Romans are beat back to their]\ntrenches. Re-enter CORIOLANUS cursing]


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All the contagion of the south light on you,\nYou shames of Rome! you herd of--Boils and plagues\nPlaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd\nFurther than seen and one infect another\nAgainst the wind a mile! You souls of geese,\nThat bear the shapes of men, how have you run\nFrom slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell!\nAll hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale\nWith flight and agued fear! Mend and charge home,\nOr, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe\nAnd make my wars on you: look to't: come on;\nIf you'll stand fast, we'll beat them to their wives,\nAs they us to our trenches followed.\n[Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and CORIOLANUS]\nfollows them to the gates]\nSo, now the gates are ope: now prove good seconds:\n'Tis for the followers fortune widens them,\nNot for the fliers: mark me, and do the like.


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Following the fliers at the very heels,\nWith them he enters; who, upon the sudden,\nClapp'd to their gates: he is himself alone,\nTo answer all the city.


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O noble fellow!\nWho sensibly outdares his senseless sword,\nAnd, when it bows, stands up. Thou art left, CORIOLANUS:\nA carbuncle entire, as big as thou art,\nWere not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier\nEven to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible\nOnly in strokes; but, with thy grim looks and\nThe thunder-like percussion of thy sounds,\nThou madst thine enemies shake, as if the world\nWere feverous and did tremble.


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See here these movers that do prize their hours\nAt a crack'd drachm! Cushions, leaden spoons,\nIrons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would\nBury with those that wore them, these base slaves,\nEre yet the fight be done, pack up: down with them!\nAnd hark, what noise the general makes! To him!\nThere is the man of my soul's hate, Aufidius,\nPiercing our Romans: then, valiant Titus, take\nConvenient numbers to make good the city;\nWhilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste\nTo help Cominius.


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Sir, praise me not;\nMy work hath yet not warm'd me: fare you well:\nThe blood I drop is rather physical\nThan dangerous to me: to Aufidius thus\nI will appear, and fight.


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Now the fair goddess, Fortune,\nFall deep in love with thee; and her great charms\nMisguide thy opposers' swords! Bold gentleman,\nProsperity be thy page!


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Thou worthiest CORIOLANUS!\n[Exit CORIOLANUS]\nGo, sound thy trumpet in the market-place;\nCall thither all the officers o' the town,\nWhere they shall know our mind: away!


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Breathe you, my friends: well fought;\nwe are come off\nLike Romans, neither foolish in our stands,\nNor cowardly in retire: believe me, sirs,\nWe shall be charged again. Whiles we have struck,\nBy interims and conveying gusts we have heard\nThe charges of our friends. Ye Roman gods!\nLead their successes as we wish our own,\nThat both our powers, with smiling\nfronts encountering,\nMay give you thankful sacrifice.\n[Enter a Messenger]\nThy news?


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The citizens of Corioli have issued,\nAnd given to TITUS and to CORIOLANUS battle:\nI saw our party to their trenches driven,\nAnd then I came away.


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'Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums:\nHow couldst thou in a mile confound an hour,\nAnd bring thy news so late?


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Spies of the Volsces\nHeld me in chase, that I was forced to wheel\nThree or four miles about, else had I, sir,\nHalf an hour since brought my report.


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Who's yonder,\nThat does appear as he were flay'd? O gods\nHe has the stamp of CORIOLANUS; and I have\nBefore-time seen him thus.


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The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabour\nMore than I know the sound of CORIOLANUS' tongue\nFrom every meaner man.


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O, let me clip ye\nIn arms as sound as when I woo'd, in heart\nAs merry as when our nuptial day was done,\nAnd tapers burn'd to bedward!


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As with a man busied about decrees:\nCondemning some to death, and some to exile;\nRansoming him, or pitying, threatening the other;\nHolding Corioli in the name of Rome,\nEven like a fawning greyhound in the leash,\nTo let him slip at will.


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Where is that slave\nWhich told me they had beat you to your trenches?\nWhere is he? call him hither.


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Let him alone;\nHe did inform the truth: but for our gentlemen,\nThe common file--a plague! tribunes for them!--\nThe mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat as they did budge\nFrom rascals worse than they.


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Will the time serve to tell? I do not think.\nWhere is the enemy? are you lords o' the field?\nIf not, why cease you till you are so?


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As I guess, CORIOLANUS,\nTheir bands i' the vaward are the Antiates,\nOf their best trust; o'er them Aufidius,\nTheir very heart of hope.


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I do beseech you,\nBy all the battles wherein we have fought,\nBy the blood we have shed together, by the vows\nWe have made to endure friends, that you directly\nSet me against Aufidius and his Antiates;\nAnd that you not delay the present, but,\nFilling the air with swords advanced and darts,\nWe prove this very hour.


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Though I could wish\nYou were conducted to a gentle bath\nAnd balms applied to, you, yet dare I never\nDeny your asking: take your choice of those\nThat best can aid your action.


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Those are they\nThat most are willing. If any such be here--\nAs it were sin to doubt--that love this painting\nWherein you see me smear'd; if any fear\nLesser his person than an ill report;\nIf any think brave death outweighs bad life\nAnd that his country's dearer than himself;\nLet him alone, or so many so minded,\nWave thus, to express his disposition,\nAnd follow CORIOLANUS.\n[They all shout and wave their swords, take him up in]\ntheir arms, and cast up their caps]\nO, me alone! make you a sword of me?\nIf these shows be not outward, which of you\nBut is four Volsces? none of you but is\nAble to bear against the great Aufidius\nA shield as hard as his. A certain number,\nThough thanks to all, must I select\nfrom all: the rest\nShall bear the business in some other fight,\nAs cause will be obey'd. Please you to march;\nAnd four shall quickly draw out my command,\nWhich men are best inclined.


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[Exeunt]\n[TITUS LARTIUS, having set a guard upon]\nCorioli, going with drum and trumpet toward\nCOMINIUS and CAIUS CORIOLANUS, enters with\nLieutenant, other Soldiers, and a Scout]


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So, let the ports be guarded: keep your duties,\nAs I have set them down. If I do send, dispatch\nThose centuries to our aid: the rest will serve\nFor a short holding: if we lose the field,\nWe cannot keep the town.


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Within these three hours, Tullus,\nAlone I fought in your Corioli walls,\nAnd made what work I pleased: 'tis not my blood\nWherein thou seest me mask'd; for thy revenge\nWrench up thy power to the highest.


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Wert thou the Hector\nThat was the whip of your bragg'd progeny,\nThou shouldst not scape me here.\n[They fight, and certain Volsces come to the aid of]\nAUFIDIUS. CORIOLANUS fights till they be driven in\nbreathless]\nOfficious, and not valiant, you have shamed me\nIn your condemned seconds.


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[Exeunt]\n[Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Flourish.]\nEnter, from one side, COMINIUS with the Romans; from\nthe other side, CORIOLANUS, with his arm in a scarf]


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If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,\nThou'ldst not believe thy deeds: but I'll report it\nWhere senators shall mingle tears with smiles,\nWhere great patricians shall attend and shrug,\nI' the end admire, where ladies shall be frighted,\nAnd, gladly quaked, hear more; where the\ndull tribunes,\nThat, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours,\nShall say against their hearts 'We thank the gods\nOur Rome hath such a soldier.'\nYet camest thou to a morsel of this feast,\nHaving fully dined before.\n[Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power,]\nfrom the pursuit]


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Pray now, no more: my mother,\nWho has a charter to extol her blood,\nWhen she does praise me grieves me. I have done\nAs you have done; that's what I can; induced\nAs you have been; that's for my country:\nHe that has but effected his good will\nHath overta'en mine act.


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You shall not be\nThe grave of your deserving; Rome must know\nThe value of her own: 'twere a concealment\nWorse than a theft, no less than a traducement,\nTo hide your doings; and to silence that,\nWhich, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd,\nWould seem but modest: therefore, I beseech you\nIn sign of what you are, not to reward\nWhat you have done--before our army hear me.


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Should they not,\nWell might they fester 'gainst ingratitude,\nAnd tent themselves with death. Of all the horses,\nWhereof we have ta'en good and good store, of all\nThe treasure in this field achieved and city,\nWe render you the tenth, to be ta'en forth,\nBefore the common distribution, at\nYour only choice.


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I thank you, general;\nBut cannot make my heart consent to take\nA bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it;\nAnd stand upon my common part with those\nThat have beheld the doing.\n[A long flourish. They all cry 'CORIOLANUS! CORIOLANUS!']\ncast up their caps and lances: COMINIUS and TITUS\nstand bare]


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May these same instruments, which you profane,\nNever sound more! when drums and trumpets shall\nI' the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be\nMade all of false-faced soothing!\nWhen steel grows soft as the parasite's silk,\nLet him be made a coverture for the wars!\nNo more, I say! For that I have not wash'd\nMy nose that bled, or foil'd some debile wretch.--\nWhich, without note, here's many else have done,--\nYou shout me forth\nIn acclamations hyperbolical;\nAs if I loved my little should be dieted\nIn praises sauced with lies.


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Too modest are you;\nMore cruel to your good report than grateful\nTo us that give you truly: by your patience,\nIf 'gainst yourself you be incensed, we'll put you,\nLike one that means his proper harm, in manacles,\nThen reason safely with you. Therefore, be it known,\nAs to us, to all the world, that Caius CORIOLANUS\nWears this war's garland: in token of the which,\nMy noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,\nWith all his trim belonging; and from this time,\nFor what he did before Corioli, call him,\nWith all the applause and clamour of the host,\nCAIUS CORIOLANUS CORIOLANUS! Bear\nThe addition nobly ever!


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I will go wash;\nAnd when my face is fair, you shall perceive\nWhether I blush or no: howbeit, I thank you.\nI mean to stride your steed, and at all times\nTo undercrest your good addition\nTo the fairness of my power.


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So, to our tent;\nWhere, ere we do repose us, we will write\nTo Rome of our success. You, Titus TITUS,\nMust to Corioli back: send us to Rome\nThe best, with whom we may articulate,\nFor their own good and ours.


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The gods begin to mock me. I, that now\nRefused most princely gifts, am bound to beg\nOf my lord general.


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I sometime lay here in Corioli\nAt a poor man's house; he used me kindly:\nHe cried to me; I saw him prisoner;\nBut then Aufidius was within my view,\nAnd wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity: I request you\nTo give my poor host freedom.


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O, well begg'd!\nWere he the butcher of my son, he should\nBe free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.


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Condition!\nI would I were a Roman; for I cannot,\nBeing a Volsce, be that I am. Condition!\nWhat good condition can a treaty find\nI' the part that is at mercy? Five times, CORIOLANUS,\nI have fought with thee: so often hast thou beat me,\nAnd wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter\nAs often as we eat. By the elements,\nIf e'er again I meet him beard to beard,\nHe's mine, or I am his: mine emulation\nHath not that honour in't it had; for where\nI thought to crush him in an equal force,\nTrue sword to sword, I'll potch at him some way\nOr wrath or craft may get him.


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Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour's poison'd\nWith only suffering stain by him; for him\nShall fly out of itself: nor sleep nor sanctuary,\nBeing naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol,\nThe prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice,\nEmbarquements all of fury, shall lift up\nTheir rotten privilege and custom 'gainst\nMy hate to CORIOLANUS: where I find him, were it\nAt home, upon my brother's guard, even there,\nAgainst the hospitable canon, would I\nWash my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to the city;\nLearn how 'tis held; and what they are that must\nBe hostages for Rome.


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I am attended at the cypress grove: I pray you--\n'Tis south the city mills--bring me word thither\nHow the world goes, that to the pace of it\nI may spur on my journey.


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He's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two\nare old men: tell me one thing that I shall ask you.


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This is strange now: do you two know how you are\ncensured here in the city, I mean of us o' the\nright-hand file? do you?


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Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of\noccasion will rob you of a great deal of patience:\ngive your dispositions the reins, and be angry at\nyour pleasures; at the least if you take it as a\npleasure to you in being so. You blame CORIOLANUS for\nbeing proud?


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I know you can do very little alone; for your helps\nare many, or else your actions would grow wondrous\nsingle: your abilities are too infant-like for\ndoing much alone. You talk of pride: O that you\ncould turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks,\nand make but an interior survey of your good selves!\nO that you could!


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Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting,\nproud, violent, testy magistrates, alias fools, as\nany in Rome.


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I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that\nloves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying\nTiber in't; said to be something imperfect in\nfavouring the first complaint; hasty and tinder-like\nupon too trivial motion; one that converses more\nwith the buttock of the night than with the forehead\nof the morning: what I think I utter, and spend my\nmalice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as\nyou are--I cannot call you Lycurguses--if the drink\nyou give me touch my palate adversely, I make a\ncrooked face at it. I can't say your worships have\ndelivered the matter well, when I find the ass in\ncompound with the major part of your syllables: and\nthough I must be content to bear with those that say\nyou are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that\ntell you you have good faces. If you see this in\nthe map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known\nwell enough too? what barm can your bisson\nconspectuities glean out of this character, if I be\nknown well enough too?


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You know neither me, yourselves nor any thing. You\nare ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs: you\nwear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a\ncause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller;\nand then rejourn the controversy of three pence to a\nsecond day of audience. When you are hearing a\nmatter between party and party, if you chance to be\npinched with the colic, you make faces like\nmummers; set up the bloody flag against all\npatience; and, in roaring for a chamber-pot,\ndismiss the controversy bleeding the more entangled\nby your hearing: all the peace you make in their\ncause is, calling both the parties knaves. You are\na pair of strange ones.


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Come, come, you are well understood to be a\nperfecter giber for the table than a necessary\nbencher in the Capitol.


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Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall\nencounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When\nyou speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the\nwagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not\nso honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's\ncushion, or to be entombed in an ass's pack-\nsaddle. Yet you must be saying, CORIOLANUS is proud;\nwho in a cheap estimation, is worth predecessors\nsince Deucalion, though peradventure some of the\nbest of 'em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to\nyour worships: more of your conversation would\ninfect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly\nplebeians: I will be bold to take my leave of you.\n[BRUTUS and SICINIUS go aside]\n[Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALERIA]\nHow now, my as fair as noble ladies,--and the moon,\nwere she earthly, no nobler,--whither do you follow\nyour eyes so fast?


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Look, here's a letter from him: the state hath\nanother, his wife another; and, I think, there's one\nat home for you.


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A letter for me! it gives me an estate of seven\nyears' health; in which time I will make a lip at\nthe physician: the most sovereign prescription in\nGalen is but empiricutic, and, to this preservative,\nof no better report than a horse-drench. Is he\nnot wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.


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And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that:\nan he had stayed by him, I would not have been so\nfidiused for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold\nthat's in them. Is the senate possessed of this?


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Good ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes; the senate\nhas letters from the general, wherein he gives my\nson the whole name of the war: he hath in this\naction outdone his former deeds doubly


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True! I'll be sworn they are true.\nWhere is he wounded?\n[To the Tribunes]\nGod save your good worships! CORIOLANUS is coming\nhome: he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded?


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I' the shoulder and i' the left arm there will be\nlarge cicatrices to show the people, when he shall\nstand for his place. He received in the repulse of\nTarquin seven hurts i' the body.


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Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave.\n[A shout and flourish]\nHark! the trumpets.


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These are the ushers of CORIOLANUS: before him he\ncarries noise, and behind him he leaves tears:\nDeath, that dark spirit, in 's nervy arm doth lie;\nWhich, being advanced, declines, and then men die.\n[A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the]\ngeneral, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS,\ncrowned with an oaken garland; with Captains and\nSoldiers, and a Herald]


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Know, Rome, that all alone CORIOLANUS did fight\nWithin Corioli gates: where he hath won,\nWith fame, a name to Caius CORIOLANUS; these\nIn honour follows Coriolanus.\nWelcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!


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Nay, my good soldier, up;\nMy gentle CORIOLANUS, worthy Caius, and\nBy deed-achieving honour newly named,--\nWhat is it?--Coriolanus must I call thee?--\nBut O, thy wife!


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My gracious silence, hail!\nWouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home,\nThat weep'st to see me triumph? Ay, my dear,\nSuch eyes the widows in Corioli wear,\nAnd mothers that lack sons.


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A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep\nAnd I could laugh, I am light and heavy. Welcome.\nA curse begin at very root on's heart,\nThat is not glad to see thee! You are three\nThat Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men,\nWe have some old crab-trees here\nat home that will not\nBe grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors:\nWe call a nettle but a nettle and\nThe faults of fools but folly.


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[To VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA] Your hand, and yours:\nEre in our own house I do shade my head,\nThe good patricians must be visited;\nFrom whom I have received not only greetings,\nBut with them change of honours.


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I have lived\nTo see inherited my very wishes\nAnd the buildings of my fancy: only\nThere's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but\nOur Rome will cast upon thee.


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On, to the Capitol!\n[Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before.]\nBRUTUS and SICINIUS come forward]


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All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights\nAre spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse\nInto a rapture lets her baby cry\nWhile she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins\nHer richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,\nClambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows,\nAre smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges horsed\nWith variable complexions, all agreeing\nIn earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens\nDo press among the popular throngs and puff\nTo win a vulgar station: or veil'd dames\nCommit the war of white and damask in\nTheir nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil\nOf Phoebus' burning kisses: such a pother\nAs if that whatsoever god who leads him\nWere slily crept into his human powers\nAnd gave him graceful posture.


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He cannot temperately transport his honours\nFrom where he should begin and end, but will\nLose those he hath won.


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Doubt not\nThe commoners, for whom we stand, but they\nUpon their ancient malice will forget\nWith the least cause these his new honours, which\nThat he will give them make I as little question\nAs he is proud to do't.


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I heard him swear,\nWere he to stand for consul, never would he\nAppear i' the market-place nor on him put\nThe napless vesture of humility;\nNor showing, as the manner is, his wounds\nTo the people, beg their stinking breaths.


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It was his word: O, he would miss it rather\nThan carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him,\nAnd the desire of the nobles.


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So it must fall out\nTo him or our authorities. For an end,\nWe must suggest the people in what hatred\nHe still hath held them; that to's power he would\nHave made them mules, silenced their pleaders and\nDispropertied their freedoms, holding them,\nIn human action and capacity,\nOf no more soul nor fitness for the world\nThan camels in the war, who have their provand\nOnly for bearing burdens, and sore blows\nFor sinking under them.


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This, as you say, suggested\nAt some time when his soaring insolence\nShall touch the people--which time shall not want,\nIf he be put upon 't; and that's as easy\nAs to set dogs on sheep--will be his fire\nTo kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze\nShall darken him for ever.


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You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought\nThat CORIOLANUS shall be consul:\nI have seen the dumb men throng to see him and\nThe blind to bear him speak: matrons flung gloves,\nLadies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers,\nUpon him as he pass'd: the nobles bended,\nAs to Jove's statue, and the commons made\nA shower and thunder with their caps and shouts:\nI never saw the like.


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Faith, there had been many great men that have\nflattered the people, who ne'er loved them; and there\nbe many that they have loved, they know not\nwherefore: so that, if they love they know not why,\nthey hate upon no better a ground: therefore, for\nCoriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate\nhim manifests the true knowledge he has in their\ndisposition; and out of his noble carelessness lets\nthem plainly see't.


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If he did not care whether he had their love or no,\nhe waved indifferently 'twixt doing them neither\ngood nor harm: but he seeks their hate with greater\ndevotion than can render it him; and leaves\nnothing undone that may fully discover him their\nopposite. Now, to seem to affect the malice and\ndispleasure of the people is as bad as that which he\ndislikes, to flatter them for their love.


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He hath deserved worthily of his country: and his\nascent is not by such easy degrees as those who,\nhaving been supple and courteous to the people,\nbonneted, without any further deed to have them at\nan into their estimation and report: but he hath so\nplanted his honours in their eyes, and his actions\nin their hearts, that for their tongues to be\nsilent, and not confess so much, were a kind of\ningrateful injury; to report otherwise, were a\nmalice, that, giving itself the lie, would pluck\nreproof and rebuke from every ear that heard it.


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No more of him; he is a worthy man: make way, they\nare coming.\n[A sennet. Enter, with actors before them, COMINIUS]\nthe consul, MENENIUS, CORIOLANUS, Senators,\nSICINIUS and BRUTUS. The Senators take their\nplaces; the Tribunes take their Places by\nthemselves. CORIOLANUS stands]


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Having determined of the Volsces and\nTo send for Titus TITUS, it remains,\nAs the main point of this our after-meeting,\nTo gratify his noble service that\nHath thus stood for his country: therefore,\nplease you,\nMost reverend and grave elders, to desire\nThe present consul, and last general\nIn our well-found successes, to report\nA little of that worthy work perform'd\nBy Caius CORIOLANUS Coriolanus, whom\nWe met here both to thank and to remember\nWith honours like himself.


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Speak, good Cominius:\nLeave nothing out for length, and make us think\nRather our state's defective for requital\nThan we to stretch it out.\n[To the Tribunes]\nMasters o' the people,\nWe do request your kindest ears, and after,\nYour loving motion toward the common body,\nTo yield what passes here.


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We are convented\nUpon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts\nInclinable to honour and advance\nThe theme of our assembly.


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Which the rather\nWe shall be blest to do, if he remember\nA kinder value of the people than\nHe hath hereto prized them at.


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He loves your people\nBut tie him not to be their bedfellow.\nWorthy Cominius, speak.\n[CORIOLANUS offers to go away]\nNay, keep your place.


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No, sir: yet oft,\nWhen blows have made me stay, I fled from words.\nYou soothed not, therefore hurt not: but\nyour people,\nI love them as they weigh.


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I had rather have one scratch my head i' the sun\nWhen the alarum were struck than idly sit\nTo hear my nothings monster'd.


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Masters of the people,\nYour multiplying spawn how can he flatter--\nThat's thousand to one good one--when you now see\nHe had rather venture all his limbs for honour\nThan one on's ears to hear it? Proceed, Cominius.


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I shall lack voice: the deeds of Coriolanus\nShould not be utter'd feebly. It is held\nThat valour is the chiefest virtue, and\nMost dignifies the haver: if it be,\nThe man I speak of cannot in the world\nBe singly counterpoised. At sixteen years,\nWhen Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought\nBeyond the mark of others: our then dictator,\nWhom with all praise I point at, saw him fight,\nWhen with his Amazonian chin he drove\nThe bristled lips before him: be bestrid\nAn o'er-press'd Roman and i' the consul's view\nSlew three opposers: Tarquin's self he met,\nAnd struck him on his knee: in that day's feats,\nWhen he might act the woman in the scene,\nHe proved best man i' the field, and for his meed\nWas brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age\nMan-enter'd thus, he waxed like a sea,\nAnd in the brunt of seventeen battles since\nHe lurch'd all swords of the garland. For this last,\nBefore and in Corioli, let me say,\nI cannot speak him home: he stopp'd the fliers;\nAnd by his rare example made the coward\nTurn terror into sport: as weeds before\nA vessel under sail, so men obey'd\nAnd fell below his stem: his sword, death's stamp,\nWhere it did mark, it took; from face to foot\nHe was a thing of blood, whose every motion\nWas timed with dying cries: alone he enter'd\nThe mortal gate of the city, which he painted\nWith shunless destiny; aidless came off,\nAnd with a sudden reinforcement struck\nCorioli like a planet: now all's his:\nWhen, by and by, the din of war gan pierce\nHis ready sense; then straight his doubled spirit\nRe-quicken'd what in flesh was fatigate,\nAnd to the battle came he; where he did\nRun reeking o'er the lives of men, as if\n'Twere a perpetual spoil: and till we call'd\nBoth field and city ours, he never stood\nTo ease his breast with panting.


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Our spoils he kick'd at,\nAnd look'd upon things precious as they were\nThe common muck of the world: he covets less\nThan misery itself would give; rewards\nHis deeds with doing them, and is content\nTo spend the time to end it.


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I do beseech you,\nLet me o'erleap that custom, for I cannot\nPut on the gown, stand naked and entreat them,\nFor my wounds' sake, to give their suffrage: please you\nThat I may pass this doing.


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Put them not to't:\nPray you, go fit you to the custom and\nTake to you, as your predecessors have,\nYour honour with your form.


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To brag unto them, thus I did, and thus;\nShow them the unaching scars which I should hide,\nAs if I had received them for the hire\nOf their breath only!


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Do not stand upon't.\nWe recommend to you, tribunes of the people,\nOur purpose to them: and to our noble consul\nWish we all joy and honour.Senators. To Coriolanus come all joy and honour!\n[Flourish of cornets. Exeunt all but SICINIUS]\nand BRUTUS]


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May they perceive's intent! He will require them,\nAs if he did contemn what he requested\nShould be in them to give.


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We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a\npower that we have no power to do; for if he show us\nhis wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our\ntongues into those wounds and speak for them; so, if\nhe tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him\nour noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is\nmonstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful,\nwere to make a monster of the multitude: of the\nwhich we being members, should bring ourselves to be\nmonstrous members.


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And to make us no better thought of, a little help\nwill serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he\nhimself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude.


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We have been called so of many; not that our heads\nare some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald,\nbut that our wits are so diversely coloured: and\ntruly I think if all our wits were to issue out of\none skull, they would fly east, west, north, south,\nand their consent of one direct way should be at\nonce to all the points o' the compass.


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Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man's\nwill;'tis strongly wedged up in a block-head, but\nif it were at liberty, 'twould, sure, southward.


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To lose itself in a fog, where being three parts\nmelted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return\nfor conscience sake, to help to get thee a wife.


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Are you all resolved to give your voices? But\nthat's no matter, the greater part carries it. I\nsay, if he would incline to the people, there was\nnever a worthier man.\n[Enter CORIOLANUS in a gown of humility,]\nwith MENENIUS]\nHere he comes, and in the gown of humility: mark his\nbehavior. We are not to stay all together, but to\ncome by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, and\nby threes. He's to make his requests by\nparticulars; wherein every one of us has a single\nhonour, in giving him our own voices with our own\ntongues: therefore follow me, and I direct you how\nyou shall go by him.


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What must I say?\n'I Pray, sir'--Plague upon't! I cannot bring\nMy tongue to such a pace:--'Look, sir, my wounds!\nI got them in my country's service, when\nSome certain of your brethren roar'd and ran\nFrom the noise of our own drums.'


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Think upon me! hang 'em!\nI would they would forget me, like the virtues\nWhich our divines lose by 'em.


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Bid them wash their faces\nAnd keep their teeth clean.\n[Re-enter two of the Citizens]\nSo, here comes a brace.\n[Re-enter a third Citizen]\nYou know the cause, air, of my standing here.


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Kindly! Sir, I pray, let me ha't: I have wounds to\nshow you, which shall be yours in private. Your\ngood voice, sir; what say you?


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Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your\nvoices that I may be consul, I have here the\ncustomary gown.


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You have been a scourge to her enemies, you have\nbeen a rod to her friends; you have not indeed loved\nthe common people.


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You should account me the more virtuous that I have\nnot been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my\nsworn brother, the people, to earn a dearer\nestimation of them; 'tis a condition they account\ngentle: and since the wisdom of their choice is\nrather to have my hat than my heart, I will practise\nthe insinuating nod and be off to them most\ncounterfeitly; that is, sir, I will counterfeit the\nbewitchment of some popular man and give it\nbountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you,\nI may be consul.


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I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I\nwill make much of your voices, and so trouble you no further.


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Most sweet voices!\nBetter it is to die, better to starve,\nThan crave the hire which first we do deserve.\nWhy in this woolvish toge should I stand here,\nTo beg of Hob and Dick, that do appear,\nTheir needless vouches? Custom calls me to't:\nWhat custom wills, in all things should we do't,\nThe dust on antique time would lie unswept,\nAnd mountainous error be too highly heapt\nFor truth to o'er-peer. Rather than fool it so,\nLet the high office and the honour go\nTo one that would do thus. I am half through;\nThe one part suffer'd, the other will I do.\n[Re-enter three Citizens more]\nHere come more voices.\nYour voices: for your voices I have fought;\nWatch'd for your voices; for Your voices bear\nOf wounds two dozen odd; battles thrice six\nI have seen and heard of; for your voices have\nDone many things, some less, some more your voices:\nIndeed I would be consul.


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You have stood your limitation; and the tribunes\nEndue you with the people's voice: remains\nThat, in the official marks invested, you\nAnon do meet the senate.


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The custom of request you have discharged:\nThe people do admit you, and are summon'd\nTo meet anon, upon your approbation.


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Fare you well.\n[Exeunt CORIOLANUS and MENENIUS]\nHe has it now, and by his looks methink\n'Tis warm at 's heart.


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Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says\nHe used us scornfully: he should have show'd us\nHis marks of merit, wounds received for's country.


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He said he had wounds, which he could show\nin private;\nAnd with his hat, thus waving it in scorn,\n'I would be consul,' says he: 'aged custom,\nBut by your voices, will not so permit me;\nYour voices therefore.' When we granted that,\nHere was 'I thank you for your voices: thank you:\nYour most sweet voices: now you have left\nyour voices,\nI have no further with you.' Was not this mockery?


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Why either were you ignorant to see't,\nOr, seeing it, of such childish friendliness\nTo yield your voices?


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Could you not have told him\nAs you were lesson'd, when he had no power,\nBut was a petty servant to the state,\nHe was your enemy, ever spake against\nYour liberties and the charters that you bear\nI' the body of the weal; and now, arriving\nA place of potency and sway o' the state,\nIf he should still malignantly remain\nFast foe to the plebeii, your voices might\nBe curses to yourselves? You should have said\nThat as his worthy deeds did claim no less\nThan what he stood for, so his gracious nature\nWould think upon you for your voices and\nTranslate his malice towards you into love,\nStanding your friendly lord.


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Thus to have said,\nAs you were fore-advised, had touch'd his spirit\nAnd tried his inclination; from him pluck'd\nEither his gracious promise, which you might,\nAs cause had call'd you up, have held him to\nOr else it would have gall'd his surly nature,\nWhich easily endures not article\nTying him to aught; so putting him to rage,\nYou should have ta'en the advantage of his choler\nAnd pass'd him unelected.


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Did you perceive\nHe did solicit you in free contempt\nWhen he did need your loves, and do you think\nThat his contempt shall not be bruising to you,\nWhen he hath power to crush? Why, had your bodies\nNo heart among you? or had you tongues to cry\nAgainst the rectorship of judgment?


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Have you\nEre now denied the asker? and now again\nOf him that did not ask, but mock, bestow\nYour sued-for tongues?


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Get you hence instantly, and tell those friends,\nThey have chose a consul that will from them take\nTheir liberties; make them of no more voice\nThan dogs that are as often beat for barking\nAs therefore kept to do so.


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Let them assemble,\nAnd on a safer judgment all revoke\nYour ignorant election; enforce his pride,\nAnd his old hate unto you; besides, forget not\nWith what contempt he wore the humble weed,\nHow in his suit he scorn'd you; but your loves,\nThinking upon his services, took from you\nThe apprehension of his present portance,\nWhich most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion\nAfter the inveterate hate he bears you.


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Lay\nA fault on us, your tribunes; that we laboured,\nNo impediment between, but that you must\nCast your election on him.


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Say, you chose him\nMore after our commandment than as guided\nBy your own true affections, and that your minds,\nPreoccupied with what you rather must do\nThan what you should, made you against the grain\nTo voice him consul: lay the fault on us.


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Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you.\nHow youngly he began to serve his country,\nHow long continued, and what stock he springs of,\nThe noble house o' the Marcians, from whence came\nThat Ancus CORIOLANUS, Numa's daughter's son,\nWho, after great Hostilius, here was king;\nOf the same house Publius and Quintus were,\nThat our beat water brought by conduits hither;\nAnd [Censorinus,] nobly named so,\nTwice being [by the people chosen] censor,\nWas his great ancestor.


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One thus descended,\nThat hath beside well in his person wrought\nTo be set high in place, we did commend\nTo your remembrances: but you have found,\nScaling his present bearing with his past,\nThat he's your fixed enemy, and revoke\nYour sudden approbation.


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Say, you ne'er had done't--\nHarp on that still--but by our putting on;\nAnd presently, when you have drawn your number,\nRepair to the Capitol.


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Let them go on;\nThis mutiny were better put in hazard,\nThan stay, past doubt, for greater:\nIf, as his nature is, he fall in rage\nWith their refusal, both observe and answer\nThe vantage of his anger.


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To the Capitol, come:\nWe will be there before the stream o' the people;\nAnd this shall seem, as partly 'tis, their own,\nWhich we have goaded onward.


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[Exeunt]\n[Cornets. Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, all the]\nGentry, COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, and other Senators]


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So then the Volsces stand but as at first,\nReady, when time shall prompt them, to make road.\nUpon's again.


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On safe-guard he came to me; and did curse\nAgainst the Volsces, for they had so vilely\nYielded the town: he is retired to Antium.


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How often he had met you, sword to sword;\nThat of all things upon the earth he hated\nYour person most, that he would pawn his fortunes\nTo hopeless restitution, so he might\nBe call'd your vanquisher.


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I wish I had a cause to seek him there,\nTo oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home.\n[Enter SICINIUS and BRUTUS]\nBehold, these are the tribunes of the people,\nThe tongues o' the common mouth: I do despise them;\nFor they do prank them in authority,\nAgainst all noble sufferance.


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Are these your herd?\nMust these have voices, that can yield them now\nAnd straight disclaim their tongues? What are\nyour offices?\nYou being their mouths, why rule you not their teeth?\nHave you not set them on?


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It is a purposed thing, and grows by plot,\nTo curb the will of the nobility:\nSuffer't, and live with such as cannot rule\nNor ever will be ruled.


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Call't not a plot:\nThe people cry you mock'd them, and of late,\nWhen corn was given them gratis, you repined;\nScandal'd the suppliants for the people, call'd them\nTime-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness.


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Why then should I be consul? By yond clouds,\nLet me deserve so ill as you, and make me\nYour fellow tribune.


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You show too much of that\nFor which the people stir: if you will pass\nTo where you are bound, you must inquire your way,\nWhich you are out of, with a gentler spirit,\nOr never be so noble as a consul,\nNor yoke with him for tribune.


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The people are abused; set on. This paltering\nBecomes not Rome, nor has Coriolanus\nDeserved this so dishonour'd rub, laid falsely\nI' the plain way of his merit.


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Now, as I live, I will. My nobler friends,\nI crave their pardons:\nFor the mutable, rank-scented many, let them\nRegard me as I do not flatter, and\nTherein behold themselves: I say again,\nIn soothing them, we nourish 'gainst our senate\nThe cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition,\nWhich we ourselves have plough'd for, sow'd,\nand scatter'd,\nBy mingling them with us, the honour'd number,\nWho lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that\nWhich they have given to beggars.


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How! no more!\nAs for my country I have shed my blood,\nNot fearing outward force, so shall my lungs\nCoin words till their decay against those measles,\nWhich we disdain should tatter us, yet sought\nThe very way to catch them.


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'Shall'!\nO good but most unwise patricians! why,\nYou grave but reckless senators, have you thus\nGiven Hydra here to choose an officer,\nThat with his peremptory 'shall,' being but\nThe horn and noise o' the monster's, wants not spirit\nTo say he'll turn your current in a ditch,\nAnd make your channel his? If he have power\nThen vail your ignorance; if none, awake\nYour dangerous lenity. If you are learn'd,\nBe not as common fools; if you are not,\nLet them have cushions by you. You are plebeians,\nIf they be senators: and they are no less,\nWhen, both your voices blended, the great'st taste\nMost palates theirs. They choose their magistrate,\nAnd such a one as he, who puts his 'shall,'\nHis popular 'shall' against a graver bench\nThan ever frown in Greece. By Jove himself!\nIt makes the consuls base: and my soul aches\nTo know, when two authorities are up,\nNeither supreme, how soon confusion\nMay enter 'twixt the gap of both and take\nThe one by the other.


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Whoever gave that counsel, to give forth\nThe corn o' the storehouse gratis, as 'twas used\nSometime in Greece,--


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Though there the people had more absolute power,\nI say, they nourish'd disobedience, fed\nThe ruin of the state.


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I'll give my reasons,\nMore worthier than their voices. They know the corn\nWas not our recompense, resting well assured\nThat ne'er did service for't: being press'd to the war,\nEven when the navel of the state was touch'd,\nThey would not thread the gates. This kind of service\nDid not deserve corn gratis. Being i' the war\nTheir mutinies and revolts, wherein they show'd\nMost valour, spoke not for them: the accusation\nWhich they have often made against the senate,\nAll cause unborn, could never be the motive\nOf our so frank donation. Well, what then?\nHow shall this bisson multitude digest\nThe senate's courtesy? Let deeds express\nWhat's like to be their words: 'we did request it;\nWe are the greater poll, and in true fear\nThey gave us our demands.' Thus we debase\nThe nature of our seats and make the rabble\nCall our cares fears; which will in time\nBreak ope the locks o' the senate and bring in\nThe crows to peck the eagles.


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No, take more:\nWhat may be sworn by, both divine and human,\nSeal what I end withal! This double worship,\nWhere one part does disdain with cause, the other\nInsult without all reason, where gentry, title, wisdom,\nCannot conclude but by the yea and no\nOf general ignorance,--it must omit\nReal necessities, and give way the while\nTo unstable slightness: purpose so barr'd,\nit follows,\nNothing is done to purpose. Therefore, beseech you,--\nYou that will be less fearful than discreet,\nThat love the fundamental part of state\nMore than you doubt the change on't, that prefer\nA noble life before a long, and wish\nTo jump a body with a dangerous physic\nThat's sure of death without it, at once pluck out\nThe multitudinous tongue; let them not lick\nThe sweet which is their poison: your dishonour\nMangles true judgment and bereaves the state\nOf that integrity which should become't,\nNot having the power to do the good it would,\nFor the in which doth control't.


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Thou wretch, despite o'erwhelm thee!\nWhat should the people do with these bald tribunes?\nOn whom depending, their obedience fails\nTo the greater bench: in a rebellion,\nWhen what's not meet, but what must be, was law,\nThen were they chosen: in a better hour,\nLet what is meet be said it must be meet,\nAnd throw their power i' the dust.


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Go, call the people:\n[Exit AEdile]\nin whose name myself\nAttach thee as a traitorous innovator,\nA foe to the public weal: obey, I charge thee,\nAnd follow to thine answer.


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Down with him! down with him!\n[They all bustle about CORIOLANUS, crying]\n'Tribunes!' 'Patricians!' 'Citizens!' 'What, ho!'\n'Sicinius!' 'Brutus!' 'Coriolanus!' 'Citizens!'\n'Peace, peace, peace!' 'Stay, hold, peace!'


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What is about to be? I am out of breath;\nConfusion's near; I cannot speak. You, tribunes\nTo the people! Coriolanus, patience!\nSpeak, good Sicinius.


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You are at point to lose your liberties:\nCORIOLANUS would have all from you; CORIOLANUS,\nWhom late you have named for consul.


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That is the way to lay the city flat;\nTo bring the roof to the foundation,\nAnd bury all, which yet distinctly ranges,\nIn heaps and piles of ruin.


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Or let us stand to our authority,\nOr let us lose it. We do here pronounce,\nUpon the part o' the people, in whose power\nWe were elected theirs, CORIOLANUS is worthy\nOf present death.


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Therefore lay hold of him;\nBear him to the rock Tarpeian, and from thence\nInto destruction cast him.


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[To BRUTUS] Be that you seem, truly your\ncountry's friend,\nAnd temperately proceed to what you would\nThus violently redress.


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Sir, those cold ways,\nThat seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous\nWhere the disease is violent. Lay hands upon him,\nAnd bear him to the rock.


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No, I'll die here.\n[Drawing his sword]\nThere's some among you have beheld me fighting:\nCome, try upon yourselves what you have seen me.


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Down with him, down with him!\n[In this mutiny, the Tribunes, the AEdiles, and the]\nPeople, are beat in]


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I would they were barbarians--as they are,\nThough in Rome litter'd--not Romans--as they are not,\nThough calved i' the porch o' the Capitol--


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I could myself\nTake up a brace o' the best of them; yea, the\ntwo tribunes:\nBut now 'tis odds beyond arithmetic;\nAnd manhood is call'd foolery, when it stands\nAgainst a falling fabric. Will you hence,\nBefore the tag return? whose rage doth rend\nLike interrupted waters and o'erbear\nWhat they are used to bear.


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Pray you, be gone:\nI'll try whether my old wit be in request\nWith those that have but little: this must be patch'd\nWith cloth of any colour.


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His nature is too noble for the world:\nHe would not flatter Neptune for his trident,\nOr Jove for's power to thunder. His heart's his mouth:\nWhat his breast forges, that his tongue must vent;\nAnd, being angry, does forget that ever\nHe heard the name of death.\n[A noise within]\nHere's goodly work!


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He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock\nWith rigorous hands: he hath resisted law,\nAnd therefore law shall scorn him further trial\nThan the severity of the public power\nWhich he so sets at nought.


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If, by the tribunes' leave, and yours, good people,\nI may be heard, I would crave a word or two;\nThe which shall turn you to no further harm\nThan so much loss of time.


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Speak briefly then;\nFor we are peremptory to dispatch\nThis viperous traitor: to eject him hence\nWere but one danger, and to keep him here\nOur certain death: therefore it is decreed\nHe dies to-night.


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Now the good gods forbid\nThat our renowned Rome, whose gratitude\nTowards her deserved children is enroll'd\nIn Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam\nShould now eat up her own!


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O, he's a limb that has but a disease;\nMortal, to cut it off; to cure it, easy.\nWhat has he done to Rome that's worthy death?\nKilling our enemies, the blood he hath lost--\nWhich, I dare vouch, is more than that he hath,\nBy many an ounce--he dropp'd it for his country;\nAnd what is left, to lose it by his country,\nWere to us all, that do't and suffer it,\nA brand to the end o' the world.


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We'll hear no more.\nPursue him to his house, and pluck him thence:\nLest his infection, being of catching nature,\nSpread further.


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One word more, one word.\nThis tiger-footed rage, when it shall find\nThe harm of unscann'd swiftness, will too late\nTie leaden pounds to's heels. Proceed by process;\nLest parties, as he is beloved, break out,\nAnd sack great Rome with Romans.


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What do ye talk?\nHave we not had a taste of his obedience?\nOur aediles smote? ourselves resisted? Come.


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Consider this: he has been bred i' the wars\nSince he could draw a sword, and is ill school'd\nIn bolted language; meal and bran together\nHe throws without distinction. Give me leave,\nI'll go to him, and undertake to bring him\nWhere he shall answer, by a lawful form,\nIn peace, to his utmost peril.


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Noble tribunes,\nIt is the humane way: the other course\nWill prove too bloody, and the end of it\nUnknown to the beginning.


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Meet on the market-place. We'll attend you there:\nWhere, if you bring not CORIOLANUS, we'll proceed\nIn our first way.


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I'll bring him to you.\n[To the Senators]\nLet me desire your company: he must come,\nOr what is worst will follow.


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Let them puff all about mine ears, present me\nDeath on the wheel or at wild horses' heels,\nOr pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock,\nThat the precipitation might down stretch\nBelow the beam of sight, yet will I still\nBe thus to them.


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I muse my mother\nDoes not approve me further, who was wont\nTo call them woollen vassals, things created\nTo buy and sell with groats, to show bare heads\nIn congregations, to yawn, be still and wonder,\nWhen one but of my ordinance stood up\nTo speak of peace or war.\n[Enter VOLUMNIA]\nI talk of you:\nWhy did you wish me milder? would you have me\nFalse to my nature? Rather say I play\nThe man I am.


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You might have been enough the man you are,\nWith striving less to be so; lesser had been\nThe thwartings of your dispositions, if\nYou had not show'd them how ye were disposed\nEre they lack'd power to cross you.


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Pray, be counsell'd:\nI have a heart as little apt as yours,\nBut yet a brain that leads my use of anger\nTo better vantage.


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Well said, noble woman?\nBefore he should thus stoop to the herd, but that\nThe violent fit o' the time craves it as physic\nFor the whole state, I would put mine armour on,\nWhich I can scarcely bear.


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You are too absolute;\nThough therein you can never be too noble,\nBut when extremities speak. I have heard you say,\nHonour and policy, like unsever'd friends,\nI' the war do grow together: grant that, and tell me,\nIn peace what each of them by the other lose,\nThat they combine not there.


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If it be honour in your wars to seem\nThe same you are not, which, for your best ends,\nYou adopt your policy, how is it less or worse,\nThat it shall hold companionship in peace\nWith honour, as in war, since that to both\nIt stands in like request?


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Because that now it lies you on to speak\nTo the people; not by your own instruction,\nNor by the matter which your heart prompts you,\nBut with such words that are but rooted in\nYour tongue, though but bastards and syllables\nOf no allowance to your bosom's truth.\nNow, this no more dishonours you at all\nThan to take in a town with gentle words,\nWhich else would put you to your fortune and\nThe hazard of much blood.\nI would dissemble with my nature where\nMy fortunes and my friends at stake required\nI should do so in honour: I am in this,\nYour wife, your son, these senators, the nobles;\nAnd you will rather show our general louts\nHow you can frown than spend a fawn upon 'em,\nFor the inheritance of their loves and safeguard\nOf what that want might ruin.


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Noble lady!\nCome, go with us; speak fair: you may salve so,\nNot what is dangerous present, but the loss\nOf what is past.


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I prithee now, my son,\nGo to them, with this bonnet in thy hand;\nAnd thus far having stretch'd it--here be with them--\nThy knee bussing the stones--for in such business\nAction is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant\nMore learned than the ears--waving thy head,\nWhich often, thus, correcting thy stout heart,\nNow humble as the ripest mulberry\nThat will not hold the handling: or say to them,\nThou art their soldier, and being bred in broils\nHast not the soft way which, thou dost confess,\nWere fit for thee to use as they to claim,\nIn asking their good loves, but thou wilt frame\nThyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far\nAs thou hast power and person.


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This but done,\nEven as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours;\nFor they have pardons, being ask'd, as free\nAs words to little purpose.


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Prithee now,\nGo, and be ruled: although I know thou hadst rather\nFollow thine enemy in a fiery gulf\nThan flatter him in a bower. Here is Cominius.


plain_text:
I have been i' the market-place; and, sir,'tis fit\nYou make strong party, or defend yourself\nBy calmness or by absence: all's in anger.


plain_text:
Must I go show them my unbarbed sconce?\nMust I with base tongue give my noble heart\nA lie that it must bear? Well, I will do't:\nYet, were there but this single plot to lose,\nThis mould of CORIOLANUS, they to dust should grind it\nAnd throw't against the wind. To the market-place!\nYou have put me now to such a part which never\nI shall discharge to the life.


plain_text:
I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said\nMy praises made thee first a soldier, so,\nTo have my praise for this, perform a part\nThou hast not done before.


plain_text:
Well, I must do't:\nAway, my disposition, and possess me\nSome harlot's spirit! my throat of war be turn'd,\nWhich quired with my drum, into a pipe\nSmall as an eunuch, or the virgin voice\nThat babies lulls asleep! the smiles of knaves\nTent in my cheeks, and schoolboys' tears take up\nThe glasses of my sight! a beggar's tongue\nMake motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees,\nWho bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his\nThat hath received an alms! I will not do't,\nLest I surcease to honour mine own truth\nAnd by my body's action teach my mind\nA most inherent baseness.


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At thy choice, then:\nTo beg of thee, it is my more dishonour\nThan thou of them. Come all to ruin; let\nThy mother rather feel thy pride than fear\nThy dangerous stoutness, for I mock at death\nWith as big heart as thou. Do as thou list\nThy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me,\nBut owe thy pride thyself.


plain_text:
Pray, be content:\nMother, I am going to the market-place;\nChide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves,\nCog their hearts from them, and come home beloved\nOf all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going:\nCommend me to my wife. I'll return consul;\nOr never trust to what my tongue can do\nI' the way of flattery further.


plain_text:
Away! the tribunes do attend you: arm yourself\nTo answer mildly; for they are prepared\nWith accusations, as I hear, more strong\nThan are upon you yet.


plain_text:
The word is 'mildly.' Pray you, let us go:\nLet them accuse me by invention, I\nWill answer in mine honour.


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In this point charge him home, that he affects\nTyrannical power: if he evade us there,\nEnforce him with his envy to the people,\nAnd that the spoil got on the Antiates\nWas ne'er distributed.\n[Enter an AEdile]\nWhat, will he come?


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Assemble presently the people hither;\nAnd when they bear me say 'It shall be so\nI' the right and strength o' the commons,' be it either\nFor death, for fine, or banishment, then let them\nIf I say fine, cry 'Fine;' if death, cry 'Death.'\nInsisting on the old prerogative\nAnd power i' the truth o' the cause.


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And when such time they have begun to cry,\nLet them not cease, but with a din confused\nEnforce the present execution\nOf what we chance to sentence.


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Go about it.\n[Exit AEdile]\nPut him to choler straight: he hath been used\nEver to conquer, and to have his worth\nOf contradiction: being once chafed, he cannot\nBe rein'd again to temperance; then he speaks\nWhat's in his heart; and that is there which looks\nWith us to break his neck.


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Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece\nWill bear the knave by the volume. The honour'd gods\nKeep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice\nSupplied with worthy men! plant love among 's!\nThrong our large temples with the shows of peace,\nAnd not our streets with war!


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I do demand,\nIf you submit you to the people's voices,\nAllow their officers and are content\nTo suffer lawful censure for such faults\nAs shall be proved upon you?


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Lo, citizens, he says he is content:\nThe warlike service he has done, consider; think\nUpon the wounds his body bears, which show\nLike graves i' the holy churchyard.


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Consider further,\nThat when he speaks not like a citizen,\nYou find him like a soldier: do not take\nHis rougher accents for malicious sounds,\nBut, as I say, such as become a soldier,\nRather than envy you.


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What is the matter\nThat being pass'd for consul with full voice,\nI am so dishonour'd that the very hour\nYou take it off again?


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We charge you, that you have contrived to take\nFrom Rome all season'd office and to wind\nYourself into a power tyrannical;\nFor which you are a traitor to the people.


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The fires i' the lowest hell fold-in the people!\nCall me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune!\nWithin thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths,\nIn thy hand clutch'd as many millions, in\nThy lying tongue both numbers, I would say\n'Thou liest' unto thee with a voice as free\nAs I do pray the gods.


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Peace!\nWe need not put new matter to his charge:\nWhat you have seen him do and heard him speak,\nBeating your officers, cursing yourselves,\nOpposing laws with strokes and here defying\nThose whose great power must try him; even this,\nSo criminal and in such capital kind,\nDeserves the extremest death.


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I know no further:\nLet them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death,\nVagabond exile, raying, pent to linger\nBut with a grain a day, I would not buy\nTheir mercy at the price of one fair word;\nNor cheque my courage for what they can give,\nTo have't with saying 'Good morrow.'


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For that he has,\nAs much as in him lies, from time to time\nEnvied against the people, seeking means\nTo pluck away their power, as now at last\nGiven hostile strokes, and that not in the presence\nOf dreaded justice, but on the ministers\nThat do distribute it; in the name o' the people\nAnd in the power of us the tribunes, we,\nEven from this instant, banish him our city,\nIn peril of precipitation\nFrom off the rock Tarpeian never more\nTo enter our Rome gates: i' the people's name,\nI say it shall be so.


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Let me speak:\nI have been consul, and can show for Rome\nHer enemies' marks upon me. I do love\nMy country's good with a respect more tender,\nMore holy and profound, than mine own life,\nMy dear wife's estimate, her womb's increase,\nAnd treasure of my loins; then if I would\nSpeak that,--


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There's no more to be said, but he is banish'd,\nAs enemy to the people and his country:\nIt shall be so.


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You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate\nAs reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize\nAs the dead carcasses of unburied men\nThat do corrupt my air, I banish you;\nAnd here remain with your uncertainty!\nLet every feeble rumour shake your hearts!\nYour enemies, with nodding of their plumes,\nFan you into despair! Have the power still\nTo banish your defenders; till at length\nYour ignorance, which finds not till it feels,\nMaking not reservation of yourselves,\nStill your own foes, deliver you as most\nAbated captives to some nation\nThat won you without blows! Despising,\nFor you, the city, thus I turn my back:\nThere is a world elsewhere.\n[Exeunt CORIOLANUS, COMINIUS, MENENIUS, Senators,]\nand Patricians]


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Go, see him out at gates, and follow him,\nAs he hath followed you, with all despite;\nGive him deserved vexation. Let a guard\nAttend us through the city.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter CORIOLANUS, VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, MENENIUS,]\nCOMINIUS, with the young Nobility of Rome]


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Come, leave your tears: a brief farewell: the beast\nWith many heads butts me away. Nay, mother,\nWhere is your ancient courage? you were used\nTo say extremity was the trier of spirits;\nThat common chances common men could bear;\nThat when the sea was calm all boats alike\nShow'd mastership in floating; fortune's blows,\nWhen most struck home, being gentle wounded, craves\nA noble cunning: you were used to load me\nWith precepts that would make invincible\nThe heart that conn'd them.


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What, what, what!\nI shall be loved when I am lack'd. Nay, mother.\nResume that spirit, when you were wont to say,\nIf you had been the wife of Hercules,\nSix of his labours you'ld have done, and saved\nYour husband so much sweat. Cominius,\nDroop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother:\nI'll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius,\nThy tears are salter than a younger man's,\nAnd venomous to thine eyes. My sometime general,\nI have seen thee stem, and thou hast oft beheld\nHeart-hardening spectacles; tell these sad women\n'Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes,\nAs 'tis to laugh at 'em. My mother, you wot well\nMy hazards still have been your solace: and\nBelieve't not lightly--though I go alone,\nLike to a lonely dragon, that his fen\nMakes fear'd and talk'd of more than seen--your son\nWill or exceed the common or be caught\nWith cautelous baits and practise.


plain_text:
My first son.\nWhither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius\nWith thee awhile: determine on some course,\nMore than a wild exposture to each chance\nThat starts i' the way before thee.


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I'll follow thee a month, devise with thee\nWhere thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us\nAnd we of thee: so if the time thrust forth\nA cause for thy repeal, we shall not send\nO'er the vast world to seek a single man,\nAnd lose advantage, which doth ever cool\nI' the absence of the needer.


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Fare ye well:\nThou hast years upon thee; and thou art too full\nOf the wars' surfeits, to go rove with one\nThat's yet unbruised: bring me but out at gate.\nCome, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and\nMy friends of noble touch, when I am forth,\nBid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come.\nWhile I remain above the ground, you shall\nHear from me still, and never of me aught\nBut what is like me formerly.


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That's worthily\nAs any ear can hear. Come, let's not weep.\nIf I could shake off but one seven years\nFrom these old arms and legs, by the good gods,\nI'ld with thee every foot.


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Bid them all home; he's gone, and we'll no further.\nThe nobility are vex'd, whom we see have sided\nIn his behalf.


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If that I could for weeping, you should hear,--\nNay, and you shall hear some.\n[To BRUTUS]\nWill you be gone?


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Ay, fool; is that a shame? Note but this fool.\nWas not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship\nTo banish him that struck more blows for Rome\nThan thou hast spoken words?


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More noble blows than ever thou wise words;\nAnd for Rome's good. I'll tell thee what; yet go:\nNay, but thou shalt stay too: I would my son\nWere in Arabia, and thy tribe before him,\nHis good sword in his hand.


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I would he had continued to his country\nAs he began, and not unknit himself\nThe noble knot he made.


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'I would he had'! 'Twas you incensed the rabble:\nCats, that can judge as fitly of his worth\nAs I can of those mysteries which heaven\nWill not have earth to know.


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Now, pray, sir, get you gone:\nYou have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this:--\nAs far as doth the Capitol exceed\nThe meanest house in Rome, so far my son--\nThis lady's husband here, this, do you see--\nWhom you have banish'd, does exceed you all.


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Take my prayers with you.\n[Exeunt Tribunes]\nI would the gods had nothing else to do\nBut to confirm my curses! Could I meet 'em\nBut once a-day, it would unclog my heart\nOf what lies heavy to't.


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Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,\nAnd so shall starve with feeding. Come, let's go:\nLeave this faint puling and lament as I do,\nIn anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come.


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You had more beard when I last saw you; but your\nfavour is well approved by your tongue. What's the\nnews in Rome? I have a note from the Volscian state,\nto find you out there: you have well saved me a\nday's journey.


plain_text:
There hath been in Rome strange insurrections; the\npeople against the senators, patricians, and nobles.


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Hath been! is it ended, then? Our state thinks not\nso: they are in a most warlike preparation, and\nhope to come upon them in the heat of their division.


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The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing\nwould make it flame again: for the nobles receive\nso to heart the banishment of that worthy\nCoriolanus, that they are in a ripe aptness to take\nall power from the people and to pluck from them\ntheir tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can\ntell you, and is almost mature for the violent\nbreaking out.


plain_text:
The day serves well for them now. I have heard it\nsaid, the fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is\nwhen she's fallen out with her husband. Your noble\nTullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his\ngreat opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request\nof his country.


plain_text:
He cannot choose. I am most fortunate, thus\naccidentally to encounter you: you have ended my\nbusiness, and I will merrily accompany you home.


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I shall, between this and supper, tell you most\nstrange things from Rome; all tending to the good of\ntheir adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you?


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A most royal one; the centurions and their charges,\ndistinctly billeted, already in the entertainment,\nand to be on foot at an hour's warning.


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I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am the\nman, I think, that shall set them in present action.\nSo, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company.


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A goodly city is this Antium. City,\n'Tis I that made thy widows: many an heir\nOf these fair edifices 'fore my wars\nHave I heard groan and drop: then know me not,\nLest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones\nIn puny battle slay me.\n[Enter a Citizen]\nSave you, sir.


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Thank you, sir: farewell.\n[Exit Citizen]\nO world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn,\nWhose double bosoms seem to wear one heart,\nWhose house, whose bed, whose meal, and exercise,\nAre still together, who twin, as 'twere, in love\nUnseparable, shall within this hour,\nOn a dissension of a doit, break out\nTo bitterest enmity: so, fellest foes,\nWhose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep,\nTo take the one the other, by some chance,\nSome trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends\nAnd interjoin their issues. So with me:\nMy birth-place hate I, and my love's upon\nThis enemy town. I'll enter: if he slay me,\nHe does fair justice; if he give me way,\nI'll do his country service.


plain_text:
Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his eyes in his\nhead; that he gives entrance to such companions?\nPray, get you out.


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A strange one as ever I looked on: I cannot get him\nout of the house: prithee, call my master to him.


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Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other\nstation; here's no place for you; pray you, avoid: come.


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Ay; 'tis an honester service than to meddle with thy\nmistress. Thou pratest, and pratest; serve with thy\ntrencher, hence!


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If, Tullus,\n[Unmuffling]\nNot yet thou knowest me, and, seeing me, dost not\nThink me for the man I am, necessity\nCommands me name myself.


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Say, what's thy name?\nThou hast a grim appearance, and thy face\nBears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn.\nThou show'st a noble vessel: what's thy name?


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My name is Caius CORIOLANUS, who hath done\nTo thee particularly and to all the Volsces\nGreat hurt and mischief; thereto witness may\nMy surname, Coriolanus: the painful service,\nThe extreme dangers and the drops of blood\nShed for my thankless country are requited\nBut with that surname; a good memory,\nAnd witness of the malice and displeasure\nWhich thou shouldst bear me: only that name remains;\nThe cruelty and envy of the people,\nPermitted by our dastard nobles, who\nHave all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest;\nAnd suffer'd me by the voice of slaves to be\nWhoop'd out of Rome. Now this extremity\nHath brought me to thy hearth; not out of hope--\nMistake me not--to save my life, for if\nI had fear'd death, of all the men i' the world\nI would have 'voided thee, but in mere spite,\nTo be full quit of those my banishers,\nStand I before thee here. Then if thou hast\nA heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge\nThine own particular wrongs and stop those maims\nOf shame seen through thy country, speed\nthee straight,\nAnd make my misery serve thy turn: so use it\nThat my revengeful services may prove\nAs benefits to thee, for I will fight\nAgainst my canker'd country with the spleen\nOf all the under fiends. But if so be\nThou darest not this and that to prove more fortunes\nThou'rt tired, then, in a word, I also am\nLonger to live most weary, and present\nMy throat to thee and to thy ancient malice;\nWhich not to cut would show thee but a fool,\nSince I have ever follow'd thee with hate,\nDrawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast,\nAnd cannot live but to thy shame, unless\nIt be to do thee service.


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O CORIOLANUS, CORIOLANUS!\nEach word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart\nA root of ancient envy. If Jupiter\nShould from yond cloud speak divine things,\nAnd say 'Tis true,' I'ld not believe them more\nThan thee, all noble CORIOLANUS. Let me twine\nMine arms about that body, where against\nMy grained ash an hundred times hath broke\nAnd scarr'd the moon with splinters: here I clip\nThe anvil of my sword, and do contest\nAs hotly and as nobly with thy love\nAs ever in ambitious strength I did\nContend against thy valour. Know thou first,\nI loved the maid I married; never man\nSigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here,\nThou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart\nThan when I first my wedded mistress saw\nBestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars! I tell thee,\nWe have a power on foot; and I had purpose\nOnce more to hew thy target from thy brawn,\nOr lose mine arm fort: thou hast beat me out\nTwelve several times, and I have nightly since\nDreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me;\nWe have been down together in my sleep,\nUnbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat,\nAnd waked half dead with nothing. Worthy CORIOLANUS,\nHad we no quarrel else to Rome, but that\nThou art thence banish'd, we would muster all\nFrom twelve to seventy, and pouring war\nInto the bowels of ungrateful Rome,\nLike a bold flood o'er-bear. O, come, go in,\nAnd take our friendly senators by the hands;\nWho now are here, taking their leaves of me,\nWho am prepared against your territories,\nThough not for Rome itself.


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Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt have\nThe leading of thine own revenges, take\nThe one half of my commission; and set down--\nAs best thou art experienced, since thou know'st\nThy country's strength and weakness,--thine own ways;\nWhether to knock against the gates of Rome,\nOr rudely visit them in parts remote,\nTo fright them, ere destroy. But come in:\nLet me commend thee first to those that shall\nSay yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes!\nAnd more a friend than e'er an enemy;\nYet, CORIOLANUS, that was much. Your hand: most welcome!\n[Exeunt CORIOLANUS and AUFIDIUS. The two]\nServingmen come forward]


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By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with\na cudgel; and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a\nfalse report of him.


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Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in\nhim: he had, sir, a kind of face, methought,--I\ncannot tell how to term it.


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He had so; looking as it were--would I were hanged,\nbut I thought there was more in him than I could think.


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Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that:\nfor the defence of a town, our general is excellent.


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He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth\non't: before Corioli he scotched him and notched\nhim like a carbon ado.


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Why, he is so made on here within, as if he were son\nand heir to Mars; set at upper end o' the table; no\nquestion asked him by any of the senators, but they\nstand bald before him: our general himself makes a\nmistress of him: sanctifies himself with's hand and\nturns up the white o' the eye to his discourse. But\nthe bottom of the news is that our general is cut i'\nthe middle and but one half of what he was\nyesterday; for the other has half, by the entreaty\nand grant of the whole table. He'll go, he says,\nand sowl the porter of Rome gates by the ears: he\nwill mow all down before him, and leave his passage polled.


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Do't! he will do't; for, look you, sir, he has as\nmany friends as enemies; which friends, sir, as it\nwere, durst not, look you, sir, show themselves, as\nwe term it, his friends whilst he's in directitude.


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But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again,\nand the man in blood, they will out of their\nburrows, like conies after rain, and revel all with\nhim.


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To-morrow; to-day; presently; you shall have the\ndrum struck up this afternoon: 'tis, as it were, a\nparcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they\nwipe their lips.


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Why, then we shall have a stirring world again.\nThis peace is nothing, but to rust iron, increase\ntailors, and breed ballad-makers.


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Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as\nday does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and\nfull of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy;\nmulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more\nbastard children than war's a destroyer of men.


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'Tis so: and as war, in some sort, may be said to\nbe a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a\ngreat maker of cuckolds.


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Reason; because they then less need one another.\nThe wars for my money. I hope to see Romans as cheap\nas Volscians. They are rising, they are rising.


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We hear not of him, neither need we fear him;\nHis remedies are tame i' the present peace\nAnd quietness of the people, which before\nWere in wild hurry. Here do we make his friends\nBlush that the world goes well, who rather had,\nThough they themselves did suffer by't, behold\nDissentious numbers pestering streets than see\nOur tradesmen with in their shops and going\nAbout their functions friendly.


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Your Coriolanus\nIs not much miss'd, but with his friends:\nThe commonwealth doth stand, and so would do,\nWere he more angry at it.


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This is a happier and more comely time\nThan when these fellows ran about the streets,\nCrying confusion.


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Caius CORIOLANUS was\nA worthy officer i' the war; but insolent,\nO'ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking,\nSelf-loving,--


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Worthy tribunes,\nThere is a slave, whom we have put in prison,\nReports, the Volsces with two several powers\nAre enter'd in the Roman territories,\nAnd with the deepest malice of the war\nDestroy what lies before 'em.


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'Tis Aufidius,\nWho, hearing of our CORIOLANUS' banishment,\nThrusts forth his horns again into the world;\nWhich were inshell'd when CORIOLANUS stood for Rome,\nAnd durst not once peep out.


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Cannot be!\nWe have record that very well it can,\nAnd three examples of the like have been\nWithin my age. But reason with the fellow,\nBefore you punish him, where he heard this,\nLest you shall chance to whip your information\nAnd beat the messenger who bids beware\nOf what is to be dreaded.


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The nobles in great earnestness are going\nAll to the senate-house: some news is come\nThat turns their countenances.


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It is spoke freely out of many mouths--\nHow probable I do not know--that CORIOLANUS,\nJoin'd with Aufidius, leads a power 'gainst Rome,\nAnd vows revenge as spacious as between\nThe young'st and oldest thing.


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You are sent for to the senate:\nA fearful army, led by Caius CORIOLANUS\nAssociated with Aufidius, rages\nUpon our territories; and have already\nO'erborne their way, consumed with fire, and took\nWhat lay before them.


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You have holp to ravish your own daughters and\nTo melt the city leads upon your pates,\nTo see your wives dishonour'd to your noses,--


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Your temples burned in their cement, and\nYour franchises, whereon you stood, confined\nInto an auger's bore.


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Pray now, your news?\nYou have made fair work, I fear me.--Pray, your news?--\nIf CORIOLANUS should be join'd with Volscians,--


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If!\nHe is their god: he leads them like a thing\nMade by some other deity than nature,\nThat shapes man better; and they follow him,\nAgainst us brats, with no less confidence\nThan boys pursuing summer butterflies,\nOr butchers killing flies.


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You have made good work,\nYou and your apron-men; you that stood so up much\non the voice of occupation and\nThe breath of garlic-eaters!


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Ay; and you'll look pale\nBefore you find it other. All the regions\nDo smilingly revolt; and who resist\nAre mock'd for valiant ignorance,\nAnd perish constant fools. Who is't can blame him?\nYour enemies and his find something in him.


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Who shall ask it?\nThe tribunes cannot do't for shame; the people\nDeserve such pity of him as the wolf\nDoes of the shepherds: for his best friends, if they\nShould say 'Be good to Rome,' they charged him even\nAs those should do that had deserved his hate,\nAnd therein show'd like enemies.


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'Tis true:\nIf he were putting to my house the brand\nThat should consume it, I have not the face\nTo say 'Beseech you, cease.' You have made fair hands,\nYou and your crafts! you have crafted fair!


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How! Was it we? we loved him but, like beasts\nAnd cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters,\nWho did hoot him out o' the city.


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But I fear\nThey'll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius,\nThe second name of men, obeys his points\nAs if he were his officer: desperation\nIs all the policy, strength and defence,\nThat Rome can make against them.


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Here come the clusters.\nAnd is Aufidius with him? You are they\nThat made the air unwholesome, when you cast\nYour stinking greasy caps in hooting at\nCoriolanus' exile. Now he's coming;\nAnd not a hair upon a soldier's head\nWhich will not prove a whip: as many coxcombs\nAs you threw caps up will he tumble down,\nAnd pay you for your voices. 'Tis no matter;\nif he could burn us all into one coal,\nWe have deserved it.


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And so did I; and, to say the truth, so did very\nmany of us: that we did, we did for the best; and\nthough we willingly consented to his banishment, yet\nit was against our will.


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Go, masters, get you home; be not dismay'd:\nThese are a side that would be glad to have\nThis true which they so seem to fear. Go home,\nAnd show no sign of fear.


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The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let's home.\nI ever said we were i' the wrong when we banished\nhim.


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I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but\nYour soldiers use him as the grace 'fore meat,\nTheir talk at table, and their thanks at end;\nAnd you are darken'd in this action, sir,\nEven by your own.


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I cannot help it now,\nUnless, by using means, I lame the foot\nOf our design. He bears himself more proudlier,\nEven to my person, than I thought he would\nWhen first I did embrace him: yet his nature\nIn that's no changeling; and I must excuse\nWhat cannot be amended.


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Yet I wish, sir,--\nI mean for your particular,--you had not\nJoin'd in commission with him; but either\nHad borne the action of yourself, or else\nTo him had left it solely.


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I understand thee well; and be thou sure,\nwhen he shall come to his account, he knows not\nWhat I can urge against him. Although it seems,\nAnd so he thinks, and is no less apparent\nTo the vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly.\nAnd shows good husbandry for the Volscian state,\nFights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon\nAs draw his sword; yet he hath left undone\nThat which shall break his neck or hazard mine,\nWhene'er we come to our account.


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All places yield to him ere he sits down;\nAnd the nobility of Rome are his:\nThe senators and patricians love him too:\nThe tribunes are no soldiers; and their people\nWill be as rash in the repeal, as hasty\nTo expel him thence. I think he'll be to Rome\nAs is the osprey to the fish, who takes it\nBy sovereignty of nature. First he was\nA noble servant to them; but he could not\nCarry his honours even: whether 'twas pride,\nWhich out of daily fortune ever taints\nThe happy man; whether defect of judgment,\nTo fail in the disposing of those chances\nWhich he was lord of; or whether nature,\nNot to be other than one thing, not moving\nFrom the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace\nEven with the same austerity and garb\nAs he controll'd the war; but one of these--\nAs he hath spices of them all, not all,\nFor I dare so far free him--made him fear'd,\nSo hated, and so banish'd: but he has a merit,\nTo choke it in the utterance. So our virtues\nLie in the interpretation of the time:\nAnd power, unto itself most commendable,\nHath not a tomb so evident as a chair\nTo extol what it hath done.\nOne fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail;\nRights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail.\nCome, let's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine,\nThou art poor'st of all; then shortly art thou mine.


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No, I'll not go: you hear what he hath said\nWhich was sometime his general; who loved him\nIn a most dear particular. He call'd me father:\nBut what o' that? Go, you that banish'd him;\nA mile before his tent fall down, and knee\nThe way into his mercy: nay, if he coy'd\nTo hear Cominius speak, I'll keep at home.


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Yet one time he did call me by my name:\nI urged our old acquaintance, and the drops\nThat we have bled together. Coriolanus\nHe would not answer to: forbad all names;\nHe was a kind of nothing, titleless,\nTill he had forged himself a name o' the fire\nOf burning Rome.


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Why, so: you have made good work!\nA pair of tribunes that have rack'd for Rome,\nTo make coals cheap,--a noble memory!


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I minded him how royal 'twas to pardon\nWhen it was less expected: he replied,\nIt was a bare petition of a state\nTo one whom they had punish'd.


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I offer'd to awaken his regard\nFor's private friends: his answer to me was,\nHe could not stay to pick them in a pile\nOf noisome musty chaff: he said 'twas folly,\nFor one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt,\nAnd still to nose the offence.


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For one poor grain or two!\nI am one of those; his mother, wife, his child,\nAnd this brave fellow too, we are the grains:\nYou are the musty chaff; and you are smelt\nAbove the moon: we must be burnt for you.


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Nay, pray, be patient: if you refuse your aid\nIn this so never-needed help, yet do not\nUpbraid's with our distress. But, sure, if you\nWould be your country's pleader, your good tongue,\nMore than the instant army we can make,\nMight stop our countryman.


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Well, and say that CORIOLANUS\nReturn me, as Cominius is return'd,\nUnheard; what then?\nBut as a discontented friend, grief-shot\nWith his unkindness? say't be so?


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I'll undertake 't:\nI think he'll hear me. Yet, to bite his lip\nAnd hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me.\nHe was not taken well; he had not dined:\nThe veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then\nWe pout upon the morning, are unapt\nTo give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd\nThese and these conveyances of our blood\nWith wine and feeding, we have suppler souls\nThan in our priest-like fasts: therefore I'll watch him\nTill he be dieted to my request,\nAnd then I'll set upon him.


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I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye\nRed as 'twould burn Rome; and his injury\nThe gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him;\n'Twas very faintly he said 'Rise;' dismiss'd me\nThus, with his speechless hand: what he would do,\nHe sent in writing after me; what he would not,\nBound with an oath to yield to his conditions:\nSo that all hope is vain.\nUnless his noble mother, and his wife;\nWho, as I hear, mean to solicit him\nFor mercy to his country. Therefore, let's hence,\nAnd with our fair entreaties haste them on.


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You guard like men; 'tis well: but, by your leave,\nI am an officer of state, and come\nTo speak with Coriolanus.


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Good my friends,\nIf you have heard your general talk of Rome,\nAnd of his friends there, it is lots to blanks,\nMy name hath touch'd your ears it is Menenius.


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I tell thee, fellow,\nThe general is my lover: I have been\nThe book of his good acts, whence men have read\nHis name unparallel'd, haply amplified;\nFor I have ever verified my friends,\nOf whom he's chief, with all the size that verity\nWould without lapsing suffer: nay, sometimes,\nLike to a bowl upon a subtle ground,\nI have tumbled past the throw; and in his praise\nHave almost stamp'd the leasing: therefore, fellow,\nI must have leave to pass.


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Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his\nbehalf as you have uttered words in your own, you\nshould not pass here; no, though it were as virtuous\nto lie as to live chastely. Therefore, go back.


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Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you\nhave, I am one that, telling true under him, must\nsay, you cannot pass. Therefore, go back.


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Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you,\nwhen you have pushed out your gates the very\ndefender of them, and, in a violent popular\nignorance, given your enemy your shield, think to\nfront his revenges with the easy groans of old\nwomen, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with\nthe palsied intercession of such a decayed dotant as\nyou seem to be? Can you think to blow out the\nintended fire your city is ready to flame in, with\nsuch weak breath as this? No, you are deceived;\ntherefore, back to Rome, and prepare for your\nexecution: you are condemned, our general has sworn\nyou out of reprieve and pardon.


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My general cares not for you. Back, I say, go; lest\nI let forth your half-pint of blood; back,--that's\nthe utmost of your having: back.


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Now, you companion, I'll say an errand for you:\nYou shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall\nperceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from\nmy son Coriolanus: guess, but by my entertainment\nwith him, if thou standest not i' the state of\nhanging, or of some death more long in\nspectatorship, and crueller in suffering; behold now\npresently, and swoon for what's to come upon thee.\n[To CORIOLANUS]\nThe glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy\nparticular prosperity, and love thee no worse than\nthy old father Menenius does! O my son, my son!\nthou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here's\nwater to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to\nthee; but being assured none but myself could move\nthee, I have been blown out of your gates with\nsighs; and conjure thee to pardon Rome, and thy\npetitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy\nwrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet\nhere,--this, who, like a block, hath denied my\naccess to thee.


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Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs\nAre servanted to others: though I owe\nMy revenge properly, my remission lies\nIn Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar,\nIngrate forgetfulness shall poison, rather\nThan pity note how much. Therefore, be gone.\nMine ears against your suits are stronger than\nYour gates against my force. Yet, for I loved thee,\nTake this along; I writ it for thy sake\n[Gives a letter]\nAnd would have rent it. Another word, Menenius,\nI will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius,\nWas my beloved in Rome: yet thou behold'st!


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I neither care for the world nor your general: for\nsuch things as you, I can scarce think there's any,\nye're so slight. He that hath a will to die by\nhimself fears it not from another: let your general\ndo his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and\nyour misery increase with your age! I say to you,\nas I was said to, Away!


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We will before the walls of Rome tomorrow\nSet down our host. My partner in this action,\nYou must report to the Volscian lords, how plainly\nI have borne this business.


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Only their ends\nYou have respected; stopp'd your ears against\nThe general suit of Rome; never admitted\nA private whisper, no, not with such friends\nThat thought them sure of you.


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This last old man,\nWhom with a crack'd heart I have sent to Rome,\nLoved me above the measure of a father;\nNay, godded me, indeed. Their latest refuge\nWas to send him; for whose old love I have,\nThough I show'd sourly to him, once more offer'd\nThe first conditions, which they did refuse\nAnd cannot now accept; to grace him only\nThat thought he could do more, a very little\nI have yielded to: fresh embassies and suits,\nNor from the state nor private friends, hereafter\nWill I lend ear to. Ha! what shout is this?\n[Shout within]\nShall I be tempted to infringe my vow\nIn the same time 'tis made? I will not.\n[Enter in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA,]\nleading young CORIOLANUS, VALERIA, and Attendants]\nMy wife comes foremost; then the honour'd mould\nWherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand\nThe grandchild to her blood. But, out, affection!\nAll bond and privilege of nature, break!\nLet it be virtuous to be obstinate.\nWhat is that curt'sy worth? or those doves' eyes,\nWhich can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am not\nOf stronger earth than others. My mother bows;\nAs if Olympus to a molehill should\nIn supplication nod: and my young boy\nHath an aspect of intercession, which\nGreat nature cries 'Deny not.' let the Volsces\nPlough Rome and harrow Italy: I'll never\nBe such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand,\nAs if a man were author of himself\nAnd knew no other kin.


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Like a dull actor now,\nI have forgot my part, and I am out,\nEven to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh,\nForgive my tyranny; but do not say\nFor that 'Forgive our Romans.' O, a kiss\nLong as my exile, sweet as my revenge!\nNow, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss\nI carried from thee, dear; and my true lip\nHath virgin'd it e'er since. You gods! I prate,\nAnd the most noble mother of the world\nLeave unsaluted: sink, my knee, i' the earth;\n[Kneels]\nOf thy deep duty more impression show\nThan that of common sons.


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O, stand up blest!\nWhilst, with no softer cushion than the flint,\nI kneel before thee; and unproperly\nShow duty, as mistaken all this while\nBetween the child and parent.


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What is this?\nYour knees to me? to your corrected son?\nThen let the pebbles on the hungry beach\nFillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds\nStrike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun;\nMurdering impossibility, to make\nWhat cannot be, slight work.


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The noble sister of Publicola,\nThe moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle\nThat's curdied by the frost from purest snow\nAnd hangs on Dian's temple: dear Valeria!


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This is a poor epitome of yours,\nWhich by the interpretation of full time\nMay show like all yourself.


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The god of soldiers,\nWith the consent of supreme Jove, inform\nThy thoughts with nobleness; that thou mayst prove\nTo shame unvulnerable, and stick i' the wars\nLike a great sea-mark, standing every flaw,\nAnd saving those that eye thee!


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I beseech you, peace:\nOr, if you'ld ask, remember this before:\nThe thing I have forsworn to grant may never\nBe held by you denials. Do not bid me\nDismiss my soldiers, or capitulate\nAgain with Rome's mechanics: tell me not\nWherein I seem unnatural: desire not\nTo ally my rages and revenges with\nYour colder reasons.


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O, no more, no more!\nYou have said you will not grant us any thing;\nFor we have nothing else to ask, but that\nWhich you deny already: yet we will ask;\nThat, if you fail in our request, the blame\nMay hang upon your hardness: therefore hear us.


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Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment\nAnd state of bodies would bewray what life\nWe have led since thy exile. Think with thyself\nHow more unfortunate than all living women\nAre we come hither: since that thy sight,\nwhich should\nMake our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance\nwith comforts,\nConstrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow;\nMaking the mother, wife and child to see\nThe son, the husband and the father tearing\nHis country's bowels out. And to poor we\nThine enmity's most capital: thou barr'st us\nOur prayers to the gods, which is a comfort\nThat all but we enjoy; for how can we,\nAlas, how can we for our country pray.\nWhereto we are bound, together with thy victory,\nWhereto we are bound? alack, or we must lose\nThe country, our dear nurse, or else thy person,\nOur comfort in the country. We must find\nAn evident calamity, though we had\nOur wish, which side should win: for either thou\nMust, as a foreign recreant, be led\nWith manacles thorough our streets, or else\ntriumphantly tread on thy country's ruin,\nAnd bear the palm for having bravely shed\nThy wife and children's blood. For myself, son,\nI purpose not to wait on fortune till\nThese wars determine: if I cannot persuade thee\nRather to show a noble grace to both parts\nThan seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner\nMarch to assault thy country than to tread--\nTrust to't, thou shalt not--on thy mother's womb,\nThat brought thee to this world.


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Not of a woman's tenderness to be,\nRequires nor child nor woman's face to see.\nI have sat too long.


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Nay, go not from us thus.\nIf it were so that our request did tend\nTo save the Romans, thereby to destroy\nThe Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us,\nAs poisonous of your honour: no; our suit\nIs that you reconcile them: while the Volsces\nMay say 'This mercy we have show'd;' the Romans,\n'This we received;' and each in either side\nGive the all-hail to thee and cry 'Be blest\nFor making up this peace!' Thou know'st, great son,\nThe end of war's uncertain, but this certain,\nThat, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit\nWhich thou shalt thereby reap is such a name,\nWhose repetition will be dogg'd with curses;\nWhose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble,\nBut with his last attempt he wiped it out;\nDestroy'd his country, and his name remains\nTo the ensuing age abhorr'd.' Speak to me, son:\nThou hast affected the fine strains of honour,\nTo imitate the graces of the gods;\nTo tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' the air,\nAnd yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt\nThat should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak?\nThink'st thou it honourable for a noble man\nStill to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you:\nHe cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy:\nPerhaps thy childishness will move him more\nThan can our reasons. There's no man in the world\nMore bound to 's mother; yet here he lets me prate\nLike one i' the stocks. Thou hast never in thy life\nShow'd thy dear mother any courtesy,\nWhen she, poor hen, fond of no second brood,\nHas cluck'd thee to the wars and safely home,\nLoaden with honour. Say my request's unjust,\nAnd spurn me back: but if it be not so,\nThou art not honest; and the gods will plague thee,\nThat thou restrain'st from me the duty which\nTo a mother's part belongs. He turns away:\nDown, ladies; let us shame him with our knees.\nTo his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride\nThan pity to our prayers. Down: an end;\nThis is the last: so we will home to Rome,\nAnd die among our neighbours. Nay, behold 's:\nThis boy, that cannot tell what he would have\nBut kneels and holds up bands for fellowship,\nDoes reason our petition with more strength\nThan thou hast to deny 't. Come, let us go:\nThis fellow had a Volscian to his mother;\nHis wife is in Corioli and his child\nLike him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch:\nI am hush'd until our city be a-fire,\nAnd then I'll speak a little.


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O mother, mother!\nWhat have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope,\nThe gods look down, and this unnatural scene\nThey laugh at. O my mother, mother! O!\nYou have won a happy victory to Rome;\nBut, for your son,--believe it, O, believe it,\nMost dangerously you have with him prevail'd,\nIf not most mortal to him. But, let it come.\nAufidius, though I cannot make true wars,\nI'll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius,\nWere you in my stead, would you have heard\nA mother less? or granted less, Aufidius?


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I dare be sworn you were:\nAnd, sir, it is no little thing to make\nMine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir,\nWhat peace you'll make, advise me: for my part,\nI'll not to Rome, I'll back with you; and pray you,\nStand to me in this cause. O mother! wife!


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[Aside] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and\nthy honour\nAt difference in thee: out of that I'll work\nMyself a former fortune.


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Ay, by and by;\n[To VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, &c]\nBut we will drink together; and you shall bear\nA better witness back than words, which we,\nOn like conditions, will have counter-seal'd.\nCome, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve\nTo have a temple built you: all the swords\nIn Italy, and her confederate arms,\nCould not have made this peace.


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If it be possible for you to displace it with your\nlittle finger, there is some hope the ladies of\nRome, especially his mother, may prevail with him.\nBut I say there is no hope in't: our throats are\nsentenced and stay upon execution.


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There is differency between a grub and a butterfly;\nyet your butterfly was a grub. This CORIOLANUS is grown\nfrom man to dragon: he has wings; he's more than a\ncreeping thing.


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So did he me: and he no more remembers his mother\nnow than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness\nof his face sours ripe grapes: when he walks, he\nmoves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before\nhis treading: he is able to pierce a corslet with\nhis eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a\nbattery. He sits in his state, as a thing made for\nAlexander. What he bids be done is finished with\nhis bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity\nand a heaven to throne in.


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I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his\nmother shall bring from him: there is no more mercy\nin him than there is milk in a male tiger; that\nshall our poor city find: and all this is long of\nyou.


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No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto\nus. When we banished him, we respected not them;\nand, he returning to break our necks, they respect not us.


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Sir, if you'ld save your life, fly to your house:\nThe plebeians have got your fellow-tribune\nAnd hale him up and down, all swearing, if\nThe Roman ladies bring not comfort home,\nThey'll give him death by inches.


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Good news, good news; the ladies have prevail'd,\nThe Volscians are dislodged, and CORIOLANUS gone:\nA merrier day did never yet greet Rome,\nNo, not the expulsion of the Tarquins.


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As certain as I know the sun is fire:\nWhere have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it?\nNe'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide,\nAs the recomforted through the gates. Why, hark you!\n[Trumpets; hautboys; drums beat; all together]\nThe trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries and fifes,\nTabours and cymbals and the shouting Romans,\nMake the sun dance. Hark you!


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This is good news:\nI will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia\nIs worth of consuls, senators, patricians,\nA city full; of tribunes, such as you,\nA sea and land full. You have pray'd well to-day:\nThis morning for ten thousand of your throats\nI'd not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter two Senators with VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA,]\nVALERIA, &c. passing over the stage,\nfollowed by Patricians and others]


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Behold our patroness, the life of Rome!\nCall all your tribes together, praise the gods,\nAnd make triumphant fires; strew flowers before them:\nUnshout the noise that banish'd CORIOLANUS,\nRepeal him with the welcome of his mother;\nCry 'Welcome, ladies, welcome!'


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Go tell the lords o' the city I am here:\nDeliver them this paper: having read it,\nBid them repair to the market place; where I,\nEven in theirs and in the commons' ears,\nWill vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse\nThe city ports by this hath enter'd and\nIntends to appear before the people, hoping\nTo purge herself with words: dispatch.\n[Exeunt Attendants]\n[Enter three or four Conspirators of AUFIDIUS' faction]\nMost welcome!


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Most noble sir,\nIf you do hold the same intent wherein\nYou wish'd us parties, we'll deliver you\nOf your great danger.


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The people will remain uncertain whilst\n'Twixt you there's difference; but the fall of either\nMakes the survivor heir of all.


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I know it;\nAnd my pretext to strike at him admits\nA good construction. I raised him, and I pawn'd\nMine honour for his truth: who being so heighten'd,\nHe water'd his new plants with dews of flattery,\nSeducing so my friends; and, to this end,\nHe bow'd his nature, never known before\nBut to be rough, unswayable and free.


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That I would have spoke of:\nBeing banish'd for't, he came unto my hearth;\nPresented to my knife his throat: I took him;\nMade him joint-servant with me; gave him way\nIn all his own desires; nay, let him choose\nOut of my files, his projects to accomplish,\nMy best and freshest men; served his designments\nIn mine own person; holp to reap the fame\nWhich he did end all his; and took some pride\nTo do myself this wrong: till, at the last,\nI seem'd his follower, not partner, and\nHe waged me with his countenance, as if\nI had been mercenary.


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So he did, my lord:\nThe army marvell'd at it, and, in the last,\nWhen he had carried Rome and that we look'd\nFor no less spoil than glory,--


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There was it:\nFor which my sinews shall be stretch'd upon him.\nAt a few drops of women's rheum, which are\nAs cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour\nOf our great action: therefore shall he die,\nAnd I'll renew me in his fall. But, hark!\n[Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of]\nthe People]


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Your native town you enter'd like a post,\nAnd had no welcomes home: but he returns,\nSplitting the air with noise.


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Therefore, at your vantage,\nEre he express himself, or move the people\nWith what he would say, let him feel your sword,\nWhich we will second. When he lies along,\nAfter your way his tale pronounced shall bury\nHis reasons with his body.


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And grieve to hear't.\nWhat faults he made before the last, I think\nMight have found easy fines: but there to end\nWhere he was to begin and give away\nThe benefit of our levies, answering us\nWith our own charge, making a treaty where\nThere was a yielding,--this admits no excuse.


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He approaches: you shall hear him.\n[Enter CORIOLANUS, marching with drum and]\ncolours; commoners being with him]


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Hail, lords! I am return'd your soldier,\nNo more infected with my country's love\nThan when I parted hence, but still subsisting\nUnder your great command. You are to know\nThat prosperously I have attempted and\nWith bloody passage led your wars even to\nThe gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home\nDo more than counterpoise a full third part\nThe charges of the action. We have made peace\nWith no less honour to the Antiates\nThan shame to the Romans: and we here deliver,\nSubscribed by the consuls and patricians,\nTogether with the seal o' the senate, what\nWe have compounded on.


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Ay, CORIOLANUS, Caius CORIOLANUS: dost thou think\nI'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol'n name\nCoriolanus in Corioli?\nYou lords and heads o' the state, perfidiously\nHe has betray'd your business, and given up,\nFor certain drops of salt, your city Rome,\nI say 'your city,' to his wife and mother;\nBreaking his oath and resolution like\nA twist of rotten silk, never admitting\nCounsel o' the war, but at his nurse's tears\nHe whined and roar'd away your victory,\nThat pages blush'd at him and men of heart\nLook'd wondering each at other.


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Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart\nToo great for what contains it. Boy! O slave!\nPardon me, lords, 'tis the first time that ever\nI was forced to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords,\nMust give this cur the lie: and his own notion--\nWho wears my stripes impress'd upon him; that\nMust bear my beating to his grave--shall join\nTo thrust the lie unto him.


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Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads,\nStain all your edges on me. Boy! false hound!\nIf you have writ your annals true, 'tis there,\nThat, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I\nFlutter'd your Volscians in Corioli:\nAlone I did it. Boy!


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Why, noble lords,\nWill you be put in mind of his blind fortune,\nWhich was your shame, by this unholy braggart,\n'Fore your own eyes and ears?


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'Tear him to pieces.' 'Do it presently.' 'He kill'd\nmy son.' 'My daughter.' 'He killed my cousin\nMarcus.' 'He killed my father.'


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Peace, ho! no outrage: peace!\nThe man is noble and his fame folds-in\nThis orb o' the earth. His last offences to us\nShall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius,\nAnd trouble not the peace.


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Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him!\n[The Conspirators draw, and kill CORIOLANUS:]\nAUFIDIUS stands on his body]


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My lords, when you shall know--as in this rage,\nProvoked by him, you cannot--the great danger\nWhich this man's life did owe you, you'll rejoice\nThat he is thus cut off. Please it your honours\nTo call me to your senate, I'll deliver\nMyself your loyal servant, or endure\nYour heaviest censure.


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Bear from hence his body;\nAnd mourn you for him: let him be regarded\nAs the most noble corse that ever herald\nDid follow to his urn.


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My rage is gone;\nAnd I am struck with sorrow. Take him up.\nHelp, three o' the chiefest soldiers; I'll be one.\nBeat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully:\nTrail your steel pikes. Though in this city he\nHath widow'd and unchilded many a one,\nWhich to this hour bewail the injury,\nYet he shall have a noble memory. Assist.


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You do not meet a man but frowns: our bloods\nNo more obey the heavens than our courtiers\nStill seem as does the king.


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His daughter, and the heir of's kingdom, whom\nHe purposed to his wife's sole son--a widow\nThat late he married--hath referr'd herself\nUnto a poor but worthy gentleman: she's wedded;\nHer husband banish'd; she imprison'd: all\nIs outward sorrow; though I think the king\nBe touch'd at very heart.


plain_text:
He that hath lost her too; so is the queen,\nThat most desired the match; but not a courtier,\nAlthough they wear their faces to the bent\nOf the king's look's, hath a heart that is not\nGlad at the thing they scowl at.


plain_text:
He that hath miss'd the princess is a thing\nToo bad for bad report: and he that hath her--\nI mean, that married her, alack, good man!\nAnd therefore banish'd--is a creature such\nAs, to seek through the regions of the earth\nFor one his like, there would be something failing\nIn him that should compare. I do not think\nSo fair an outward and such stuff within\nEndows a man but he.


plain_text:
I cannot delve him to the root: his father\nWas call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour\nAgainst the Romans with Cassibelan,\nBut had his titles by Tenantius whom\nHe served with glory and admired success,\nSo gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus;\nAnd had, besides this gentleman in question,\nTwo other sons, who in the wars o' the time\nDied with their swords in hand; for which\ntheir father,\nThen old and fond of issue, took such sorrow\nThat he quit being, and his gentle lady,\nBig of this gentleman our theme, deceased\nAs he was born. The king he takes the babe\nTo his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus,\nBreeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber,\nPuts to him all the learnings that his time\nCould make him the receiver of; which he took,\nAs we do air, fast as 'twas minister'd,\nAnd in's spring became a harvest, lived in court--\nWhich rare it is to do--most praised, most loved,\nA sample to the youngest, to the more mature\nA glass that feated them, and to the graver\nA child that guided dotards; to his mistress,\nFor whom he now is banish'd, her own price\nProclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue;\nBy her election may be truly read\nWhat kind of man he is.


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His only child.\nHe had two sons: if this be worth your hearing,\nMark it: the eldest of them at three years old,\nI' the swathing-clothes the other, from their nursery\nWere stol'n, and to this hour no guess in knowledge\nWhich way they went.


plain_text:
That a king's children should be so convey'd,\nSo slackly guarded, and the search so slow,\nThat could not trace them!


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No, be assured you shall not find me, daughter,\nAfter the slander of most stepmothers,\nEvil-eyed unto you: you're my prisoner, but\nYour gaoler shall deliver you the keys\nThat lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus,\nSo soon as I can win the offended king,\nI will be known your advocate: marry, yet\nThe fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good\nYou lean'd unto his sentence with what patience\nYour wisdom may inform you.


plain_text:
You know the peril.\nI'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying\nThe pangs of barr'd affections, though the king\nHath charged you should not speak together.


plain_text:
O\nDissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant\nCan tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband,\nI something fear my father's wrath; but nothing--\nAlways reserved my holy duty--what\nHis rage can do on me: you must be gone;\nAnd I shall here abide the hourly shot\nOf angry eyes, not comforted to live,\nBut that there is this jewel in the world\nThat I may see again.


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My queen! my mistress!\nO lady, weep no more, lest I give cause\nTo be suspected of more tenderness\nThan doth become a man. I will remain\nThe loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth:\nMy residence in Rome at one Philario's,\nWho to my father was a friend, to me\nKnown but by letter: thither write, my queen,\nAnd with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send,\nThough ink be made of gall.


plain_text:
Be brief, I pray you:\nIf the king come, I shall incur I know not\nHow much of his displeasure.\n[Aside]\nYet I'll move him\nTo walk this way: I never do him wrong,\nBut he does buy my injuries, to be friends;\nPays dear for my offences.


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Should we be taking leave\nAs long a term as yet we have to live,\nThe loathness to depart would grow. Adieu!


plain_text:
Nay, stay a little:\nWere you but riding forth to air yourself,\nSuch parting were too petty. Look here, love;\nThis diamond was my mother's: take it, heart;\nBut keep it till you woo another wife,\nWhen Imogen is dead.


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How, how! another?\nYou gentle gods, give me but this I have,\nAnd sear up my embracements from a next\nWith bonds of death!\n[Putting on the ring]\nRemain, remain thou here\nWhile sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest,\nAs I my poor self did exchange for you,\nTo your so infinite loss, so in our trifles\nI still win of you: for my sake wear this;\nIt is a manacle of love; I'll place it\nUpon this fairest prisoner.


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Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight!\nIf after this command thou fraught the court\nWith thy unworthiness, thou diest: away!\nThou'rt poison to my blood.


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I beseech you, sir,\nHarm not yourself with your vexation\nI am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare\nSubdues all pangs, all fears.


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Sir,\nIt is your fault that I have loved Posthumus:\nYou bred him as my playfellow, and he is\nA man worth any woman, overbuys me\nAlmost the sum he pays.


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Almost, sir: heaven restore me! Would I were\nA neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus\nOur neighbour shepherd's son!


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Thou foolish thing!\n[Re-enter QUEEN]\nThey were again together: you have done\nNot after our command. Away with her,\nAnd pen her up.


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Beseech your patience. Peace,\nDear lady daughter, peace! Sweet sovereign,\nLeave us to ourselves; and make yourself some comfort\nOut of your best advice.


plain_text:
There might have been,\nBut that my master rather play'd than fought\nAnd had no help of anger: they were parted\nBy gentlemen at hand.


plain_text:
Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part.\nTo draw upon an exile! O brave sir!\nI would they were in Afric both together;\nMyself by with a needle, that I might prick\nThe goer-back. Why came you from your master?


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On his command: he would not suffer me\nTo bring him to the haven; left these notes\nOf what commands I should be subject to,\nWhen 't pleased you to employ me.


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About some half-hour hence,\nI pray you, speak with me: you shall at least\nGo see my lord aboard: for this time leave me.


plain_text:
Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the\nviolence of action hath made you reek as a\nsacrifice: where air comes out, air comes in:\nthere's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent.


plain_text:
Hurt him! his body's a passable carcass, if he be\nnot hurt: it is a thoroughfare for steel, if it be not hurt.


plain_text:
Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain\ngo not together: she's a good sign, but I have seen\nsmall reflection of her wit.


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I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' the haven,\nAnd question'dst every sail: if he should write\nAnd not have it, 'twere a paper lost,\nAs offer'd mercy is. What was the last\nThat he spake to thee?


plain_text:
No, madam; for so long\nAs he could make me with this eye or ear\nDistinguish him from others, he did keep\nThe deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,\nStill waving, as the fits and stirs of 's mind\nCould best express how slow his soul sail'd on,\nHow swift his ship.


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I would have broke mine eye-strings; crack'd them, but\nTo look upon him, till the diminution\nOf space had pointed him sharp as my needle,\nNay, follow'd him, till he had melted from\nThe smallness of a gnat to air, and then\nHave turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio,\nWhen shall we hear from him?


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I did not take my leave of him, but had\nMost pretty things to say: ere I could tell him\nHow I would think on him at certain hours\nSuch thoughts and such, or I could make him swear\nThe shes of Italy should not betray\nMine interest and his honour, or have charged him,\nAt the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight,\nTo encounter me with orisons, for then\nI am in heaven for him; or ere I could\nGive him that parting kiss which I had set\nBetwixt two charming words, comes in my father\nAnd like the tyrannous breathing of the north\nShakes all our buds from growing.


plain_text:
Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain: he was\nthen of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy\nas since he hath been allowed the name of; but I\ncould then have looked on him without the help of\nadmiration, though the catalogue of his endowments\nhad been tabled by his side and I to peruse him by items.


plain_text:
You speak of him when he was less furnished than now\nhe is with that which makes him both without and within.


plain_text:
This matter of marrying his king's daughter, wherein\nhe must be weighed rather by her value than his own,\nwords him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter.


plain_text:
Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this\nlamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully\nto extend him; be it but to fortify her judgment,\nwhich else an easy battery might lay flat, for\ntaking a beggar without less quality. But how comes\nit he is to sojourn with you? How creeps\nacquaintance?


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His father and I were soldiers together; to whom I\nhave been often bound for no less than my life.\nHere comes the Briton: let him be so entertained\namongst you as suits, with gentlemen of your\nknowing, to a stranger of his quality.\n[Enter POSTHUMUS LEONATUS]\nI beseech you all, be better known to this\ngentleman; whom I commend to you as a noble friend\nof mine: how worthy he is I will leave to appear\nhereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing.


plain_text:
Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies,\nwhich I will be ever to pay and yet pay still.


plain_text:
Sir, you o'er-rate my poor kindness: I was glad I\ndid atone my countryman and you; it had been pity\nyou should have been put together with so mortal a\npurpose as then each bore, upon importance of so\nslight and trivial a nature.


plain_text:
By your pardon, sir, I was then a young traveller;\nrather shunned to go even with what I heard than in\nmy every action to be guided by others' experiences:\nbut upon my mended judgment--if I offend not to say\nit is mended--my quarrel was not altogether slight.


plain_text:
'Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords,\nand by such two that would by all likelihood have\nconfounded one the other, or have fallen both.


plain_text:
Safely, I think: 'twas a contention in public,\nwhich may, without contradiction, suffer the report.\nIt was much like an argument that fell out last\nnight, where each of us fell in praise of our\ncountry mistresses; this gentleman at that time\nvouching--and upon warrant of bloody\naffirmation--his to be more fair, virtuous, wise,\nchaste, constant-qualified and less attemptable\nthan any the rarest of our ladies in France.


plain_text:
Being so far provoked as I was in France, I would\nabate her nothing, though I profess myself her\nadorer, not her friend.


plain_text:
As fair and as good--a kind of hand-in-hand\ncomparison--had been something too fair and too good\nfor any lady in Britain. If she went before others\nI have seen, as that diamond of yours outlustres\nmany I have beheld. I could not but believe she\nexcelled many: but I have not seen the most\nprecious diamond that is, nor you the lady.


plain_text:
You are mistaken: the one may be sold, or given, if\nthere were wealth enough for the purchase, or merit\nfor the gift: the other is not a thing for sale,\nand only the gift of the gods.


plain_text:
You may wear her in title yours: but, you know,\nstrange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your\nring may be stolen too: so your brace of unprizable\nestimations; the one is but frail and the other\ncasual; a cunning thief, or a that way accomplished\ncourtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last.


plain_text:
Your Italy contains none so accomplished a courtier\nto convince the honour of my mistress, if, in the\nholding or loss of that, you term her frail. I do\nnothing doubt you have store of thieves;\nnotwithstanding, I fear not my ring.


plain_text:
Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I\nthank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first.


plain_text:
With five times so much conversation, I should get\nground of your fair mistress, make her go back, even\nto the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend.


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I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to\nyour ring; which, in my opinion, o'ervalues it\nsomething: but I make my wager rather against your\nconfidence than her reputation: and, to bar your\noffence herein too, I durst attempt it against any\nlady in the world.


plain_text:
You are a great deal abused in too bold a\npersuasion; and I doubt not you sustain what you're\nworthy of by your attempt.


plain_text:
Gentlemen, enough of this: it came in too suddenly;\nlet it die as it was born, and, I pray you, be\nbetter acquainted.


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Yours; whom in constancy you think stands so safe.\nI will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring,\nthat, commend me to the court where your lady is,\nwith no more advantage than the opportunity of a\nsecond conference, and I will bring from thence\nthat honour of hers which you imagine so reserved.


plain_text:
You are afraid, and therein the wiser. If you buy\nladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot\npreserve it from tainting: but I see you have some\nreligion in you, that you fear.


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Will you? I shall but lend my diamond till your\nreturn: let there be covenants drawn between's: my\nmistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your\nunworthy thinking: I dare you to this match: here's my ring.


plain_text:
By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no\nsufficient testimony that I have enjoyed the dearest\nbodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats\nare yours; so is your diamond too: if I come off,\nand leave her in such honour as you have trust in,\nshe your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are\nyours: provided I have your commendation for my more\nfree entertainment.


plain_text:
I embrace these conditions; let us have articles\nbetwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if\nyou make your voyage upon her and give me directly\nto understand you have prevailed, I am no further\nyour enemy; she is not worth our debate: if she\nremain unseduced, you not making it appear\notherwise, for your ill opinion and the assault you\nhave made to her chastity you shall answer me with\nyour sword.


plain_text:
Your hand; a covenant: we will have these things set\ndown by lawful counsel, and straight away for\nBritain, lest the bargain should catch cold and\nstarve: I will fetch my gold and have our two\nwagers recorded.


plain_text:
Pleaseth your highness, ay: here they are, madam:\n[Presenting a small box]\nBut I beseech your grace, without offence,--\nMy conscience bids me ask--wherefore you have\nCommanded of me those most poisonous compounds,\nWhich are the movers of a languishing death;\nBut though slow, deadly?


plain_text:
I wonder, doctor,\nThou ask'st me such a question. Have I not been\nThy pupil long? Hast thou not learn'd me how\nTo make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so\nThat our great king himself doth woo me oft\nFor my confections? Having thus far proceeded,--\nUnless thou think'st me devilish--is't not meet\nThat I did amplify my judgment in\nOther conclusions? I will try the forces\nOf these thy compounds on such creatures as\nWe count not worth the hanging, but none human,\nTo try the vigour of them and apply\nAllayments to their act, and by them gather\nTheir several virtues and effects.


plain_text:
Your highness\nShall from this practise but make hard your heart:\nBesides, the seeing these effects will be\nBoth noisome and infectious.


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O, content thee.\n[Enter PISANIO]\n[Aside]\nHere comes a flattering rascal; upon him\nWill I first work: he's for his master,\nAn enemy to my son. How now, Pisanio!\nDoctor, your service for this time is ended;\nTake your own way.


plain_text:
[Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she has\nStrange lingering poisons: I do know her spirit,\nAnd will not trust one of her malice with\nA drug of such damn'd nature. Those she has\nWill stupefy and dull the sense awhile;\nWhich first, perchance, she'll prove on\ncats and dogs,\nThen afterward up higher: but there is\nNo danger in what show of death it makes,\nMore than the locking-up the spirits a time,\nTo be more fresh, reviving. She is fool'd\nWith a most false effect; and I the truer,\nSo to be false with her.


plain_text:
Weeps she still, say'st thou? Dost thou think in time\nShe will not quench and let instructions enter\nWhere folly now possesses? Do thou work:\nWhen thou shalt bring me word she loves my son,\nI'll tell thee on the instant thou art then\nAs great as is thy master, greater, for\nHis fortunes all lie speechless and his name\nIs at last gasp: return he cannot, nor\nContinue where he is: to shift his being\nIs to exchange one misery with another,\nAnd every day that comes comes to decay\nA day's work in him. What shalt thou expect,\nTo be depender on a thing that leans,\nWho cannot be new built, nor has no friends,\nSo much as but to prop him?\n[The QUEEN drops the box: PISANIO takes it up]\nThou takest up\nThou know'st not what; but take it for thy labour:\nIt is a thing I made, which hath the king\nFive times redeem'd from death: I do not know\nWhat is more cordial. Nay, I prethee, take it;\nIt is an earnest of a further good\nThat I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how\nThe case stands with her; do't as from thyself.\nThink what a chance thou changest on, but think\nThou hast thy mistress still, to boot, my son,\nWho shall take notice of thee: I'll move the king\nTo any shape of thy preferment such\nAs thou'lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly,\nThat set thee on to this desert, am bound\nTo load thy merit richly. Call my women:\nThink on my words.\n[Exit PISANIO]\nA sly and constant knave,\nNot to be shaked; the agent for his master\nAnd the remembrancer of her to hold\nThe hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that\nWhich, if he take, shall quite unpeople her\nOf liegers for her sweet, and which she after,\nExcept she bend her humour, shall be assured\nTo taste of too.\n[Re-enter PISANIO and Ladies]\nSo, so: well done, well done:\nThe violets, cowslips, and the primroses,\nBear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio;\nThink on my words.


plain_text:
And shall do:\nBut when to my good lord I prove untrue,\nI'll choke myself: there's all I'll do for you.


plain_text:
A father cruel, and a step-dame false;\nA foolish suitor to a wedded lady,\nThat hath her husband banish'd;--O, that husband!\nMy supreme crown of grief! and those repeated\nVexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n,\nAs my two brothers, happy! but most miserable\nIs the desire that's glorious: blest be those,\nHow mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,\nWhich seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie!


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[Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich!\nIf she be furnish'd with a mind so rare,\nShe is alone the Arabian bird, and I\nHave lost the wager. Boldness be my friend!\nArm me, audacity, from head to foot!\nOr, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight;\nRather directly fly.


plain_text:
[Reads] 'He is one of the noblest note, to whose\nkindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon\nhim accordingly, as you value your trust--\nLEONATUS.'\nSo far I read aloud:\nBut even the very middle of my heart\nIs warm'd by the rest, and takes it thankfully.\nYou are as welcome, worthy sir, as I\nHave words to bid you, and shall find it so\nIn all that I can do.


plain_text:
Thanks, fairest lady.\nWhat, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes\nTo see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop\nOf sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt\nThe fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones\nUpon the number'd beach? and can we not\nPartition make with spectacles so precious\n'Twixt fair and foul?


plain_text:
It cannot be i' the eye, for apes and monkeys\n'Twixt two such shes would chatter this way and\nContemn with mows the other; nor i' the judgment,\nFor idiots in this case of favour would\nBe wisely definite; nor i' the appetite;\nSluttery to such neat excellence opposed\nShould make desire vomit emptiness,\nNot so allured to feed.


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The cloyed will,\nThat satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub\nBoth fill'd and running, ravening first the lamb\nLongs after for the garbage.


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Thanks, madam; well.\n[To PISANIO]\nBeseech you, sir, desire\nMy man's abode where I did leave him: he\nIs strange and peevish.


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Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there\nSo merry and so gamesome: he is call'd\nThe Briton reveller.


plain_text:
I never saw him sad.\nThere is a Frenchman his companion, one\nAn eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much loves\nA Gallian girl at home; he furnaces\nThe thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton--\nYour lord, I mean--laughs from's free lungs, cries 'O,\nCan my sides hold, to think that man, who knows\nBy history, report, or his own proof,\nWhat woman is, yea, what she cannot choose\nBut must be, will his free hours languish for\nAssured bondage?'


plain_text:
Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter:\nIt is a recreation to be by\nAnd hear him mock the Frenchman. But, heavens know,\nSome men are much to blame.


plain_text:
Not he: but yet heaven's bounty towards him might\nBe used more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much;\nIn you, which I account his beyond all talents,\nWhilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound\nTo pity too.


plain_text:
That others do--\nI was about to say--enjoy your--But\nIt is an office of the gods to venge it,\nNot mine to speak on 't.


plain_text:
You do seem to know\nSomething of me, or what concerns me: pray you,--\nSince doubling things go ill often hurts more\nThan to be sure they do; for certainties\nEither are past remedies, or, timely knowing,\nThe remedy then born--discover to me\nWhat both you spur and stop.


plain_text:
Had I this cheek\nTo bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,\nWhose every touch, would force the feeler's soul\nTo the oath of loyalty; this object, which\nTakes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,\nFixing it only here; should I, damn'd then,\nSlaver with lips as common as the stairs\nThat mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands\nMade hard with hourly falsehood--falsehood, as\nWith labour; then by-peeping in an eye\nBase and unlustrous as the smoky light\nThat's fed with stinking tallow; it were fit\nThat all the plagues of hell should at one time\nEncounter such revolt.


plain_text:
And himself. Not I,\nInclined to this intelligence, pronounce\nThe beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces\nThat from pay mutest conscience to my tongue\nCharms this report out.


plain_text:
O dearest soul! your cause doth strike my heart\nWith pity, that doth make me sick. A lady\nSo fair, and fasten'd to an empery,\nWould make the great'st king double,--to be partner'd\nWith tomboys hired with that self-exhibition\nWhich your own coffers yield! with diseased ventures\nThat play with all infirmities for gold\nWhich rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff\nAs well might poison poison! Be revenged;\nOr she that bore you was no queen, and you\nRecoil from your great stock.


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Revenged!\nHow should I be revenged? If this be true,--\nAs I have such a heart that both mine ears\nMust not in haste abuse--if it be true,\nHow should I be revenged?


plain_text:
Should he make me\nLive, like Diana's priest, betwixt cold sheets,\nWhiles he is vaulting variable ramps,\nIn your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it.\nI dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure,\nMore noble than that runagate to your bed,\nAnd will continue fast to your affection,\nStill close as sure.


plain_text:
Away! I do condemn mine ears that have\nSo long attended thee. If thou wert honourable,\nThou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not\nFor such an end thou seek'st,--as base as strange.\nThou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far\nFrom thy report as thou from honour, and\nSolicit'st here a lady that disdains\nThee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio!\nThe king my father shall be made acquainted\nOf thy assault: if he shall think it fit,\nA saucy stranger in his court to mart\nAs in a Romish stew and to expound\nHis beastly mind to us, he hath a court\nHe little cares for and a daughter who\nHe not respects at all. What, ho, Pisanio!


plain_text:
O happy Leonatus! I may say\nThe credit that thy lady hath of thee\nDeserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness\nHer assured credit. Blessed live you long!\nA lady to the worthiest sir that ever\nCountry call'd his! and you his mistress, only\nFor the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon.\nI have spoke this, to know if your affiance\nWere deeply rooted; and shall make your lord,\nThat which he is, new o'er: and he is one\nThe truest manner'd; such a holy witch\nThat he enchants societies into him;\nHalf all men's hearts are his.


plain_text:
He sits 'mongst men like a descended god:\nHe hath a kind of honour sets him off,\nMore than a mortal seeming. Be not angry,\nMost mighty princess, that I have adventured\nTo try your taking a false report; which hath\nHonour'd with confirmation your great judgment\nIn the election of a sir so rare,\nWhich you know cannot err: the love I bear him\nMade me to fan you thus, but the gods made you,\nUnlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.


plain_text:
My humble thanks. I had almost forgot\nTo entreat your grace but in a small request,\nAnd yet of moment to, for it concerns\nYour lord; myself and other noble friends,\nAre partners in the business.


plain_text:
Some dozen Romans of us and your lord--\nThe best feather of our wing--have mingled sums\nTo buy a present for the emperor\nWhich I, the factor for the rest, have done\nIn France: 'tis plate of rare device, and jewels\nOf rich and exquisite form; their values great;\nAnd I am something curious, being strange,\nTo have them in safe stowage: may it please you\nTo take them in protection?


plain_text:
Willingly;\nAnd pawn mine honour for their safety: since\nMy lord hath interest in them, I will keep them\nIn my bedchamber.


plain_text:
They are in a trunk,\nAttended by my men: I will make bold\nTo send them to you, only for this night;\nI must aboard to-morrow.


plain_text:
Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word\nBy lengthening my return. From Gallia\nI cross'd the seas on purpose and on promise\nTo see your grace.


plain_text:
O, I must, madam:\nTherefore I shall beseech you, if you please\nTo greet your lord with writing, do't to-night:\nI have outstood my time; which is material\nTo the tender of our present.


plain_text:
I will write.\nSend your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept,\nAnd truly yielded you. You're very welcome.


plain_text:
Was there ever man had such luck! when I kissed the\njack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a\nhundred pound on't: and then a whoreson jackanapes\nmust take me up for swearing; as if I borrowed mine\noaths of him and might not spend them at my pleasure.


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I am not vexed more at any thing in the earth: a\npox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am;\nthey dare not fight with me, because of the queen my\nmother: every Jack-slave hath his bellyful of\nfighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that\nnobody can match.


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Come, I'll go see this Italian: what I have lost\nto-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go.


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I'll attend your lordship.\n[Exeunt CLOTEN and First Lord]\nThat such a crafty devil as is his mother\nShould yield the world this ass! a woman that\nBears all down with her brain; and this her son\nCannot take two from twenty, for his heart,\nAnd leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess,\nThou divine Imogen, what thou endurest,\nBetwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd,\nA mother hourly coining plots, a wooer\nMore hateful than the foul expulsion is\nOf thy dear husband, than that horrid act\nOf the divorce he'ld make! The heavens hold firm\nThe walls of thy dear honour, keep unshaked\nThat temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand,\nTo enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land!


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I have read three hours then: mine eyes are weak:\nFold down the leaf where I have left: to bed:\nTake not away the taper, leave it burning;\nAnd if thou canst awake by four o' the clock,\nI prithee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly\n[Exit Lady]\nTo your protection I commend me, gods.\nFrom fairies and the tempters of the night\nGuard me, beseech ye.


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The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense\nRepairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus\nDid softly press the rushes, ere he waken'd\nThe chastity he wounded. Cytherea,\nHow bravely thou becomest thy bed, fresh lily,\nAnd whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!\nBut kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd,\nHow dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that\nPerfumes the chamber thus: the flame o' the taper\nBows toward her, and would under-peep her lids,\nTo see the enclosed lights, now canopied\nUnder these windows, white and azure laced\nWith blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design,\nTo note the chamber: I will write all down:\nSuch and such pictures; there the window; such\nThe adornment of her bed; the arras; figures,\nWhy, such and such; and the contents o' the story.\nAh, but some natural notes about her body,\nAbove ten thousand meaner moveables\nWould testify, to enrich mine inventory.\nO sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!\nAnd be her sense but as a monument,\nThus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off:\n[Taking off her bracelet]\nAs slippery as the Gordian knot was hard!\n'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly,\nAs strongly as the conscience does within,\nTo the madding of her lord. On her left breast\nA mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops\nI' the bottom of a cowslip: here's a voucher,\nStronger than ever law could make: this secret\nWill force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en\nThe treasure of her honour. No more. To what end?\nWhy should I write this down, that's riveted,\nScrew'd to my memory? She hath been reading late\nThe tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down\nWhere Philomel gave up. I have enough:\nTo the trunk again, and shut the spring of it.\nSwift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning\nMay bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear;\nThough this a heavenly angel, hell is here.\n[Clock strikes]\nOne, two, three: time, time!


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But not every man patient after the noble temper of\nyour lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.


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Winning will put any man into courage. If I could\nget this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough.\nIt's almost morning, is't not?


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I would this music would come: I am advised to give\nher music o' mornings; they say it will penetrate.\n[Enter Musicians]\nCome on; tune: if you can penetrate her with your\nfingering, so; we'll try with tongue too: if none\nwill do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er.\nFirst, a very excellent good-conceited thing;\nafter, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich\nwords to it: and then let her consider.\n[SONG]\nHark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,\nAnd Phoebus 'gins arise,\nHis steeds to water at those springs\nOn chaliced flowers that lies;\nAnd winking Mary-buds begin\nTo ope their golden eyes:\nWith every thing that pretty is,\nMy lady sweet, arise:\nArise, arise.


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So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will\nconsider your music the better: if it do not, it is\na vice in her ears, which horse-hairs and\ncalves'-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to\nboot, can never amend.


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I am glad I was up so late; for that's the reason I\nwas up so early: he cannot choose but take this\nservice I have done fatherly.\n[Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN]\nGood morrow to your majesty and to my gracious mother.


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The exile of her minion is too new;\nShe hath not yet forgot him: some more time\nMust wear the print of his remembrance out,\nAnd then she's yours.


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You are most bound to the king,\nWho lets go by no vantages that may\nPrefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself\nTo orderly soliciting, and be friended\nWith aptness of the season; make denials\nIncrease your services; so seem as if\nYou were inspired to do those duties which\nYou tender to her; that you in all obey her,\nSave when command to your dismission tends,\nAnd therein you are senseless.


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A worthy fellow,\nAlbeit he comes on angry purpose now;\nBut that's no fault of his: we must receive him\nAccording to the honour of his sender;\nAnd towards himself, his goodness forespent on us,\nWe must extend our notice. Our dear son,\nWhen you have given good morning to your mistress,\nAttend the queen and us; we shall have need\nTo employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.


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If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,\nLet her lie still and dream.\n[Knocks]\nBy your leave, ho!\nI Know her women are about her: what\nIf I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold\nWhich buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and makes\nDiana's rangers false themselves, yield up\nTheir deer to the stand o' the stealer; and 'tis gold\nWhich makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief;\nNay, sometime hangs both thief and true man: what\nCan it not do and undo? I will make\nOne of her women lawyer to me, for\nI yet not understand the case myself.\n[Knocks]\nBy your leave.


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That's more\nThan some, whose tailors are as dear as yours,\nCan justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure?


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Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains\nFor purchasing but trouble; the thanks I give\nIs telling you that I am poor of thanks\nAnd scarce can spare them.


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If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me:\nIf you swear still, your recompense is still\nThat I regard it not.


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But that you shall not say I yield being silent,\nI would not speak. I pray you, spare me: 'faith,\nI shall unfold equal discourtesy\nTo your best kindness: one of your great knowing\nShould learn, being taught, forbearance.


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As I am mad, I do:\nIf you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad;\nThat cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,\nYou put me to forget a lady's manners,\nBy being so verbal: and learn now, for all,\nThat I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,\nBy the very truth of it, I care not for you,\nAnd am so near the lack of charity--\nTo accuse myself--I hate you; which I had rather\nYou felt than make't my boast.


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You sin against\nObedience, which you owe your father. For\nThe contract you pretend with that base wretch,\nOne bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes,\nWith scraps o' the court, it is no contract, none:\nAnd though it be allow'd in meaner parties--\nYet who than he more mean?--to knit their souls,\nOn whom there is no more dependency\nBut brats and beggary, in self-figured knot;\nYet you are curb'd from that enlargement by\nThe consequence o' the crown, and must not soil\nThe precious note of it with a base slave.\nA hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth,\nA pantler, not so eminent.


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Profane fellow\nWert thou the son of Jupiter and no more\nBut what thou art besides, thou wert too base\nTo be his groom: thou wert dignified enough,\nEven to the point of envy, if 'twere made\nComparative for your virtues, to be styled\nThe under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated\nFor being preferred so well.


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He never can meet more mischance than come\nTo be but named of thee. His meanest garment,\nThat ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer\nIn my respect than all the hairs above thee,\nWere they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!


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I am sprited with a fool.\nFrighted, and anger'd worse: go bid my woman\nSearch for a jewel that too casually\nHath left mine arm: it was thy master's: 'shrew me,\nIf I would lose it for a revenue\nOf any king's in Europe. I do think\nI saw't this morning: confident I am\nLast night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it:\nI hope it be not gone to tell my lord\nThat I kiss aught but he.


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Your mother too:\nShe's my good lady, and will conceive, I hope,\nBut the worst of me. So, I leave you, sir,\nTo the worst of discontent.


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Fear it not, sir: I would I were so sure\nTo win the king as I am bold her honour\nWill remain hers.


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Not any, but abide the change of time,\nQuake in the present winter's state and wish\nThat warmer days would come: in these sear'd hopes,\nI barely gratify your love; they failing,\nI must die much your debtor.


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Your very goodness and your company\nO'erpays all I can do. By this, your king\nHath heard of great Augustus: Caius Lucius\nWill do's commission throughly: and I think\nHe'll grant the tribute, send the arrearages,\nOr look upon our Romans, whose remembrance\nIs yet fresh in their grief.


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I do believe,\nStatist though I am none, nor like to be,\nThat this will prove a war; and you shall hear\nThe legions now in Gallia sooner landed\nIn our not-fearing Britain than have tidings\nOf any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen\nAre men more order'd than when Julius Caesar\nSmiled at their lack of skill, but found\ntheir courage\nWorthy his frowning at: their discipline,\nNow mingled with their courages, will make known\nTo their approvers they are people such\nThat mend upon the world.


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The swiftest harts have posted you by land;\nAnd winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails,\nTo make your vessel nimble.


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And therewithal the best; or let her beauty\nLook through a casement to allure false hearts\nAnd be false with them.


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If I had lost it,\nI should have lost the worth of it in gold.\nI'll make a journey twice as far, to enjoy\nA second night of such sweet shortness which\nWas mine in Britain, for the ring is won.


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Good sir, we must,\nIf you keep covenant. Had I not brought\nThe knowledge of your mistress home, I grant\nWe were to question further: but I now\nProfess myself the winner of her honour,\nTogether with your ring; and not the wronger\nOf her or you, having proceeded but\nBy both your wills.


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If you can make't apparent\nThat you have tasted her in bed, my hand\nAnd ring is yours; if not, the foul opinion\nYou had of her pure honour gains or loses\nYour sword or mine, or masterless leaves both\nTo who shall find them.


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Sir, my circumstances,\nBeing so near the truth as I will make them,\nMust first induce you to believe: whose strength\nI will confirm with oath; which, I doubt not,\nYou'll give me leave to spare, when you shall find\nYou need it not.


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First, her bedchamber,--\nWhere, I confess, I slept not, but profess\nHad that was well worth watching--it was hang'd\nWith tapesty of silk and silver; the story\nProud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman,\nAnd Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for\nThe press of boats or pride: a piece of work\nSo bravely done, so rich, that it did strive\nIn workmanship and value; which I wonder'd\nCould be so rarely and exactly wrought,\nSince the true life on't was--


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The chimney\nIs south the chamber, and the chimney-piece\nChaste Dian bathing: never saw I figures\nSo likely to report themselves: the cutter\nWas as another nature, dumb; outwent her,\nMotion and breath left out.


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The roof o' the chamber\nWith golden cherubins is fretted: her andirons--\nI had forgot them--were two winking Cupids\nOf silver, each on one foot standing, nicely\nDepending on their brands.


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This is her honour!\nLet it be granted you have seen all this--and praise\nBe given to your remembrance--the description\nOf what is in her chamber nothing saves\nThe wager you have laid.


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Then, if you can,\n[Showing the bracelet]\nBe pale: I beg but leave to air this jewel; see!\nAnd now 'tis up again: it must be married\nTo that your diamond; I'll keep them.


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Sir--I thank her--that:\nShe stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet;\nHer pretty action did outsell her gift,\nAnd yet enrich'd it too: she gave it me, and said\nShe prized it once.


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O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too;\n[Gives the ring]\nIt is a basilisk unto mine eye,\nKills me to look on't. Let there be no honour\nWhere there is beauty; truth, where semblance; love,\nWhere there's another man: the vows of women\nOf no more bondage be, to where they are made,\nThan they are to their virtues; which is nothing.\nO, above measure false!


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Have patience, sir,\nAnd take your ring again; 'tis not yet won:\nIt may be probable she lost it; or\nWho knows if one of her women, being corrupted,\nHath stol'n it from her?


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Very true;\nAnd so, I hope, he came by't. Back my ring:\nRender to me some corporal sign about her,\nMore evident than this; for this was stolen.


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Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears.\n'Tis true:--nay, keep the ring--'tis true: I am sure\nShe would not lose it: her attendants are\nAll sworn and honourable:--they induced to steal it!\nAnd by a stranger!--No, he hath enjoyed her:\nThe cognizance of her incontinency\nIs this: she hath bought the name of whore\nthus dearly.\nThere, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell\nDivide themselves between you!


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If you seek\nFor further satisfying, under her breast--\nWorthy the pressing--lies a mole, right proud\nOf that most delicate lodging: by my life,\nI kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger\nTo feed again, though full. You do remember\nThis stain upon her?


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No swearing.\nIf you will swear you have not done't, you lie;\nAnd I will kill thee, if thou dost deny\nThou'st made me cuckold.


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O, that I had her here, to tear her limb-meal!\nI will go there and do't, i' the court, before\nHer father. I'll do something--


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Quite besides\nThe government of patience! You have won:\nLet's follow him, and pervert the present wrath\nHe hath against himself.


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Is there no way for men to be but women\nMust be half-workers? We are all bastards;\nAnd that most venerable man which I\nDid call my father, was I know not where\nWhen I was stamp'd; some coiner with his tools\nMade me a counterfeit: yet my mother seem'd\nThe Dian of that time so doth my wife\nThe nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance!\nMe of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd\nAnd pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with\nA pudency so rosy the sweet view on't\nMight well have warm'd old Saturn; that I thought her\nAs chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils!\nThis yellow Iachimo, in an hour,--wast not?--\nOr less,--at first?--perchance he spoke not, but,\nLike a full-acorn'd boar, a German one,\nCried 'O!' and mounted; found no opposition\nBut what he look'd for should oppose and she\nShould from encounter guard. Could I find out\nThe woman's part in me! For there's no motion\nThat tends to vice in man, but I affirm\nIt is the woman's part: be it lying, note it,\nThe woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers;\nLust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers;\nAmbitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,\nNice longing, slanders, mutability,\nAll faults that may be named, nay, that hell knows,\nWhy, hers, in part or all; but rather, all;\nFor even to vice\nThey are not constant but are changing still\nOne vice, but of a minute old, for one\nNot half so old as that. I'll write against them,\nDetest them, curse them: yet 'tis greater skill\nIn a true hate, to pray they have their will:\nThe very devils cannot plague them better.


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[Exit]\n[Enter in state, CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN,]\nand Lords at one door, and at another,\nCAIUS LUCIUS and Attendants]


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When Julius Caesar, whose remembrance yet\nLives in men's eyes and will to ears and tongues\nBe theme and hearing ever, was in this Britain\nAnd conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,--\nFamous in Caesar's praises, no whit less\nThan in his feats deserving it--for him\nAnd his succession granted Rome a tribute,\nYearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately\nIs left untender'd.


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There be many Caesars,\nEre such another Julius. Britain is\nA world by itself; and we will nothing pay\nFor wearing our own noses.


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That opportunity\nWhich then they had to take from 's, to resume\nWe have again. Remember, sir, my liege,\nThe kings your ancestors, together with\nThe natural bravery of your isle, which stands\nAs Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in\nWith rocks unscalable and roaring waters,\nWith sands that will not bear your enemies' boats,\nBut suck them up to the topmast. A kind of conquest\nCaesar made here; but made not here his brag\nOf 'Came' and 'saw' and 'overcame: ' with shame--\nThat first that ever touch'd him--he was carried\nFrom off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping--\nPoor ignorant baubles!-- upon our terrible seas,\nLike egg-shells moved upon their surges, crack'd\nAs easily 'gainst our rocks: for joy whereof\nThe famed Cassibelan, who was once at point--\nO giglot fortune!--to master Caesar's sword,Made Lud's town with rejoicing fires bright\nAnd Britons strut with courage.


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Come, there's no more tribute to be paid: our\nkingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and,\nas I said, there is no moe such Caesars: other of\nthem may have crook'd noses, but to owe such\nstraight arms, none.


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We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as\nCassibelan: I do not say I am one; but I have a\nhand. Why tribute? why should we pay tribute? If\nCaesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or\nput the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute\nfor light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now.


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You must know,\nTill the injurious Romans did extort\nThis tribute from us, we were free:\nCaesar's ambition,\nWhich swell'd so much that it did almost stretch\nThe sides o' the world, against all colour here\nDid put the yoke upon 's; which to shake off\nBecomes a warlike people, whom we reckon\nOurselves to be.


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Say, then, to Caesar,\nOur ancestor was that Mulmutius which\nOrdain'd our laws, whose use the sword of Caesar\nHath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise\nShall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,\nThough Rome be therefore angry: Mulmutius made our laws,\nWho was the first of Britain which did put\nHis brows within a golden crown and call'd\nHimself a king.


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I am sorry, Cymbeline,\nThat I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar--\nCaesar, that hath more kings his servants than\nThyself domestic officers--thine enemy:\nReceive it from me, then: war and confusion\nIn Caesar's name pronounce I 'gainst thee: look\nFor fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,\nI thank thee for myself.


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Thou art welcome, Caius.\nThy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent\nMuch under him; of him I gather'd honour;\nWhich he to seek of me again, perforce,\nBehoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect\nThat the Pannonians and Dalmatians for\nTheir liberties are now in arms; a precedent\nWhich not to read would show the Britons cold:\nSo Caesar shall not find them.


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His majesty bids you welcome. Make\npastime with us a day or two, or longer: if\nyou seek us afterwards in other terms, you\nshall find us in our salt-water girdle: if you\nbeat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in\nthe adventure, our crows shall fare the better\nfor you; and there's an end.


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How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not\nWhat monster's her accuser? Leonatus,\nO master! what a strange infection\nIs fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian,\nAs poisonous-tongued as handed, hath prevail'd\nOn thy too ready hearing? Disloyal! No:\nShe's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes,\nMore goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults\nAs would take in some virtue. O my master!\nThy mind to her is now as low as were\nThy fortunes. How! that I should murder her?\nUpon the love and truth and vows which I\nHave made to thy command? I, her? her blood?\nIf it be so to do good service, never\nLet me be counted serviceable. How look I,\nThat I should seem to lack humanity\nso much as this fact comes to?\n[Reading]\n'Do't: the letter\nthat I have sent her, by her own command\nShall give thee opportunity.' O damn'd paper!\nBlack as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble,\nArt thou a feodary for this act, and look'st\nSo virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes.\nI am ignorant in what I am commanded.


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Who? thy lord? that is my lord, Leonatus!\nO, learn'd indeed were that astronomer\nThat knew the stars as I his characters;\nHe'ld lay the future open. You good gods,\nLet what is here contain'd relish of love,\nOf my lord's health, of his content, yet not\nThat we two are asunder; let that grieve him:\nSome griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them,\nFor it doth physic love: of his content,\nAll but in that! Good wax, thy leave. Blest be\nYou bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers\nAnd men in dangerous bonds pray not alike:\nThough forfeiters you cast in prison, yet\nYou clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods!\n[Reads]\n'Justice, and your father's wrath, should he take me\nin his dominion, could not be so cruel to me, as\nyou, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me\nwith your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria,\nat Milford-Haven: what your own love will out of\nthis advise you, follow. So he wishes you all\nhappiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and your,\nincreasing in love,\nLEONATUS POSTHUMUS.'\nO, for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio?\nHe is at Milford-Haven: read, and tell me\nHow far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs\nMay plod it in a week, why may not I\nGlide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio,--\nWho long'st, like me, to see thy lord; who long'st,--\nlet me bate,-but not like me--yet long'st,\nBut in a fainter kind:--O, not like me;\nFor mine's beyond beyond--say, and speak thick;\nLove's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing,\nTo the smothering of the sense--how far it is\nTo this same blessed Milford: and by the way\nTell me how Wales was made so happy as\nTo inherit such a haven: but first of all,\nHow we may steal from hence, and for the gap\nThat we shall make in time, from our hence-going\nAnd our return, to excuse: but first, how get hence:\nWhy should excuse be born or e'er begot?\nWe'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak,\nHow many score of miles may we well ride\n'Twixt hour and hour?


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Why, one that rode to's execution, man,\nCould never go so slow: I have heard of\nriding wagers,\nWhere horses have been nimbler than the sands\nThat run i' the clock's behalf. But this is foolery:\nGo bid my woman feign a sickness; say\nShe'll home to her father: and provide me presently\nA riding-suit, no costlier than would fit\nA franklin's housewife.


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I see before me, man: nor here, nor here,\nNor what ensues, but have a fog in them,\nThat I cannot look through. Away, I prithee;\nDo as I bid thee: there's no more to say,\nAccessible is none but Milford way.


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A goodly day not to keep house, with such\nWhose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate\nInstructs you how to adore the heavens and bows you\nTo a morning's holy office: the gates of monarchs\nAre arch'd so high that giants may jet through\nAnd keep their impious turbans on, without\nGood morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!\nWe house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly\nAs prouder livers do.


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Now for our mountain sport: up to yond hill;\nYour legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider,\nWhen you above perceive me like a crow,\nThat it is place which lessens and sets off;\nAnd you may then revolve what tales I have told you\nOf courts, of princes, of the tricks in war:\nThis service is not service, so being done,\nBut being so allow'd: to apprehend thus,\nDraws us a profit from all things we see;\nAnd often, to our comfort, shall we find\nThe sharded beetle in a safer hold\nThan is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life\nIs nobler than attending for a cheque,\nRicher than doing nothing for a bauble,\nProuder than rustling in unpaid-for silk:\nSuch gain the cap of him that makes 'em fine,\nYet keeps his book uncross'd: no life to ours.


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Out of your proof you speak: we, poor unfledged,\nHave never wing'd from view o' the nest, nor know not\nWhat air's from home. Haply this life is best,\nIf quiet life be best; sweeter to you\nThat have a sharper known; well corresponding\nWith your stiff age: but unto us it is\nA cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed;\nA prison for a debtor, that not dares\nTo stride a limit.


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What should we speak of\nWhen we are old as you? when we shall hear\nThe rain and wind beat dark December, how,\nIn this our pinching cave, shall we discourse\nThe freezing hours away? We have seen nothing;\nWe are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey,\nLike warlike as the wolf for what we eat;\nOur valour is to chase what flies; our cage\nWe make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird,\nAnd sing our bondage freely.


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How you speak!\nDid you but know the city's usuries\nAnd felt them knowingly; the art o' the court\nAs hard to leave as keep; whose top to climb\nIs certain falling, or so slippery that\nThe fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' the war,\nA pain that only seems to seek out danger\nI' the name of fame and honour; which dies i'\nthe search,\nAnd hath as oft a slanderous epitaph\nAs record of fair act; nay, many times,\nDoth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse,\nMust court'sy at the censure:--O boys, this story\nThe world may read in me: my body's mark'd\nWith Roman swords, and my report was once\nFirst with the best of note: Cymbeline loved me,\nAnd when a soldier was the theme, my name\nWas not far off: then was I as a tree\nWhose boughs did bend with fruit: but in one night,\nA storm or robbery, call it what you will,\nShook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,\nAnd left me bare to weather.


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My fault being nothing--as I have told you oft--\nBut that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd\nBefore my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline\nI was confederate with the Romans: so\nFollow'd my banishment, and this twenty years\nThis rock and these demesnes have been my world;\nWhere I have lived at honest freedom, paid\nMore pious debts to heaven than in all\nThe fore-end of my time. But up to the mountains!\nThis is not hunters' language: he that strikes\nThe venison first shall be the lord o' the feast;\nTo him the other two shall minister;\nAnd we will fear no poison, which attends\nIn place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys.\n[Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS]\nHow hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!\nThese boys know little they are sons to the king;\nNor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.\nThey think they are mine; and though train'd\nup thus meanly\nI' the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit\nThe roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them\nIn simple and low things to prince it much\nBeyond the trick of others. This Polydore,\nThe heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who\nThe king his father call'd Guiderius,--Jove!\nWhen on my three-foot stool I sit and tell\nThe warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out\nInto my story: say 'Thus, mine enemy fell,\nAnd thus I set my foot on 's neck;' even then\nThe princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,\nStrains his young nerves and puts himself in posture\nThat acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,\nOnce Arviragus, in as like a figure,\nStrikes life into my speech and shows much more\nHis own conceiving.--Hark, the game is roused!\nO Cymbeline! heaven and my conscience knows\nThou didst unjustly banish me: whereon,\nAt three and two years old, I stole these babes;\nThinking to bar thee of succession, as\nThou reft'st me of my lands. Euriphile,\nThou wast their nurse; they took thee for\ntheir mother,\nAnd every day do honour to her grave:\nMyself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,\nThey take for natural father. The game is up.


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Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place\nWas near at hand: ne'er long'd my mother so\nTo see me first, as I have now. Pisanio! man!\nWhere is Posthumus? What is in thy mind,\nThat makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh\nFrom the inward of thee? One, but painted thus,\nWould be interpreted a thing perplex'd\nBeyond self-explication: put thyself\nInto a havior of less fear, ere wildness\nVanquish my staider senses. What's the matter?\nWhy tender'st thou that paper to me, with\nA look untender? If't be summer news,\nSmile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st\nBut keep that countenance still. My husband's hand!\nThat drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him,\nAnd he's at some hard point. Speak, man: thy tongue\nMay take off some extremity, which to read\nWould be even mortal to me.


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[Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played the\nstrumpet in my bed; the testimonies whereof lie\nbleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises,\nbut from proof as strong as my grief and as certain\nas I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio,\nmust act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with\nthe breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away\nher life: I shall give thee opportunity at\nMilford-Haven. She hath my letter for the purpose\nwhere, if thou fear to strike and to make me certain\nit is done, thou art the pandar to her dishonour and\nequally to me disloyal.'


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What shall I need to draw my sword? the paper\nHath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander,\nWhose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue\nOutvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath\nRides on the posting winds and doth belie\nAll corners of the world: kings, queens and states,\nMaids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave\nThis viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?


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False to his bed! What is it to be false?\nTo lie in watch there and to think on him?\nTo weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep\ncharge nature,\nTo break it with a fearful dream of him\nAnd cry myself awake? that's false to's bed, is it?


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I false! Thy conscience witness: Iachimo,\nThou didst accuse him of incontinency;\nThou then look'dst like a villain; now methinks\nThy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy\nWhose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him:\nPoor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;\nAnd, for I am richer than to hang by the walls,\nI must be ripp'd:--to pieces with me!--O,\nMen's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming,\nBy thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought\nPut on for villany; not born where't grows,\nBut worn a bait for ladies.


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True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,\nWere in his time thought false, and Sinon's weeping\nDid scandal many a holy tear, took pity\nFrom most true wretchedness: so thou, Posthumus,\nWilt lay the leaven on all proper men;\nGoodly and gallant shall be false and perjured\nFrom thy great fall. Come, fellow, be thou honest:\nDo thou thy master's bidding: when thou see'st him,\nA little witness my obedience: look!\nI draw the sword myself: take it, and hit\nThe innocent mansion of my love, my heart;\nFear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief;\nThy master is not there, who was indeed\nThe riches of it: do his bidding; strike\nThou mayst be valiant in a better cause;\nBut now thou seem'st a coward.


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Why, I must die;\nAnd if I do not by thy hand, thou art\nNo servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter\nThere is a prohibition so divine\nThat cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart.\nSomething's afore't. Soft, soft! we'll no defence;\nObedient as the scabbard. What is here?\nThe scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,\nAll turn'd to heresy? Away, away,\nCorrupters of my faith! you shall no more\nBe stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools\nBelieve false teachers: though those that\nare betray'd\nDo feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor\nStands in worse case of woe.\nAnd thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up\nMy disobedience 'gainst the king my father\nAnd make me put into contempt the suits\nOf princely fellows, shalt hereafter find\nIt is no act of common passage, but\nA strain of rareness: and I grieve myself\nTo think, when thou shalt be disedged by her\nThat now thou tirest on, how thy memory\nWill then be pang'd by me. Prithee, dispatch:\nThe lamb entreats the butcher: where's thy knife?\nThou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,\nWhen I desire it too.


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Wherefore then\nDidst undertake it? Why hast thou abused\nSo many miles with a pretence? this place?\nMine action and thine own? our horses' labour?\nThe time inviting thee? the perturb'd court,\nFor my being absent? whereunto I never\nPurpose return. Why hast thou gone so far,\nTo be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand,\nThe elected deer before thee?


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But to win time\nTo lose so bad employment; in the which\nI have consider'd of a course. Good lady,\nHear me with patience.


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Talk thy tongue weary; speak\nI have heard I am a strumpet; and mine ear\nTherein false struck, can take no greater wound,\nNor tent to bottom that. But speak.


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Not so, neither:\nBut if I were as wise as honest, then\nMy purpose would prove well. It cannot be\nBut that my master is abused:\nSome villain, ay, and singular in his art.\nHath done you both this cursed injury.


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No, on my life.\nI'll give but notice you are dead and send him\nSome bloody sign of it; for 'tis commanded\nI should do so: you shall be miss'd at court,\nAnd that will well confirm it.


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Why good fellow,\nWhat shall I do the where? where bide? how live?\nOr in my life what comfort, when I am\nDead to my husband?


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No court, no father; nor no more ado\nWith that harsh, noble, simple nothing,\nThat Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me\nAs fearful as a siege.


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Where then\nHath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,\nAre they not but in Britain? I' the world's volume\nOur Britain seems as of it, but not in 't;\nIn a great pool a swan's nest: prithee, think\nThere's livers out of Britain.


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I am most glad\nYou think of other place. The ambassador,\nLucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven\nTo-morrow: now, if you could wear a mind\nDark as your fortune is, and but disguise\nThat which, to appear itself, must not yet be\nBut by self-danger, you should tread a course\nPretty and full of view; yea, haply, near\nThe residence of Posthumus; so nigh at least\nThat though his actions were not visible, yet\nReport should render him hourly to your ear\nAs truly as he moves.


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Well, then, here's the point:\nYou must forget to be a woman; change\nCommand into obedience: fear and niceness--\nThe handmaids of all women, or, more truly,\nWoman its pretty self--into a waggish courage:\nReady in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy and\nAs quarrelous as the weasel; nay, you must\nForget that rarest treasure of your cheek,\nExposing it--but, O, the harder heart!\nAlack, no remedy!--to the greedy touch\nOf common-kissing Titan, and forget\nYour laboursome and dainty trims, wherein\nYou made great Juno angry.


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First, make yourself but like one.\nFore-thinking this, I have already fit--\n'Tis in my cloak-bag--doublet, hat, hose, all\nThat answer to them: would you in their serving,\nAnd with what imitation you can borrow\nFrom youth of such a season, 'fore noble Lucius\nPresent yourself, desire his service, tell him\nwherein you're happy,--which you'll make him know,\nIf that his head have ear in music,--doubtless\nWith joy he will embrace you, for he's honourable\nAnd doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad,\nYou have me, rich; and I will never fail\nBeginning nor supplyment.


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Thou art all the comfort\nThe gods will diet me with. Prithee, away:\nThere's more to be consider'd; but we'll even\nAll that good time will give us: this attempt\nI am soldier to, and will abide it with\nA prince's courage. Away, I prithee.


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Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,\nLest, being miss'd, I be suspected of\nYour carriage from the court. My noble mistress,\nHere is a box; I had it from the queen:\nWhat's in't is precious; if you are sick at sea,\nOr stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this\nWill drive away distemper. To some shade,\nAnd fit you to your manhood. May the gods\nDirect you to the best!


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Thanks, royal sir.\nMy emperor hath wrote, I must from hence;\nAnd am right sorry that I must report ye\nMy master's enemy.


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Our subjects, sir,\nWill not endure his yoke; and for ourself\nTo show less sovereignty than they, must needs\nAppear unkinglike.


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My lords, you are appointed for that office;\nThe due of honour in no point omit.\nSo farewell, noble Lucius.


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Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor\nHow it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely\nOur chariots and our horsemen be in readiness:\nThe powers that he already hath in Gallia\nWill soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves\nHis war for Britain.


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Our expectation that it would be thus\nHath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,\nWhere is our daughter? She hath not appear'd\nBefore the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd\nThe duty of the day: she looks us like\nA thing more made of malice than of duty:\nWe have noted it. Call her before us; for\nWe have been too slight in sufferance.


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Royal sir,\nSince the exile of Posthumus, most retired\nHath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,\n'Tis time must do. Beseech your majesty,\nForbear sharp speeches to her: she's a lady\nSo tender of rebukes that words are strokes\nAnd strokes death to her.


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Please you, sir,\nHer chambers are all lock'd; and there's no answer\nThat will be given to the loudest noise we make.


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My lord, when last I went to visit her,\nShe pray'd me to excuse her keeping close,\nWhereto constrain'd by her infirmity,\nShe should that duty leave unpaid to you,\nWhich daily she was bound to proffer: this\nShe wish'd me to make known; but our great court\nMade me to blame in memory.


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Go, look after.\n[Exit CLOTEN]\nPisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus!\nHe hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence\nProceed by swallowing that, for he believes\nIt is a thing most precious. But for her,\nWhere is she gone? Haply, despair hath seized her,\nOr, wing'd with fervor of her love, she's flown\nTo her desired Posthumus: gone she is\nTo death or to dishonour; and my end\nCan make good use of either: she being down,\nI have the placing of the British crown.\n[Re-enter CLOTEN]\nHow now, my son!


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I love and hate her: for she's fair and royal,\nAnd that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite\nThan lady, ladies, woman; from every one\nThe best she hath, and she, of all compounded,\nOutsells them all; I love her therefore: but\nDisdaining me and throwing favours on\nThe low Posthumus slanders so her judgment\nThat what's else rare is choked; and in that point\nI will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,\nTo be revenged upon her. For when fools Shall--\n[Enter PISANIO]\nWho is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?\nCome hither: ah, you precious pander! Villain,\nWhere is thy lady? In a word; or else\nThou art straightway with the fiends.


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Where is thy lady? Or, by Jupiter,--\nI will not ask again. Close villain,\nI'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip\nThy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?\nFrom whose so many weights of baseness cannot\nA dram of worth be drawn.


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All-worthy villain!\nDiscover where thy mistress is at once,\nAt the next word: no more of 'worthy lord!'\nSpeak, or thy silence on the instant is\nThy condemnation and thy death.


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[Aside] Or this, or perish.\nShe's far enough; and what he learns by this\nMay prove his travel, not her danger.


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It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou\nwouldst not be a villain, but do me true service,\nundergo those employments wherein I should have\ncause to use thee with a serious industry, that is,\nwhat villany soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it\ndirectly and truly, I would think thee an honest\nman: thou shouldst neither want my means for thy\nrelief nor my voice for thy preferment.


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Wilt thou serve me? for since patiently and\nconstantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of\nthat beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the\ncourse of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of\nmine: wilt thou serve me?


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Meet thee at Milford-Haven!--I forgot to ask him one\nthing; I'll remember't anon:--even there, thou\nvillain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these\ngarments were come. She said upon a time--the\nbitterness of it I now belch from my heart--that she\nheld the very garment of Posthumus in more respect\nthan my noble and natural person together with the\nadornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my\nback, will I ravish her: first kill him, and in her\neyes; there shall she see my valour, which will then\nbe a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my\nspeech of insultment ended on his dead body, and\nwhen my lust hath dined,--which, as I say, to vex\nher I will execute in the clothes that she so\npraised,--to the court I'll knock her back, foot\nher home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly,\nand I'll be merry in my revenge.\n[Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes]\nBe those the garments?


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Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second\nthing that I have commanded thee: the third is,\nthat thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be\nbut duteous, and true preferment shall tender itself\nto thee. My revenge is now at Milford: would I had\nwings to follow it! Come, and be true.


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Thou bid'st me to my loss: for true to thee\nWere to prove false, which I will never be,\nTo him that is most true. To Milford go,\nAnd find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow,\nYou heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed\nBe cross'd with slowness; labour be his meed!


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I see a man's life is a tedious one:\nI have tired myself, and for two nights together\nHave made the ground my bed. I should be sick,\nBut that my resolution helps me. Milford,\nWhen from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee,\nThou wast within a ken: O Jove! I think\nFoundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,\nWhere they should be relieved. Two beggars told me\nI could not miss my way: will poor folks lie,\nThat have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis\nA punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder,\nWhen rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness\nIs sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood\nIs worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord!\nThou art one o' the false ones. Now I think on thee,\nMy hunger's gone; but even before, I was\nAt point to sink for food. But what is this?\nHere is a path to't: 'tis some savage hold:\nI were best not to call; I dare not call:\nyet famine,\nEre clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant,\nPlenty and peace breeds cowards: hardness ever\nOf hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here?\nIf any thing that's civil, speak; if savage,\nTake or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter.\nBest draw my sword: and if mine enemy\nBut fear the sword like me, he'll scarcely look on't.\nSuch a foe, good heavens!


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You, Polydote, have proved best woodman and\nAre master of the feast: Cadwal and I\nWill play the cook and servant; 'tis our match:\nThe sweat of industry would dry and die,\nBut for the end it works to. Come; our stomachs\nWill make what's homely savoury: weariness\nCan snore upon the flint, when resty sloth\nFinds the down pillow hard. Now peace be here,\nPoor house, that keep'st thyself!


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[Looking into the cave]\nStay; come not in.\nBut that it eats our victuals, I should think\nHere were a fairy.


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Good masters, harm me not:\nBefore I enter'd here, I call'd; and thought\nTo have begg'd or bought what I have took:\ngood troth,\nI have stol'n nought, nor would not, though I had found\nGold strew'd i' the floor. Here's money for my meat:\nI would have left it on the board so soon\nAs I had made my meal, and parted\nWith prayers for the provider.


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All gold and silver rather turn to dirt!\nAs 'tis no better reckon'd, but of those\nWho worship dirty gods.


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Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who\nIs bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford;\nTo whom being going, almost spent with hunger,\nI am fall'n in this offence.


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Prithee, fair youth,\nThink us no churls, nor measure our good minds\nBy this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd!\n'Tis almost night: you shall have better cheer\nEre you depart: and thanks to stay and eat it.\nBoys, bid him welcome.


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Were you a woman, youth,\nI should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty,\nI bid for you as I'd buy.


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I'll make't my comfort\nHe is a man; I'll love him as my brother:\nAnd such a welcome as I'd give to him\nAfter long absence, such is yours: most welcome!\nBe sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends.


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'Mongst friends,\nIf brothers.\n[Aside]\nWould it had been so, that they\nHad been my father's sons! then had my prize\nBeen less, and so more equal ballasting\nTo thee, Posthumus.


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Great men,\nThat had a court no bigger than this cave,\nThat did attend themselves and had the virtue\nWhich their own conscience seal'd them--laying by\nThat nothing-gift of differing multitudes--\nCould not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods!\nI'd change my sex to be companion with them,\nSince Leonatus's false.


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It shall be so.\nBoys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in:\nDiscourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd,\nWe'll mannerly demand thee of thy story,\nSo far as thou wilt speak it.


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This is the tenor of the emperor's writ:\nThat since the common men are now in action\n'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians,\nAnd that the legions now in Gallia are\nFull weak to undertake our wars against\nThe fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite\nThe gentry to this business. He creates\nLucius preconsul: and to you the tribunes,\nFor this immediate levy, he commends\nHis absolute commission. Long live Caesar!


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With those legions\nWhich I have spoke of, whereunto your levy\nMust be supplyant: the words of your commission\nWill tie you to the numbers and the time\nOf their dispatch.


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I am near to the place where they should meet, if\nPisanio have mapped it truly. How fit his garments\nserve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by\nhim that made the tailor, not be fit too? the\nrather--saving reverence of the word--for 'tis said\na woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must\nplay the workman. I dare speak it to myself--for it\nis not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer\nin his own chamber--I mean, the lines of my body are\nas well drawn as his; no less young, more strong,\nnot beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the\nadvantage of the time, above him in birth, alike\nconversant in general services, and more remarkable\nin single oppositions: yet this imperceiverant\nthing loves him in my despite. What mortality is!\nPosthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy\nshoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy\nmistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before\nthy face: and all this done, spurn her home to her\nfather; who may haply be a little angry for my so\nrough usage; but my mother, having power of his\ntestiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My\nhorse is tied up safe: out, sword, and to a sore\npurpose! Fortune, put them into my hand! This is\nthe very description of their meeting-place; and\nthe fellow dares not deceive me.


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So man and man should be;\nBut clay and clay differs in dignity,\nWhose dust is both alike. I am very sick.


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So sick I am not, yet I am not well;\nBut not so citizen a wanton as\nTo seem to die ere sick: so please you, leave me;\nStick to your journal course: the breach of custom\nIs breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me\nCannot amend me; society is no comfort\nTo one not sociable: I am not very sick,\nSince I can reason of it. Pray you, trust me here:\nI'll rob none but myself; and let me die,\nStealing so poorly.


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If it be sin to say so, I yoke me\nIn my good brother's fault: I know not why\nI love this youth; and I have heard you say,\nLove's reason's without reason: the bier at door,\nAnd a demand who is't shall die, I'd say\n'My father, not this youth.'


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[Aside]. O noble strain!\nO worthiness of nature! breed of greatness!\nCowards father cowards and base things sire base:\nNature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace.\nI'm not their father; yet who this should be,\nDoth miracle itself, loved before me.\n'Tis the ninth hour o' the morn.


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[Aside] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies\nI have heard!\nOur courtiers say all's savage but at court:\nExperience, O, thou disprovest report!\nThe imperious seas breed monsters, for the dish\nPoor tributary rivers as sweet fish.\nI am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio,\nI'll now taste of thy drug.


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I could not stir him:\nHe said he was gentle, but unfortunate;\nDishonestly afflicted, but yet honest.


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And shalt be ever.\n[Exit IMOGEN, to the cave]\nThis youth, how'er distress'd, appears he hath had\nGood ancestors.


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But his neat cookery! he cut our roots\nIn characters,\nAnd sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick\nAnd he her dieter.


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Nobly he yokes\nA smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh\nWas that it was, for not being such a smile;\nThe smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly\nFrom so divine a temple, to commix\nWith winds that sailors rail at.


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Grow, patience!\nAnd let the stinking elder, grief, untwine\nHis perishing root with the increasing vine!


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'Those runagates!'\nMeans he not us? I partly know him: 'tis\nCloten, the son o' the queen. I fear some ambush.\nI saw him not these many years, and yet\nI know 'tis he. We are held as outlaws: hence!


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He is but one: you and my brother search\nWhat companies are near: pray you, away;\nLet me alone with him.


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Soft! What are you\nThat fly me thus? some villain mountaineers?\nI have heard of such. What slave art thou?


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To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I\nAn arm as big as thine? a heart as big?\nThy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not\nMy dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art,\nWhy I should yield to thee?


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No, nor thy tailor, rascal,\nWho is thy grandfather: he made those clothes,\nWhich, as it seems, make thee.


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Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name,\nI cannot tremble at it: were it Toad, or\nAdder, Spider,\n'Twould move me sooner.


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Die the death:\nWhen I have slain thee with my proper hand,\nI'll follow those that even now fled hence,\nAnd on the gates of Lud's-town set your heads:\nYield, rustic mountaineer.


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I cannot tell: long is it since I saw him,\nBut time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of favour\nWhich then he wore; the snatches in his voice,\nAnd burst of speaking, were as his: I am absolute\n'Twas very Cloten.


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Being scarce made up,\nI mean, to man, he had not apprehension\nOf roaring terrors; for the effect of judgment\nIs oft the cause of fear. But, see, thy brother.


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This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse;\nThere was no money in't: not Hercules\nCould have knock'd out his brains, for he had none:\nYet I not doing this, the fool had borne\nMy head as I do his.


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I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten's head,\nSon to the queen, after his own report;\nWho call'd me traitor, mountaineer, and swore\nWith his own single hand he'ld take us in\nDisplace our heads where--thank the gods!--they grow,\nAnd set them on Lud's-town.


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Why, worthy father, what have we to lose,\nBut that he swore to take, our lives? The law\nProtects not us: then why should we be tender\nTo let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us,\nPlay judge and executioner all himself,\nFor we do fear the law? What company\nDiscover you abroad?


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No single soul\nCan we set eye on; but in all safe reason\nHe must have some attendants. Though his humour\nWas nothing but mutation, ay, and that\nFrom one bad thing to worse; not frenzy, not\nAbsolute madness could so far have raved\nTo bring him here alone; although perhaps\nIt may be heard at court that such as we\nCave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time\nMay make some stronger head; the which he hearing--\nAs it is like him--might break out, and swear\nHe'ld fetch us in; yet is't not probable\nTo come alone, either he so undertaking,\nOr they so suffering: then on good ground we fear,\nIf we do fear this body hath a tail\nMore perilous than the head.


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With his own sword,\nWhich he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en\nHis head from him: I'll throw't into the creek\nBehind our rock; and let it to the sea,\nAnd tell the fishes he's the queen's son, Cloten:\nThat's all I reck.


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I fear 'twill be revenged:\nWould, Polydote, thou hadst not done't! though valour\nBecomes thee well enough.


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Would I had done't\nSo the revenge alone pursued me! Polydore,\nI love thee brotherly, but envy much\nThou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would revenges,\nThat possible strength might meet, would seek us through\nAnd put us to our answer.


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Well, 'tis done:\nWe'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger\nWhere there's no profit. I prithee, to our rock;\nYou and Fidele play the cooks: I'll stay\nTill hasty Polydote return, and bring him\nTo dinner presently.


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Poor sick Fidele!\nI'll weringly to him: to gain his colour\nI'ld let a parish of such Clotens' blood,\nAnd praise myself for charity.


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O thou goddess,\nThou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st\nIn these two princely boys! They are as gentle\nAs zephyrs blowing below the violet,\nNot wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,\nTheir royal blood enchafed, as the rudest wind,\nThat by the top doth take the mountain pine,\nAnd make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonder\nThat an invisible instinct should frame them\nTo royalty unlearn'd, honour untaught,\nCivility not seen from other, valour\nThat wildly grows in them, but yields a crop\nAs if it had been sow'd. Yet still it's strange\nWhat Cloten's being here to us portends,\nOr what his death will bring us.


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Where's my brother?\nI have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream,\nIn embassy to his mother: his body's hostage\nFor his return.


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My ingenious instrument!\nHark, Polydore, it sounds! But what occasion\nHath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!


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What does he mean? since death of my dear'st mother\nit did not speak before. All solemn things\nShould answer solemn accidents. The matter?\nTriumphs for nothing and lamenting toys\nIs jollity for apes and grief for boys.\nIs Cadwal mad?


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Look, here he comes,\nAnd brings the dire occasion in his arms\nOf what we blame him for.\n[Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, with IMOGEN, as dead,]\nbearing her in his arms]


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The bird is dead\nThat we have made so much on. I had rather\nHave skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty,\nTo have turn'd my leaping-time into a crutch,\nThan have seen this.


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O sweetest, fairest lily!\nMy brother wears thee not the one half so well\nAs when thou grew'st thyself.


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O melancholy!\nWho ever yet could sound thy bottom? find\nThe ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare\nMight easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing!\nJove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I,\nThou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy.\nHow found you him?


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Stark, as you see:\nThus smiling, as some fly hid tickled slumber,\nNot as death's dart, being laugh'd at; his\nright cheek\nReposing on a cushion.


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O' the floor;\nHis arms thus leagued: I thought he slept, and put\nMy clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness\nAnswer'd my steps too loud.


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Why, he but sleeps:\nIf he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed;\nWith female fairies will his tomb be haunted,\nAnd worms will not come to thee.


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With fairest flowers\nWhilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele,\nI'll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack\nThe flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor\nThe azured harebell, like thy veins, no, nor\nThe leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,\nOut-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock would,\nWith charitable bill,--O bill, sore-shaming\nThose rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie\nWithout a monument!--bring thee all this;\nYea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none,\nTo winter-ground thy corse.


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Prithee, have done;\nAnd do not play in wench-like words with that\nWhich is so serious. Let us bury him,\nAnd not protract with admiration what\nIs now due debt. To the grave!


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Be't so:\nAnd let us, Polydore, though now our voices\nHave got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground,\nAs once our mother; use like note and words,\nSave that Euriphile must be Fidele.


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Cadwal,\nI cannot sing: I'll weep, and word it with thee;\nFor notes of sorrow out of tune are worse\nThan priests and fanes that lie.


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Great griefs, I see, medicine the less; for Cloten\nIs quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys;\nAnd though he came our enemy, remember\nHe was paid for that: though mean and\nmighty, rotting\nTogether, have one dust, yet reverence,\nThat angel of the world, doth make distinction\nOf place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely\nAnd though you took his life, as being our foe,\nYet bury him as a prince.


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Fear no more the heat o' the sun,\nNor the furious winter's rages;\nThou thy worldly task hast done,\nHome art gone, and ta'en thy wages:\nGolden lads and girls all must,\nAs chimney-sweepers, come to dust.


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Fear no more the frown o' the great;\nThou art past the tyrant's stroke;\nCare no more to clothe and eat;\nTo thee the reed is as the oak:\nThe sceptre, learning, physic, must\nAll follow this, and come to dust.


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Here's a few flowers; but 'bout midnight, more:\nThe herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night\nAre strewings fitt'st for graves. Upon their faces.\nYou were as flowers, now wither'd: even so\nThese herblets shall, which we upon you strew.\nCome on, away: apart upon our knees.\nThe ground that gave them first has them again:\nTheir pleasures here are past, so is their pain.


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[Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven; which is\nthe way?--\nI thank you.--By yond bush?--Pray, how far thither?\n'Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet?--\nI have gone all night. 'Faith, I'll lie down and sleep.\nBut, soft! no bedfellow!--O gods and goddesses!\n[Seeing the body of CLOTEN]\nThese flowers are like the pleasures of the world;\nThis bloody man, the care on't. I hope I dream;\nFor so I thought I was a cave-keeper,\nAnd cook to honest creatures: but 'tis not so;\n'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing,\nWhich the brain makes of fumes: our very eyes\nAre sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good faith,\nI tremble stiff with fear: but if there be\nYet left in heaven as small a drop of pity\nAs a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it!\nThe dream's here still: even when I wake, it is\nWithout me, as within me; not imagined, felt.\nA headless man! The garments of Posthumus!\nI know the shape of's leg: this is his hand;\nHis foot Mercurial; his Martial thigh;\nThe brawns of Hercules: but his Jovial face\nMurder in heaven?--How!--'Tis gone. Pisanio,\nAll curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,\nAnd mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou,\nConspired with that irregulous devil, Cloten,\nHast here cut off my lord. To write and read\nBe henceforth treacherous! Damn'd Pisanio\nHath with his forged letters,--damn'd Pisanio--\nFrom this most bravest vessel of the world\nStruck the main-top! O Posthumus! alas,\nWhere is thy head? where's that? Ay me!\nwhere's that?\nPisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart,\nAnd left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio?\n'Tis he and Cloten: malice and lucre in them\nHave laid this woe here. O, 'tis pregnant, pregnant!\nThe drug he gave me, which he said was precious\nAnd cordial to me, have I not found it\nMurderous to the senses? That confirms it home:\nThis is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten's: O!\nGive colour to my pale cheek with thy blood,\nThat we the horrider may seem to those\nWhich chance to find us: O, my lord, my lord!\n[Falls on the body]\n[Enter LUCIUS, a Captain and other Officers,]\nand a Soothsayer]


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To them the legions garrison'd in Gailia,\nAfter your will, have cross'd the sea, attending\nYou here at Milford-Haven with your ships:\nThey are in readiness.


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The senate hath stirr'd up the confiners\nAnd gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits,\nThat promise noble service: and they come\nUnder the conduct of bold Iachimo,\nSyenna's brother.


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This forwardness\nMakes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers\nBe muster'd; bid the captains look to't. Now, sir,\nWhat have you dream'd of late of this war's purpose?


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Last night the very gods show'd me a vision--\nI fast and pray'd for their intelligence--thus:\nI saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing'd\nFrom the spongy south to this part of the west,\nThere vanish'd in the sunbeams: which portends--\nUnless my sins abuse my divination--\nSuccess to the Roman host.


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Dream often so,\nAnd never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here\nWithout his top? The ruin speaks that sometime\nIt was a worthy building. How! a page!\nOr dead, or sleeping on him? But dead rather;\nFor nature doth abhor to make his bed\nWith the defunct, or sleep upon the dead.\nLet's see the boy's face.


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He'll then instruct us of this body. Young one,\nInform us of thy fortunes, for it seems\nThey crave to be demanded. Who is this\nThou makest thy bloody pillow? Or who was he\nThat, otherwise than noble nature did,\nHath alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest\nIn this sad wreck? How came it? Who is it?\nWhat art thou?


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I am nothing: or if not,\nNothing to be were better. This was my master,\nA very valiant Briton and a good,\nThat here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas!\nThere is no more such masters: I may wander\nFrom east to occident, cry out for service,\nTry many, all good, serve truly, never\nFind such another master.


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'Lack, good youth!\nThou movest no less with thy complaining than\nThy master in bleeding: say his name, good friend.


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Richard du Champ.\n[Aside]\nIf I do lie and do\nNo harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope\nThey'll pardon it.--Say you, sir?


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Thou dost approve thyself the very same:\nThy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name.\nWilt take thy chance with me? I will not say\nThou shalt be so well master'd, but, be sure,\nNo less beloved. The Roman emperor's letters,\nSent by a consul to me, should not sooner\nThan thine own worth prefer thee: go with me.


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I'll follow, sir. But first, an't please the gods,\nI'll hide my master from the flies, as deep\nAs these poor pickaxes can dig; and when\nWith wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his grave,\nAnd on it said a century of prayers,\nSuch as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep and sigh;\nAnd leaving so his service, follow you,\nSo please you entertain me.


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Ay, good youth!\nAnd rather father thee than master thee.\nMy friends,\nThe boy hath taught us manly duties: let us\nFind out the prettiest daisied plot we can,\nAnd make him with our pikes and partisans\nA grave: come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr'd\nBy thee to us, and he shall be interr'd\nAs soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes\nSome falls are means the happier to arise.


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Again; and bring me word how 'tis with her.\n[Exit an Attendant]\nA fever with the absence of her son,\nA madness, of which her life's in danger. Heavens,\nHow deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen,\nThe great part of my comfort, gone; my queen\nUpon a desperate bed, and in a time\nWhen fearful wars point at me; her son gone,\nSo needful for this present: it strikes me, past\nThe hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow,\nWho needs must know of her departure and\nDost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee\nBy a sharp torture.


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Sir, my life is yours;\nI humbly set it at your will; but, for my mistress,\nI nothing know where she remains, why gone,\nNor when she purposes return. Beseech your highness,\nHold me your loyal servant.


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Good my liege,\nThe day that she was missing he was here:\nI dare be bound he's true and shall perform\nAll parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten,\nThere wants no diligence in seeking him,\nAnd will, no doubt, be found.


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The time is troublesome.\n[To PISANIO]\nWe'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy\nDoes yet depend.


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So please your majesty,\nThe Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,\nAre landed on your coast, with a supply\nOf Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent.


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Good my liege,\nYour preparation can affront no less\nThan what you hear of: come more, for more\nyou're ready:\nThe want is but to put those powers in motion\nThat long to move.


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I thank you. Let's withdraw;\nAnd meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not\nWhat can from Italy annoy us; but\nWe grieve at chances here. Away!


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I heard no letter from my master since\nI wrote him Imogen was slain: 'tis strange:\nNor hear I from my mistress who did promise\nTo yield me often tidings: neither know I\nWhat is betid to Cloten; but remain\nPerplex'd in all. The heavens still must work.\nWherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true.\nThese present wars shall find I love my country,\nEven to the note o' the king, or I'll fall in them.\nAll other doubts, by time let them be clear'd:\nFortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd.


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Nay, what hope\nHave we in hiding us? This way, the Romans\nMust or for Britons slay us, or receive us\nFor barbarous and unnatural revolts\nDuring their use, and slay us after.


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Sons,\nWe'll higher to the mountains; there secure us.\nTo the king's party there's no going: newness\nOf Cloten's death--we being not known, not muster'd\nAmong the bands--may drive us to a render\nWhere we have lived, and so extort from's that\nWhich we have done, whose answer would be death\nDrawn on with torture.


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It is not likely\nThat when they hear the Roman horses neigh,\nBehold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes\nAnd ears so cloy'd importantly as now,\nThat they will waste their time upon our note,\nTo know from whence we are.


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O, I am known\nOf many in the army: many years,\nThough Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him\nFrom my remembrance. And, besides, the king\nHath not deserved my service nor your loves;\nWho find in my exile the want of breeding,\nThe certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless\nTo have the courtesy your cradle promised,\nBut to be still hot summer's tamings and\nThe shrinking slaves of winter.


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Than be so\nBetter to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army:\nI and my brother are not known; yourself\nSo out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown,\nCannot be question'd.


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By this sun that shines,\nI'll thither: what thing is it that I never\nDid see man die! scarce ever look'd on blood,\nBut that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison!\nNever bestrid a horse, save one that had\nA rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel\nNor iron on his heel! I am ashamed\nTo look upon the holy sun, to have\nThe benefit of his blest beams, remaining\nSo long a poor unknown.


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By heavens, I'll go:\nIf you will bless me, sir, and give me leave,\nI'll take the better care, but if you will not,\nThe hazard therefore due fall on me by\nThe hands of Romans!


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No reason I, since of your lives you set\nSo slight a valuation, should reserve\nMy crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys!\nIf in your country wars you chance to die,\nThat is my bed too, lads, an there I'll lie:\nLead, lead.\n[Aside]\nThe time seems long; their blood\nthinks scorn,\nTill it fly out and show them princes born.


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Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee, for I wish'd\nThou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones,\nIf each of you should take this course, how many\nMust murder wives much better than themselves\nFor wrying but a little! O Pisanio!\nEvery good servant does not all commands:\nNo bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you\nShould have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never\nHad lived to put on this: so had you saved\nThe noble Imogen to repent, and struck\nMe, wretch more worth your vengeance. But, alack,\nYou snatch some hence for little faults; that's love,\nTo have them fall no more: you some permit\nTo second ills with ills, each elder worse,\nAnd make them dread it, to the doers' thrift.\nBut Imogen is your own: do your best wills,\nAnd make me blest to obey! I am brought hither\nAmong the Italian gentry, and to fight\nAgainst my lady's kingdom: 'tis enough\nThat, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace!\nI'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens,\nHear patiently my purpose: I'll disrobe me\nOf these Italian weeds and suit myself\nAs does a Briton peasant: so I'll fight\nAgainst the part I come with; so I'll die\nFor thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life\nIs every breath a death; and thus, unknown,\nPitied nor hated, to the face of peril\nMyself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know\nMore valour in me than my habits show.\nGods, put the strength o' the Leonati in me!\nTo shame the guise o' the world, I will begin\nThe fashion, less without and more within.


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[Exit]\n[Enter, from one side, LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and]\nthe Roman Army: from the other side, the\nBritish Army; POSTHUMUS LEONATUS following,\nlike a poor soldier. They march over and go\nout. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO\nand POSTHUMUS LEONATUS he vanquisheth and disarmeth\nIACHIMO, and then leaves him]


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The heaviness and guilt within my bosom\nTakes off my manhood: I have belied a lady,\nThe princess of this country, and the air on't\nRevengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl,\nA very drudge of nature's, have subdued me\nIn my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne\nAs I wear mine, are titles but of scorn.\nIf that thy gentry, Britain, go before\nThis lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds\nIs that we scarce are men and you are gods.\n[Exit]\n[The battle continues; the Britons fly; CYMBELINE is]\ntaken: then enter, to his rescue, BELARIUS,\nGUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS]


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Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground;\nThe lane is guarded: nothing routs us but\nThe villany of our fears.


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[with Arviragus] Stand, stand, and fight!\n[Re-enter POSTHUMUS LEONATUS, and seconds the]\nBritons: they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then\nre-enter LUCIUS, and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN]


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Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself;\nFor friends kill friends, and the disorder's such\nAs war were hoodwink'd.


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No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost,\nBut that the heavens fought: the king himself\nOf his wings destitute, the army broken,\nAnd but the backs of Britons seen, all flying\nThrough a straight lane; the enemy full-hearted,\nLolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work\nMore plentiful than tools to do't, struck down\nSome mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling\nMerely through fear; that the straight pass was damm'd\nWith dead men hurt behind, and cowards living\nTo die with lengthen'd shame.


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Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf;\nWhich gave advantage to an ancient soldier,\nAn honest one, I warrant; who deserved\nSo long a breeding as his white beard came to,\nIn doing this for's country: athwart the lane,\nHe, with two striplings-lads more like to run\nThe country base than to commit such slaughter\nWith faces fit for masks, or rather fairer\nThan those for preservation cased, or shame--\nMade good the passage; cried to those that fled,\n'Our Britain s harts die flying, not our men:\nTo darkness fleet souls that fly backwards. Stand;\nOr we are Romans and will give you that\nLike beasts which you shun beastly, and may save,\nBut to look back in frown: stand, stand.'\nThese three,\nThree thousand confident, in act as many--\nFor three performers are the file when all\nThe rest do nothing--with this word 'Stand, stand,'\nAccommodated by the place, more charming\nWith their own nobleness, which could have turn'd\nA distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks,\nPart shame, part spirit renew'd; that some,\nturn'd coward\nBut by example--O, a sin in war,\nDamn'd in the first beginners!--gan to look\nThe way that they did, and to grin like lions\nUpon the pikes o' the hunters. Then began\nA stop i' the chaser, a retire, anon\nA rout, confusion thick; forthwith they fly\nChickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves,\nThe strides they victors made: and now our cowards,\nLike fragments in hard voyages, became\nThe life o' the need: having found the backdoor open\nOf the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!\nSome slain before; some dying; some their friends\nO'er borne i' the former wave: ten, chased by one,\nAre now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:\nThose that would die or ere resist are grown\nThe mortal bugs o' the field.


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Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made\nRather to wonder at the things you hear\nThan to work any. Will you rhyme upon't,\nAnd vent it for a mockery? Here is one:\n'Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane,\nPreserved the Britons, was the Romans' bane.'


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'Lack, to what end?\nWho dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend;\nFor if he'll do as he is made to do,\nI know he'll quickly fly my friendship too.\nYou have put me into rhyme.


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Still going?\n[Exit Lord]\nThis is a lord! O noble misery,\nTo be i' the field, and ask 'what news?' of me!\nTo-day how many would have given their honours\nTo have saved their carcasses! took heel to do't,\nAnd yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm'd,\nCould not find death where I did hear him groan,\nNor feel him where he struck: being an ugly monster,\n'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,\nSweet words; or hath more ministers than we\nThat draw his knives i' the war. Well, I will find him\nFor being now a favourer to the Briton,\nNo more a Briton, I have resumed again\nThe part I came in: fight I will no more,\nBut yield me to the veriest hind that shall\nOnce touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is\nHere made by the Roman; great the answer be\nBritons must take. For me, my ransom's death;\nOn either side I come to spend my breath;\nWhich neither here I'll keep nor bear again,\nBut end it by some means for Imogen.


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Lay hands on him; a dog!\nA leg of Rome shall not return to tell\nWhat crows have peck'd them here. He brags\nhis service\nAs if he were of note: bring him to the king.\n[Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS,]\nPISANIO, Soldiers, Attendants, and Roman Captives.\nThe Captains present POSTHUMUS LEONATUS to\nCYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a Gaoler:\nthen exeunt omnes]


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Most welcome, bondage! for thou art away,\nthink, to liberty: yet am I better\nThan one that's sick o' the gout; since he had rather\nGroan so in perpetuity than be cured\nBy the sure physician, death, who is the key\nTo unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd\nMore than my shanks and wrists: you good gods, give me\nThe penitent instrument to pick that bolt,\nThen, free for ever! Is't enough I am sorry?\nSo children temporal fathers do appease;\nGods are more full of mercy. Must I repent?\nI cannot do it better than in gyves,\nDesired more than constrain'd: to satisfy,\nIf of my freedom 'tis the main part, take\nNo stricter render of me than my all.\nI know you are more clement than vile men,\nWho of their broken debtors take a third,\nA sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again\nOn their abatement: that's not my desire:\nFor Imogen's dear life take mine; and though\n'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it:\n'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp;\nThough light, take pieces for the figure's sake:\nYou rather mine, being yours: and so, great powers,\nIf you will take this audit, take this life,\nAnd cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen!\nI'll speak to thee in silence.\n[Sleeps]\n[Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition,]\nSICILIUS LEONATUS, father to Posthumus Leonatus,\nan old man, attired like a warrior; leading in\nhis hand an ancient matron, his wife, and mother\nto Posthumus Leonatus, with music before them:\nthen, after other music, follow the two young\nLeonati, brothers to Posthumus Leonatus, with\nwounds as they died in the wars. They circle\nPosthumus Leonatus round, as he lies sleeping]


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No more, thou thunder-master, show\nThy spite on mortal flies:\nWith Mars fall out, with Juno chide,\nThat thy adulteries\nRates and revenges.\nHath my poor boy done aught but well,\nWhose face I never saw?\nI died whilst in the womb he stay'd\nAttending nature's law:\nWhose father then, as men report\nThou orphans' father art,\nThou shouldst have been, and shielded him\nFrom this earth-vexing smart.


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Lucina lent not me her aid,\nBut took me in my throes;\nThat from me was Posthumus ript,\nCame crying 'mongst his foes,\nA thing of pity!


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Great nature, like his ancestry,\nMoulded the stuff so fair,\nThat he deserved the praise o' the world,\nAs great Sicilius' heir.


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When once he was mature for man,\nIn Britain where was he\nThat could stand up his parallel;\nOr fruitful object be\nIn eye of Imogen, that best\nCould deem his dignity?


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With marriage wherefore was he mock'd,\nTo be exiled, and thrown\nFrom Leonati seat, and cast\nFrom her his dearest one,\nSweet Imogen?


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Why did you suffer Iachimo,\nSlight thing of Italy,\nTo taint his nobler heart and brain\nWith needless jealosy;\nAnd to become the geck and scorn\nO' th' other's villany?


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For this from stiller seats we came,\nOur parents and us twain,\nThat striking in our country's cause\nFell bravely and were slain,\nOur fealty and Tenantius' right\nWith honour to maintain.


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Like hardiment Posthumus hath\nTo Cymbeline perform'd:\nThen, Jupiter, thou king of gods,\nWhy hast thou thus adjourn'd\nThe graces for his merits due,\nBeing all to dolours turn'd?


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Thy crystal window ope; look out;\nNo longer exercise\nUpon a valiant race thy harsh\nAnd potent injuries.


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Peep through thy marble mansion; help;\nOr we poor ghosts will cry\nTo the shining synod of the rest\nAgainst thy deity.


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[with First Brother] Help, Jupiter; or we appeal,\nAnd from thy justice fly.\n[Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting]\nupon an eagle: he throws a thunderbolt. The\nApparitions fall on their knees]


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No more, you petty spirits of region low,\nOffend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts\nAccuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,\nSky-planted batters all rebelling coasts?\nPoor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest\nUpon your never-withering banks of flowers:\nBe not with mortal accidents opprest;\nNo care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours.\nWhom best I love I cross; to make my gift,\nThe more delay'd, delighted. Be content;\nYour low-laid son our godhead will uplift:\nHis comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.\nOur Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in\nOur temple was he married. Rise, and fade.\nHe shall be lord of lady Imogen,\nAnd happier much by his affliction made.\nThis tablet lay upon his breast, wherein\nOur pleasure his full fortune doth confine:\nand so, away: no further with your din\nExpress impatience, lest you stir up mine.\nMount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.


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He came in thunder; his celestial breath\nWas sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle\nStoop'd as to foot us: his ascension is\nMore sweet than our blest fields: his royal bird\nPrunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak,\nAs when his god is pleased.


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The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd\nHis radiant root. Away! and, to be blest,\nLet us with care perform his great behest.


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[Waking] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, and begot\nA father to me; and thou hast created\nA mother and two brothers: but, O scorn!\nGone! they went hence so soon as they were born:\nAnd so I am awake. Poor wretches that depend\nOn greatness' favour dream as I have done,\nWake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve:\nMany dream not to find, neither deserve,\nAnd yet are steep'd in favours: so am I,\nThat have this golden chance and know not why.\nWhat fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one!\nBe not, as is our fangled world, a garment\nNobler than that it covers: let thy effects\nSo follow, to be most unlike our courtiers,\nAs good as promise.\n[Reads]\n'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown,\nwithout seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of\ntender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be\nlopped branches, which, being dead many years,\nshall after revive, be jointed to the old stock and\nfreshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries,\nBritain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.'\n'Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen\nTongue and brain not; either both or nothing;\nOr senseless speaking or a speaking such\nAs sense cannot untie. Be what it is,\nThe action of my life is like it, which\nI'll keep, if but for sympathy.


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A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is,\nyou shall be called to no more payments, fear no\nmore tavern-bills; which are often the sadness of\nparting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in\nflint for want of meat, depart reeling with too\nmuch drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and\nsorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain\nboth empty; the brain the heavier for being too\nlight, the purse too light, being drawn of\nheaviness: of this contradiction you shall now be\nquit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up\nthousands in a trice: you have no true debitor and\ncreditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come,\nthe discharge: your neck, sir, is pen, book and\ncounters; so the acquittance follows.


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Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the\ntooth-ache: but a man that were to sleep your\nsleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he\nwould change places with his officer; for, look you,\nsir, you know not which way you shall go.


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Your death has eyes in 's head then; I have not seen\nhim so pictured: you must either be directed by\nsome that take upon them to know, or do take upon\nyourself that which I am sure you do not know, or\njump the after inquiry on your own peril: and how\nyou shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll\nnever return to tell one.


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I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to\ndirect them the way I am going, but such as wink and\nwill not use them.


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What an infinite mock is this, that a man should\nhave the best use of eyes to see the way of\nblindness! I am sure hanging's the way of winking.


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Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young\ngibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my\nconscience, there are verier knaves desire to live,\nfor all he be a Roman: and there be some of them\ntoo that die against their wills; so should I, if I\nwere one. I would we were all of one mind, and one\nmind good; O, there were desolation of gaolers and\ngallowses! I speak against my present profit, but\nmy wish hath a preferment in 't.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS,]\nPISANIO, Lords, Officers, and Attendants]


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Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made\nPreservers of my throne. Woe is my heart\nThat the poor soldier that so richly fought,\nWhose rags shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast\nStepp'd before larges of proof, cannot be found:\nHe shall be happy that can find him, if\nOur grace can make him so.


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I never saw\nSuch noble fury in so poor a thing;\nSuch precious deeds in one that promises nought\nBut beggary and poor looks.


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To my grief, I am\nThe heir of his reward;\n[To BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS]\nwhich I will add\nTo you, the liver, heart and brain of Britain,\nBy whom I grant she lives. 'Tis now the time\nTo ask of whence you are. Report it.


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Sir,\nIn Cambria are we born, and gentlemen:\nFurther to boast were neither true nor modest,\nUnless I add, we are honest.


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Bow your knees.\nArise my knights o' the battle: I create you\nCompanions to our person and will fit you\nWith dignities becoming your estates.\n[Enter CORNELIUS and Ladies]\nThere's business in these faces. Why so sadly\nGreet you our victory? you look like Romans,\nAnd not o' the court of Britain.


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Who worse than a physician\nWould this report become? But I consider,\nBy medicine life may be prolong'd, yet death\nWill seize the doctor too. How ended she?


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With horror, madly dying, like her life,\nWhich, being cruel to the world, concluded\nMost cruel to herself. What she confess'd\nI will report, so please you: these her women\nCan trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks\nWere present when she finish'd.


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First, she confess'd she never loved you, only\nAffected greatness got by you, not you:\nMarried your royalty, was wife to your place;\nAbhorr'd your person.


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She alone knew this;\nAnd, but she spoke it dying, I would not\nBelieve her lips in opening it. Proceed.


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Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love\nWith such integrity, she did confess\nWas as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,\nBut that her flight prevented it, she had\nTa'en off by poison.


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More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had\nFor you a mortal mineral; which, being took,\nShould by the minute feed on life and lingering\nBy inches waste you: in which time she purposed,\nBy watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to\nO'ercome you with her show, and in time,\nWhen she had fitted you with her craft, to work\nHer son into the adoption of the crown:\nBut, failing of her end by his strange absence,\nGrew shameless-desperate; open'd, in despite\nOf heaven and men, her purposes; repented\nThe evils she hatch'd were not effected; so\nDespairing died.


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Mine eyes\nWere not in fault, for she was beautiful;\nMine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart,\nThat thought her like her seeming; it had\nbeen vicious\nTo have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter!\nThat it was folly in me, thou mayst say,\nAnd prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!\n[Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the Soothsayer, and other]\nRoman Prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS LEONATUS\nbehind, and IMOGEN]\nThou comest not, Caius, now for tribute that\nThe Britons have razed out, though with the loss\nOf many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit\nThat their good souls may be appeased with slaughter\nOf you their captives, which ourself have granted:\nSo think of your estate.


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Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day\nWas yours by accident; had it gone with us,\nWe should not, when the blood was cool,\nhave threaten'd\nOur prisoners with the sword. But since the gods\nWill have it thus, that nothing but our lives\nMay be call'd ransom, let it come: sufficeth\nA Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer:\nAugustus lives to think on't: and so much\nFor my peculiar care. This one thing only\nI will entreat; my boy, a Briton born,\nLet him be ransom'd: never master had\nA page so kind, so duteous, diligent,\nSo tender over his occasions, true,\nSo feat, so nurse-like: let his virtue join\nWith my request, which I make bold your highness\nCannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,\nThough he have served a Roman: save him, sir,\nAnd spare no blood beside.


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I have surely seen him:\nHis favour is familiar to me. Boy,\nThou hast look'd thyself into my grace,\nAnd art mine own. I know not why, wherefore,\nTo say 'live, boy:' ne'er thank thy master; live:\nAnd ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,\nFitting my bounty and thy state, I'll give it;\nYea, though thou do demand a prisoner,\nThe noblest ta'en.


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No, no: alack,\nThere's other work in hand: I see a thing\nBitter to me as death: your life, good master,\nMust shuffle for itself.


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The boy disdains me,\nHe leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys\nThat place them on the truth of girls and boys.\nWhy stands he so perplex'd?


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What wouldst thou, boy?\nI love thee more and more: think more and more\nWhat's best to ask. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak,\nWilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?


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He is a Roman; no more kin to me\nThan I to your highness; who, being born your vassal,\nAm something nearer.


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Peace, peace! see further; he eyes us not; forbear;\nCreatures may be alike: were 't he, I am sure\nHe would have spoke to us.


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Come, stand thou by our side;\nMake thy demand aloud.\n[To IACHIMO]\nSir, step you forth;\nGive answer to this boy, and do it freely;\nOr, by our greatness and the grace of it,\nWhich is our honour, bitter torture shall\nWinnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.


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I am glad to be constrain'd to utter that\nWhich torments me to conceal. By villany\nI got this ring: 'twas Leonatus' jewel;\nWhom thou didst banish; and--which more may\ngrieve thee,\nAs it doth me--a nobler sir ne'er lived\n'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?


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That paragon, thy daughter,--\nFor whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits\nQuail to remember--Give me leave; I faint.


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My daughter! what of her? Renew thy strength:\nI had rather thou shouldst live while nature will\nThan die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak.


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Upon a time,--unhappy was the clock\nThat struck the hour!--it was in Rome,--accursed\nThe mansion where!--'twas at a feast,--O, would\nOur viands had been poison'd, or at least\nThose which I heaved to head!--the good Posthumus--\nWhat should I say? he was too good to be\nWhere ill men were; and was the best of all\nAmongst the rarest of good ones,--sitting sadly,\nHearing us praise our loves of Italy\nFor beauty that made barren the swell'd boast\nOf him that best could speak, for feature, laming\nThe shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva.\nPostures beyond brief nature, for condition,\nA shop of all the qualities that man\nLoves woman for, besides that hook of wiving,\nFairness which strikes the eye--


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All too soon I shall,\nUnless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus,\nMost like a noble lord in love and one\nThat had a royal lover, took his hint;\nAnd, not dispraising whom we praised,--therein\nHe was as calm as virtue--he began\nHis mistress' picture; which by his tongue\nbeing made,\nAnd then a mind put in't, either our brags\nWere crack'd of kitchen-trolls, or his description\nProved us unspeaking sots.


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Your daughter's chastity--there it begins.\nHe spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams,\nAnd she alone were cold: whereat I, wretch,\nMade scruple of his praise; and wager'd with him\nPieces of gold 'gainst this which then he wore\nUpon his honour'd finger, to attain\nIn suit the place of's bed and win this ring\nBy hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,\nNo lesser of her honour confident\nThan I did truly find her, stakes this ring;\nAnd would so, had it been a carbuncle\nOf Phoebus' wheel, and might so safely, had it\nBeen all the worth of's car. Away to Britain\nPost I in this design: well may you, sir,\nRemember me at court; where I was taught\nOf your chaste daughter the wide difference\n'Twixt amorous and villanous. Being thus quench'd\nOf hope, not longing, mine Italian brain\n'Gan in your duller Britain operate\nMost vilely; for my vantage, excellent:\nAnd, to be brief, my practise so prevail'd,\nThat I return'd with simular proof enough\nTo make the noble Leonatus mad,\nBy wounding his belief in her renown\nWith tokens thus, and thus; averting notes\nOf chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet,--\nO cunning, how I got it!--nay, some marks\nOf secret on her person, that he could not\nBut think her bond of chastity quite crack'd,\nI having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon--\nMethinks, I see him now--


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[Advancing] Ay, so thou dost,\nItalian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,\nEgregious murderer, thief, any thing\nThat's due to all the villains past, in being,\nTo come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,\nSome upright justicer! Thou, king, send out\nFor torturers ingenious: it is I\nThat all the abhorred things o' the earth amend\nBy being worse than they. I am Posthumus,\nThat kill'd thy daughter:--villain-like, I lie--\nThat caused a lesser villain than myself,\nA sacrilegious thief, to do't: the temple\nOf virtue was she; yea, and she herself.\nSpit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set\nThe dogs o' the street to bay me: every villain\nBe call'd Posthumus Leonitus; and\nBe villany less than 'twas! O Imogen!\nMy queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,\nImogen, Imogen!


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O, gentlemen, help!\nMine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!\nYou ne'er kill'd Imogen til now. Help, help!\nMine honour'd lady!


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O, get thee from my sight;\nThou gavest me poison: dangerous fellow, hence!\nBreathe not where princes are.


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Lady,\nThe gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if\nThat box I gave you was not thought by me\nA precious thing: I had it from the queen.


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O gods!\nI left out one thing which the queen confess'd.\nWhich must approve thee honest: 'If Pisanio\nHave,' said she, 'given his mistress that confection\nWhich I gave him for cordial, she is served\nAs I would serve a rat.'


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The queen, sir, very oft importuned me\nTo temper poisons for her, still pretending\nThe satisfaction of her knowledge only\nIn killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs,\nOf no esteem: I, dreading that her purpose\nWas of more danger, did compound for her\nA certain stuff, which, being ta'en, would cease\nThe present power of life, but in short time\nAll offices of nature should again\nDo their due functions. Have you ta'en of it?


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Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?\nThink that you are upon a rock; and now\nThrow me again.


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How now, my flesh, my child!\nWhat, makest thou me a dullard in this act?\nWilt thou not speak to me?


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[To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS] Though you did love\nthis youth, I blame ye not:\nYou had a motive for't.


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O, she was nought; and long of her it was\nThat we meet here so strangely: but her son\nIs gone, we know not how nor where.


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My lord,\nNow fear is from me, I'll speak troth. Lord Cloten,\nUpon my lady's missing, came to me\nWith his sword drawn; foam'd at the mouth, and swore,\nIf I discover'd not which way she was gone,\nIt was my instant death. By accident,\nhad a feigned letter of my master's\nThen in my pocket; which directed him\nTo seek her on the mountains near to Milford;\nWhere, in a frenzy, in my master's garments,\nWhich he enforced from me, away he posts\nWith unchaste purpose and with oath to violate\nMy lady's honour: what became of him\nI further know not.


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Marry, the gods forfend!\nI would not thy good deeds should from my lips\nPluck a bard sentence: prithee, valiant youth,\nDeny't again.


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A most incivil one: the wrongs he did me\nWere nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me\nWith language that would make me spurn the sea,\nIf it could so roar to me: I cut off's head;\nAnd am right glad he is not standing here\nTo tell this tale of mine.


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I am sorry for thee:\nBy thine own tongue thou art condemn'd, and must\nEndure our law: thou'rt dead.


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Stay, sir king:\nThis man is better than the man he slew,\nAs well descended as thyself; and hath\nMore of thee merited than a band of Clotens\nHad ever scar for.\n[To the Guard]\nLet his arms alone;\nThey were not born for bondage.


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Why, old soldier,\nWilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for,\nBy tasting of our wrath? How of descent\nAs good as we?


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We will die all three:\nBut I will prove that two on's are as good\nAs I have given out him. My sons, I must,\nFor mine own part, unfold a dangerous speech,\nThough, haply, well for you.


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Not too hot:\nFirst pay me for the nursing of thy sons;\nAnd let it be confiscate all, so soon\nAs I have received it.


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I am too blunt and saucy: here's my knee:\nEre I arise, I will prefer my sons;\nThen spare not the old father. Mighty sir,\nThese two young gentlemen, that call me father\nAnd think they are my sons, are none of mine;\nThey are the issue of your loins, my liege,\nAnd blood of your begetting.


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So sure as you your father's. I, old Morgan,\nAm that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd:\nYour pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment\nItself, and all my treason; that I suffer'd\nWas all the harm I did. These gentle princes--\nFor such and so they are--these twenty years\nHave I train'd up: those arts they have as I\nCould put into them; my breeding was, sir, as\nYour highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,\nWhom for the theft I wedded, stole these children\nUpon my banishment: I moved her to't,\nHaving received the punishment before,\nFor that which I did then: beaten for loyalty\nExcited me to treason: their dear loss,\nThe more of you 'twas felt, the more it shaped\nUnto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,\nHere are your sons again; and I must lose\nTwo of the sweet'st companions in the world.\nThe benediction of these covering heavens\nFall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy\nTo inlay heaven with stars.


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Thou weep'st, and speak'st.\nThe service that you three have done is more\nUnlike than this thou tell'st. I lost my children:\nIf these be they, I know not how to wish\nA pair of worthier sons.


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Be pleased awhile.\nThis gentleman, whom I call Polydore,\nMost worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:\nThis gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,\nYour younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp'd\nIn a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand\nOf his queen mother, which for more probation\nI can with ease produce.


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This is he;\nWho hath upon him still that natural stamp:\nIt was wise nature's end in the donation,\nTo be his evidence now.


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O, what, am I\nA mother to the birth of three? Ne'er mother\nRejoiced deliverance more. Blest pray you be,\nThat, after this strange starting from your orbs,\nmay reign in them now! O Imogen,\nThou hast lost by this a kingdom.


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No, my lord;\nI have got two worlds by 't. O my gentle brothers,\nHave we thus met? O, never say hereafter\nBut I am truest speaker you call'd me brother,\nWhen I was but your sister; I you brothers,\nWhen ye were so indeed.


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O rare instinct!\nWhen shall I hear all through? This fierce\nabridgement\nHath to it circumstantial branches, which\nDistinction should be rich in. Where? how lived You?\nAnd when came you to serve our Roman captive?\nHow parted with your brothers? how first met them?\nWhy fled you from the court? and whither? These,\nAnd your three motives to the battle, with\nI know not how much more, should be demanded;\nAnd all the other by-dependencies,\nFrom chance to chance: but nor the time nor place\nWill serve our long inter'gatories. See,\nPosthumus anchors upon Imogen,\nAnd she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye\nOn him, her brother, me, her master, hitting\nEach object with a joy: the counterchange\nIs severally in all. Let's quit this ground,\nAnd smoke the temple with our sacrifices.\n[To BELARIUS]\nThou art my brother; so we'll hold thee ever.


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The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,\nHe would have well becomed this place, and graced\nThe thankings of a king.


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I am, sir,\nThe soldier that did company these three\nIn poor beseeming; 'twas a fitment for\nThe purpose I then follow'd. That I was he,\nSpeak, Iachimo: I had you down and might\nHave made you finish.


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[Kneeling] I am down again:\nBut now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,\nAs then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,\nWhich I so often owe: but your ring first;\nAnd here the bracelet of the truest princess\nThat ever swore her faith.


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Kneel not to me:\nThe power that I have on you is, to spare you;\nThe malice towards you to forgive you: live,\nAnd deal with others better.


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Your servant, princes. Good my lord of Rome,\nCall forth your soothsayer: as I slept, methought\nGreat Jupiter, upon his eagle back'd,\nAppear'd to me, with other spritely shows\nOf mine own kindred: when I waked, I found\nThis label on my bosom; whose containing\nIs so from sense in hardness, that I can\nMake no collection of it: let him show\nHis skill in the construction.


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[Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself\nunknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a\npiece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar\nshall be lopped branches, which, being dead many\nyears, shall after revive, be jointed to the old\nstock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end\nhis miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in\npeace and plenty.'\nThou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp;\nThe fit and apt construction of thy name,\nBeing Leonatus, doth import so much.\n[To CYMBELINE]\nThe piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,\nWhich we call 'mollis aer;' and 'mollis aer'\nWe term it 'mulier:' which 'mulier' I divine\nIs this most constant wife; who, even now,\nAnswering the letter of the oracle,\nUnknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about\nWith this most tender air.


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The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,\nPersonates thee: and thy lopp'd branches point\nThy two sons forth; who, by Belarius stol'n,\nFor many years thought dead, are now revived,\nTo the majestic cedar join'd, whose issue\nPromises Britain peace and plenty.


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Well\nMy peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius,\nAlthough the victor, we submit to Caesar,\nAnd to the Roman empire; promising\nTo pay our wonted tribute, from the which\nWe were dissuaded by our wicked queen;\nWhom heavens, in justice, both on her and hers,\nHave laid most heavy hand.


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The fingers of the powers above do tune\nThe harmony of this peace. The vision\nWhich I made known to Lucius, ere the stroke\nOf this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant\nIs full accomplish'd; for the Roman eagle,\nFrom south to west on wing soaring aloft,\nLessen'd herself, and in the beams o' the sun\nSo vanish'd: which foreshow'd our princely eagle,\nThe imperial Caesar, should again unite\nHis favour with the radiant Cymbeline,\nWhich shines here in the west.


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Laud we the gods;\nAnd let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils\nFrom our blest altars. Publish we this peace\nTo all our subjects. Set we forward: let\nA Roman and a British ensign wave\nFriendly together: so through Lud's-town march:\nAnd in the temple of great Jupiter\nOur peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts.\nSet on there! Never was a war did cease,\nEre bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace.


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Enter two Sentinels-[first,] Francisco, [who paces up and down at his post; then] Bernardo, [who approaches him].


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Well, good night.\nIf you do meet Horatio and Marcellus,\nThe rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.


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Horatio says 'tis but our fantasy,\nAnd will not let belief take hold of him\nTouching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us.\nTherefore I have entreated him along, \nWith us to watch the minutes of this night,\nThat, if again this apparition come,\nHe may approve our eyes and speak to it.


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Sit down awhile,\nAnd let us once again assail your ears,\nThat are so fortified against our story,\nWhat we two nights have seen.


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Last night of all,\nWhen yond same star that's westward from the pole\nHad made his course t' illume that part of heaven\nWhere now it burns, Marcellus and myself,\nThe bell then beating one-


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What art thou that usurp'st this time of night\nTogether with that fair and warlike form\nIn which the majesty of buried Denmark\nDid sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee speak!


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How now, Horatio? You tremble and look pale.\nIs not this something more than fantasy?\nWhat think you on't?


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As thou art to thyself.\nSuch was the very armour he had on\nWhen he th' ambitious Norway combated.\nSo frown'd he once when, in an angry parle,\nHe smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.\n'Tis strange.


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In what particular thought to work I know not;\nBut, in the gross and scope of my opinion,\nThis bodes some strange eruption to our state.


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Good now, sit down, and tell me he that knows,\nWhy this same strict and most observant watch\nSo nightly toils the subject of the land,\nAnd why such daily cast of brazen cannon\nAnd foreign mart for implements of war;\nWhy such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task\nDoes not divide the Sunday from the week.\nWhat might be toward, that this sweaty haste \nDoth make the night joint-labourer with the day?\nWho is't that can inform me?


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That can I.\nAt least, the whisper goes so. Our last king,\nWhose image even but now appear'd to us,\nWas, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway,\nThereto prick'd on by a most emulate pride,\nDar'd to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet\n(For so this side of our known world esteem'd him)\nDid slay this Fortinbras; who, by a seal'd compact,\nWell ratified by law and heraldry,\nDid forfeit, with his life, all those his lands\nWhich he stood seiz'd of, to the conqueror;\nAgainst the which a moiety competent\nWas gaged by our king; which had return'd\nTo the inheritance of Fortinbras,\nHad he been vanquisher, as, by the same cov'nant\nAnd carriage of the article design'd,\nHis fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras,\nOf unimproved mettle hot and full, \nHath in the skirts of Norway, here and there,\nShark'd up a list of lawless resolutes,\nFor food and diet, to some enterprise\nThat hath a stomach in't; which is no other,\nAs it doth well appear unto our state,\nBut to recover of us, by strong hand\nAnd terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands\nSo by his father lost; and this, I take it,\nIs the main motive of our preparations,\nThe source of this our watch, and the chief head\nOf this post-haste and romage in the land.


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I think it be no other but e'en so.\nWell may it sort that this portentous figure\nComes armed through our watch, so like the King\nThat was and is the question of these wars.


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A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.\nIn the most high and palmy state of Rome,\nA little ere the mightiest Julius fell,\nThe graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead\nDid squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; \nAs stars with trains of fire, and dews of blood,\nDisasters in the sun; and the moist star\nUpon whose influence Neptune's empire stands\nWas sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.\nAnd even the like precurse of fierce events,\nAs harbingers preceding still the fates\nAnd prologue to the omen coming on,\nHave heaven and earth together demonstrated\nUnto our climature and countrymen.\n[Enter Ghost again.]\nBut soft! behold! Lo, where it comes again!\nI'll cross it, though it blast me.- Stay illusion!\n[Spreads his arms.]\nIf thou hast any sound, or use of voice,\nSpeak to me.\nIf there be any good thing to be done,\nThat may to thee do ease, and, race to me,\nSpeak to me. \nIf thou art privy to thy country's fate,\nWhich happily foreknowing may avoid,\nO, speak!\nOr if thou hast uphoarded in thy life\nExtorted treasure in the womb of earth\n(For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death),\n[The cock crows.]\nSpeak of it! Stay, and speak!- Stop it, Marcellus!


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'Tis gone!\n[Exit Ghost.]\nWe do it wrong, being so majestical,\nTo offer it the show of violence;\nFor it is as the air, invulnerable,\nAnd our vain blows malicious mockery.


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And then it started, like a guilty thing \nUpon a fearful summons. I have heard\nThe cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,\nDoth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat\nAwake the god of day; and at his warning,\nWhether in sea or fire, in earth or air,\nTh' extravagant and erring spirit hies\nTo his confine; and of the truth herein\nThis present object made probation.


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It faded on the crowing of the cock.\nSome say that ever, 'gainst that season comes\nWherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,\nThe bird of dawning singeth all night long;\nAnd then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,\nThe nights are wholesome, then no planets strike,\nNo fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,\nSo hallow'd and so gracious is the time.


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So have I heard and do in part believe it.\nBut look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,\nWalks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.\nBreak we our watch up; and by my advice \nLet us impart what we have seen to-night\nUnto young Hamlet; for, upon my life,\nThis spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him.\nDo you consent we shall acquaint him with it,\nAs needful in our loves, fitting our duty?\nLet's do't, I pray; and I this morning know\nWhere we shall find him most conveniently.


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Flourish. [Enter Claudius, King of Denmark, Gertrude the Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes and his sister Ophelia, [Voltemand, Cornelius,] Lords Attendant.


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Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death\nThe memory be green, and that it us befitted\nTo bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom\nTo be contracted in one brow of woe,\nYet so far hath discretion fought with nature\nThat we with wisest sorrow think on him\nTogether with remembrance of ourselves.\nTherefore our sometime sister, now our queen,\nTh' imperial jointress to this warlike state,\nHave we, as 'twere with a defeated joy,\nWith an auspicious, and a dropping eye,\nWith mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage,\nIn equal scale weighing delight and dole,\nTaken to wife; nor have we herein barr'd\nYour better wisdoms, which have freely gone \nWith this affair along. For all, our thanks.\nNow follows, that you know, young Fortinbras,\nHolding a weak supposal of our worth,\nOr thinking by our late dear brother's death\nOur state to be disjoint and out of frame,\nColleagued with this dream of his advantage,\nHe hath not fail'd to pester us with message\nImporting the surrender of those lands\nLost by his father, with all bands of law,\nTo our most valiant brother. So much for him.\nNow for ourself and for this time of meeting.\nThus much the business is: we have here writ\nTo Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras,\nWho, impotent and bedrid, scarcely hears\nOf this his nephew's purpose, to suppress\nHis further gait herein, in that the levies,\nThe lists, and full proportions are all made\nOut of his subject; and we here dispatch\nYou, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand,\nFor bearers of this greeting to old Norway, \nGiving to you no further personal power\nTo business with the King, more than the scope\nOf these dilated articles allow.  [Gives a paper.]\nFarewell, and let your haste commend your duty.


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We doubt it nothing. Heartily farewell.\n[Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius.]\nAnd now, Laertes, what's the news with you?\nYou told us of some suit. What is't, Laertes?\nYou cannot speak of reason to the Dane\nAnd lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes,\nThat shall not be my offer, not thy asking?\nThe head is not more native to the heart,\nThe hand more instrumental to the mouth,\nThan is the throne of Denmark to thy father.\nWhat wouldst thou have, Laertes?


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My dread lord,\nYour leave and favour to return to France;\nFrom whence though willingly I came to Denmark\nTo show my duty in your coronation, \nYet now I must confess, that duty done,\nMy thoughts and wishes bend again toward France\nAnd bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.


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He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave\nBy laboursome petition, and at last\nUpon his will I seal'd my hard consent.\nI do beseech you give him leave to go.


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Take thy fair hour, Laertes. Time be thine,\nAnd thy best graces spend it at thy will!\nBut now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son-


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Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,\nAnd let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.\nDo not for ever with thy vailed lids\nSeek for thy noble father in the dust.\nThou know'st 'tis common. All that lives must die,\nPassing through nature to eternity. 


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Seems, madam, Nay, it is. I know not 'seems.'\n'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,\nNor customary suits of solemn black,\nNor windy suspiration of forc'd breath,\nNo, nor the fruitful river in the eye,\nNor the dejected havior of the visage,\nTogether with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,\n'That can denote me truly. These indeed seem,\nFor they are actions that a man might play;\nBut I have that within which passeth show-\nThese but the trappings and the suits of woe.


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'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,\nTo give these mourning duties to your father;\nBut you must know, your father lost a father;\nThat father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound\nIn filial obligation for some term\nTo do obsequious sorrow. But to persever \nIn obstinate condolement is a course\nOf impious stubbornness. 'Tis unmanly grief;\nIt shows a will most incorrect to heaven,\nA heart unfortified, a mind impatient,\nAn understanding simple and unschool'd;\nFor what we know must be, and is as common\nAs any the most vulgar thing to sense,\nWhy should we in our peevish opposition\nTake it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven,\nA fault against the dead, a fault to nature,\nTo reason most absurd, whose common theme\nIs death of fathers, and who still hath cried,\nFrom the first corse till he that died to-day,\n'This must be so.' We pray you throw to earth\nThis unprevailing woe, and think of us\nAs of a father; for let the world take note\nYou are the most immediate to our throne,\nAnd with no less nobility of love\nThan that which dearest father bears his son\nDo I impart toward you. For your intent \nIn going back to school in Wittenberg,\nIt is most retrograde to our desire;\nAnd we beseech you, bend you to remain\nHere in the cheer and comfort of our eye,\nOur chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.


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Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply.\nBe as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come.\nThis gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet\nSits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof,\nNo jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day\nBut the great cannon to the clouds shall tell,\nAnd the King's rouse the heaven shall bruit again,\nRespeaking earthly thunder. Come away.


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O that this too too solid flesh would melt,\nThaw, and resolve itself into a dew!\nOr that the Everlasting had not fix'd \nHis canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!\nHow weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable\nSeem to me all the uses of this world!\nFie on't! ah, fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden\nThat grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature\nPossess it merely. That it should come to this!\nBut two months dead! Nay, not so much, not two.\nSo excellent a king, that was to this\nHyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother\nThat he might not beteem the winds of heaven\nVisit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!\nMust I remember? Why, she would hang on him\nAs if increase of appetite had grown\nBy what it fed on; and yet, within a month-\nLet me not think on't! Frailty, thy name is woman!-\nA little month, or ere those shoes were old\nWith which she followed my poor father's body\nLike Niobe, all tears- why she, even she\n(O God! a beast that wants discourse of reason\nWould have mourn'd longer) married with my uncle; \nMy father's brother, but no more like my father\nThan I to Hercules. Within a month,\nEre yet the salt of most unrighteous tears\nHad left the flushing in her galled eyes,\nShe married. O, most wicked speed, to post\nWith such dexterity to incestuous sheets!\nIt is not, nor it cannot come to good.\nBut break my heart, for I must hold my tongue!


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Sir, my good friend- I'll change that name with you.\nAnd what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?\nMarcellus?


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I am very glad to see you.- [To Bernardo] Good even, sir.-\nBut what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?


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I would not hear your enemy say so,\nNor shall you do my ear that violence\nTo make it truster of your own report\nAgainst yourself. I know you are no truant.\nBut what is your affair in Elsinore?\nWe'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.


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Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats\nDid coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.\nWould I had met my dearest foe in heaven\nOr ever I had seen that day, Horatio!\nMy father- methinks I see my father.


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Season your admiration for a while\nWith an attent ear, till I may deliver\nUpon the witness of these gentlemen,\nThis marvel to you.


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Two nights together had these gentlemen\n(Marcellus and Bernardo) on their watch\nIn the dead vast and middle of the night\nBeen thus encount'red. A figure like your father,\nArmed at point exactly, cap-a-pe,\nAppears before them and with solemn march\nGoes slow and stately by them. Thrice he walk'd\nBy their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes,\nWithin his truncheon's length; whilst they distill'd \nAlmost to jelly with the act of fear,\nStand dumb and speak not to him. This to me\nIn dreadful secrecy impart they did,\nAnd I with them the third night kept the watch;\nWhere, as they had deliver'd, both in time,\nForm of the thing, each word made true and good,\nThe apparition comes. I knew your father.\nThese hands are not more like.


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My lord, I did;\nBut answer made it none. Yet once methought\nIt lifted up it head and did address\nItself to motion, like as it would speak;\nBut even then the morning cock crew loud,\nAnd at the sound it shrunk in haste away\nAnd vanish'd from our sight.


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As I do live, my honour'd lord, 'tis true; \nAnd we did think it writ down in our duty\nTo let you know of it.


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If it assume my noble father's person,\nI'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape\nAnd bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,\nIf you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,\nLet it be tenable in your silence still;\nAnd whatsoever else shall hap to-night,\nGive it an understanding but no tongue.\nI will requite your loves. So, fare you well.\nUpon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve,\nI'll visit you.


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Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell.\n[Exeunt [all but Hamlet].]\nMy father's spirit- in arms? All is not well.\nI doubt some foul play. Would the night were come!\nTill then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise,\nThough all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.


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My necessaries are embark'd. Farewell.\nAnd, sister, as the winds give benefit\nAnd convoy is assistant, do not sleep,\nBut let me hear from you.


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For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,\nHold it a fashion, and a toy in blood;\nA violet in the youth of primy nature,\nForward, not permanent- sweet, not lasting;\nThe perfume and suppliance of a minute;\nNo more.


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Think it no more.\nFor nature crescent does not grow alone\nIn thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes,\nThe inward service of the mind and soul\nGrows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, \nAnd now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch\nThe virtue of his will; but you must fear,\nHis greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own;\nFor he himself is subject to his birth.\nHe may not, as unvalued persons do,\nCarve for himself, for on his choice depends\nThe safety and health of this whole state,\nAnd therefore must his choice be circumscrib'd\nUnto the voice and yielding of that body\nWhereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you,\nIt fits your wisdom so far to believe it\nAs he in his particular act and place\nMay give his saying deed; which is no further\nThan the main voice of Denmark goes withal.\nThen weigh what loss your honour may sustain\nIf with too credent ear you list his songs,\nOr lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open\nTo his unmast'red importunity.\nFear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister,\nAnd keep you in the rear of your affection, \nOut of the shot and danger of desire.\nThe chariest maid is prodigal enough\nIf she unmask her beauty to the moon.\nVirtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes.\nThe canker galls the infants of the spring\nToo oft before their buttons be disclos'd,\nAnd in the morn and liquid dew of youth\nContagious blastments are most imminent.\nBe wary then; best safety lies in fear.\nYouth to itself rebels, though none else near.


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I shall th' effect of this good lesson keep\nAs watchman to my heart. But, good my brother,\nDo not as some ungracious pastors do,\nShow me the steep and thorny way to heaven,\nWhiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine,\nHimself the primrose path of dalliance treads\nAnd recks not his own rede.


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O, fear me not!\n[Enter Polonius. ]\nI stay too long. But here my father comes.\nA double blessing is a double grace;\nOccasion smiles upon a second leave.


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Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame!\nThe wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,\nAnd you are stay'd for. There- my blessing with thee!\nAnd these few precepts in thy memory\nLook thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,\nNor any unproportion'd thought his act.\nBe thou familiar, but by no means vulgar:\nThose friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,\nGrapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel;\nBut do not dull thy palm with entertainment\nOf each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware\nOf entrance to a quarrel; but being in,\nBear't that th' opposed may beware of thee.\nGive every man thine ear, but few thy voice;\nTake each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.\nCostly thy habit as thy purse can buy, \nBut not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;\nFor the apparel oft proclaims the man,\nAnd they in France of the best rank and station\nAre most select and generous, chief in that.\nNeither a borrower nor a lender be;\nFor loan oft loses both itself and friend,\nAnd borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.\nThis above all- to thine own self be true,\nAnd it must follow, as the night the day,\nThou canst not then be false to any man.\nFarewell. My blessing season this in thee!


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Marry, well bethought!\n'Tis told me he hath very oft of late\nGiven private time to you, and you yourself\nHave of your audience been most free and bounteous.\nIf it be so- as so 'tis put on me,\nAnd that in way of caution- I must tell you\nYou do not understand yourself so clearly\nAs it behooves my daughter and your honour.\nWhat is between you? Give me up the truth.


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Affection? Pooh! You speak like a green girl,\nUnsifted in such perilous circumstance.\nDo you believe his tenders, as you call them?


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Marry, I will teach you! Think yourself a baby\nThat you have ta'en these tenders for true pay,\nWhich are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly,\nOr (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,\nRunning it thus) you'll tender me a fool. 


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Ay, springes to catch woodcocks! I do know,\nWhen the blood burns, how prodigal the soul\nLends the tongue vows. These blazes, daughter,\nGiving more light than heat, extinct in both\nEven in their promise, as it is a-making,\nYou must not take for fire. From this time\nBe something scanter of your maiden presence.\nSet your entreatments at a higher rate\nThan a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,\nBelieve so much in him, that he is young,\nAnd with a larger tether may he walk\nThan may be given you. In few, Ophelia,\nDo not believe his vows; for they are brokers,\nNot of that dye which their investments show,\nBut mere implorators of unholy suits, \nBreathing like sanctified and pious bawds,\nThe better to beguile. This is for all:\nI would not, in plain terms, from this time forth\nHave you so slander any moment leisure\nAs to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.\nLook to't, I charge you. Come your ways.


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Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season\nWherein the spirit held his wont to walk.\n[A flourish of trumpets, and two pieces go off.]\nWhat does this mean, my lord?


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The King doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,\nKeeps wassail, and the swagg'ring upspring reels,\nAnd, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,\nThe kettledrum and trumpet thus bray out\nThe triumph of his pledge.


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Ay, marry, is't;\nBut to my mind, though I am native here \nAnd to the manner born, it is a custom\nMore honour'd in the breach than the observance.\nThis heavy-headed revel east and west\nMakes us traduc'd and tax'd of other nations;\nThey clip us drunkards and with swinish phrase\nSoil our addition; and indeed it takes\nFrom our achievements, though perform'd at height,\nThe pith and marrow of our attribute.\nSo oft it chances in particular men\nThat, for some vicious mole of nature in them,\nAs in their birth,- wherein they are not guilty,\nSince nature cannot choose his origin,-\nBy the o'ergrowth of some complexion,\nOft breaking down the pales and forts of reason,\nOr by some habit that too much o'erleavens\nThe form of plausive manners, that these men\nCarrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,\nBeing nature's livery, or fortune's star,\nTheir virtues else- be they as pure as grace,\nAs infinite as man may undergo- \nShall in the general censure take corruption\nFrom that particular fault. The dram of e'il\nDoth all the noble substance often dout To his own scandal.


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Angels and ministers of grace defend us!\nBe thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,\nBring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,\nBe thy intents wicked or charitable,\nThou com'st in such a questionable shape\nThat I will speak to thee. I'll call thee Hamlet,\nKing, father, royal Dane. O, answer me?\nLet me not burst in ignorance, but tell\nWhy thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death,\nHave burst their cerements; why the sepulchre\nWherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd,\nHath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws\nTo cast thee up again. What may this mean \nThat thou, dead corse, again in complete steel,\nRevisits thus the glimpses of the moon,\nMaking night hideous, and we fools of nature\nSo horridly to shake our disposition\nWith thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?\nSay, why is this? wherefore? What should we do?


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Why, what should be the fear?\nI do not set my life at a pin's fee;\nAnd for my soul, what can it do to that,\nBeing a thing immortal as itself? \nIt waves me forth again. I'll follow it.


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What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,\nOr to the dreadful summit of the cliff\nThat beetles o'er his base into the sea,\nAnd there assume some other, horrible form\nWhich might deprive your sovereignty of reason\nAnd draw you into madness? Think of it.\nThe very place puts toys of desperation,\nWithout more motive, into every brain\nThat looks so many fadoms to the sea\nAnd hears it roar beneath.


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My fate cries out\nAnd makes each petty artire in this body\nAs hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.\n[Ghost beckons.]\nStill am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen.\nBy heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!-\nI say, away!- Go on. I'll follow thee.


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I am thy father's spirit,\nDoom'd for a certain term to walk the night,\nAnd for the day confin'd to fast in fires,\nTill the foul crimes done in my days of nature\nAre burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid \nTo tell the secrets of my prison house,\nI could a tale unfold whose lightest word\nWould harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,\nMake thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,\nThy knotted and combined locks to part,\nAnd each particular hair to stand on end\nLike quills upon the fretful porcupine.\nBut this eternal blazon must not be\nTo ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list!\nIf thou didst ever thy dear father love-


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Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift\nAs meditation or the thoughts of love,\nMay sweep to my revenge.


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I find thee apt;\nAnd duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed \nThat rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,\nWouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear.\n'Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard,\nA serpent stung me. So the whole ear of Denmark\nIs by a forged process of my death\nRankly abus'd. But know, thou noble youth,\nThe serpent that did sting thy father's life\nNow wears his crown.


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Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,\nWith witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts-\nO wicked wit and gifts, that have the power\nSo to seduce!- won to his shameful lust\nThe will of my most seeming-virtuous queen.\nO Hamlet, what a falling-off was there,\nFrom me, whose love was of that dignity\nThat it went hand in hand even with the vow\nI made to her in marriage, and to decline\nUpon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor \nTo those of mine!\nBut virtue, as it never will be mov'd,\nThough lewdness court it in a shape of heaven,\nSo lust, though to a radiant angel link'd,\nWill sate itself in a celestial bed\nAnd prey on garbage.\nBut soft! methinks I scent the morning air.\nBrief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard,\nMy custom always of the afternoon,\nUpon my secure hour thy uncle stole,\nWith juice of cursed hebona in a vial,\nAnd in the porches of my ears did pour\nThe leperous distilment; whose effect\nHolds such an enmity with blood of man\nThat swift as quicksilver it courses through\nThe natural gates and alleys of the body,\nAnd with a sudden vigour it doth posset\nAnd curd, like eager droppings into milk,\nThe thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine;\nAnd a most instant tetter bark'd about, \nMost lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust\nAll my smooth body.\nThus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand\nOf life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd;\nCut off even in the blossoms of my sin,\nUnhous'led, disappointed, unanel'd,\nNo reckoning made, but sent to my account\nWith all my imperfections on my head.


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If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not.\nLet not the royal bed of Denmark be\nA couch for luxury and damned incest.\nBut, howsoever thou pursuest this act,\nTaint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive\nAgainst thy mother aught. Leave her to heaven,\nAnd to those thorns that in her bosom lodge\nTo prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once.\nThe glowworm shows the matin to be near\nAnd gins to pale his uneffectual fire.\nAdieu, adieu, adieu! Remember me.  Exit.


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O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?\nAnd shall I couple hell? Hold, hold, my heart!\nAnd you, my sinews, grow not instant old,\nBut bear me stiffly up. Remember thee?\nAy, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat\nIn this distracted globe. Remember thee?\nYea, from the table of my memory\nI'll wipe away all trivial fond records,\nAll saws of books, all forms, all pressures past\nThat youth and observation copied there,\nAnd thy commandment all alone shall live\nWithin the book and volume of my brain,\nUnmix'd with baser matter. Yes, by heaven!\nO most pernicious woman!\nO villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!\nMy tables! Meet it is I set it down\nThat one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;\nAt least I am sure it may be so in Denmark.  [Writes.]\nSo, uncle, there you are. Now to my word:\nIt is 'Adieu, adieu! Remember me.' \nI have sworn't.


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Why, right! You are in the right!\nAnd so, without more circumstance at all,\nI hold it fit that we shake hands and part;\nYou, as your business and desires shall point you,\nFor every man hath business and desire,\nSuch as it is; and for my own poor part,\nLook you, I'll go pray.


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Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,\nAnd much offence too. Touching this vision here,\nIt is an honest ghost, that let me tell you.\nFor your desire to know what is between us,\nO'ermaster't as you may. And now, good friends, \nAs you are friends, scholars, and soldiers,\nGive me one poor request.


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Aha boy, say'st thou so? Art thou there, truepenny?\nCome on! You hear this fellow in the cellarage.\nConsent to swear.


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Hic et ubique? Then we'll shift our ground.\nCome hither, gentlemen,\nAnd lay your hands again upon my sword.\nNever to speak of this that you have heard:\nSwear by my sword.


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Well said, old mole! Canst work i' th' earth so fast?\nA worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends."


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And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.\nThere are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,\nThan are dreamt of in your philosophy.\nBut come!\nHere, as before, never, so help you mercy,\nHow strange or odd soe'er I bear myself\n(As I perchance hereafter shall think meet\nTo put an antic disposition on), \nThat you, at such times seeing me, never shall,\nWith arms encumb'red thus, or this head-shake,\nOr by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase,\nAs 'Well, well, we know,' or 'We could, an if we would,'\nOr 'If we list to speak,' or 'There be, an if they might,'\nOr such ambiguous giving out, to note\nThat you know aught of me- this is not to do,\nSo grace and mercy at your most need help you,\nSwear.


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Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! So, gentlemen,\nWith all my love I do commend me to you;\nAnd what so poor a man as Hamlet is\nMay do t' express his love and friending to you,\nGod willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together;\nAnd still your fingers on your lips, I pray.\nThe time is out of joint. O cursed spite\nThat ever I was born to set it right!\nNay, come, let's go together. 


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You shall do marvell's wisely, good Reynaldo,\nBefore You visit him, to make inquire\nOf his behaviour.


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Marry, well said, very well said. Look you, sir,\nEnquire me first what Danskers are in Paris;\nAnd how, and who, what means, and where they keep,\nWhat company, at what expense; and finding\nBy this encompassment and drift of question\nThat they do know my son, come you more nearer\nThan your particular demands will touch it.\nTake you, as 'twere, some distant knowledge of him;\nAs thus, 'I know his father and his friends,\nAnd in part him.' Do you mark this, Reynaldo?


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'And in part him, but,' you may say, 'not well.\nBut if't be he I mean, he's very wild\nAddicted so and so'; and there put on him\nWhat forgeries you please; marry, none so rank\nAs may dishonour him- take heed of that;\nBut, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips\nAs are companions noted and most known\nTo youth and liberty.


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Faith, no, as you may season it in the charge.\nYou must not put another scandal on him,\nThat he is open to incontinency.\nThat's not my meaning. But breathe his faults so quaintly\nThat they may seem the taints of liberty,\nThe flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,\nA savageness in unreclaimed blood,\nOf general assault. 


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Marry, sir, here's my drift,\nAnd I believe it is a fetch of warrant.\nYou laying these slight sullies on my son\nAs 'twere a thing a little soil'd i' th' working,\nMark you,\nYour party in converse, him you would sound,\nHaving ever seen in the prenominate crimes\nThe youth you breathe of guilty, be assur'd\nHe closes with you in this consequence:\n'Good sir,' or so, or 'friend,' or 'gentleman'-\nAccording to the phrase or the addition\nOf man and country-


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And then, sir, does 'a this- 'a does- What was I about to say?\nBy the mass, I was about to say something! Where did I leave?


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At 'closes in the consequence'- Ay, marry!\nHe closes thus: 'I know the gentleman.\nI saw him yesterday, or t'other day,\nOr then, or then, with such or such; and, as you say,\nThere was 'a gaming; there o'ertook in's rouse;\nThere falling out at tennis'; or perchance,\n'I saw him enter such a house of sale,'\nVidelicet, a brothel, or so forth.\nSee you now-\nYour bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth;\nAnd thus do we of wisdom and of reach,\nWith windlasses and with assays of bias,\nBy indirections find directions out.\nSo, by my former lecture and advice,\nShall you my son. You have me, have you not?


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My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,\nLord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd,\nNo hat upon his head, his stockings foul'd,\nUngart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle;\nPale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,\nAnd with a look so piteous in purport\nAs if he had been loosed out of hell\nTo speak of horrors- he comes before me.


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He took me by the wrist and held me hard;\nThen goes he to the length of all his arm,\nAnd, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,\nHe falls to such perusal of my face\nAs he would draw it. Long stay'd he so.\nAt last, a little shaking of mine arm,\nAnd thrice his head thus waving up and down,\nHe rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound\nAs it did seem to shatter all his bulk\nAnd end his being. That done, he lets me go,\nAnd with his head over his shoulder turn'd\nHe seem'd to find his way without his eyes,\nFor out o' doors he went without their help\nAnd to the last bended their light on me.


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Come, go with me. I will go seek the King.\nThis is the very ecstasy of love,\nWhose violent property fordoes itself \nAnd leads the will to desperate undertakings\nAs oft as any passion under heaven\nThat does afflict our natures. I am sorry.\nWhat, have you given him any hard words of late?


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That hath made him mad.\nI am sorry that with better heed and judgment\nI had not quoted him. I fear'd he did but trifle\nAnd meant to wrack thee; but beshrew my jealousy!\nBy heaven, it is as proper to our age\nTo cast beyond ourselves in our opinions\nAs it is common for the younger sort\nTo lack discretion. Come, go we to the King.\nThis must be known; which, being kept close, might move\nMore grief to hide than hate to utter love.\nCome.


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Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.\nMoreover that we much did long to see you,\nThe need we have to use you did provoke\nOur hasty sending. Something have you heard\nOf Hamlet's transformation. So I call it,\nSith nor th' exterior nor the inward man\nResembles that it was. What it should be,\nMore than his father's death, that thus hath put him\nSo much from th' understanding of himself,\nI cannot dream of. I entreat you both\nThat, being of so young days brought up with him,\nAnd since so neighbour'd to his youth and haviour,\nThat you vouchsafe your rest here in our court\nSome little time; so by your companies\nTo draw him on to pleasures, and to gather\nSo much as from occasion you may glean, \nWhether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus\nThat, open'd, lies within our remedy.


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Good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you,\nAnd sure I am two men there are not living\nTo whom he more adheres. If it will please you\nTo show us so much gentry and good will\nAs to expend your time with us awhile\nFor the supply and profit of our hope,\nYour visitation shall receive such thanks\nAs fits a king's remembrance.


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Both your Majesties\nMight, by the sovereign power you have of us,\nPut your dread pleasures more into command\nThan to entreaty.


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But we both obey,\nAnd here give up ourselves, in the full bent,\nTo lay our service freely at your feet,\nTo be commanded.


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Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz. \nAnd I beseech you instantly to visit\nMy too much changed son.- Go, some of you,\nAnd bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.


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            Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, [with some                                                Attendants].


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Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege,\nI hold my duty as I hold my soul,\nBoth to my God and to my gracious king;\nAnd I do think- or else this brain of mine\nHunts not the trail of policy so sure\nAs it hath us'd to do- that I have found \nThe very cause of Hamlet's lunacy.


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Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in.\n[Exit Polonius.]\nHe tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found\nThe head and source of all your son's distemper.


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Well, we shall sift him.\n[Enter Polonius, Voltemand, and Cornelius.]\nWelcome, my good friends.\nSay, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway?


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Most fair return of greetings and desires.\nUpon our first, he sent out to suppress\nHis nephew's levies; which to him appear'd\nTo be a preparation 'gainst the Polack, \nBut better look'd into, he truly found\nIt was against your Highness; whereat griev'd,\nThat so his sickness, age, and impotence\nWas falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests\nOn Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys,\nReceives rebuke from Norway, and, in fine,\nMakes vow before his uncle never more\nTo give th' assay of arms against your Majesty.\nWhereon old Norway, overcome with joy,\nGives him three thousand crowns in annual fee\nAnd his commission to employ those soldiers,\nSo levied as before, against the Polack;\nWith an entreaty, herein further shown,\n[Gives a paper.]\nThat it might please you to give quiet pass\nThrough your dominions for this enterprise,\nOn such regards of safety and allowance\nAs therein are set down.


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It likes us well;\nAnd at our more consider'd time we'll read, \nAnswer, and think upon this business.\nMeantime we thank you for your well-took labour.\nGo to your rest; at night we'll feast together.\nMost welcome home!                       Exeunt Ambassadors.


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This business is well ended.\nMy liege, and madam, to expostulate\nWhat majesty should be, what duty is,\nWhy day is day, night is night, and time is time.\nWere nothing but to waste night, day, and time.\nTherefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,\nAnd tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,\nI will be brief. Your noble son is mad.\nMad call I it; for, to define true madness,\nWhat is't but to be nothing else but mad?\nBut let that go.


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Madam, I swear I use no art at all.\nThat he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pity;\nAnd pity 'tis 'tis true. A foolish figure!\nBut farewell it, for I will use no art. \nMad let us grant him then. And now remains\nThat we find out the cause of this effect-\nOr rather say, the cause of this defect,\nFor this effect defective comes by cause.\nThus it remains, and the remainder thus.\nPerpend.\nI have a daughter (have while she is mine),\nWho in her duty and obedience, mark,\nHath given me this. Now gather, and surmise.\n[Reads] the letter.]\n'To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia,'-\nThat's an ill phrase, a vile phrase; 'beautified' is a vile phrase.\nBut you shall hear. Thus:\n[Reads.]\n'In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.'


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Good madam, stay awhile. I will be faithful. [Reads.]      \n     'Doubt thou the stars are fire;\n       Doubt that the sun doth move;\n     Doubt truth to be a liar;\n       But never doubt I love.\n 'O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers; I have not art to\nreckon my groans; but that I love thee best, O most best, believe\nit. Adieu.\n 'Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to\nhim, HAMLET.'\nThis, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me;\nAnd more above, hath his solicitings,\nAs they fell out by time, by means, and place,\nAll given to mine ear.


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I would fain prove so. But what might you think, \nWhen I had seen this hot love on the wing\n(As I perceiv'd it, I must tell you that,\nBefore my daughter told me), what might you,\nOr my dear Majesty your queen here, think,\nIf I had play'd the desk or table book,\nOr given my heart a winking, mute and dumb,\nOr look'd upon this love with idle sight?\nWhat might you think? No, I went round to work\nAnd my young mistress thus I did bespeak:\n'Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star.\nThis must not be.' And then I prescripts gave her,\nThat she should lock herself from his resort,\nAdmit no messengers, receive no tokens.\nWhich done, she took the fruits of my advice,\nAnd he, repulsed, a short tale to make,\nFell into a sadness, then into a fast,\nThence to a watch, thence into a weakness,\nThence to a lightness, and, by this declension,\nInto the madness wherein now he raves,\nAnd all we mourn for. 


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Hath there been such a time- I would fain know that-\nThat I have Positively said ''Tis so,'\nWhen it prov'd otherwise.?


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[points to his head and shoulder] Take this from this, if this  be otherwise.\nIf circumstances lead me, I will find\nWhere truth is hid, though it were hid indeed\nWithin the centre.


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At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him.\nBe you and I behind an arras then.\nMark the encounter. If he love her not,\nAnd he not from his reason fall'n thereon\nLet me be no assistant for a state, \nBut keep a farm and carters.


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Away, I do beseech you, both away\nI'll board him presently. O, give me leave.\n[Exeunt King and Queen, [with Attendants].]\nHow does my good Lord Hamlet?


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Let her not walk i' th' sun. Conception is a blessing, but not\nas your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to't.


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[aside] How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter. Yet\nhe knew me not at first. He said I was a fishmonger. He is far\ngone, far gone! And truly in my youth I suff'red much extremity\nfor love- very near this. I'll speak to him again.- What do you\nread, my lord?


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Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here that old men\nhave grey beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes\npurging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a\nplentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams. All which,\nsir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it\nnot honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir,\nshould be old as I am if, like a crab, you could go backward.


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[aside] Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't.-\n Will You walk out of the air, my lord?


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Indeed, that is out o' th' air. [Aside] How pregnant sometimes\nhis replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on, which\nreason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I\nwill leave him and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between\nhim and my daughter.- My honourable lord, I will most humbly take\nmy leave of you.


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You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more\nwillingly part withal- except my life, except my life, except my\nlife,


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My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah,\nRosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both?


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Then is doomsday near! But your news is not true. Let me\nquestion more in particular. What have you, my good friends,\ndeserved at the hands of Fortune that she sends you to prison\nhither?


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A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and\ndungeons, Denmark being one o' th' worst.


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Why, then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good\nor bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison.


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O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a\nking of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.


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Which dreams indeed are ambition; for the very substance of\nthe ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.


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Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretch'd\nheroes the beggars' shadows. Shall we to th' court? for, by my\nfay, I cannot reason.


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No such matter! I will not sort you with the rest of my\nservants; for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most\ndreadfully attended. But in the beaten way of friendship, what\nmake you at Elsinore?


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Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you;\nand sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were\nyou not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free\nvisitation? Come, deal justly with me. Come, come! Nay, speak.


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Why, anything- but to th' purpose. You were sent for; and\nthere is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties\nhave not craft enough to colour. I know the good King and Queen\nhave sent for you.


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That you must teach me. But let me conjure you by the rights\nof our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the\nobligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a\nbetter proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with\nme, whether you were sent for or no. 


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I will tell you why. So shall my anticipation prevent your\ndiscovery, and your secrecy to the King and Queen moult no\nfeather. I have of late- but wherefore I know not- lost all my\nmirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so\nheavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth,\nseems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the\nair, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical\nroof fretted with golden fire- why, it appeareth no other thing\nto me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a\npiece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in\nfaculties! in form and moving how express and admirable! in\naction how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the\nbeauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet to me what\nis this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me- no, nor woman\nneither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.


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To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what lenten\nentertainment the players shall receive from you. We coted them\non the way, and hither are they coming to offer you service.


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He that plays the king shall be welcome- his Majesty shall\nhave tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and\ntarget; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall\nend his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose\nlungs are tickle o' th' sere; and the lady shall say her mind\nfreely, or the blank verse shall halt for't. What players are\nthey?


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Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace; but there is,\nsir, an eyrie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top\nof question and are most tyrannically clapp'd for't. These are now\nthe fashion, and so berattle the common stages (so they call\nthem) that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goosequills and\ndare scarce come thither.


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What, are they children? Who maintains 'em? How are they\nescoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can\nsing? Will they not say afterwards, if they should grow\nthemselves to common players (as it is most like, if their means\nare no better), their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim\nagainst their own succession.


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Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation\nholds it no sin to tarre them to controversy. There was, for a\nwhile, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player\nwent to cuffs in the question.


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It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and\nthose that would make mows at him while my father lived give\ntwenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in\nlittle. 'Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if\nphilosophy could find it out.


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Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come! Th'\nappurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply\nwith you in this garb, lest my extent to the players (which I\ntell you must show fairly outwards) should more appear like\nentertainment than yours. You are welcome. But my uncle-father\nand aunt-mother are deceiv'd.


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I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly I\nknow a hawk from a handsaw.xxx.                        Enter Polonius.


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Hark you, Guildenstern- and you too- at each ear a hearer!\nThat great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling\nclouts.


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I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it.-\nYou say right, sir; a Monday morning; twas so indeed.


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The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy,\nhistory, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral,\ntragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral; scene \nindividable, or poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor\nPlautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are\nthe only men.


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Why,\n      'As by lot, God wot,'\n and then, you know,\n      'It came to pass, as most like it was.'\nThe first row of the pious chanson will show you more; for look\nwhere my abridgment comes.\n[Enter four or five Players.]\nYou are welcome, masters; welcome, all.- I am glad to see thee\nwell.- Welcome, good friends.- O, my old friend? Why, thy face is\nvalanc'd since I saw thee last. Com'st' thou to' beard me in\nDenmark?- What, my young lady and mistress? By'r Lady, your\nladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last by the\naltitude of a chopine. Pray God your voice, like a piece of\nuncurrent gold, be not crack'd within the ring.- Masters, you are\nall welcome. We'll e'en to't like French falconers, fly at\nanything we see. We'll have a speech straight. Come, give us a\ntaste of your quality. Come, a passionate speech.


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I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted;\nor if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleas'd \nnot the million, 'twas caviary to the general; but it was (as I\nreceiv'd it, and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in\nthe top of mine) an excellent play, well digested in the scenes,\nset down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember one said\nthere were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury,\nnor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of\naffectation; but call'd it an honest method, as wholesome as\nsweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in't\nI chiefly lov'd. 'Twas AEneas' tale to Dido, and thereabout of it\nespecially where he speaks of Priam's slaughter. If it live in\nyour memory, begin at this line- let me see, let me see:\n     'The rugged Pyrrhus, like th' Hyrcanian beast-'\n'Tis not so; it begins with Pyrrhus:\n    'The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms,\n    Black as his purpose, did the night resemble\n    When he lay couched in the ominous horse,\n    Hath now this dread and black complexion smear'd \n    With heraldry more dismal. Head to foot\n    Now is be total gules, horridly trick'd\n    With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,\n    Bak'd and impasted with the parching streets,\n    That lend a tyrannous and a damned light\n    To their lord's murther. Roasted in wrath and fire,\n    And thus o'ersized with coagulate gore,\n    With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus\n    Old grandsire Priam seeks.'\nSo, proceed you.


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It shall to the barber's, with your beard.- Prithee say on.\nHe's for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to\nHecuba.


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'Run barefoot up and down, threat'ning the flames\n With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head\n Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe,\n About her lank and all o'erteemed loins,\n A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up- \n Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep'd\n 'Gainst Fortune's state would treason have pronounc'd.\n But if the gods themselves did see her then,\n When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport\n In Mincing with his sword her husband's limbs,\n The instant burst of clamour that she made\n (Unless things mortal move them not at all)\n Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven\n And passion in the gods.'


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'Tis well. I'll have thee speak out the rest of this soon.-\nGood my lord, will you see the players well bestow'd? Do you\nhear? Let them be well us'd; for they are the abstract and brief\nchronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a\nbad epitaph than their ill report while you live.


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God's bodykins, man, much better! Use every man after his\ndesert, and who should scape whipping? Use them after your own \nhonour and dignity. The less they deserve, the more merit is in\nyour bounty. Take them in.


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Follow him, friends. We'll hear a play to-morrow.\n[Exeunt Polonius and Players [except the First].]\nDost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play 'The Murther of\nGonzago'?


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We'll ha't to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a\nspeech of some dozen or sixteen lines which I would set down and\ninsert in't, could you not?


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Very well. Follow that lord- and look you mock him not.\n[Exit First Player.]\nMy good friends, I'll leave you till night. You are welcome to\nElsinore.


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Ay, so, God b' wi' ye!                        [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern\nNow I am alone. \nO what a rogue and peasant slave am I!\nIs it not monstrous that this player here,\nBut in a fiction, in a dream of passion,\nCould force his soul so to his own conceit\nThat, from her working, all his visage wann'd,\nTears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,\nA broken voice, and his whole function suiting\nWith forms to his conceit? And all for nothing!\nFor Hecuba!\nWhat's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,\nThat he should weep for her? What would he do,\nHad he the motive and the cue for passion\nThat I have? He would drown the stage with tears\nAnd cleave the general ear with horrid speech;\nMake mad the guilty and appal the free,\nConfound the ignorant, and amaze indeed\nThe very faculties of eyes and ears.\nYet I,\nA dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak\nLike John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, \nAnd can say nothing! No, not for a king,\nUpon whose property and most dear life\nA damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward?\nWho calls me villain? breaks my pate across?\nPlucks off my beard and blows it in my face?\nTweaks me by th' nose? gives me the lie i' th' throat\nAs deep as to the lungs? Who does me this, ha?\n'Swounds, I should take it! for it cannot be\nBut I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall\nTo make oppression bitter, or ere this\nI should have fatted all the region kites\nWith this slave's offal. Bloody bawdy villain!\nRemorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!\nO, vengeance!\nWhy, what an ass am I! This is most brave,\nThat I, the son of a dear father murther'd,\nPrompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,\nMust (like a whore) unpack my heart with words\nAnd fall a-cursing like a very drab,\nA scullion! \nFie upon't! foh! About, my brain! Hum, I have heard\nThat guilty creatures, sitting at a play,\nHave by the very cunning of the scene\nBeen struck so to the soul that presently\nThey have proclaim'd their malefactions;\nFor murther, though it have no tongue, will speak\nWith most miraculous organ, I'll have these Players\nPlay something like the murther of my father\nBefore mine uncle. I'll observe his looks;\nI'll tent him to the quick. If he but blench,\nI know my course. The spirit that I have seen\nMay be a devil; and the devil hath power\nT' assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps\nOut of my weakness and my melancholy,\nAs he is very potent with such spirits,\nAbuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds\nMore relative than this. The play's the thing\nWherein I'll catch the conscience of the King. Exit.


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And can you by no drift of circumstance\nGet from him why he puts on this confusion,\nGrating so harshly all his days of quiet\nWith turbulent and dangerous lunacy?


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Nor do we find him forward to be sounded,\nBut with a crafty madness keeps aloof\nWhen we would bring him on to some confession\nOf his true state.


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Madam, it so fell out that certain players\nWe o'erraught on the way. Of these we told him,\nAnd there did seem in him a kind of joy\nTo hear of it. They are here about the court,\nAnd, as I think, they have already order\nThis night to play before him.


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With all my heart, and it doth much content me\nTo hear him so inclin'd.\nGood gentlemen, give him a further edge\nAnd drive his purpose on to these delights.


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Sweet Gertrude, leave us too;\nFor we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,\nThat he, as 'twere by accident, may here\nAffront Ophelia. \nHer father and myself (lawful espials)\nWill so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen,\nWe may of their encounter frankly judge\nAnd gather by him, as he is behav'd,\nIf't be th' affliction of his love, or no,\nThat thus he suffers for.


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I shall obey you;\nAnd for your part, Ophelia, I do wish\nThat your good beauties be the happy cause\nOf Hamlet's wildness. So shall I hope your virtues\nWill bring him to his wonted way again,\nTo both your honours.


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Ophelia, walk you here.- Gracious, so please you,\nWe will bestow ourselves.- [To Ophelia] Read on this book,\nThat show of such an exercise may colour\nYour loneliness.- We are oft to blame in this,\n'Tis too much prov'd, that with devotion's visage\nAnd pious action we do sugar o'er \nThe Devil himself.


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[aside] O, 'tis too true!\nHow smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience!\nThe harlot's cheek, beautied with plast'ring art,\nIs not more ugly to the thing that helps it\nThan is my deed to my most painted word.\nO heavy burthen!


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To be, or not to be- that is the question:\nWhether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer\nThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune\nOr to take arms against a sea of troubles,\nAnd by opposing end them. To die- to sleep-\nNo more; and by a sleep to say we end\nThe heartache, and the thousand natural shocks\nThat flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation \nDevoutly to be wish'd. To die- to sleep.\nTo sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!\nFor in that sleep of death what dreams may come\nWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,\nMust give us pause. There's the respect\nThat makes calamity of so long life.\nFor who would bear the whips and scorns of time,\nTh' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,\nThe pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,\nThe insolence of office, and the spurns\nThat patient merit of th' unworthy takes,\nWhen he himself might his quietus make\nWith a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,\nTo grunt and sweat under a weary life,\nBut that the dread of something after death-\nThe undiscover'd country, from whose bourn\nNo traveller returns- puzzles the will,\nAnd makes us rather bear those ills we have\nThan fly to others that we know not of?\nThus conscience does make cowards of us all, \nAnd thus the native hue of resolution\nIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,\nAnd enterprises of great pith and moment\nWith this regard their currents turn awry\nAnd lose the name of action.- Soft you now!\nThe fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons\nBe all my sins rememb'red.


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My lord, I have remembrances of yours\nThat I have longed long to re-deliver.\nI pray you, now receive them.


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My honour'd lord, you know right well you did,\nAnd with them words of so sweet breath compos'd\nAs made the things more rich. Their perfume lost,\nTake these again; for to the noble mind\nRich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. \nThere, my lord.


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Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform\nhonesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can\ntranslate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox,\nbut now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.


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You should not have believ'd me; for virtue cannot so\ninoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you\nnot.


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Get thee to a nunnery! Why wouldst thou be a breeder of\nsinners? I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse\nme of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. \nI am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my\nbeck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give\nthem shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I\ndo, crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all;\nbelieve none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where's your\nfather?


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If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry:\nbe thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape\ncalumny. Get thee to a nunnery. Go, farewell. Or if thou wilt\nneeds marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what\nmonsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too.\nFarewell.


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I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God hath\ngiven you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you\namble, and you lisp; you nickname God's creatures and make your \nwantonness your ignorance. Go to, I'll no more on't! it hath made\nme mad. I say, we will have no moe marriages. Those that are\nmarried already- all but one- shall live; the rest shall keep as\nthey are. To a nunnery, go.        Exit.


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O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!\nThe courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword,\nTh' expectancy and rose of the fair state,\nThe glass of fashion and the mould of form,\nTh' observ'd of all observers- quite, quite down!\nAnd I, of ladies most deject and wretched,\nThat suck'd the honey of his music vows,\nNow see that noble and most sovereign reason,\nLike sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;\nThat unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth\nBlasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me\nT' have seen what I have seen, see what I see!


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Love? his affections do not that way tend; \nNor what he spake, though it lack'd form a little,\nWas not like madness. There's something in his soul\nO'er which his melancholy sits on brood;\nAnd I do doubt the hatch and the disclose\nWill be some danger; which for to prevent,\nI have in quick determination\nThus set it down: he shall with speed to England\nFor the demand of our neglected tribute.\nHaply the seas, and countries different,\nWith variable objects, shall expel\nThis something-settled matter in his heart,\nWhereon his brains still beating puts him thus\nFrom fashion of himself. What think you on't?


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It shall do well. But yet do I believe\nThe origin and commencement of his grief\nSprung from neglected love.- How now, Ophelia?\nYou need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said.\nWe heard it all.- My lord, do as you please;\nBut if you hold it fit, after the play\nLet his queen mother all alone entreat him \nTo show his grief. Let her be round with him;\nAnd I'll be plac'd so please you, in the ear\nOf all their conference. If she find him not,\nTo England send him; or confine him where\nYour wisdom best shall think.


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Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you,\ntrippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our\nplayers do, I had as live the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do\nnot saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all\ngently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say)\nwhirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a\ntemperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the\nsoul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to\ntatters, to very rags, to split the cars of the groundlings, who\n(for the most part) are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb\nshows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipp'd for o'erdoing\nTermagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you avoid it.


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Be not too tame neither; but let your own discretion be your\ntutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with\nthis special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of\nnature: for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, \nwhose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as\n'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show Virtue her own feature,\nscorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his\nform and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though\nit make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious\ngrieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance\no'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I\nhave seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to\nspeak it profanely), that, neither having the accent of\nChristians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so\nstrutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's\njourneymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated\nhumanity so abominably.


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O, reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns\nspeak no more than is set down for them. For there be of them\nthat will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren\nspectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary\nquestion of the play be then to be considered. That's villanous\nand shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go \nmake you ready.\n[Exeunt Players.]\n[Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.]\nHow now, my lord? Will the King hear this piece of work?


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Nay, do not think I flatter;\nFor what advancement may I hope from thee, \nThat no revenue hast but thy good spirits\nTo feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter'd?\nNo, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,\nAnd crook the pregnant hinges of the knee\nWhere thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?\nSince my dear soul was mistress of her choice\nAnd could of men distinguish, her election\nHath seal'd thee for herself. For thou hast been\nAs one, in suff'ring all, that suffers nothing;\nA man that Fortune's buffets and rewards\nHast ta'en with equal thanks; and blest are those\nWhose blood and judgment are so well commingled\nThat they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger\nTo sound what stop she please. Give me that man\nThat is not passion's slave, and I will wear him\nIn my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,\nAs I do thee. Something too much of this I\nThere is a play to-night before the King.\nOne scene of it comes near the circumstance,\nWhich I have told thee, of my father's death. \nI prithee, when thou seest that act afoot,\nEven with the very comment of thy soul\nObserve my uncle. If his occulted guilt\nDo not itself unkennel in one speech,\nIt is a damned ghost that we have seen,\nAnd my imaginations are as foul\nAs Vulcan's stithy. Give him heedful note;\nFor I mine eyes will rivet to his face,\nAnd after we will both our judgments join\nIn censure of his seeming.


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Well, my lord.\nIf he steal aught the whilst this play is playing,\nAnd scape detecting, I will pay the theft.\nSound a flourish. [Enter Trumpets and Kettledrums. Danish\nmarch. [Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz,  Guildenstern, and other Lords attendant, with the Guard                   carrying torches.


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Excellent, i' faith; of the chameleon's dish. I eat the air,\npromise-cramm'd. You cannot feed capons so.


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O God, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry?\nFor look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died\nwithin 's two hours.


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So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a\nsuit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten\nyet? Then there's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life\nhalf a year. But, by'r Lady, he must build churches then; or else\nshall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose\nepitaph is 'For O, for O, the hobby-horse is forgot!'\n[Hautboys play. The dumb show enters.]\nEnter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queen embracing\nhim and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation\nunto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her\nneck. He lays him down upon a bank of flowers. She, seeing\nhim asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his\ncrown, kisses it, pours poison in the sleeper's ears, and\nleaves him. The Queen returns, finds the King dead, and makes\npassionate action. The Poisoner with some three or four Mutes,\ncomes in again, seem to condole with her. The dead body is\ncarried away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen with gifts; she\nseems harsh and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts\nhis love.


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Ay, or any show that you'll show him. Be not you asham'd to\nshow, he'll not shame to tell you what it means.


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You are naught, you are naught! I'll mark the play.\nPro. For us, and for our tragedy,\n Here stooping to your clemency,\n We beg your hearing patiently. [Exit.]


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Full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round\n Neptune's salt wash and Tellus' orbed ground,\n And thirty dozen moons with borrowed sheen\n About the world have times twelve thirties been,\n Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands,\n Unite comutual in most sacred bands.


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So many journeys may the sun and moon\n Make us again count o'er ere love be done!\n But woe is me! you are so sick of late,\n So far from cheer and from your former state.\n That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust,\n Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must;\n For women's fear and love holds quantity,\n In neither aught, or in extremity.\n Now what my love is, proof hath made you know;\n And as my love is siz'd, my fear is so.\n Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear;\n Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.


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Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too; \n My operant powers their functions leave to do.\n And thou shalt live in this fair world behind,\n Honour'd, belov'd, and haply one as kind\n For husband shalt thou-


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O, confound the rest!\n Such love must needs be treason in my breast.\n When second husband let me be accurst!\n None wed the second but who killed the first.


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[aside] Wormwood, wormwood!\nQueen. The instances that second marriage move\n Are base respects of thrift, but none of love.\n A second time I kill my husband dead\n When second husband kisses me in bed.


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I do believe you think what now you speak;\n But what we do determine oft we break.\n Purpose is but the slave to memory,\n Of violent birth, but poor validity;\n Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree,\n But fall unshaken when they mellow be.\n Most necessary 'tis that we forget\n To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt.\n What to ourselves in passion we propose,\n The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.\n The violence of either grief or joy\n Their own enactures with themselves destroy.\n Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;\n Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.\n This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange\n That even our loves should with our fortunes change;\n For 'tis a question left us yet to prove,\n Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.\n The great man down, you mark his favourite flies,\n The poor advanc'd makes friends of enemies;\n And hitherto doth love on fortune tend,\n For who not needs shall never lack a friend,\n And who in want a hollow friend doth try,\n Directly seasons him his enemy.\n But, orderly to end where I begun,\n Our wills and fates do so contrary run\n That our devices still are overthrown;\n Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.\n So think thou wilt no second husband wed;\n But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.


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Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light,\n Sport and repose lock from me day and night,\n To desperation turn my trust and hope,\n An anchor's cheer in prison be my scope,\n Each opposite that blanks the face of joy\n Meet what I would have well, and it destroy,\n Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife,\n If, once a widow, ever I be wife!


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'Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile.\n My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile\n The tedious day with sleep.\nQueen. Sleep rock thy brain, \n[He] sleeps.]\nQueen. And never come mischance between us twain!


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'The Mousetrap.' Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the\nimage of a murther done in Vienna. Gonzago is the duke's name;\nhis wife, Baptista. You shall see anon. 'Tis a knavish piece of\nwork; but what o' that? Your Majesty, and we that have free\nsouls, it touches us not. Let the gall'd jade winch; our withers\nare unwrung.


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So you must take your husbands.- Begin, murtherer. Pox, leave\nthy damnable faces, and begin! Come, the croaking raven doth\nbellow for revenge.\nLuc. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;  Confederate season, else no creature seeing;  Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,  With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,  Thy natural magic and dire property  On wholesome life usurp immediately.


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He poisons him i' th' garden for's estate. His name's Gonzago. \nThe story is extant, and written in very choice Italian. You\nshall see anon how the murtherer gets the love of Gonzago's wife.


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Why, let the strucken deer go weep,\n     The hart ungalled play;\n    For some must watch, while some must sleep:\n     Thus runs the world away.\nWould not this, sir, and a forest of feathers- if the rest of my\nfortunes turn Turk with me-with two Provincial roses on my raz'd\nshoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?


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A whole one I!\n    For thou dost know, O Damon dear,\n      This realm dismantled was \n    Of Jove himself; and now reigns here\n      A very, very- pajock.


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Aha! Come, some music! Come, the recorders!\n    For if the King like not the comedy,\n    Why then, belike he likes it not, perdy.\nCome, some music!\n           Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.


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Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to\nthe doctor; for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps\nplunge him into far more choler.


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Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed.\nIf it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do\nyour mother's commandment; if not, your pardon and my return\nshall be the end of my business.


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Make you a wholesome answer; my wit's diseas'd. But, sir, such\nanswer as I can make, you shall command; or rather, as you say,\nmy mother. Therefore no more, but to the matter! My mother, you \nsay-


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O wonderful son, that can so stonish a mother! But is there no\nsequel at the heels of this mother's admiration? Impart.


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Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely\nbar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your griefs to\nyour friend.


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Ay, sir, but 'while the grass grows'- the proverb is something\nmusty.\n[Enter the Players with recorders. ]\nO, the recorders! Let me see one. To withdraw with you- why do\nyou go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me\ninto a toil?


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It is as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your\nfingers and thumbs, give it breath with your mouth, and it will\ndiscourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.


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Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You\nwould play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would\npluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my\nlowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, \nexcellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it\nspeak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be play'd on than a\npipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me,\nyou cannot play upon me.\n[Enter Polonius.]\nGod bless you, sir!


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Then will I come to my mother by-and-by.- They fool me to the\ntop of my bent.- I will come by-and-by.


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'By-and-by' is easily said.- Leave me, friends.\n[Exeunt all but Hamlet.]\n'Tis now the very witching time of night,\nWhen churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out\nContagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood\nAnd do such bitter business as the day\nWould quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother!\nO heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever\nThe soul of Nero enter this firm bosom.\nLet me be cruel, not unnatural;\nI will speak daggers to her, but use none.\nMy tongue and soul in this be hypocrites-\nHow in my words somever she be shent,\nTo give them seals never, my soul, consent!             Exit.


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I like him not, nor stands it safe with us\nTo let his madness range. Therefore prepare you;\nI your commission will forthwith dispatch,\nAnd he to England shall along with you.\nThe terms of our estate may not endure\nHazard so near us as doth hourly grow\nOut of his lunacies.


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We will ourselves provide.\nMost holy and religious fear it is\nTo keep those many many bodies safe\nThat live and feed upon your Majesty.


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The single and peculiar life is bound\nWith all the strength and armour of the mind\nTo keep itself from noyance; but much more\nThat spirit upon whose weal depends and rests\nThe lives of many. The cesse of majesty\nDies not alone, but like a gulf doth draw \nWhat's near it with it. It is a massy wheel,\nFix'd on the summit of the highest mount,\nTo whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things\nAre mortis'd and adjoin'd; which when it falls,\nEach small annexment, petty consequence,\nAttends the boist'rous ruin. Never alone\nDid the king sigh, but with a general groan.


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Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage;\nFor we will fetters put upon this fear,\nWhich now goes too free-footed.


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My lord, he's going to his mother's closet.\nBehind the arras I'll convey myself\nTo hear the process. I'll warrant she'll tax him home;\nAnd, as you said, and wisely was it said,\n'Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, \nSince nature makes them partial, should o'erhear\nThe speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege.\nI'll call upon you ere you go to bed\nAnd tell you what I know.


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Thanks, dear my lord.\n[Exit [Polonius].]\nO, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;\nIt hath the primal eldest curse upon't,\nA brother's murther! Pray can I not,\nThough inclination be as sharp as will.\nMy stronger guilt defeats my strong intent,\nAnd, like a man to double business bound,\nI stand in pause where I shall first begin,\nAnd both neglect. What if this cursed hand\nWere thicker than itself with brother's blood,\nIs there not rain enough in the sweet heavens\nTo wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy\nBut to confront the visage of offence?\nAnd what's in prayer but this twofold force,\nTo be forestalled ere we come to fall, \nOr pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up;\nMy fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer\nCan serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murther'?\nThat cannot be; since I am still possess'd\nOf those effects for which I did the murther-\nMy crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.\nMay one be pardon'd and retain th' offence?\nIn the corrupted currents of this world\nOffence's gilded hand may shove by justice,\nAnd oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself\nBuys out the law; but 'tis not so above.\nThere is no shuffling; there the action lies\nIn his true nature, and we ourselves compell'd,\nEven to the teeth and forehead of our faults,\nTo give in evidence. What then? What rests?\nTry what repentance can. What can it not?\nYet what can it when one cannot repent?\nO wretched state! O bosom black as death!\nO limed soul, that, struggling to be free,\nArt more engag'd! Help, angels! Make assay. \nBow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel,\nBe soft as sinews of the new-born babe!\nAll may be well.              He kneels.


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Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;\nAnd now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven,\nAnd so am I reveng'd. That would be scann'd.\nA villain kills my father; and for that,\nI, his sole son, do this same villain send\nTo heaven.\nWhy, this is hire and salary, not revenge!\nHe took my father grossly, full of bread,\nWith all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May;\nAnd how his audit stands, who knows save heaven?\nBut in our circumstance and course of thought,\n'Tis heavy with him; and am I then reveng'd,\nTo take him in the purging of his soul,\nWhen he is fit and seasoned for his passage? \nNo.\nUp, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent.\nWhen he is drunk asleep; or in his rage;\nOr in th' incestuous pleasure of his bed;\nAt gaming, swearing, or about some act\nThat has no relish of salvation in't-\nThen trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven,\nAnd that his soul may be as damn'd and black\nAs hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays.\nThis physic but prolongs thy sickly days.  Exit.


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[rises] My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.\nWords without thoughts never to heaven go. Exit.


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He will come straight. Look you lay home to him.\nTell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with,\nAnd that your Grace hath screen'd and stood between\nMuch heat and him. I'll silence me even here.\nPray you be round with him.


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No, by the rood, not so!\nYou are the Queen, your husband's brother's wife,\nAnd (would it were not so!) you are my mother.


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Come, come, and sit you down. You shall not budge;\nYou go not till I set you up a glass\nWhere you may see the inmost part of you.


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Ay, lady, it was my word.\n[Lifts up the arras and sees Polonius.]\nThou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!\nI took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune.\nThou find'st to be too busy is some danger.\nLeave wringing of your hands. Peace! sit you down\nAnd let me wring your heart; for so I shall\nIf it be made of penetrable stuff;\nIf damned custom have not braz'd it so\nThat it is proof and bulwark against sense.


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Such an act\nThat blurs the grace and blush of modesty;\nCalls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose\nFrom the fair forehead of an innocent love,\nAnd sets a blister there; makes marriage vows\nAs false as dicers' oaths. O, such a deed\nAs from the body of contraction plucks \nThe very soul, and sweet religion makes\nA rhapsody of words! Heaven's face doth glow;\nYea, this solidity and compound mass,\nWith tristful visage, as against the doom,\nIs thought-sick at the act.


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Look here upon th's picture, and on this,\nThe counterfeit presentment of two brothers.\nSee what a grace was seated on this brow;\nHyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;\nAn eye like Mars, to threaten and command;\nA station like the herald Mercury\nNew lighted on a heaven-kissing hill:\nA combination and a form indeed\nWhere every god did seem to set his seal\nTo give the world assurance of a man.\nThis was your husband. Look you now what follows.\nHere is your husband, like a mildew'd ear\nBlasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? \nCould you on this fair mountain leave to feed,\nAnd batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes\nYou cannot call it love; for at your age\nThe heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble,\nAnd waits upon the judgment; and what judgment\nWould step from this to this? Sense sure you have,\nElse could you not have motion; but sure that sense\nIs apoplex'd; for madness would not err,\nNor sense to ecstacy was ne'er so thrall'd\nBut it reserv'd some quantity of choice\nTo serve in such a difference. What devil was't\nThat thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?\nEyes without feeling, feeling without sight,\nEars without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,\nOr but a sickly part of one true sense\nCould not so mope.\nO shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,\nIf thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,\nTo flaming youth let virtue be as wax\nAnd melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame \nWhen the compulsive ardour gives the charge,\nSince frost itself as actively doth burn,\nAnd reason panders will.


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O Hamlet, speak no more!\nThou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul,\nAnd there I see such black and grained spots\nAs will not leave their tinct.


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Nay, but to live\nIn the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,\nStew'd in corruption, honeying and making love\nOver the nasty sty!


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A murtherer and a villain!\nA slave that is not twentieth part the tithe\nOf your precedent lord; a vice of kings;\nA cutpurse of the empire and the rule,\nThat from a shelf the precious diadem stole\nAnd put it in his pocket! 


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A king of shreds and patches!-\nSave me and hover o'er me with your wings,\nYou heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?


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Do you not come your tardy son to chide,\nThat, laps'd in time and passion, lets go by\nTh' important acting of your dread command?\nO, say!


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Do not forget. This visitation\nIs but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.\nBut look, amazement on thy mother sits.\nO, step between her and her fighting soul\nConceit in weakest bodies strongest works.\nSpeak to her, Hamlet.


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Alas, how is't with you, \nThat you do bend your eye on vacancy,\nAnd with th' encorporal air do hold discourse?\nForth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;\nAnd, as the sleeping soldiers in th' alarm,\nYour bedded hairs, like life in excrements,\nStart up and stand an end. O gentle son,\nUpon the heat and flame of thy distemper\nSprinkle cool patience! Whereon do you look?


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On him, on him! Look you how pale he glares!\nHis form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones,\nWould make them capable.- Do not look upon me,\nLest with this piteous action you convert\nMy stern effects. Then what I have to do\nWill want true colour- tears perchance for blood.


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Why, look you there! Look how it steals away! \nMy father, in his habit as he liv'd!\nLook where he goes even now out at the portal!


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Ecstasy?\nMy pulse as yours doth temperately keep time\nAnd makes as healthful music. It is not madness\nThat I have utt'red. Bring me to the test,\nAnd I the matter will reword; which madness\nWould gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,\nLay not that flattering unction to your soul\nThat not your trespass but my madness speaks.\nIt will but skin and film the ulcerous place,\nWhiles rank corruption, mining all within,\nInfects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;\nRepent what's past; avoid what is to come;\nAnd do not spread the compost on the weeds\nTo make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; \nFor in the fatness of these pursy times\nVirtue itself of vice must pardon beg-\nYea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.


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O, throw away the worser part of it,\nAnd live the purer with the other half,\nGood night- but go not to my uncle's bed.\nAssume a virtue, if you have it not.\nThat monster, custom, who all sense doth eat\nOf habits evil, is angel yet in this,\nThat to the use of actions fair and good\nHe likewise gives a frock or livery,\nThat aptly is put on. Refrain to-night,\nAnd that shall lend a kind of easiness\nTo the next abstinence; the next more easy;\nFor use almost can change the stamp of nature,\nAnd either [master] the devil, or throw him out\nWith wondrous potency. Once more, good night;\nAnd when you are desirous to be blest,\nI'll blessing beg of you.- For this same lord, \nI do repent; but heaven hath pleas'd it so,\nTo punish me with this, and this with me,\nThat I must be their scourge and minister.\nI will bestow him, and will answer well\nThe death I gave him. So again, good night.\nI must be cruel, only to be kind;\nThus bad begins, and worse remains behind.\nOne word more, good lady.


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Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:\nLet the bloat King tempt you again to bed;\nPinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;\nAnd let him, for a pair of reechy kisses,\nOr paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers,\nMake you to ravel all this matter out,\nThat I essentially am not in madness,\nBut mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know;\nFor who that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise,\nWould from a paddock, from a bat, a gib\nSuch dear concernings hide? Who would do so? \nNo, in despite of sense and secrecy,\nUnpeg the basket on the house's top,\nLet the birds fly, and like the famous ape,\nTo try conclusions, in the basket creep\nAnd break your own neck down.


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Be thou assur'd, if words be made of breath,\nAnd breath of life, I have no life to breathe\nWhat thou hast said to me.


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There's letters seal'd; and my two schoolfellows,\nWhom I will trust as I will adders fang'd,\nThey bear the mandate; they must sweep my way\nAnd marshal me to knavery. Let it work;\nFor 'tis the sport to have the enginer\nHoist with his own petar; and 't shall go hard\nBut I will delve one yard below their mines\nAnd blow them at the moon. O, 'tis most sweet\nWhen in one line two crafts directly meet. \nThis man shall set me packing.\nI'll lug the guts into the neighbour room.-\nMother, good night.- Indeed, this counsellor\nIs now most still, most secret, and most grave,\nWho was in life a foolish peating knave.\nCome, sir, to draw toward an end with you.\nGood night, mother.


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There's matter in these sighs. These profound heaves\nYou must translate; 'tis fit we understand them.\nWhere is your son?


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Bestow this place on us a little while.\n[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]\nAh, mine own lord, what have I seen to-night!


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Mad as the sea and wind when both contend\nWhich is the mightier. In his lawless fit\nBehind the arras hearing something stir,\nWhips out his rapier, cries 'A rat, a rat!'\nAnd in this brainish apprehension kills\nThe unseen good old man.


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O heavy deed!\nIt had been so with us, had we been there.\nHis liberty is full of threats to all-\nTo you yourself, to us, to every one. \nAlas, how shall this bloody deed be answer'd?\nIt will be laid to us, whose providence\nShould have kept short, restrain'd, and out of haunt\nThis mad young man. But so much was our love\nWe would not understand what was most fit,\nBut, like the owner of a foul disease,\nTo keep it from divulging, let it feed\nEven on the pith of life. Where is he gone?


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To draw apart the body he hath kill'd;\nO'er whom his very madness, like some ore\nAmong a mineral of metals base,\nShows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.


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O Gertrude, come away!\nThe sun no sooner shall the mountains touch\nBut we will ship him hence; and this vile deed\nWe must with all our majesty and skill\nBoth countenance and excuse. Ho, Guildenstern!\n[Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.Friends both, go join you with some further aid.]\nHamlet in madness hath Polonius slain,\nAnd from his mother's closet hath he dragg'd him.\nGo seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body\nInto the chapel. I pray you haste in this.\n[Exeunt [Rosencrantz and Guildenstern].]\nCome, Gertrude, we'll call up our wisest friends\nAnd let them know both what we mean to do\nAnd what's untimely done. [So haply slander-]\nWhose whisper o'er the world's diameter,\nAs level as the cannon to his blank,\nTransports his poisoned shot- may miss our name\nAnd hit the woundless air.- O, come away!\nMy soul is full of discord and dismay.


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That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to be\ndemanded of a sponge, what replication should be made by the son\nof a king?


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Ay, sir; that soaks up the King's countenance, his rewards, \nhis authorities. But such officers do the King best service in\nthe end. He keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw;\nfirst mouth'd, to be last swallowed. When he needs what you have\nglean'd, it is but squeezing you and, sponge, you shall be dry\nagain.


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I have sent to seek him and to find the body.\nHow dangerous is it that this man goes loose!\nYet must not we put the strong law on him.\nHe's lov'd of the distracted multitude,\nWho like not in their judgment, but their eyes;\nAnd where 'tis so, th' offender's scourge is weigh'd,\nBut never the offence. To bear all smooth and even,\nThis sudden sending him away must seem\nDeliberate pause. Diseases desperate grown\nBy desperate appliance are reliev'd,\nOr not at all.\n[Enter Rosencrantz.]\nHow now O What hath befall'n?


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Not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain\nconvocation of politic worms are e'en at him. Your worm is your\nonly emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and\nwe fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar\nis but variable service- two dishes, but to one table. That's the\nend.


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A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat\nof the fish that hath fed of that worm.


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In heaven. Send thither to see. If your messenger find him not\nthere, seek him i' th' other place yourself. But indeed, if you\nfind him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up\nthe stair, into the lobby.


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Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,-\nWhich we do tender as we dearly grieve\nFor that which thou hast done,- must send thee hence\nWith fiery quickness. Therefore prepare thyself.\nThe bark is ready and the wind at help,\nTh' associates tend, and everything is bent\nFor England.


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My mother! Father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is\none flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England!


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Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed aboard.\nDelay it not; I'll have him hence to-night.\nAway! for everything is seal'd and done\nThat else leans on th' affair. Pray you make haste.\n[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern]\nAnd, England, if my love thou hold'st at aught,-\nAs my great power thereof may give thee sense,\nSince yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red\nAfter the Danish sword, and thy free awe\nPays homage to us,- thou mayst not coldly set\nOur sovereign process, which imports at full,\nBy letters congruing to that effect,\nThe present death of Hamlet. Do it, England; \nFor like the hectic in my blood he rages,\nAnd thou must cure me. Till I know 'tis done,\nHowe'er my haps, my joys were ne'er begun. Exit.


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Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king.\nTell him that by his license Fortinbras\nCraves the conveyance of a promis'd march\nOver his kingdom. You know the rendezvous.\nIf that his Majesty would aught with us,\nWe shall express our duty in his eye;\nAnd let him know so.


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Truly to speak, and with no addition,\nWe go to gain a little patch of ground\nThat hath in it no profit but the name.\nTo pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it;\nNor will it yield to Norway or the Pole\nA ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.


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Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats\nWill not debate the question of this straw.\nThis is th' imposthume of much wealth and peace,\nThat inward breaks, and shows no cause without\nWhy the man dies.- I humbly thank you, sir.


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I'll be with you straight. Go a little before. \n[Exeunt all but Hamlet.]\nHow all occasions do inform against me\nAnd spur my dull revenge! What is a man,\nIf his chief good and market of his time\nBe but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.\nSure he that made us with such large discourse,\nLooking before and after, gave us not\nThat capability and godlike reason\nTo fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be\nBestial oblivion, or some craven scruple\nOf thinking too precisely on th' event,-\nA thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom\nAnd ever three parts coward,- I do not know\nWhy yet I live to say 'This thing's to do,'\nSith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means\nTo do't. Examples gross as earth exhort me.\nWitness this army of such mass and charge,\nLed by a delicate and tender prince,\nWhose spirit, with divine ambition puff'd,\nMakes mouths at the invisible event, \nExposing what is mortal and unsure\nTo all that fortune, death, and danger dare,\nEven for an eggshell. Rightly to be great\nIs not to stir without great argument,\nBut greatly to find quarrel in a straw\nWhen honour's at the stake. How stand I then,\nThat have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,\nExcitements of my reason and my blood,\nAnd let all sleep, while to my shame I see\nThe imminent death of twenty thousand men\nThat for a fantasy and trick of fame\nGo to their graves like beds, fight for a plot\nWhereon the numbers cannot try the cause,\nWhich is not tomb enough and continent\nTo hide the slain? O, from this time forth,\nMy thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!            Exit.


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She speaks much of her father; says she hears\nThere's tricks i' th' world, and hems, and beats her heart;\nSpurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,\nThat carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing,\nYet the unshaped use of it doth move\nThe hearers to collection; they aim at it,\nAnd botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;\nWhich, as her winks and nods and gestures yield them,\nIndeed would make one think there might be thought,\nThough nothing sure, yet much unhappily.


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Let her come in. \n[Exit Gentleman.]\n[Aside] To my sick soul (as sin's true nature is)\nEach toy seems Prologue to some great amiss.\nSo full of artless jealousy is guilt\nIt spills itself in fearing to be spilt.


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[sings]\n    How should I your true-love know\n      From another one?\n    By his cockle bat and' staff\n      And his sandal shoon.


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Say you? Nay, pray You mark.\n(Sings) He is dead and gone, lady, \n        He is dead and gone;\n       At his head a grass-green turf,\n         At his heels a stone.\nO, ho!


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[Sings]\n      Larded all with sweet flowers;\n    Which bewept to the grave did not go\n      With true-love showers.


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Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. \nLord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at\nyour table!


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Pray let's have no words of this; but when they ask, you what\nit means, say you this:\n(Sings) To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,\n         All in the morning bedtime,\n       And I a maid at your window,\n         To be your Valentine.\n       Then up he rose and donn'd his clo'es\n         And dupp'd the chamber door,\n       Let in the maid, that out a maid\n         Never departed more.


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Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't!\n[Sings] By Gis and by Saint Charity, \n         Alack, and fie for shame!\n       Young men will do't if they come to't\n         By Cock, they are to blame.\n       Quoth she, 'Before you tumbled me,\n         You promis'd me to wed.'\nHe answers:\n       'So would I 'a' done, by yonder sun,\n         An thou hadst not come to my bed.'


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I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot\nchoose but weep to think they would lay him i' th' cold ground.\nMy brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good\ncounsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet\nladies. Good night, good night.     Exit


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Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.\n[Exit Horatio.]\nO, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs\nAll from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude,\nWhen sorrows come, they come not single spies.\nBut in battalions! First, her father slain;\nNext, your son gone, and he most violent author\nOf his own just remove; the people muddied,\nThick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers\nFor good Polonius' death, and we have done but greenly\nIn hugger-mugger to inter him; poor Ophelia\nDivided from herself and her fair judgment,\nWithout the which we are pictures or mere beasts;\nLast, and as much containing as all these,\nHer brother is in secret come from France;\nAnd wants not buzzers to infect his ear\nFeeds on his wonder, keep, himself in clouds,\nWith pestilent speeches of his father's death,\nWherein necessity, of matter beggar'd,\nWill nothing stick our person to arraign\nIn ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,\nLike to a murd'ring piece, in many places \nGive me superfluous death.  A noise within.


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Save Yourself, my lord:\nThe ocean, overpeering of his list,\nEats not the flats with more impetuous haste\nThan Young Laertes, in a riotous head,\nO'erbears Your offices. The rabble call him lord;\nAnd, as the world were now but to begin,\nAntiquity forgot, custom not known,\nThe ratifiers and props of every word,\nThey cry 'Choose we! Laertes shall be king!'\nCaps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds,\n'Laertes shall be king! Laertes king!'


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That drop of blood that's calm proclaims me bastard;\nCries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot\nEven here between the chaste unsmirched brows\nOf my true mother.


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What is the cause, Laertes,\nThat thy rebellion looks so giantlike?\nLet him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. \nThere's such divinity doth hedge a king\nThat treason can but peep to what it would,\nActs little of his will. Tell me, Laertes,\nWhy thou art thus incens'd. Let him go, Gertrude.\nSpeak, man.


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How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with:\nTo hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil\nConscience and grace, to the profoundest pit!\nI dare damnation. To this point I stand,\nThat both the world, I give to negligence,\nLet come what comes; only I'll be reveng'd\nMost throughly for my father.


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My will, not all the world!\nAnd for my means, I'll husband them so well\nThey shall go far with little. 


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Good Laertes,\nIf you desire to know the certainty\nOf your dear father's death, is't writ in your revenge\nThat sweepstake you will draw both friend and foe,\nWinner and loser?


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To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms\nAnd, like the kind life-rend'ring pelican,\nRepast them with my blood.


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Why, now You speak\nLike a good child and a true gentleman.\nThat I am guiltless of your father's death,\nAnd am most sensibly in grief for it,\nIt shall as level to your judgment pierce\nAs day does to your eye.


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How now? What noise is that?\n[Enter Ophelia. ]\nO heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times salt\nBurn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!\nBy heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight\nTill our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!\nDear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!\nO heavens! is't possible a young maid's wits\nShould be as mortal as an old man's life?\nNature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine,\nIt sends some precious instance of itself\nAfter the thing it loves.


