# paragraphs

plain_text:
Sir John, we have had ill luck; we could never meet.\nI will never take you for my love again; but I will\nalways count you my deer.


plain_text:
And these are not fairies? I was three or four\ntimes in the thought they were not fairies: and yet\nthe guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my\npowers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a\nreceived belief, in despite of the teeth of all\nrhyme and reason, that they were fairies. See now\nhow wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent, when 'tis upon\nill employment!


plain_text:
Have I laid my brain in the sun and dried it, that\nit wants matter to prevent so gross o'erreaching as\nthis? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? shall I\nhave a coxcomb of frize? 'Tis time I were choked\nwith a piece of toasted cheese.


plain_text:
'Seese' and 'putter'! have I lived to stand at the\ntaunt of one that makes fritters of English? This\nis enough to be the decay of lust and late-walking\nthrough the realm.


plain_text:
Why Sir John, do you think, though we would have the\nvirtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders\nand have given ourselves without scruple to hell,\nthat ever the devil could have made you our delight?


plain_text:
And given to fornications, and to taverns and sack\nand wine and metheglins, and to drinkings and\nswearings and starings, pribbles and prabbles?


plain_text:
Well, I am your theme: you have the start of me; I\nam dejected; I am not able to answer the Welsh\nflannel; ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me: use\nme as you will.


plain_text:
Marry, sir, we'll bring you to Windsor, to one\nMaster Brook, that you have cozened of money, to\nwhom you should have been a pander: over and above\nthat you have suffered, I think to repay that money\nwill be a biting affliction.


plain_text:
Yet be cheerful, knight: thou shalt eat a posset\nto-night at my house; where I will desire thee to\nlaugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee: tell her\nMaster Slender hath married her daughter.


plain_text:
I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page,\nand she's a great lubberly boy. If it had not been\ni' the church, I would have swinged him, or he\nshould have swinged me. If I did not think it had\nbeen Anne Page, would I might never stir!--and 'tis\na postmaster's boy.


plain_text:
What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took\na boy for a girl. If I had been married to him, for\nall he was in woman's apparel, I would not have had\nhim.


plain_text:
I went to her in white, and cried 'mum,' and she\ncried 'budget,' as Anne and I had appointed; and yet\nit was not Anne, but a postmaster's boy.


plain_text:
Good George, be not angry: I knew of your purpose;\nturned my daughter into green; and, indeed, she is\nnow with the doctor at the deanery, and there married.


plain_text:
Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened: I ha'\nmarried un garcon, a boy; un paysan, by gar, a boy;\nit is not Anne Page: by gar, I am cozened.


plain_text:
My heart misgives me: here comes Master Fenton.\n[Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE]\nHow now, Master Fenton!


plain_text:
You do amaze her: hear the truth of it.\nYou would have married her most shamefully,\nWhere there was no proportion held in love.\nThe truth is, she and I, long since contracted,\nAre now so sure that nothing can dissolve us.\nThe offence is holy that she hath committed;\nAnd this deceit loses the name of craft,\nOf disobedience, or unduteous title,\nSince therein she doth evitate and shun\nA thousand irreligious cursed hours,\nWhich forced marriage would have brought upon her.


plain_text:
Stand not amazed; here is no remedy:\nIn love the heavens themselves do guide the state;\nMoney buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.


plain_text:
Well, I will muse no further. Master Fenton,\nHeaven give you many, many merry days!\nGood husband, let us every one go home,\nAnd laugh this sport o'er by a country fire;\nSir John and all.


plain_text:
Let it be so. Sir John,\nTo Master Brook you yet shall hold your word\nFor he tonight shall lie with Mistress Ford.


plain_text:
Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour\nDraws on apace; four happy days bring in\nAnother moon: but, O, methinks, how slow\nThis old moon wanes! she lingers my desires,\nLike to a step-dame or a dowager\nLong withering out a young man revenue.


plain_text:
Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;\nFour nights will quickly dream away the time;\nAnd then the moon, like to a silver bow\nNew-bent in heaven, shall behold the night\nOf our solemnities.


plain_text:
Go, Philostrate,\nStir up the Athenian youth to merriments;\nAwake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth;\nTurn melancholy forth to funerals;\nThe pale companion is not for our pomp.\n[Exit PHILOSTRATE]\nHippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword,\nAnd won thy love, doing thee injuries;\nBut I will wed thee in another key,\nWith pomp, with triumph and with revelling.


plain_text:
Full of vexation come I, with complaint\nAgainst my child, my daughter Hermia.\nStand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord,\nThis man hath my consent to marry her.\nStand forth, Lysander: and my gracious duke,\nThis man hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child;\nThou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes,\nAnd interchanged love-tokens with my child:\nThou hast by moonlight at her window sung,\nWith feigning voice verses of feigning love,\nAnd stolen the impression of her fantasy\nWith bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,\nKnacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers\nOf strong prevailment in unharden'd youth:\nWith cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's heart,\nTurn'd her obedience, which is due to me,\nTo stubborn harshness: and, my gracious duke,\nBe it so she; will not here before your grace\nConsent to marry with Demetrius,\nI beg the ancient privilege of Athens,\nAs she is mine, I may dispose of her:\nWhich shall be either to this gentleman\nOr to her death, according to our law\nImmediately provided in that case.


plain_text:
What say you, Hermia? be advised fair maid:\nTo you your father should be as a god;\nOne that composed your beauties, yea, and one\nTo whom you are but as a form in wax\nBy him imprinted and within his power\nTo leave the figure or disfigure it.\nDemetrius is a worthy gentleman.


plain_text:
In himself he is;\nBut in this kind, wanting your father's voice,\nThe other must be held the worthier.


plain_text:
I do entreat your grace to pardon me.\nI know not by what power I am made bold,\nNor how it may concern my modesty,\nIn such a presence here to plead my thoughts;\nBut I beseech your grace that I may know\nThe worst that may befall me in this case,\nIf I refuse to wed Demetrius.


plain_text:
Either to die the death or to abjure\nFor ever the society of men.\nTherefore, fair Hermia, question your desires;\nKnow of your youth, examine well your blood,\nWhether, if you yield not to your father's choice,\nYou can endure the livery of a nun,\nFor aye to be in shady cloister mew'd,\nTo live a barren sister all your life,\nChanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon.\nThrice-blessed they that master so their blood,\nTo undergo such maiden pilgrimage;\nBut earthlier happy is the rose distill'd,\nThan that which withering on the virgin thorn\nGrows, lives and dies in single blessedness.


plain_text:
So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,\nEre I will my virgin patent up\nUnto his lordship, whose unwished yoke\nMy soul consents not to give sovereignty.


plain_text:
Take time to pause; and, by the nest new moon--\nThe sealing-day betwixt my love and me,\nFor everlasting bond of fellowship--\nUpon that day either prepare to die\nFor disobedience to your father's will,\nOr else to wed Demetrius, as he would;\nOr on Diana's altar to protest\nFor aye austerity and single life.


plain_text:
Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love,\nAnd what is mine my love shall render him.\nAnd she is mine, and all my right of her\nI do estate unto Demetrius.


plain_text:
I am, my lord, as well derived as he,\nAs well possess'd; my love is more than his;\nMy fortunes every way as fairly rank'd,\nIf not with vantage, as Demetrius';\nAnd, which is more than all these boasts can be,\nI am beloved of beauteous Hermia:\nWhy should not I then prosecute my right?\nDemetrius, I'll avouch it to his head,\nMade love to Nedar's daughter, Helena,\nAnd won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,\nDevoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry,\nUpon this spotted and inconstant man.


plain_text:
I must confess that I have heard so much,\nAnd with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof;\nBut, being over-full of self-affairs,\nMy mind did lose it. But, Demetrius, come;\nAnd come, Egeus; you shall go with me,\nI have some private schooling for you both.\nFor you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself\nTo fit your fancies to your father's will;\nOr else the law of Athens yields you up--\nWhich by no means we may extenuate--\nTo death, or to a vow of single life.\nCome, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love?\nDemetrius and Egeus, go along:\nI must employ you in some business\nAgainst our nuptial and confer with you\nOf something nearly that concerns yourselves.


plain_text:
Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,\nCould ever hear by tale or history,\nThe course of true love never did run smooth;\nBut, either it was different in blood,--


plain_text:
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,\nWar, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,\nMaking it momentany as a sound,\nSwift as a shadow, short as any dream;\nBrief as the lightning in the collied night,\nThat, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,\nAnd ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!'\nThe jaws of darkness do devour it up:\nSo quick bright things come to confusion.


plain_text:
If then true lovers have been ever cross'd,\nIt stands as an edict in destiny:\nThen let us teach our trial patience,\nBecause it is a customary cross,\nAs due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs,\nWishes and tears, poor fancy's followers.


plain_text:
A good persuasion: therefore, hear me, Hermia.\nI have a widow aunt, a dowager\nOf great revenue, and she hath no child:\nFrom Athens is her house remote seven leagues;\nAnd she respects me as her only son.\nThere, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee;\nAnd to that place the sharp Athenian law\nCannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then,\nSteal forth thy father's house to-morrow night;\nAnd in the wood, a league without the town,\nWhere I did meet thee once with Helena,\nTo do observance to a morn of May,\nThere will I stay for thee.


plain_text:
My good Lysander!\nI swear to thee, by Cupid's strongest bow,\nBy his best arrow with the golden head,\nBy the simplicity of Venus' doves,\nBy that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,\nAnd by that fire which burn'd the Carthage queen,\nWhen the false Troyan under sail was seen,\nBy all the vows that ever men have broke,\nIn number more than ever women spoke,\nIn that same place thou hast appointed me,\nTo-morrow truly will I meet with thee.


plain_text:
Call you me fair? that fair again unsay.\nDemetrius loves your fair: O happy fair!\nYour eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air\nMore tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear,\nWhen wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.\nSickness is catching: O, were favour so,\nYours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go;\nMy ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,\nMy tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody.\nWere the world mine, Demetrius being bated,\nThe rest I'd give to be to you translated.\nO, teach me how you look, and with what art\nYou sway the motion of Demetrius' heart.


plain_text:
Take comfort: he no more shall see my face;\nLysander and myself will fly this place.\nBefore the time I did Lysander see,\nSeem'd Athens as a paradise to me:\nO, then, what graces in my love do dwell,\nThat he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell!


plain_text:
Helen, to you our minds we will unfold:\nTo-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold\nHer silver visage in the watery glass,\nDecking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,\nA time that lovers' flights doth still conceal,\nThrough Athens' gates have we devised to steal.


plain_text:
And in the wood, where often you and I\nUpon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie,\nEmptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet,\nThere my Lysander and myself shall meet;\nAnd thence from Athens turn away our eyes,\nTo seek new friends and stranger companies.\nFarewell, sweet playfellow: pray thou for us;\nAnd good luck grant thee thy Demetrius!\nKeep word, Lysander: we must starve our sight\nFrom lovers' food till morrow deep midnight.


plain_text:
How happy some o'er other some can be!\nThrough Athens I am thought as fair as she.\nBut what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;\nHe will not know what all but he do know:\nAnd as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,\nSo I, admiring of his qualities:\nThings base and vile, folding no quantity,\nLove can transpose to form and dignity:\nLove looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;\nAnd therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind:\nNor hath Love's mind of any judgement taste;\nWings and no eyes figure unheedy haste:\nAnd therefore is Love said to be a child,\nBecause in choice he is so oft beguiled.\nAs waggish boys in game themselves forswear,\nSo the boy Love is perjured every where:\nFor ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne,\nHe hail'd down oaths that he was only mine;\nAnd when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,\nSo he dissolved, and showers of oaths did melt.\nI will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight:\nThen to the wood will he to-morrow night\nPursue her; and for this intelligence\nIf I have thanks, it is a dear expense:\nBut herein mean I to enrich my pain,\nTo have his sight thither and back again.


plain_text:
Here is the scroll of every man's name, which is\nthought fit, through all Athens, to play in our\ninterlude before the duke and the duchess, on his\nwedding-day at night.


plain_text:
First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats\non, then read the names of the actors, and so grow\nto a point.


plain_text:
A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a\nmerry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your\nactors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves.


plain_text:
That will ask some tears in the true performing of\nit: if I do it, let the audience look to their\neyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some\nmeasure. To the rest: yet my chief humour is for a\ntyrant: I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to\ntear a cat in, to make all split.\nThe raging rocks\nAnd shivering shocks\nShall break the locks\nOf prison gates;\nAnd Phibbus' car\nShall shine from far\nAnd make and mar\nThe foolish Fates.\nThis was lofty! Now name the rest of the players.\nThis is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein; a lover is\nmore condoling.


plain_text:
An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too, I'll\nspeak in a monstrous little voice. 'Thisne,\nThisne;' 'Ah, Pyramus, lover dear! thy Thisby dear,\nand lady dear!'


plain_text:
You, Pyramus' father: myself, Thisby's father:\nSnug, the joiner; you, the lion's part: and, I\nhope, here is a play fitted.


plain_text:
Let me play the lion too: I will roar, that I will\ndo any man's heart good to hear me; I will roar,\nthat I will make the duke say 'Let him roar again,\nlet him roar again.'


plain_text:
An you should do it too terribly, you would fright\nthe duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek;\nand that were enough to hang us all.


plain_text:
I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the\nladies out of their wits, they would have no more\ndiscretion but to hang us: but I will aggravate my\nvoice so that I will roar you as gently as any\nsucking dove; I will roar you an 'twere any\nnightingale.


plain_text:
You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a\nsweet-faced man; a proper man, as one shall see in a\nsummer's day; a most lovely gentleman-like man:\ntherefore you must needs play Pyramus.


plain_text:
I will discharge it in either your straw-colour\nbeard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain\nbeard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your\nperfect yellow.


plain_text:
Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and\nthen you will play bare-faced. But, masters, here\nare your parts: and I am to entreat you, request\nyou and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night;\nand meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the\ntown, by moonlight; there will we rehearse, for if\nwe meet in the city, we shall be dogged with\ncompany, and our devices known. In the meantime I\nwill draw a bill of properties, such as our play\nwants. I pray you, fail me not.


plain_text:
We will meet; and there we may rehearse most\nobscenely and courageously. Take pains; be perfect: adieu.


plain_text:
Over hill, over dale,\nThorough bush, thorough brier,\nOver park, over pale,\nThorough flood, thorough fire,\nI do wander everywhere,\nSwifter than the moon's sphere;\nAnd I serve the fairy queen,\nTo dew her orbs upon the green.\nThe cowslips tall her pensioners be:\nIn their gold coats spots you see;\nThose be rubies, fairy favours,\nIn those freckles live their savours:\nI must go seek some dewdrops here\nAnd hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.\nFarewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:\nOur queen and all our elves come here anon.


plain_text:
The king doth keep his revels here to-night:\nTake heed the queen come not within his sight;\nFor Oberon is passing fell and wrath,\nBecause that she as her attendant hath\nA lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king;\nShe never had so sweet a changeling;\nAnd jealous Oberon would have the child\nKnight of his train, to trace the forests wild;\nBut she perforce withholds the loved boy,\nCrowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy:\nAnd now they never meet in grove or green,\nBy fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,\nBut, they do square, that all their elves for fear\nCreep into acorn-cups and hide them there.


plain_text:
Either I mistake your shape and making quite,\nOr else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite\nCall'd Robin Goodfellow: are not you he\nThat frights the maidens of the villagery;\nSkim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern\nAnd bootless make the breathless housewife churn;\nAnd sometime make the drink to bear no barm;\nMislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?\nThose that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,\nYou do their work, and they shall have good luck:\nAre not you he?


plain_text:
Thou speak'st aright;\nI am that merry wanderer of the night.\nI jest to Oberon and make him smile\nWhen I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,\nNeighing in likeness of a filly foal:\nAnd sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,\nIn very likeness of a roasted crab,\nAnd when she drinks, against her lips I bob\nAnd on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale.\nThe wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,\nSometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;\nThen slip I from her bum, down topples she,\nAnd 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough;\nAnd then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh,\nAnd waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear\nA merrier hour was never wasted there.\nBut, room, fairy! here comes Oberon.


plain_text:
Then I must be thy lady: but I know\nWhen thou hast stolen away from fairy land,\nAnd in the shape of Corin sat all day,\nPlaying on pipes of corn and versing love\nTo amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,\nCome from the farthest Steppe of India?\nBut that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,\nYour buskin'd mistress and your warrior love,\nTo Theseus must be wedded, and you come\nTo give their bed joy and prosperity.


plain_text:
How canst thou thus for shame, Titania,\nGlance at my credit with Hippolyta,\nKnowing I know thy love to Theseus?\nDidst thou not lead him through the glimmering night\nFrom Perigenia, whom he ravished?\nAnd make him with fair AEgle break his faith,\nWith Ariadne and Antiopa?


plain_text:
These are the forgeries of jealousy:\nAnd never, since the middle summer's spring,\nMet we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,\nBy paved fountain or by rushy brook,\nOr in the beached margent of the sea,\nTo dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,\nBut with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.\nTherefore the winds, piping to us in vain,\nAs in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea\nContagious fogs; which falling in the land\nHave every pelting river made so proud\nThat they have overborne their continents:\nThe ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,\nThe ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn\nHath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard;\nThe fold stands empty in the drowned field,\nAnd crows are fatted with the murrion flock;\nThe nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud,\nAnd the quaint mazes in the wanton green\nFor lack of tread are undistinguishable:\nThe human mortals want their winter here;\nNo night is now with hymn or carol blest:\nTherefore the moon, the governess of floods,\nPale in her anger, washes all the air,\nThat rheumatic diseases do abound:\nAnd thorough this distemperature we see\nThe seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts\nFar in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,\nAnd on old Hiems' thin and icy crown\nAn odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds\nIs, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer,\nThe childing autumn, angry winter, change\nTheir wonted liveries, and the mazed world,\nBy their increase, now knows not which is which:\nAnd this same progeny of evils comes\nFrom our debate, from our dissension;\nWe are their parents and original.


plain_text:
Do you amend it then; it lies in you:\nWhy should Titania cross her Oberon?\nI do but beg a little changeling boy,\nTo be my henchman.


plain_text:
Set your heart at rest:\nThe fairy land buys not the child of me.\nHis mother was a votaress of my order:\nAnd, in the spiced Indian air, by night,\nFull often hath she gossip'd by my side,\nAnd sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands,\nMarking the embarked traders on the flood,\nWhen we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive\nAnd grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;\nWhich she, with pretty and with swimming gait\nFollowing,--her womb then rich with my young squire,--\nWould imitate, and sail upon the land,\nTo fetch me trifles, and return again,\nAs from a voyage, rich with merchandise.\nBut she, being mortal, of that boy did die;\nAnd for her sake do I rear up her boy,\nAnd for her sake I will not part with him.


plain_text:
Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day.\nIf you will patiently dance in our round\nAnd see our moonlight revels, go with us;\nIf not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.


plain_text:
Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove\nTill I torment thee for this injury.\nMy gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest\nSince once I sat upon a promontory,\nAnd heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back\nUttering such dulcet and harmonious breath\nThat the rude sea grew civil at her song\nAnd certain stars shot madly from their spheres,\nTo hear the sea-maid's music.


plain_text:
That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,\nFlying between the cold moon and the earth,\nCupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took\nAt a fair vestal throned by the west,\nAnd loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,\nAs it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;\nBut I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft\nQuench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon,\nAnd the imperial votaress passed on,\nIn maiden meditation, fancy-free.\nYet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:\nIt fell upon a little western flower,\nBefore milk-white, now purple with love's wound,\nAnd maidens call it love-in-idleness.\nFetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once:\nThe juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid\nWill make or man or woman madly dote\nUpon the next live creature that it sees.\nFetch me this herb; and be thou here again\nEre the leviathan can swim a league.


plain_text:
Having once this juice,\nI'll watch Titania when she is asleep,\nAnd drop the liquor of it in her eyes.\nThe next thing then she waking looks upon,\nBe it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,\nOn meddling monkey, or on busy ape,\nShe shall pursue it with the soul of love:\nAnd ere I take this charm from off her sight,\nAs I can take it with another herb,\nI'll make her render up her page to me.\nBut who comes here? I am invisible;\nAnd I will overhear their conference.


plain_text:
I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.\nWhere is Lysander and fair Hermia?\nThe one I'll slay, the other slayeth me.\nThou told'st me they were stolen unto this wood;\nAnd here am I, and wode within this wood,\nBecause I cannot meet my Hermia.\nHence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.


plain_text:
You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant;\nBut yet you draw not iron, for my heart\nIs true as steel: leave you your power to draw,\nAnd I shall have no power to follow you.


plain_text:
Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?\nOr, rather, do I not in plainest truth\nTell you, I do not, nor I cannot love you?


plain_text:
And even for that do I love you the more.\nI am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,\nThe more you beat me, I will fawn on you:\nUse me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,\nNeglect me, lose me; only give me leave,\nUnworthy as I am, to follow you.\nWhat worser place can I beg in your love,--\nAnd yet a place of high respect with me,--\nThan to be used as you use your dog?


plain_text:
You do impeach your modesty too much,\nTo leave the city and commit yourself\nInto the hands of one that loves you not;\nTo trust the opportunity of night\nAnd the ill counsel of a desert place\nWith the rich worth of your virginity.


plain_text:
Your virtue is my privilege: for that\nIt is not night when I do see your face,\nTherefore I think I am not in the night;\nNor doth this wood lack worlds of company,\nFor you in my respect are all the world:\nThen how can it be said I am alone,\nWhen all the world is here to look on me?


plain_text:
The wildest hath not such a heart as you.\nRun when you will, the story shall be changed:\nApollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;\nThe dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind\nMakes speed to catch the tiger; bootless speed,\nWhen cowardice pursues and valour flies.


plain_text:
I will not stay thy questions; let me go:\nOr, if thou follow me, do not believe\nBut I shall do thee mischief in the wood.


plain_text:
Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,\nYou do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!\nYour wrongs do set a scandal on my sex:\nWe cannot fight for love, as men may do;\nWe should be wood and were not made to woo.\n[Exit DEMETRIUS]\nI'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,\nTo die upon the hand I love so well.


plain_text:
Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this grove,\nThou shalt fly him and he shall seek thy love.\n[Re-enter PUCK]\nHast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.


plain_text:
I pray thee, give it me.\nI know a bank where the wild thyme blows,\nWhere oxlips and the nodding violet grows,\nQuite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,\nWith sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:\nThere sleeps Titania sometime of the night,\nLull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;\nAnd there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,\nWeed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:\nAnd with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes,\nAnd make her full of hateful fantasies.\nTake thou some of it, and seek through this grove:\nA sweet Athenian lady is in love\nWith a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes;\nBut do it when the next thing he espies\nMay be the lady: thou shalt know the man\nBy the Athenian garments he hath on.\nEffect it with some care, that he may prove\nMore fond on her than she upon her love:\nAnd look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.


plain_text:
Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;\nThen, for the third part of a minute, hence;\nSome to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,\nSome war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,\nTo make my small elves coats, and some keep back\nThe clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders\nAt our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;\nThen to your offices and let me rest.\n[The Fairies sing]\nYou spotted snakes with double tongue,\nThorny hedgehogs, be not seen;\nNewts and blind-worms, do no wrong,\nCome not near our fairy queen.\nPhilomel, with melody\nSing in our sweet lullaby;\nLulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby:\nNever harm,\nNor spell nor charm,\nCome our lovely lady nigh;\nSo, good night, with lullaby.\nWeaving spiders, come not here;\nHence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!\nBeetles black, approach not near;\nWorm nor snail, do no offence.\nPhilomel, with melody, &c.


plain_text:
What thou seest when thou dost wake,\nDo it for thy true-love take,\nLove and languish for his sake:\nBe it ounce, or cat, or bear,\nPard, or boar with bristled hair,\nIn thy eye that shall appear\nWhen thou wakest, it is thy dear:\nWake when some vile thing is near.


plain_text:
Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;\nAnd to speak troth, I have forgot our way:\nWe'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,\nAnd tarry for the comfort of the day.


plain_text:
O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence!\nLove takes the meaning in love's conference.\nI mean, that my heart unto yours is knit\nSo that but one heart we can make of it;\nTwo bosoms interchained with an oath;\nSo then two bosoms and a single troth.\nThen by your side no bed-room me deny;\nFor lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.


plain_text:
Lysander riddles very prettily:\nNow much beshrew my manners and my pride,\nIf Hermia meant to say Lysander lied.\nBut, gentle friend, for love and courtesy\nLie further off; in human modesty,\nSuch separation as may well be said\nBecomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid,\nSo far be distant; and, good night, sweet friend:\nThy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end!


plain_text:
Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I;\nAnd then end life when I end loyalty!\nHere is my bed: sleep give thee all his rest!


plain_text:
Through the forest have I gone.\nBut Athenian found I none,\nOn whose eyes I might approve\nThis flower's force in stirring love.\nNight and silence.--Who is here?\nWeeds of Athens he doth wear:\nThis is he, my master said,\nDespised the Athenian maid;\nAnd here the maiden, sleeping sound,\nOn the dank and dirty ground.\nPretty soul! she durst not lie\nNear this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.\nChurl, upon thy eyes I throw\nAll the power this charm doth owe.\nWhen thou wakest, let love forbid\nSleep his seat on thy eyelid:\nSo awake when I am gone;\nFor I must now to Oberon.


plain_text:
O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!\nThe more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.\nHappy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies;\nFor she hath blessed and attractive eyes.\nHow came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears:\nIf so, my eyes are oftener wash'd than hers.\nNo, no, I am as ugly as a bear;\nFor beasts that meet me run away for fear:\nTherefore no marvel though Demetrius\nDo, as a monster fly my presence thus.\nWhat wicked and dissembling glass of mine\nMade me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne?\nBut who is here? Lysander! on the ground!\nDead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.\nLysander if you live, good sir, awake.


plain_text:
[Awaking] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.\nTransparent Helena! Nature shows art,\nThat through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.\nWhere is Demetrius? O, how fit a word\nIs that vile name to perish on my sword!


plain_text:
Do not say so, Lysander; say not so\nWhat though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though?\nYet Hermia still loves you: then be content.


plain_text:
Content with Hermia! No; I do repent\nThe tedious minutes I with her have spent.\nNot Hermia but Helena I love:\nWho will not change a raven for a dove?\nThe will of man is by his reason sway'd;\nAnd reason says you are the worthier maid.\nThings growing are not ripe until their season\nSo I, being young, till now ripe not to reason;\nAnd touching now the point of human skill,\nReason becomes the marshal to my will\nAnd leads me to your eyes, where I o'erlook\nLove's stories written in love's richest book.


plain_text:
Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?\nWhen at your hands did I deserve this scorn?\nIs't not enough, is't not enough, young man,\nThat I did never, no, nor never can,\nDeserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,\nBut you must flout my insufficiency?\nGood troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do,\nIn such disdainful manner me to woo.\nBut fare you well: perforce I must confess\nI thought you lord of more true gentleness.\nO, that a lady, of one man refused.\nShould of another therefore be abused!


plain_text:
She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there:\nAnd never mayst thou come Lysander near!\nFor as a surfeit of the sweetest things\nThe deepest loathing to the stomach brings,\nOr as tie heresies that men do leave\nAre hated most of those they did deceive,\nSo thou, my surfeit and my heresy,\nOf all be hated, but the most of me!\nAnd, all my powers, address your love and might\nTo honour Helen and to be her knight!


plain_text:
[Awaking] Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy best\nTo pluck this crawling serpent from my breast!\nAy me, for pity! what a dream was here!\nLysander, look how I do quake with fear:\nMethought a serpent eat my heart away,\nAnd you sat smiling at his cruel pray.\nLysander! what, removed? Lysander! lord!\nWhat, out of hearing? gone? no sound, no word?\nAlack, where are you speak, an if you hear;\nSpeak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear.\nNo? then I well perceive you all not nigh\nEither death or you I'll find immediately.


plain_text:
Pat, pat; and here's a marvellous convenient place\nfor our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our\nstage, this hawthorn-brake our tiring-house; and we\nwill do it in action as we will do it before the duke.


plain_text:
There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and\nThisby that will never please. First, Pyramus must\ndraw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies\ncannot abide. How answer you that?


plain_text:
Not a whit: I have a device to make all well.\nWrite me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to\nsay, we will do no harm with our swords, and that\nPyramus is not killed indeed; and, for the more\nbetter assurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not\nPyramus, but Bottom the weaver: this will put them\nout of fear.


plain_text:
Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves: to\nbring in--God shield us!--a lion among ladies, is a\nmost dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful\nwild-fowl than your lion living; and we ought to\nlook to 't.


plain_text:
Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must\nbe seen through the lion's neck: and he himself\nmust speak through, saying thus, or to the same\ndefect,--'Ladies,'--or 'Fair-ladies--I would wish\nYou,'--or 'I would request you,'--or 'I would\nentreat you,--not to fear, not to tremble: my life\nfor yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it\nwere pity of my life: no I am no such thing; I am a\nman as other men are;' and there indeed let him name\nhis name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner.


plain_text:
Well it shall be so. But there is two hard things;\nthat is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber; for,\nyou know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight.


plain_text:
Why, then may you leave a casement of the great\nchamber window, where we play, open, and the moon\nmay shine in at the casement.


plain_text:
Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns\nand a lanthorn, and say he comes to disfigure, or to\npresent, the person of Moonshine. Then, there is\nanother thing: we must have a wall in the great\nchamber; for Pyramus and Thisby says the story, did\ntalk through the chink of a wall.


plain_text:
Some man or other must present Wall: and let him\nhave some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast\nabout him, to signify wall; and let him hold his\nfingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus\nand Thisby whisper.


plain_text:
If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down,\nevery mother's son, and rehearse your parts.\nPyramus, you begin: when you have spoken your\nspeech, enter into that brake: and so every one\naccording to his cue.


plain_text:
What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here,\nSo near the cradle of the fairy queen?\nWhat, a play toward! I'll be an auditor;\nAn actor too, perhaps, if I see cause.


plain_text:
--odours savours sweet:\nSo hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear.\nBut hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile,\nAnd by and by I will to thee appear.


plain_text:
Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand he goes\nbut to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again.


plain_text:
Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue,\nOf colour like the red rose on triumphant brier,\nMost brisky juvenal and eke most lovely Jew,\nAs true as truest horse that yet would never tire,\nI'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb.


plain_text:
'Ninus' tomb,' man: why, you must not speak that\nyet; that you answer to Pyramus: you speak all your\npart at once, cues and all Pyramus enter: your cue\nis past; it is, 'never tire.'


plain_text:
I'll follow you, I'll lead you about a round,\nThrough bog, through bush, through brake, through brier:\nSometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound,\nA hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;\nAnd neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,\nLike horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.


plain_text:
I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me;\nto fright me, if they could. But I will not stir\nfrom this place, do what they can: I will walk up\nand down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear\nI am not afraid.\n[Sings]\nThe ousel cock so black of hue,\nWith orange-tawny bill,\nThe throstle with his note so true,\nThe wren with little quill,--


plain_text:
[Sings]\nThe finch, the sparrow and the lark,\nThe plain-song cuckoo gray,\nWhose note full many a man doth mark,\nAnd dares not answer nay;--\nfor, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish\na bird? who would give a bird the lie, though he cry\n'cuckoo' never so?


plain_text:
I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:\nMine ear is much enamour'd of thy note;\nSo is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;\nAnd thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me\nOn the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.


plain_text:
Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason\nfor that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and\nlove keep little company together now-a-days; the\nmore the pity that some honest neighbours will not\nmake them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion.


plain_text:
Not so, neither: but if I had wit enough to get out\nof this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.


plain_text:
Out of this wood do not desire to go:\nThou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no.\nI am a spirit of no common rate;\nThe summer still doth tend upon my state;\nAnd I do love thee: therefore, go with me;\nI'll give thee fairies to attend on thee,\nAnd they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,\nAnd sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep;\nAnd I will purge thy mortal grossness so\nThat thou shalt like an airy spirit go.\nPeaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!


plain_text:
Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;\nHop in his walks and gambol in his eyes;\nFeed him with apricocks and dewberries,\nWith purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries;\nThe honey-bags steal from the humble-bees,\nAnd for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs\nAnd light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes,\nTo have my love to bed and to arise;\nAnd pluck the wings from Painted butterflies\nTo fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:\nNod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.


plain_text:
I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master\nCobweb: if I cut my finger, I shall make bold with\nyou. Your name, honest gentleman?


plain_text:
I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your\nmother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good\nMaster Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more\nacquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir?


plain_text:
Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well:\nthat same cowardly, giant-like ox-beef hath\ndevoured many a gentleman of your house: I promise\nyou your kindred had made my eyes water ere now. I\ndesire your more acquaintance, good Master\nMustardseed.


plain_text:
Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower.\nThe moon methinks looks with a watery eye;\nAnd when she weeps, weeps every little flower,\nLamenting some enforced chastity.\nTie up my love's tongue bring him silently.


plain_text:
I wonder if Titania be awaked;\nThen, what it was that next came in her eye,\nWhich she must dote on in extremity.\n[Enter PUCK]\nHere comes my messenger.\nHow now, mad spirit!\nWhat night-rule now about this haunted grove?


plain_text:
My mistress with a monster is in love.\nNear to her close and consecrated bower,\nWhile she was in her dull and sleeping hour,\nA crew of patches, rude mechanicals,\nThat work for bread upon Athenian stalls,\nWere met together to rehearse a play\nIntended for great Theseus' nuptial-day.\nThe shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort,\nWho Pyramus presented, in their sport\nForsook his scene and enter'd in a brake\nWhen I did him at this advantage take,\nAn ass's nole I fixed on his head:\nAnon his Thisbe must be answered,\nAnd forth my mimic comes. When they him spy,\nAs wild geese that the creeping fowler eye,\nOr russet-pated choughs, many in sort,\nRising and cawing at the gun's report,\nSever themselves and madly sweep the sky,\nSo, at his sight, away his fellows fly;\nAnd, at our stamp, here o'er and o'er one falls;\nHe murder cries and help from Athens calls.\nTheir sense thus weak, lost with their fears\nthus strong,\nMade senseless things begin to do them wrong;\nFor briers and thorns at their apparel snatch;\nSome sleeves, some hats, from yielders all\nthings catch.\nI led them on in this distracted fear,\nAnd left sweet Pyramus translated there:\nWhen in that moment, so it came to pass,\nTitania waked and straightway loved an ass.


plain_text:
This falls out better than I could devise.\nBut hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes\nWith the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?


plain_text:
I took him sleeping,--that is finish'd too,--\nAnd the Athenian woman by his side:\nThat, when he waked, of force she must be eyed.


plain_text:
Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse,\nFor thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse,\nIf thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,\nBeing o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,\nAnd kill me too.\nThe sun was not so true unto the day\nAs he to me: would he have stolen away\nFrom sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon\nThis whole earth may be bored and that the moon\nMay through the centre creep and so displease\nHer brother's noontide with Antipodes.\nIt cannot be but thou hast murder'd him;\nSo should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.


plain_text:
So should the murder'd look, and so should I,\nPierced through the heart with your stern cruelty:\nYet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,\nAs yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.


plain_text:
Out, dog! out, cur! thou drivest me past the bounds\nOf maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him, then?\nHenceforth be never number'd among men!\nO, once tell true, tell true, even for my sake!\nDurst thou have look'd upon him being awake,\nAnd hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O brave touch!\nCould not a worm, an adder, do so much?\nAn adder did it; for with doubler tongue\nThan thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.


plain_text:
You spend your passion on a misprised mood:\nI am not guilty of Lysander's blood;\nNor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.


plain_text:
A privilege never to see me more.\nAnd from thy hated presence part I so:\nSee me no more, whether he be dead or no.


plain_text:
There is no following her in this fierce vein:\nHere therefore for a while I will remain.\nSo sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow\nFor debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe:\nWhich now in some slight measure it will pay,\nIf for his tender here I make some stay.


plain_text:
What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite\nAnd laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight:\nOf thy misprision must perforce ensue\nSome true love turn'd and not a false turn'd true.


plain_text:
About the wood go swifter than the wind,\nAnd Helena of Athens look thou find:\nAll fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer,\nWith sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear:\nBy some illusion see thou bring her here:\nI'll charm his eyes against she do appear.


plain_text:
Flower of this purple dye,\nHit with Cupid's archery,\nSink in apple of his eye.\nWhen his love he doth espy,\nLet her shine as gloriously\nAs the Venus of the sky.\nWhen thou wakest, if she be by,\nBeg of her for remedy.


plain_text:
Captain of our fairy band,\nHelena is here at hand;\nAnd the youth, mistook by me,\nPleading for a lover's fee.\nShall we their fond pageant see?\nLord, what fools these mortals be!


plain_text:
Then will two at once woo one;\nThat must needs be sport alone;\nAnd those things do best please me\nThat befal preposterously.


plain_text:
Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?\nScorn and derision never come in tears:\nLook, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born,\nIn their nativity all truth appears.\nHow can these things in me seem scorn to you,\nBearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?


plain_text:
You do advance your cunning more and more.\nWhen truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray!\nThese vows are Hermia's: will you give her o'er?\nWeigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh:\nYour vows to her and me, put in two scales,\nWill even weigh, and both as light as tales.


plain_text:
[Awaking] O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine!\nTo what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?\nCrystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show\nThy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!\nThat pure congealed white, high Taurus snow,\nFann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow\nWhen thou hold'st up thy hand: O, let me kiss\nThis princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!


plain_text:
O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent\nTo set against me for your merriment:\nIf you we re civil and knew courtesy,\nYou would not do me thus much injury.\nCan you not hate me, as I know you do,\nBut you must join in souls to mock me too?\nIf you were men, as men you are in show,\nYou would not use a gentle lady so;\nTo vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,\nWhen I am sure you hate me with your hearts.\nYou both are rivals, and love Hermia;\nAnd now both rivals, to mock Helena:\nA trim exploit, a manly enterprise,\nTo conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes\nWith your derision! none of noble sort\nWould so offend a virgin, and extort\nA poor soul's patience, all to make you sport.


plain_text:
You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so;\nFor you love Hermia; this you know I know:\nAnd here, with all good will, with all my heart,\nIn Hermia's love I yield you up my part;\nAnd yours of Helena to me bequeath,\nWhom I do love and will do till my death.


plain_text:
Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:\nIf e'er I loved her, all that love is gone.\nMy heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn'd,\nAnd now to Helen is it home return'd,\nThere to remain.


plain_text:
Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,\nLest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear.\nLook, where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear.


plain_text:
Dark night, that from the eye his function takes,\nThe ear more quick of apprehension makes;\nWherein it doth impair the seeing sense,\nIt pays the hearing double recompense.\nThou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;\nMine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound\nBut why unkindly didst thou leave me so?


plain_text:
Lysander's love, that would not let him bide,\nFair Helena, who more engilds the night\nThan all you fiery oes and eyes of light.\nWhy seek'st thou me? could not this make thee know,\nThe hate I bear thee made me leave thee so?


plain_text:
Lo, she is one of this confederacy!\nNow I perceive they have conjoin'd all three\nTo fashion this false sport, in spite of me.\nInjurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid!\nHave you conspired, have you with these contrived\nTo bait me with this foul derision?\nIs all the counsel that we two have shared,\nThe sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,\nWhen we have chid the hasty-footed time\nFor parting us,--O, is it all forgot?\nAll school-days' friendship, childhood innocence?\nWe, Hermia, like two artificial gods,\nHave with our needles created both one flower,\nBoth on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,\nBoth warbling of one song, both in one key,\nAs if our hands, our sides, voices and minds,\nHad been incorporate. So we grow together,\nLike to a double cherry, seeming parted,\nBut yet an union in partition;\nTwo lovely berries moulded on one stem;\nSo, with two seeming bodies, but one heart;\nTwo of the first, like coats in heraldry,\nDue but to one and crowned with one crest.\nAnd will you rent our ancient love asunder,\nTo join with men in scorning your poor friend?\nIt is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly:\nOur sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,\nThough I alone do feel the injury.


plain_text:
Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,\nTo follow me and praise my eyes and face?\nAnd made your other love, Demetrius,\nWho even but now did spurn me with his foot,\nTo call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare,\nPrecious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this\nTo her he hates? and wherefore doth Lysander\nDeny your love, so rich within his soul,\nAnd tender me, forsooth, affection,\nBut by your setting on, by your consent?\nWhat thought I be not so in grace as you,\nSo hung upon with love, so fortunate,\nBut miserable most, to love unloved?\nThis you should pity rather than despise.


plain_text:
Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks,\nMake mouths upon me when I turn my back;\nWink each at other; hold the sweet jest up:\nThis sport, well carried, shall be chronicled.\nIf you have any pity, grace, or manners,\nYou would not make me such an argument.\nBut fare ye well: 'tis partly my own fault;\nWhich death or absence soon shall remedy.


plain_text:
Thou canst compel no more than she entreat:\nThy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers.\nHelen, I love thee; by my life, I do:\nI swear by that which I will lose for thee,\nTo prove him false that says I love thee not.


plain_text:
No, no; he'll\nSeem to break loose; take on as you would follow,\nBut yet come not: you are a tame man, go!


plain_text:
What, can you do me greater harm than hate?\nHate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love!\nAm not I Hermia? are not you Lysander?\nI am as fair now as I was erewhile.\nSince night you loved me; yet since night you left\nme:\nWhy, then you left me--O, the gods forbid!--\nIn earnest, shall I say?


plain_text:
Ay, by my life;\nAnd never did desire to see thee more.\nTherefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt;\nBe certain, nothing truer; 'tis no jest\nThat I do hate thee and love Helena.


plain_text:
O me! you juggler! you canker-blossom!\nYou thief of love! what, have you come by night\nAnd stolen my love's heart from him?


plain_text:
Fine, i'faith!\nHave you no modesty, no maiden shame,\nNo touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear\nImpatient answers from my gentle tongue?\nFie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet, you!


plain_text:
Puppet? why so? ay, that way goes the game.\nNow I perceive that she hath made compare\nBetween our statures; she hath urged her height;\nAnd with her personage, her tall personage,\nHer height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd with him.\nAnd are you grown so high in his esteem;\nBecause I am so dwarfish and so low?\nHow low am I, thou painted maypole? speak;\nHow low am I? I am not yet so low\nBut that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.


plain_text:
I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen,\nLet her not hurt me: I was never curst;\nI have no gift at all in shrewishness;\nI am a right maid for my cowardice:\nLet her not strike me. You perhaps may think,\nBecause she is something lower than myself,\nThat I can match her.


plain_text:
Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me.\nI evermore did love you, Hermia,\nDid ever keep your counsels, never wrong'd you;\nSave that, in love unto Demetrius,\nI told him of your stealth unto this wood.\nHe follow'd you; for love I follow'd him;\nBut he hath chid me hence and threaten'd me\nTo strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too:\nAnd now, so you will let me quiet go,\nTo Athens will I bear my folly back\nAnd follow you no further: let me go:\nYou see how simple and how fond I am.


plain_text:
O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd!\nShe was a vixen when she went to school;\nAnd though she be but little, she is fierce.


plain_text:
'Little' again! nothing but 'low' and 'little'!\nWhy will you suffer her to flout me thus?\nLet me come to her.


plain_text:
You are too officious\nIn her behalf that scorns your services.\nLet her alone: speak not of Helena;\nTake not her part; for, if thou dost intend\nNever so little show of love to her,\nThou shalt aby it.


plain_text:
Now she holds me not;\nNow follow, if thou darest, to try whose right,\nOf thine or mine, is most in Helena.


plain_text:
I will not trust you, I,\nNor longer stay in your curst company.\nYour hands than mine are quicker for a fray,\nMy legs are longer though, to run away.


plain_text:
Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.\nDid not you tell me I should know the man\nBy the Athenian garment be had on?\nAnd so far blameless proves my enterprise,\nThat I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes;\nAnd so far am I glad it so did sort\nAs this their jangling I esteem a sport.


plain_text:
Thou see'st these lovers seek a place to fight:\nHie therefore, Robin, overcast the night;\nThe starry welkin cover thou anon\nWith drooping fog as black as Acheron,\nAnd lead these testy rivals so astray\nAs one come not within another's way.\nLike to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,\nThen stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong;\nAnd sometime rail thou like Demetrius;\nAnd from each other look thou lead them thus,\nTill o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep\nWith leaden legs and batty wings doth creep:\nThen crush this herb into Lysander's eye;\nWhose liquor hath this virtuous property,\nTo take from thence all error with his might,\nAnd make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight.\nWhen they next wake, all this derision\nShall seem a dream and fruitless vision,\nAnd back to Athens shall the lovers wend,\nWith league whose date till death shall never end.\nWhiles I in this affair do thee employ,\nI'll to my queen and beg her Indian boy;\nAnd then I will her charmed eye release\nFrom monster's view, and all things shall be peace.


plain_text:
My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,\nFor night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,\nAnd yonder shines Aurora's harbinger;\nAt whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there,\nTroop home to churchyards: damned spirits all,\nThat in crossways and floods have burial,\nAlready to their wormy beds are gone;\nFor fear lest day should look their shames upon,\nThey willfully themselves exile from light\nAnd must for aye consort with black-brow'd night.


plain_text:
But we are spirits of another sort:\nI with the morning's love have oft made sport,\nAnd, like a forester, the groves may tread,\nEven till the eastern gate, all fiery-red,\nOpening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,\nTurns into yellow gold his salt green streams.\nBut, notwithstanding, haste; make no delay:\nWe may effect this business yet ere day.


plain_text:
Up and down, up and down,\nI will lead them up and down:\nI am fear'd in field and town:\nGoblin, lead them up and down.\nHere comes one.


plain_text:
Lysander! speak again:\nThou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?\nSpeak! In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy head?


plain_text:
Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars,\nTelling the bushes that thou look'st for wars,\nAnd wilt not come? Come, recreant; come, thou child;\nI'll whip thee with a rod: he is defiled\nThat draws a sword on thee.


plain_text:
He goes before me and still dares me on:\nWhen I come where he calls, then he is gone.\nThe villain is much lighter-heel'd than I:\nI follow'd fast, but faster he did fly;\nThat fallen am I in dark uneven way,\nAnd here will rest me.\n[Lies down]\nCome, thou gentle day!\nFor if but once thou show me thy grey light,\nI'll find Demetrius and revenge this spite.


plain_text:
Abide me, if thou darest; for well I wot\nThou runn'st before me, shifting every place,\nAnd darest not stand, nor look me in the face.\nWhere art thou now?


plain_text:
Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thou shalt buy this dear,\nIf ever I thy face by daylight see:\nNow, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me\nTo measure out my length on this cold bed.\nBy day's approach look to be visited.


plain_text:
O weary night, O long and tedious night,\nAbate thy hour! Shine comforts from the east,\nThat I may back to Athens by daylight,\nFrom these that my poor company detest:\nAnd sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye,\nSteal me awhile from mine own company.


plain_text:
Yet but three? Come one more;\nTwo of both kinds make up four.\nHere she comes, curst and sad:\nCupid is a knavish lad,\nThus to make poor females mad.


plain_text:
Never so weary, never so in woe,\nBedabbled with the dew and torn with briers,\nI can no further crawl, no further go;\nMy legs can keep no pace with my desires.\nHere will I rest me till the break of day.\nHeavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray!


plain_text:
On the ground\nSleep sound:\nI'll apply\nTo your eye,\nGentle lover, remedy.\n[Squeezing the juice on LYSANDER's eyes]\nWhen thou wakest,\nThou takest\nTrue delight\nIn the sight\nOf thy former lady's eye:\nAnd the country proverb known,\nThat every man should take his own,\nIn your waking shall be shown:\nJack shall have Jill;\nNought shall go ill;\nThe man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.


plain_text:
[Exit]\nlying asleep.\n[Enter TITANIA and BOTTOM; PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH,]\nMUSTARDSEED, and other Fairies attending; OBERON\nbehind unseen]


plain_text:
Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,\nWhile I thy amiable cheeks do coy,\nAnd stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,\nAnd kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.


plain_text:
Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you your\nweapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped\nhumble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good\nmounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret\nyourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and,\ngood mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not;\nI would be loath to have you overflown with a\nhoney-bag, signior. Where's Mounsieur Mustardseed?


plain_text:
Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb\nto scratch. I must to the barber's, monsieur; for\nmethinks I am marvellous hairy about the face; and I\nam such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me,\nI must scratch.


plain_text:
Truly, a peck of provender: I could munch your good\ndry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle\nof hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.


plain_text:
I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas.\nBut, I pray you, let none of your people stir me: I\nhave an exposition of sleep come upon me.


plain_text:
Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.\nFairies, begone, and be all ways away.\n[Exeunt fairies]\nSo doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle\nGently entwist; the female ivy so\nEnrings the barky fingers of the elm.\nO, how I love thee! how I dote on thee!


plain_text:
[Advancing] Welcome, good Robin.\nSee'st thou this sweet sight?\nHer dotage now I do begin to pity:\nFor, meeting her of late behind the wood,\nSeeking sweet favours from this hateful fool,\nI did upbraid her and fall out with her;\nFor she his hairy temples then had rounded\nWith a coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers;\nAnd that same dew, which sometime on the buds\nWas wont to swell like round and orient pearls,\nStood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes\nLike tears that did their own disgrace bewail.\nWhen I had at my pleasure taunted her\nAnd she in mild terms begg'd my patience,\nI then did ask of her her changeling child;\nWhich straight she gave me, and her fairy sent\nTo bear him to my bower in fairy land.\nAnd now I have the boy, I will undo\nThis hateful imperfection of her eyes:\nAnd, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp\nFrom off the head of this Athenian swain;\nThat, he awaking when the other do,\nMay all to Athens back again repair\nAnd think no more of this night's accidents\nBut as the fierce vexation of a dream.\nBut first I will release the fairy queen.\nBe as thou wast wont to be;\nSee as thou wast wont to see:\nDian's bud o'er Cupid's flower\nHath such force and blessed power.\nNow, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen.


plain_text:
Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head.\nTitania, music call; and strike more dead\nThan common sleep of all these five the sense.


plain_text:
Sound, music! Come, my queen, take hands with me,\nAnd rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.\nNow thou and I are new in amity,\nAnd will to-morrow midnight solemnly\nDance in Duke Theseus' house triumphantly,\nAnd bless it to all fair prosperity:\nThere shall the pairs of faithful lovers be\nWedded, with Theseus, all in jollity.


plain_text:
Then, my queen, in silence sad,\nTrip we after the night's shade:\nWe the globe can compass soon,\nSwifter than the wandering moon.


plain_text:
Come, my lord, and in our flight\nTell me how it came this night\nThat I sleeping here was found\nWith these mortals on the ground.


plain_text:
Go, one of you, find out the forester;\nFor now our observation is perform'd;\nAnd since we have the vaward of the day,\nMy love shall hear the music of my hounds.\nUncouple in the western valley; let them go:\nDispatch, I say, and find the forester.\n[Exit an Attendant]\nWe will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top,\nAnd mark the musical confusion\nOf hounds and echo in conjunction.


plain_text:
I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,\nWhen in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear\nWith hounds of Sparta: never did I hear\nSuch gallant chiding: for, besides the groves,\nThe skies, the fountains, every region near\nSeem'd all one mutual cry: I never heard\nSo musical a discord, such sweet thunder.


plain_text:
My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,\nSo flew'd, so sanded, and their heads are hung\nWith ears that sweep away the morning dew;\nCrook-knee'd, and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls;\nSlow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells,\nEach under each. A cry more tuneable\nWas never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn,\nIn Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly:\nJudge when you hear. But, soft! what nymphs are these?


plain_text:
My lord, this is my daughter here asleep;\nAnd this, Lysander; this Demetrius is;\nThis Helena, old Nedar's Helena:\nI wonder of their being here together.


plain_text:
No doubt they rose up early to observe\nThe rite of May, and hearing our intent,\nCame here in grace our solemnity.\nBut speak, Egeus; is not this the day\nThat Hermia should give answer of her choice?


plain_text:
Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns.\n[Horns and shout within. LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS,]\nHELENA, and HERMIA wake and start up]\nGood morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past:\nBegin these wood-birds but to couple now?


plain_text:
I pray you all, stand up.\nI know you two are rival enemies:\nHow comes this gentle concord in the world,\nThat hatred is so far from jealousy,\nTo sleep by hate, and fear no enmity?


plain_text:
My lord, I shall reply amazedly,\nHalf sleep, half waking: but as yet, I swear,\nI cannot truly say how I came here;\nBut, as I think,--for truly would I speak,\nAnd now do I bethink me, so it is,--\nI came with Hermia hither: our intent\nWas to be gone from Athens, where we might,\nWithout the peril of the Athenian law.


plain_text:
Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough:\nI beg the law, the law, upon his head.\nThey would have stolen away; they would, Demetrius,\nThereby to have defeated you and me,\nYou of your wife and me of my consent,\nOf my consent that she should be your wife.


plain_text:
My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth,\nOf this their purpose hither to this wood;\nAnd I in fury hither follow'd them,\nFair Helena in fancy following me.\nBut, my good lord, I wot not by what power,--\nBut by some power it is,--my love to Hermia,\nMelted as the snow, seems to me now\nAs the remembrance of an idle gaud\nWhich in my childhood I did dote upon;\nAnd all the faith, the virtue of my heart,\nThe object and the pleasure of mine eye,\nIs only Helena. To her, my lord,\nWas I betroth'd ere I saw Hermia:\nBut, like in sickness, did I loathe this food;\nBut, as in health, come to my natural taste,\nNow I do wish it, love it, long for it,\nAnd will for evermore be true to it.


plain_text:
Fair lovers, you are fortunately met:\nOf this discourse we more will hear anon.\nEgeus, I will overbear your will;\nFor in the temple by and by with us\nThese couples shall eternally be knit:\nAnd, for the morning now is something worn,\nOur purposed hunting shall be set aside.\nAway with us to Athens; three and three,\nWe'll hold a feast in great solemnity.\nCome, Hippolyta.


plain_text:
Are you sure\nThat we are awake? It seems to me\nThat yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think\nThe duke was here, and bid us follow him?


plain_text:
[Awaking] When my cue comes, call me, and I will\nanswer: my next is, 'Most fair Pyramus.' Heigh-ho!\nPeter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout,\nthe tinker! Starveling! God's my life, stolen\nhence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare\nvision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to\nsay what dream it was: man is but an ass, if he go\nabout to expound this dream. Methought I was--there\nis no man can tell what. Methought I was,--and\nmethought I had,--but man is but a patched fool, if\nhe will offer to say what methought I had. The eye\nof man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not\nseen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue\nto conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream\nwas. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of\nthis dream: it shall be called Bottom's Dream,\nbecause it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the\nlatter end of a play, before the duke:\nperadventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall\nsing it at her death.


plain_text:
Masters, the duke is coming from the temple, and\nthere is two or three lords and ladies more married:\nif our sport had gone forward, we had all been made\nmen.


plain_text:
O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a\nday during his life; he could not have 'scaped\nsixpence a day: an the duke had not given him\nsixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I'll be hanged;\nhe would have deserved it: sixpence a day in\nPyramus, or nothing.


plain_text:
Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask me not\nwhat; for if I tell you, I am no true Athenian. I\nwill tell you every thing, right as it fell out.


plain_text:
Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that\nthe duke hath dined. Get your apparel together,\ngood strings to your beards, new ribbons to your\npumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look\no'er his part; for the short and the long is, our\nplay is preferred. In any case, let Thisby have\nclean linen; and let not him that plays the lion\npair his nails, for they shall hang out for the\nlion's claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions\nnor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I\ndo not doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet\ncomedy. No more words: away! go, away!


plain_text:
More strange than true: I never may believe\nThese antique fables, nor these fairy toys.\nLovers and madmen have such seething brains,\nSuch shaping fantasies, that apprehend\nMore than cool reason ever comprehends.\nThe lunatic, the lover and the poet\nAre of imagination all compact:\nOne sees more devils than vast hell can hold,\nThat is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,\nSees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:\nThe poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling,\nDoth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;\nAnd as imagination bodies forth\nThe forms of things unknown, the poet's pen\nTurns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing\nA local habitation and a name.\nSuch tricks hath strong imagination,\nThat if it would but apprehend some joy,\nIt comprehends some bringer of that joy;\nOr in the night, imagining some fear,\nHow easy is a bush supposed a bear!


plain_text:
But all the story of the night told over,\nAnd all their minds transfigured so together,\nMore witnesseth than fancy's images\nAnd grows to something of great constancy;\nBut, howsoever, strange and admirable.


plain_text:
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.\n[Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and HELENA]\nJoy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love\nAccompany your hearts!


plain_text:
Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,\nTo wear away this long age of three hours\nBetween our after-supper and bed-time?\nWhere is our usual manager of mirth?\nWhat revels are in hand? Is there no play,\nTo ease the anguish of a torturing hour?\nCall Philostrate.


plain_text:
Say, what abridgement have you for this evening?\nWhat masque? what music? How shall we beguile\nThe lazy time, if not with some delight?


plain_text:
[Reads] 'The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung\nBy an Athenian eunuch to the harp.'\nWe'll none of that: that have I told my love,\nIn glory of my kinsman Hercules.\n[Reads]\n'The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,\nTearing the Thracian singer in their rage.'\nThat is an old device; and it was play'd\nWhen I from Thebes came last a conqueror.\n[Reads]\n'The thrice three Muses mourning for the death\nOf Learning, late deceased in beggary.'\nThat is some satire, keen and critical,\nNot sorting with a nuptial ceremony.\n[Reads]\n'A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus\nAnd his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.'\nMerry and tragical! tedious and brief!\nThat is, hot ice and wondrous strange snow.\nHow shall we find the concord of this discord?


plain_text:
A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,\nWhich is as brief as I have known a play;\nBut by ten words, my lord, it is too long,\nWhich makes it tedious; for in all the play\nThere is not one word apt, one player fitted:\nAnd tragical, my noble lord, it is;\nFor Pyramus therein doth kill himself.\nWhich, when I saw rehearsed, I must confess,\nMade mine eyes water; but more merry tears\nThe passion of loud laughter never shed.


plain_text:
Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,\nWhich never labour'd in their minds till now,\nAnd now have toil'd their unbreathed memories\nWith this same play, against your nuptial.


plain_text:
No, my noble lord;\nIt is not for you: I have heard it over,\nAnd it is nothing, nothing in the world;\nUnless you can find sport in their intents,\nExtremely stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain,\nTo do you service.


plain_text:
I will hear that play;\nFor never anything can be amiss,\nWhen simpleness and duty tender it.\nGo, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.


plain_text:
The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.\nOur sport shall be to take what they mistake:\nAnd what poor duty cannot do, noble respect\nTakes it in might, not merit.\nWhere I have come, great clerks have purposed\nTo greet me with premeditated welcomes;\nWhere I have seen them shiver and look pale,\nMake periods in the midst of sentences,\nThrottle their practised accent in their fears\nAnd in conclusion dumbly have broke off,\nNot paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet,\nOut of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome;\nAnd in the modesty of fearful duty\nI read as much as from the rattling tongue\nOf saucy and audacious eloquence.\nLove, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity\nIn least speak most, to my capacity.


plain_text:
If we offend, it is with our good will.\nThat you should think, we come not to offend,\nBut with good will. To show our simple skill,\nThat is the true beginning of our end.\nConsider then we come but in despite.\nWe do not come as minding to contest you,\nOur true intent is. All for your delight\nWe are not here. That you should here repent you,\nThe actors are at hand and by their show\nYou shall know all that you are like to know.


plain_text:
He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows\nnot the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not\nenough to speak, but to speak true.


plain_text:
Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show;\nBut wonder on, till truth make all things plain.\nThis man is Pyramus, if you would know;\nThis beauteous lady Thisby is certain.\nThis man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present\nWall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder;\nAnd through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content\nTo whisper. At the which let no man wonder.\nThis man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn,\nPresenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know,\nBy moonshine did these lovers think no scorn\nTo meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo.\nThis grisly beast, which Lion hight by name,\nThe trusty Thisby, coming first by night,\nDid scare away, or rather did affright;\nAnd, as she fled, her mantle she did fall,\nWhich Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain.\nAnon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall,\nAnd finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain:\nWhereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade,\nHe bravely broach'd is boiling bloody breast;\nAnd Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,\nHis dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,\nLet Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain\nAt large discourse, while here they do remain.


plain_text:
In this same interlude it doth befall\nThat I, one Snout by name, present a wall;\nAnd such a wall, as I would have you think,\nThat had in it a crannied hole or chink,\nThrough which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby,\nDid whisper often very secretly.\nThis loam, this rough-cast and this stone doth show\nThat I am that same wall; the truth is so:\nAnd this the cranny is, right and sinister,\nThrough which the fearful lovers are to whisper.


plain_text:
O grim-look'd night! O night with hue so black!\nO night, which ever art when day is not!\nO night, O night! alack, alack, alack,\nI fear my Thisby's promise is forgot!\nAnd thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall,\nThat stand'st between her father's ground and mine!\nThou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall,\nShow me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne!\n[Wall holds up his fingers]\nThanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this!\nBut what see I? No Thisby do I see.\nO wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss!\nCursed be thy stones for thus deceiving me!


plain_text:
No, in truth, sir, he should not. 'Deceiving me'\nis Thisby's cue: she is to enter now, and I am to\nspy her through the wall. You shall see, it will\nfall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes.


plain_text:
[as Thisbe] O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans,\nFor parting my fair Pyramus and me!\nMy cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones,\nThy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.


plain_text:
If we imagine no worse of them than they of\nthemselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here\ncome two noble beasts in, a man and a lion.


plain_text:
[as Lion] You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear\nThe smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor,\nMay now perchance both quake and tremble here,\nWhen lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.\nThen know that I, one Snug the joiner, am\nA lion-fell, nor else no lion's dam;\nFor, if I should as lion come in strife\nInto this place, 'twere pity on my life.


plain_text:
His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour;\nfor the goose carries not the fox. It is well:\nleave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon.


plain_text:
[as Moonshine] This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;\nMyself the man i' the moon do seem to be.


plain_text:
This is the greatest error of all the rest: the man\nshould be put into the lanthorn. How is it else the\nman i' the moon?


plain_text:
It appears, by his small light of discretion, that\nhe is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all\nreason, we must stay the time.


plain_text:
[as Moonshine] All that I have to say, is, to tell you that the\nlanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this\nthorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.


plain_text:
Why, all these should be in the lanthorn; for all\nthese are in the moon. But, silence! here comes Thisbe.


plain_text:
Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;\nI thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright;\nFor, by thy gracious, golden, glittering gleams,\nI trust to take of truest Thisby sight.\nBut stay, O spite!\nBut mark, poor knight,\nWhat dreadful dole is here!\nEyes, do you see?\nHow can it be?\nO dainty duck! O dear!\nThy mantle good,\nWhat, stain'd with blood!\nApproach, ye Furies fell!\nO Fates, come, come,\nCut thread and thrum;\nQuail, crush, conclude, and quell!


plain_text:
O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame?\nSince lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear:\nWhich is--no, no--which was the fairest dame\nThat lived, that loved, that liked, that look'd\nwith cheer.\nCome, tears, confound;\nOut, sword, and wound\nThe pap of Pyramus;\nAy, that left pap,\nWhere heart doth hop:\n[Stabs himself]\nThus die I, thus, thus, thus.\nNow am I dead,\nNow am I fled;\nMy soul is in the sky:\nTongue, lose thy light;\nMoon take thy flight:\n[Exit Moonshine]\nNow die, die, die, die, die.


plain_text:
A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which\nThisbe, is the better; he for a man, God warrant us;\nshe for a woman, God bless us.


plain_text:
[as Thisbe] Asleep, my love?\nWhat, dead, my dove?\nO Pyramus, arise!\nSpeak, speak. Quite dumb?\nDead, dead? A tomb\nMust cover thy sweet eyes.\nThese My lips,\nThis cherry nose,\nThese yellow cowslip cheeks,\nAre gone, are gone:\nLovers, make moan:\nHis eyes were green as leeks.\nO Sisters Three,\nCome, come to me,\nWith hands as pale as milk;\nLay them in gore,\nSince you have shore\nWith shears his thread of silk.\nTongue, not a word:\nCome, trusty sword;\nCome, blade, my breast imbrue:\n[Stabs herself]\nAnd, farewell, friends;\nThus Thisby ends:\nAdieu, adieu, adieu.


plain_text:
[Starting up] No assure you; the wall is down that\nparted their fathers. Will it please you to see the\nepilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two\nof our company?


plain_text:
No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no\nexcuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all\ndead, there needs none to be blamed. Marry, if he\nthat writ it had played Pyramus and hanged himself\nin Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine\ntragedy: and so it is, truly; and very notably\ndischarged. But come, your Bergomask: let your\nepilogue alone.\n[A dance]\nThe iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve:\nLovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.\nI fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn\nAs much as we this night have overwatch'd.\nThis palpable-gross play hath well beguiled\nThe heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed.\nA fortnight hold we this solemnity,\nIn nightly revels and new jollity.


plain_text:
Now the hungry lion roars,\nAnd the wolf behowls the moon;\nWhilst the heavy ploughman snores,\nAll with weary task fordone.\nNow the wasted brands do glow,\nWhilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,\nPuts the wretch that lies in woe\nIn remembrance of a shroud.\nNow it is the time of night\nThat the graves all gaping wide,\nEvery one lets forth his sprite,\nIn the church-way paths to glide:\nAnd we fairies, that do run\nBy the triple Hecate's team,\nFrom the presence of the sun,\nFollowing darkness like a dream,\nNow are frolic: not a mouse\nShall disturb this hallow'd house:\nI am sent with broom before,\nTo sweep the dust behind the door.


plain_text:
Through the house give gathering light,\nBy the dead and drowsy fire:\nEvery elf and fairy sprite\nHop as light as bird from brier;\nAnd this ditty, after me,\nSing, and dance it trippingly.


plain_text:
First, rehearse your song by rote\nTo each word a warbling note:\nHand in hand, with fairy grace,\nWill we sing, and bless this place.


plain_text:
Now, until the break of day,\nThrough this house each fairy stray.\nTo the best bride-bed will we,\nWhich by us shall blessed be;\nAnd the issue there create\nEver shall be fortunate.\nSo shall all the couples three\nEver true in loving be;\nAnd the blots of Nature's hand\nShall not in their issue stand;\nNever mole, hare lip, nor scar,\nNor mark prodigious, such as are\nDespised in nativity,\nShall upon their children be.\nWith this field-dew consecrate,\nEvery fairy take his gait;\nAnd each several chamber bless,\nThrough this palace, with sweet peace;\nAnd the owner of it blest\nEver shall in safety rest.\nTrip away; make no stay;\nMeet me all by break of day.


plain_text:
If we shadows have offended,\nThink but this, and all is mended,\nThat you have but slumber'd here\nWhile these visions did appear.\nAnd this weak and idle theme,\nNo more yielding but a dream,\nGentles, do not reprehend:\nif you pardon, we will mend:\nAnd, as I am an honest Puck,\nIf we have unearned luck\nNow to 'scape the serpent's tongue,\nWe will make amends ere long;\nElse the Puck a liar call;\nSo, good night unto you all.\nGive me your hands, if we be friends,\nAnd Robin shall restore amends.


plain_text:
A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings\nhome full numbers. I find here that Don Peter hath\nbestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio.


plain_text:
Much deserved on his part and equally remembered by\nDon Pedro: he hath borne himself beyond the\npromise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb,\nthe feats of a lion: he hath indeed better\nbettered expectation than you must expect of me to\ntell you how.


plain_text:
I have already delivered him letters, and there\nappears much joy in him; even so much that joy could\nnot show itself modest enough without a badge of\nbitterness.


plain_text:
A kind overflow of kindness: there are no faces\ntruer than those that are so washed. How much\nbetter is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping!


plain_text:
He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged\nCupid at the flight; and my uncle's fool, reading\nthe challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged\nhim at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he\nkilled and eaten in these wars? But how many hath\nhe killed? for indeed I promised to eat all of his killing.


plain_text:
You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it:\nhe is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an\nexcellent stomach.


plain_text:
It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man:\nbut for the stuffing,--well, we are all mortal.


plain_text:
You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a\nkind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her:\nthey never meet but there's a skirmish of wit\nbetween them.


plain_text:
Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last\nconflict four of his five wits went halting off, and\nnow is the whole man governed with one: so that if\nhe have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him\nbear it for a difference between himself and his\nhorse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left,\nto be known a reasonable creature. Who is his\ncompanion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother.


plain_text:
Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as\nthe fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the\nnext block.


plain_text:
No; an he were, I would burn my study. But, I pray\nyou, who is his companion? Is there no young\nsquarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil?


plain_text:
O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease: he\nis sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker\nruns presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! if\nhe have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a\nthousand pound ere a' be cured.


plain_text:
Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your\ntrouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid\ncost, and you encounter it.


plain_text:
Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of\nyour grace: for trouble being gone, comfort should\nremain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides\nand happiness takes his leave.


plain_text:
You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this\nwhat you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers\nherself. Be happy, lady; for you are like an\nhonourable father.


plain_text:
If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not\nhave his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as\nlike him as she is.


plain_text:
Is it possible disdain should die while she hath\nsuch meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?\nCourtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come\nin her presence.


plain_text:
Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I\nam loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I\nwould I could find in my heart that I had not a hard\nheart; for, truly, I love none.


plain_text:
A dear happiness to women: they would else have\nbeen troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God\nand my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I\nhad rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man\nswear he loves me.


plain_text:
God keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some\ngentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate\nscratched face.


plain_text:
I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and\nso good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's\nname; I have done.


plain_text:
That is the sum of all, Leonato. Signior Claudio\nand Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath\ninvited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at\nthe least a month; and he heartily prays some\noccasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no\nhypocrite, but prays from his heart.


plain_text:
If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn.\n[To DON JOHN]\nLet me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to\nthe prince your brother, I owe you all duty.


plain_text:
Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for\nmy simple true judgment; or would you have me speak\nafter my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex?


plain_text:
Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high\npraise, too brown for a fair praise and too little\nfor a great praise: only this commendation I can\nafford her, that were she other than she is, she\nwere unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I\ndo not like her.


plain_text:
Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this\nwith a sad brow? or do you play the flouting Jack,\nto tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a\nrare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take\nyou, to go in the song?


plain_text:
I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such\nmatter: there's her cousin, an she were not\npossessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty\nas the first of May doth the last of December. But I\nhope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?


plain_text:
Is't come to this? In faith, hath not the world\none man but he will wear his cap with suspicion?\nShall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?\nGo to, i' faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck\ninto a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away\nSundays. Look Don Pedro is returned to seek you.


plain_text:
You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb\nman; I would have you think so; but, on my\nallegiance, mark you this, on my allegiance. He is\nin love. With who? now that is your grace's part.\nMark how short his answer is;--With Hero, Leonato's\nshort daughter.


plain_text:
Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not so, nor\n'twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be\nso.'


plain_text:
That I neither feel how she should be loved nor\nknow how she should be worthy, is the opinion that\nfire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.


plain_text:
That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she\nbrought me up, I likewise give her most humble\nthanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my\nforehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick,\nall women shall pardon me. Because I will not do\nthem the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the\nright to trust none; and the fine is, for the which\nI may go the finer, I will live a bachelor.


plain_text:
With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord,\nnot with love: prove that ever I lose more blood\nwith love than I will get again with drinking, pick\nout mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me\nup at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of\nblind Cupid.


plain_text:
If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot\nat me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on\nthe shoulder, and called Adam.


plain_text:
The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible\nBenedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set\nthem in my forehead: and let me be vilely painted,\nand in such great letters as they write 'Here is\ngood horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign\n'Here you may see Benedick the married man.'


plain_text:
Well, you temporize with the hours. In the\nmeantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to\nLeonato's: commend me to him and tell him I will\nnot fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made\ngreat preparation.


plain_text:
Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your\ndiscourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and\nthe guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere\nyou flout old ends any further, examine your\nconscience: and so I leave you.


plain_text:
My love is thine to teach: teach it but how,\nAnd thou shalt see how apt it is to learn\nAny hard lesson that may do thee good.


plain_text:
O, my lord,\nWhen you went onward on this ended action,\nI look'd upon her with a soldier's eye,\nThat liked, but had a rougher task in hand\nThan to drive liking to the name of love:\nBut now I am return'd and that war-thoughts\nHave left their places vacant, in their rooms\nCome thronging soft and delicate desires,\nAll prompting me how fair young Hero is,\nSaying, I liked her ere I went to wars.


plain_text:
Thou wilt be like a lover presently\nAnd tire the hearer with a book of words.\nIf thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,\nAnd I will break with her and with her father,\nAnd thou shalt have her. Was't not to this end\nThat thou began'st to twist so fine a story?


plain_text:
How sweetly you do minister to love,\nThat know love's grief by his complexion!\nBut lest my liking might too sudden seem,\nI would have salved it with a longer treatise.


plain_text:
What need the bridge much broader than the flood?\nThe fairest grant is the necessity.\nLook, what will serve is fit: 'tis once, thou lovest,\nAnd I will fit thee with the remedy.\nI know we shall have revelling to-night:\nI will assume thy part in some disguise\nAnd tell fair Hero I am Claudio,\nAnd in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart\nAnd take her hearing prisoner with the force\nAnd strong encounter of my amorous tale:\nThen after to her father will I break;\nAnd the conclusion is, she shall be thine.\nIn practise let us put it presently.


plain_text:
As the event stamps them: but they have a good\ncover; they show well outward. The prince and Count\nClaudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in mine\norchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine:\nthe prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my\nniece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it\nthis night in a dance: and if he found her\naccordant, he meant to take the present time by the\ntop and instantly break with you of it.


plain_text:
No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear\nitself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal,\nthat she may be the better prepared for an answer,\nif peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it.\n[Enter Attendants]\nCousins, you know what you have to do. O, I cry you\nmercy, friend; go you with me, and I will use your\nskill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time.


plain_text:
I wonder that thou, being, as thou sayest thou art,\nborn under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral\nmedicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide\nwhat I am: I must be sad when I have cause and smile\nat no man's jests, eat when I have stomach and wait\nfor no man's leisure, sleep when I am drowsy and\ntend on no man's business, laugh when I am merry and\nclaw no man in his humour.


plain_text:
Yea, but you must not make the full show of this\ntill you may do it without controlment. You have of\nlate stood out against your brother, and he hath\nta'en you newly into his grace; where it is\nimpossible you should take true root but by the\nfair weather that you make yourself: it is needful\nthat you frame the season for your own harvest.


plain_text:
I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in\nhis grace, and it better fits my blood to be\ndisdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob\nlove from any: in this, though I cannot be said to\nbe a flattering honest man, it must not be denied\nbut I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with\na muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I\nhave decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my\nmouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do\nmy liking: in the meantime let me be that I am and\nseek not to alter me.


plain_text:
I came yonder from a great supper: the prince your\nbrother is royally entertained by Leonato: and I\ncan give you intelligence of an intended marriage.


plain_text:
Will it serve for any model to build mischief on?\nWhat is he for a fool that betroths himself to\nunquietness?


plain_text:
Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a\nmusty room, comes me the prince and Claudio, hand\nin hand in sad conference: I whipt me behind the\narras; and there heard it agreed upon that the\nprince should woo Hero for himself, and having\nobtained her, give her to Count Claudio.


plain_text:
Come, come, let us thither: this may prove food to\nmy displeasure. That young start-up hath all the\nglory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I\nbless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me?


plain_text:
Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the\ngreater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of\nmy mind! Shall we go prove what's to be done?


plain_text:
He were an excellent man that were made just in the\nmidway between him and Benedick: the one is too\nlike an image and says nothing, and the other too\nlike my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling.


plain_text:
Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's\nmouth, and half Count John's melancholy in Signior\nBenedick's face,--


plain_text:
With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money\nenough in his purse, such a man would win any woman\nin the world, if a' could get her good-will.


plain_text:
Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God's\nsending that way; for it is said, 'God sends a curst\ncow short horns;' but to a cow too curst he sends none.


plain_text:
Just, if he send me no husband; for the which\nblessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and\nevening. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a\nbeard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen.


plain_text:
What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel\nand make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a\nbeard is more than a youth, and he that hath no\nbeard is less than a man: and he that is more than\na youth is not for me, and he that is less than a\nman, I am not for him: therefore, I will even take\nsixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his\napes into hell.


plain_text:
No, but to the gate; and there will the devil meet\nme, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and\nsay 'Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to\nheaven; here's no place for you maids:' so deliver\nI up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the\nheavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and\nthere live we as merry as the day is long.


plain_text:
Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy\nand say 'Father, as it please you.' But yet for all\nthat, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else\nmake another curtsy and say 'Father, as it please\nme.'


plain_text:
Not till God make men of some other metal than\nearth. Would it not grieve a woman to be\novermastered with a pierce of valiant dust? to make\nan account of her life to a clod of wayward marl?\nNo, uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren;\nand, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.


plain_text:
Daughter, remember what I told you: if the prince\ndo solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.


plain_text:
The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be\nnot wooed in good time: if the prince be too\nimportant, tell him there is measure in every thing\nand so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero:\nwooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig,\na measure, and a cinque pace: the first suit is hot\nand hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as\nfantastical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a\nmeasure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes\nrepentance and, with his bad legs, falls into the\ncinque pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.


plain_text:
The revellers are entering, brother: make good room.\n[All put on their masks]\n[Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, BALTHASAR,]\nDON JOHN, BORACHIO, MARGARET, URSULA and others, masked]


plain_text:
So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing,\nI am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.


plain_text:
You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were\nthe very man. Here's his dry hand up and down: you\nare he, you are he.


plain_text:
Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your\nexcellent wit? can virtue hide itself? Go to,\nmum, you are he: graces will appear, and there's an\nend.


plain_text:
That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit\nout of the 'Hundred Merry Tales:'--well this was\nSignior Benedick that said so.


plain_text:
Why, he is the prince's jester: a very dull fool;\nonly his gift is in devising impossible slanders:\nnone but libertines delight in him; and the\ncommendation is not in his wit, but in his villany;\nfor he both pleases men and angers them, and then\nthey laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in\nthe fleet: I would he had boarded me.


plain_text:
Do, do: he'll but break a comparison or two on me;\nwhich, peradventure not marked or not laughed at,\nstrikes him into melancholy; and then there's a\npartridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no\nsupper that night.\n[Music]\nWe must follow the leaders.


plain_text:
Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and hath\nwithdrawn her father to break with him about it.\nThe ladies follow her and but one visor remains.


plain_text:
Signior, you are very near my brother in his love:\nhe is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him\nfrom her: she is no equal for his birth: you may\ndo the part of an honest man in it.


plain_text:
Thus answer I in the name of Benedick,\nBut hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.\n'Tis certain so; the prince wooes for himself.\nFriendship is constant in all other things\nSave in the office and affairs of love:\nTherefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues;\nLet every eye negotiate for itself\nAnd trust no agent; for beauty is a witch\nAgainst whose charms faith melteth into blood.\nThis is an accident of hourly proof,\nWhich I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!


plain_text:
Even to the next willow, about your own business,\ncounty. What fashion will you wear the garland of?\nabout your neck, like an usurer's chain? or under\nyour arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear\nit one way, for the prince hath got your Hero.


plain_text:
Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier: so they\nsell bullocks. But did you think the prince would\nhave served you thus?


plain_text:
Ho! now you strike like the blind man: 'twas the\nboy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post.


plain_text:
Alas, poor hurt fowl! now will he creep into sedges.\nBut that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not\nknow me! The prince's fool! Ha? It may be I go\nunder that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I\nam apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed: it\nis the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice\nthat puts the world into her person and so gives me\nout. Well, I'll be revenged as I may.


plain_text:
Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame.\nI found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a\nwarren: I told him, and I think I told him true,\nthat your grace had got the good will of this young\nlady; and I offered him my company to a willow-tree,\neither to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or\nto bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.


plain_text:
The flat transgression of a schoolboy, who, being\noverjoyed with finding a birds' nest, shows it his\ncompanion, and he steals it.


plain_text:
Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made,\nand the garland too; for the garland he might have\nworn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on\nyou, who, as I take it, have stolen his birds' nest.


plain_text:
The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the\ngentleman that danced with her told her she is much\nwronged by you.


plain_text:
O, she misused me past the endurance of a block!\nan oak but with one green leaf on it would have\nanswered her; my very visor began to assume life and\nscold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been\nmyself, that I was the prince's jester, that I was\nduller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest\nwith such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood\nlike a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at\nme. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs:\nif her breath were as terrible as her terminations,\nthere were no living near her; she would infect to\nthe north star. I would not marry her, though she\nwere endowed with all that Adam bad left him before\nhe transgressed: she would have made Hercules have\nturned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make\nthe fire too. Come, talk not of her: you shall find\nher the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God\nsome scholar would conjure her; for certainly, while\nshe is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a\nsanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, because they\nwould go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror\nand perturbation follows her.


plain_text:
Will your grace command me any service to the\nworld's end? I will go on the slightest errand now\nto the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on;\nI will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the\nfurthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of\nPrester John's foot, fetch you a hair off the great\nCham's beard, do you any embassage to the Pigmies,\nrather than hold three words' conference with this\nharpy. You have no employment for me?


plain_text:
Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave\nhim use for it, a double heart for his single one:\nmarry, once before he won it of me with false dice,\ntherefore your grace may well say I have lost it.


plain_text:
So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I\nshould prove the mother of fools. I have brought\nCount Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.


plain_text:
The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor\nwell; but civil count, civil as an orange, and\nsomething of that jealous complexion.


plain_text:
I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true;\nthough, I'll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is\nfalse. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and\nfair Hero is won: I have broke with her father,\nand his good will obtained: name the day of\nmarriage, and God give thee joy!


plain_text:
Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my\nfortunes: his grace hath made the match, and an\ngrace say Amen to it.


plain_text:
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were\nbut little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as\nyou are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for\nyou and dote upon the exchange.


plain_text:
Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on\nthe windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his\near that he is in her heart.


plain_text:
Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the\nworld but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a\ncorner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!


plain_text:
I would rather have one of your father's getting.\nHath your grace ne'er a brother like you? Your\nfather got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.


plain_text:
No, my lord, unless I might have another for\nworking-days: your grace is too costly to wear\nevery day. But, I beseech your grace, pardon me: I\nwas born to speak all mirth and no matter.


plain_text:
Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best\nbecomes you; for, out of question, you were born in\na merry hour.


plain_text:
No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there\nwas a star danced, and under that was I born.\nCousins, God give you joy!


plain_text:
There's little of the melancholy element in her, my\nlord: she is never sad but when she sleeps, and\nnot ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say,\nshe hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked\nherself with laughing.


plain_text:
Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just\nseven-night; and a time too brief, too, to have all\nthings answer my mind.


plain_text:
Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing:\nbut, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go\ndully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of\nHercules' labours; which is, to bring Signior\nBenedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of\naffection the one with the other. I would fain have\nit a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if\nyou three will but minister such assistance as I\nshall give you direction.


plain_text:
And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that\nI know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble\nstrain, of approved valour and confirmed honesty. I\nwill teach you how to humour your cousin, that she\nshall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your\ntwo helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in\ndespite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he\nshall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this,\nCupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be\nours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me,\nand I will tell you my drift.


plain_text:
Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be\nmedicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him,\nand whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges\nevenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage?


plain_text:
I think I told your lordship a year since, how much\nI am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting\ngentlewoman to Hero.


plain_text:
I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night,\nappoint her to look out at her lady's chamber window.


plain_text:
The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to\nthe prince your brother; spare not to tell him that\nhe hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned\nClaudio--whose estimation do you mightily hold\nup--to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero.


plain_text:
Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio,\nto undo Hero and kill Leonato. Look you for any\nother issue?


plain_text:
Go, then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and\nthe Count Claudio alone: tell them that you know\nthat Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the\nprince and Claudio, as,--in love of your brother's\nhonour, who hath made this match, and his friend's\nreputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the\nsemblance of a maid,--that you have discovered\nthus. They will scarcely believe this without trial:\noffer them instances; which shall bear no less\nlikelihood than to see me at her chamber-window,\nhear me call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret term me\nClaudio; and bring them to see this the very night\nbefore the intended wedding,--for in the meantime I\nwill so fashion the matter that Hero shall be\nabsent,--and there shall appear such seeming truth\nof Hero's disloyalty that jealousy shall be called\nassurance and all the preparation overthrown.


plain_text:
Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put\nit in practise. Be cunning in the working this, and\nthy fee is a thousand ducats.


plain_text:
I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again.\n[Exit Boy]\nI do much wonder that one man, seeing how much\nanother man is a fool when he dedicates his\nbehaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed at\nsuch shallow follies in others, become the argument\nof his own scorn by failing in love: and such a man\nis Claudio. I have known when there was no music\nwith him but the drum and the fife; and now had he\nrather hear the tabour and the pipe: I have known\nwhen he would have walked ten mile a-foot to see a\ngood armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake,\ncarving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to\nspeak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man\nand a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his\nwords are a very fantastical banquet, just so many\nstrange dishes. May I be so converted and see with\nthese eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not\nbe sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster; but\nI'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster\nof me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman\nis fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am\nwell; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all\ngraces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in\nmy grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise,\nor I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her;\nfair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not\nnear me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good\ndiscourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall\nbe of what colour it please God. Ha! the prince and\nMonsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.


plain_text:
It is the witness still of excellency\nTo put a strange face on his own perfection.\nI pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.


plain_text:
Because you talk of wooing, I will sing;\nSince many a wooer doth commence his suit\nTo her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes,\nYet will he swear he loves.


plain_text:
Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it\nnot strange that sheeps' guts should hale souls out\nof men's bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when\nall's done.


plain_text:
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,\nMen were deceivers ever,\nOne foot in sea and one on shore,\nTo one thing constant never:\nThen sigh not so, but let them go,\nAnd be you blithe and bonny,\nConverting all your sounds of woe\nInto Hey nonny, nonny.\nSing no more ditties, sing no moe,\nOf dumps so dull and heavy;\nThe fraud of men was ever so,\nSince summer first was leafy:\nThen sigh not so, &c.


plain_text:
An he had been a dog that should have howled thus,\nthey would have hanged him: and I pray God his bad\nvoice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the\nnight-raven, come what plague could have come after\nit.


plain_text:
Yea, marry, dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee,\nget us some excellent music; for to-morrow night we\nwould have it at the Lady Hero's chamber-window.


plain_text:
Do so: farewell.\n[Exit BALTHASAR]\nCome hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of\nto-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with\nSignior Benedick?


plain_text:
No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she\nshould so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in\nall outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor.


plain_text:
By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think\nof it but that she loves him with an enraged\naffection: it is past the infinite of thought.


plain_text:
O God, counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of\npassion came so near the life of passion as she\ndiscovers it.


plain_text:
How, how, pray you? You amaze me: I would have I\nthought her spirit had been invincible against all\nassaults of affection.


plain_text:
I should think this a gull, but that the\nwhite-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot,\nsure, hide himself in such reverence.


plain_text:
'Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: 'Shall\nI,' says she, 'that have so oft encountered him\nwith scorn, write to him that I love him?'


plain_text:
This says she now when she is beginning to write to\nhim; for she'll be up twenty times a night, and\nthere will she sit in her smock till she have writ a\nsheet of paper: my daughter tells us all.


plain_text:
O, when she had writ it and was reading it over, she\nfound Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?


plain_text:
O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence;\nrailed at herself, that she should be so immodest\nto write to one that she knew would flout her; 'I\nmeasure him,' says she, 'by my own spirit; for I\nshould flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I\nlove him, I should.'


plain_text:
Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs,\nbeats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; 'O\nsweet Benedick! God give me patience!'


plain_text:
She doth indeed; my daughter says so: and the\necstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter\nis sometime afeared she will do a desperate outrage\nto herself: it is very true.


plain_text:
An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She's an\nexcellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion,\nshe is virtuous.


plain_text:
O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender\na body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath\nthe victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just\ncause, being her uncle and her guardian.


plain_text:
I would she had bestowed this dotage on me: I would\nhave daffed all other respects and made her half\nmyself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear\nwhat a' will say.


plain_text:
Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she\nwill die, if he love her not, and she will die, ere\nshe make her love known, and she will die, if he woo\nher, rather than she will bate one breath of her\naccustomed crossness.


plain_text:
She doth well: if she should make tender of her\nlove, 'tis very possible he'll scorn it; for the\nman, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.


plain_text:
As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of\nquarrels you may say he is wise; for either he\navoids them with great discretion, or undertakes\nthem with a most Christian-like fear.


plain_text:
If he do fear God, a' must necessarily keep peace:\nif he break the peace, he ought to enter into a\nquarrel with fear and trembling.


plain_text:
And so will he do; for the man doth fear God,\nhowsoever it seems not in him by some large jests\nhe will make. Well I am sorry for your niece. Shall\nwe go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love?


plain_text:
Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter:\nlet it cool the while. I love Benedick well; and I\ncould wish he would modestly examine himself, to see\nhow much he is unworthy so good a lady.


plain_text:
Let there be the same net spread for her; and that\nmust your daughter and her gentlewomen carry. The\nsport will be, when they hold one an opinion of\nanother's dotage, and no such matter: that's the\nscene that I would see, which will be merely a\ndumb-show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.


plain_text:
[Coming forward] This can be no trick: the\nconference was sadly borne. They have the truth of\nthis from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it\nseems her affections have their full bent. Love me!\nwhy, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured:\nthey say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive\nthe love come from her; they say too that she will\nrather die than give any sign of affection. I did\nnever think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy\nare they that hear their detractions and can put\nthem to mending. They say the lady is fair; 'tis a\ntruth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous; 'tis\nso, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving\nme; by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor\nno great argument of her folly, for I will be\nhorribly in love with her. I may chance have some\nodd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me,\nbecause I have railed so long against marriage: but\ndoth not the appetite alter? a man loves the meat\nin his youth that he cannot endure in his age.\nShall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of\nthe brain awe a man from the career of his humour?\nNo, the world must be peopled. When I said I would\ndie a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I\nwere married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day!\nshe's a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in\nher.


plain_text:
I took no more pains for those thanks than you take\npains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would\nnot have come.


plain_text:
Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's\npoint and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach,\nsignior: fare you well.


plain_text:
Ha! 'Against my will I am sent to bid you come in\nto dinner;' there's a double meaning in that 'I took\nno more pains for those thanks than you took pains\nto thank me.' that's as much as to say, Any pains\nthat I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do\nnot take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not\nlove her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.


plain_text:
Good Margaret, run thee to the parlor;\nThere shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice\nProposing with the prince and Claudio:\nWhisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursula\nWalk in the orchard and our whole discourse\nIs all of her; say that thou overheard'st us;\nAnd bid her steal into the pleached bower,\nWhere honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun,\nForbid the sun to enter, like favourites,\nMade proud by princes, that advance their pride\nAgainst that power that bred it: there will she hide her,\nTo listen our purpose. This is thy office;\nBear thee well in it and leave us alone.


plain_text:
Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,\nAs we do trace this alley up and down,\nOur talk must only be of Benedick.\nWhen I do name him, let it be thy part\nTo praise him more than ever man did merit:\nMy talk to thee must be how Benedick\nIs sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter\nIs little Cupid's crafty arrow made,\nThat only wounds by hearsay.\n[Enter BEATRICE, behind]\nNow begin;\nFor look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs\nClose by the ground, to hear our conference.


plain_text:
The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish\nCut with her golden oars the silver stream,\nAnd greedily devour the treacherous bait:\nSo angle we for Beatrice; who even now\nIs couched in the woodbine coverture.\nFear you not my part of the dialogue.


plain_text:
Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing\nOf the false sweet bait that we lay for it.\n[Approaching the bower]\nNo, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;\nI know her spirits are as coy and wild\nAs haggerds of the rock.


plain_text:
They did entreat me to acquaint her of it;\nBut I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick,\nTo wish him wrestle with affection,\nAnd never to let Beatrice know of it.


plain_text:
Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman\nDeserve as full as fortunate a bed\nAs ever Beatrice shall couch upon?


plain_text:
O god of love! I know he doth deserve\nAs much as may be yielded to a man:\nBut Nature never framed a woman's heart\nOf prouder stuff than that of Beatrice;\nDisdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,\nMisprising what they look on, and her wit\nValues itself so highly that to her\nAll matter else seems weak: she cannot love,\nNor take no shape nor project of affection,\nShe is so self-endeared.


plain_text:
Sure, I think so;\nAnd therefore certainly it were not good\nShe knew his love, lest she make sport at it.


plain_text:
Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,\nHow wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured,\nBut she would spell him backward: if fair-faced,\nShe would swear the gentleman should be her sister;\nIf black, why, Nature, drawing of an antique,\nMade a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed;\nIf low, an agate very vilely cut;\nIf speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;\nIf silent, why, a block moved with none.\nSo turns she every man the wrong side out\nAnd never gives to truth and virtue that\nWhich simpleness and merit purchaseth.


plain_text:
No, not to be so odd and from all fashions\nAs Beatrice is, cannot be commendable:\nBut who dare tell her so? If I should speak,\nShe would mock me into air; O, she would laugh me\nOut of myself, press me to death with wit.\nTherefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire,\nConsume away in sighs, waste inwardly:\nIt were a better death than die with mocks,\nWhich is as bad as die with tickling.


plain_text:
No; rather I will go to Benedick\nAnd counsel him to fight against his passion.\nAnd, truly, I'll devise some honest slanders\nTo stain my cousin with: one doth not know\nHow much an ill word may empoison liking.


plain_text:
O, do not do your cousin such a wrong.\nShe cannot be so much without true judgment--\nHaving so swift and excellent a wit\nAs she is prized to have--as to refuse\nSo rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.


plain_text:
I pray you, be not angry with me, madam,\nSpeaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,\nFor shape, for bearing, argument and valour,\nGoes foremost in report through Italy.


plain_text:
Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in:\nI'll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel\nWhich is the best to furnish me to-morrow.


plain_text:
[Coming forward]\nWhat fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?\nStand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much?\nContempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!\nNo glory lives behind the back of such.\nAnd, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,\nTaming my wild heart to thy loving hand:\nIf thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee\nTo bind our loves up in a holy band;\nFor others say thou dost deserve, and I\nBelieve it better than reportingly.


plain_text:
Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss\nof your marriage as to show a child his new coat\nand forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold\nwith Benedick for his company; for, from the crown\nof his head to the sole of his foot, he is all\nmirth: he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's\nbow-string and the little hangman dare not shoot at\nhim; he hath a heart as sound as a bell and his\ntongue is the clapper, for what his heart thinks his\ntongue speaks.


plain_text:
Hang him, truant! there's no true drop of blood in\nhim, to be truly touched with love: if he be sad,\nhe wants money.


plain_text:
There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be\na fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as, to be\na Dutchman today, a Frenchman to-morrow, or in the\nshape of two countries at once, as, a German from\nthe waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from\nthe hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy\nto this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no\nfool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.


plain_text:
If he be not in love with some woman, there is no\nbelieving old signs: a' brushes his hat o'\nmornings; what should that bode?


plain_text:
No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him,\nand the old ornament of his cheek hath already\nstuffed tennis-balls.


plain_text:
Yet is this no charm for the toothache. Old\nsignior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight\nor nine wise words to speak to you, which these\nhobby-horses must not hear.


plain_text:
'Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this\nplayed their parts with Beatrice; and then the two\nbears will not bite one another when they meet.


plain_text:
You may think I love you not: let that appear\nhereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will\nmanifest. For my brother, I think he holds you\nwell, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect\nyour ensuing marriage;--surely suit ill spent and\nlabour ill bestowed.


plain_text:
I came hither to tell you; and, circumstances\nshortened, for she has been too long a talking of,\nthe lady is disloyal.


plain_text:
The word is too good to paint out her wickedness; I\ncould say she were worse: think you of a worse\ntitle, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till\nfurther warrant: go but with me to-night, you shall\nsee her chamber-window entered, even the night\nbefore her wedding-day: if you love her then,\nto-morrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour\nto change your mind.


plain_text:
If you dare not trust that you see, confess not\nthat you know: if you will follow me, I will show\nyou enough; and when you have seen more and heard\nmore, proceed accordingly.


plain_text:
If I see any thing to-night why I should not marry\nher to-morrow in the congregation, where I should\nwed, there will I shame her.


plain_text:
I will disparage her no farther till you are my\nwitnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and\nlet the issue show itself.


plain_text:
Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if\nthey should have any allegiance in them, being\nchosen for the prince's watch.


plain_text:
Come hither, neighbour Seacole. God hath blessed\nyou with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is\nthe gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.


plain_text:
You have: I knew it would be your answer. Well,\nfor your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make\nno boast of it; and for your writing and reading,\nlet that appear when there is no need of such\nvanity. You are thought here to be the most\nsenseless and fit man for the constable of the\nwatch; therefore bear you the lantern. This is your\ncharge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are\nto bid any man stand, in the prince's name.


plain_text:
Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and\npresently call the rest of the watch together and\nthank God you are rid of a knave.


plain_text:
True, and they are to meddle with none but the\nprince's subjects. You shall also make no noise in\nthe streets; for, for the watch to babble and to\ntalk is most tolerable and not to be endured.


plain_text:
Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet\nwatchman; for I cannot see how sleeping should\noffend: only, have a care that your bills be not\nstolen. Well, you are to call at all the\nale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.


plain_text:
Why, then, let them alone till they are sober: if\nthey make you not then the better answer, you may\nsay they are not the men you took them for.


plain_text:
If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue\nof your office, to be no true man; and, for such\nkind of men, the less you meddle or make with them,\nwhy the more is for your honesty.


plain_text:
Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they\nthat touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable\nway for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him\nshow himself what he is and steal out of your company.


plain_text:
Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake\nher with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her\nlamb when it baes will never answer a calf when he bleats.


plain_text:
This is the end of the charge:--you, constable, are\nto present the prince's own person: if you meet the\nprince in the night, you may stay him.


plain_text:
Five shillings to one on't, with any man that knows\nthe statutes, he may stay him: marry, not without\nthe prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch ought\nto offend no man; and it is an offence to stay a\nman against his will.


plain_text:
Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be\nany matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your\nfellows' counsels and your own; and good night.\nCome, neighbour.


plain_text:
Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here\nupon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed.


plain_text:
One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you watch\nabout Signior Leonato's door; for the wedding being\nthere to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night.\nAdieu: be vigitant, I beseech you.


plain_text:
Stand thee close, then, under this pent-house, for\nit drizzles rain; and I will, like a true drunkard,\nutter all to thee.


plain_text:
Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any\nvillany should be so rich; for when rich villains\nhave need of poor ones, poor ones may make what\nprice they will.


plain_text:
That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that\nthe fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is\nnothing to a man.


plain_text:
Tush! I may as well say the fool's the fool. But\nseest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion\nis?


plain_text:
[Aside] I know that Deformed; a' has been a vile\nthief this seven year; a' goes up and down like a\ngentleman: I remember his name.


plain_text:
Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this\nfashion is? how giddily a' turns about all the hot\nbloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty?\nsometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers\nin the reeky painting, sometime like god Bel's\npriests in the old church-window, sometime like the\nshaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry,\nwhere his codpiece seems as massy as his club?


plain_text:
All this I see; and I see that the fashion wears\nout more apparel than the man. But art not thou\nthyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast\nshifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?


plain_text:
Not so, neither: but know that I have to-night\nwooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the\nname of Hero: she leans me out at her mistress'\nchamber-window, bids me a thousand times good\nnight,--I tell this tale vilely:--I should first\ntell thee how the prince, Claudio and my master,\nplanted and placed and possessed by my master Don\nJohn, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter.


plain_text:
Two of them did, the prince and Claudio; but the\ndevil my master knew she was Margaret; and partly\nby his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by\nthe dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly\nby my villany, which did confirm any slander that\nDon John had made, away went Claudio enraged; swore\nhe would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning\nat the temple, and there, before the whole\ncongregation, shame her with what he saw o'er night\nand send her home again without a husband.


plain_text:
Call up the right master constable. We have here\nrecovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that\never was known in the commonwealth.


plain_text:
I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair\nwere a thought browner; and your gown's a most rare\nfashion, i' faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan's\ngown that they praise so.


plain_text:
By my troth, 's but a night-gown in respect of\nyours: cloth o' gold, and cuts, and laced with\nsilver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves,\nand skirts, round underborne with a bluish tinsel:\nbut for a fine, quaint, graceful and excellent\nfashion, yours is worth ten on 't.


plain_text:
Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not\nmarriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord\nhonourable without marriage? I think you would have\nme say, 'saving your reverence, a husband:' and bad\nthinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll offend\nnobody: is there any harm in 'the heavier for a\nhusband'? None, I think, and it be the right husband\nand the right wife; otherwise 'tis light, and not\nheavy: ask my Lady Beatrice else; here she comes.


plain_text:
Ye light o' love, with your heels! then, if your\nhusband have stables enough, you'll see he shall\nlack no barns.


plain_text:
'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; tis time you were\nready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill: heigh-ho!


plain_text:
Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus,\nand lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm.


plain_text:
Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I\nmeant, plain holy-thistle. You may think perchance\nthat I think you are in love: nay, by'r lady, I am\nnot such a fool to think what I list, nor I list\nnot to think what I can, nor indeed I cannot think,\nif I would think my heart out of thinking, that you\nare in love or that you will be in love or that you\ncan be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and\nnow is he become a man: he swore he would never\nmarry, and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats\nhis meat without grudging: and how you may be\nconverted I know not, but methinks you look with\nyour eyes as other women do.


plain_text:
Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, Signior\nBenedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the\ntown, are come to fetch you to church.


plain_text:
Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the\nmatter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so\nblunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but,\nin faith, honest as the skin between his brows.


plain_text:
It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the\npoor duke's officers; but truly, for mine own part,\nif I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in\nmy heart to bestow it all of your worship.


plain_text:
Yea, an 'twere a thousand pound more than 'tis; for\nI hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any\nman in the city; and though I be but a poor man, I\nam glad to hear it.


plain_text:
Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your\nworship's presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant\nknaves as any in Messina.


plain_text:
A good old man, sir; he will be talking: as they\nsay, when the age is in, the wit is out: God help\nus! it is a world to see. Well said, i' faith,\nneighbour Verges: well, God's a good man; an two men\nride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest\nsoul, i' faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever\nbroke bread; but God is to be worshipped; all men\nare not alike; alas, good neighbour!


plain_text:
One word, sir: our watch, sir, have indeed\ncomprehended two aspicious persons, and we would\nhave them this morning examined before your worship.


plain_text:
Take their examination yourself and bring it me: I\nam now in great haste, as it may appear unto you.


plain_text:
Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacole;\nbid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we\nare now to examination these men.


plain_text:
We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here's\nthat shall drive some of them to a non-come: only\nget the learned writer to set down our\nexcommunication and meet me at the gaol.


plain_text:
[Exeunt]\n[Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, LEONATO, FRIAR FRANCIS,]\nCLAUDIO, BENEDICK, HERO, BEATRICE, and Attendants]


plain_text:
Come, Friar Francis, be brief; only to the plain\nform of marriage, and you shall recount their\nparticular duties afterwards.


plain_text:
If either of you know any inward impediment why you\nshould not be conjoined, charge you, on your souls,\nto utter it.


plain_text:
Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave:\nWill you with free and unconstrained soul\nGive me this maid, your daughter?


plain_text:
Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.\nThere, Leonato, take her back again:\nGive not this rotten orange to your friend;\nShe's but the sign and semblance of her honour.\nBehold how like a maid she blushes here!\nO, what authority and show of truth\nCan cunning sin cover itself withal!\nComes not that blood as modest evidence\nTo witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,\nAll you that see her, that she were a maid,\nBy these exterior shows? But she is none:\nShe knows the heat of a luxurious bed;\nHer blush is guiltiness, not modesty.


plain_text:
Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,\nHave vanquish'd the resistance of her youth,\nAnd made defeat of her virginity,--


plain_text:
I know what you would say: if I have known her,\nYou will say she did embrace me as a husband,\nAnd so extenuate the 'forehand sin:\nNo, Leonato,\nI never tempted her with word too large;\nBut, as a brother to his sister, show'd\nBashful sincerity and comely love.


plain_text:
Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it:\nYou seem to me as Dian in her orb,\nAs chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;\nBut you are more intemperate in your blood\nThan Venus, or those pamper'd animals\nThat rage in savage sensuality.


plain_text:
What should I speak?\nI stand dishonour'd, that have gone about\nTo link my dear friend to a common stale.


plain_text:
Leonato, stand I here?\nIs this the prince? is this the prince's brother?\nIs this face Hero's? are our eyes our own?


plain_text:
Let me but move one question to your daughter;\nAnd, by that fatherly and kindly power\nThat you have in her, bid her answer truly.


plain_text:
Marry, that can Hero;\nHero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.\nWhat man was he talk'd with you yesternight\nOut at your window betwixt twelve and one?\nNow, if you are a maid, answer to this.


plain_text:
Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato,\nI am sorry you must hear: upon mine honour,\nMyself, my brother and this grieved count\nDid see her, hear her, at that hour last night\nTalk with a ruffian at her chamber-window\nWho hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,\nConfess'd the vile encounters they have had\nA thousand times in secret.


plain_text:
Fie, fie! they are not to be named, my lord,\nNot to be spoke of;\nThere is not chastity enough in language\nWithout offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,\nI am sorry for thy much misgovernment.


plain_text:
O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been,\nIf half thy outward graces had been placed\nAbout thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!\nBut fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell,\nThou pure impiety and impious purity!\nFor thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,\nAnd on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,\nTo turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,\nAnd never shall it more be gracious.


plain_text:
O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand.\nDeath is the fairest cover for her shame\nThat may be wish'd for.


plain_text:
Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing\nCry shame upon her? Could she here deny\nThe story that is printed in her blood?\nDo not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes:\nFor, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,\nThought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,\nMyself would, on the rearward of reproaches,\nStrike at thy life. Grieved I, I had but one?\nChid I for that at frugal nature's frame?\nO, one too much by thee! Why had I one?\nWhy ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?\nWhy had I not with charitable hand\nTook up a beggar's issue at my gates,\nWho smirch'd thus and mired with infamy,\nI might have said 'No part of it is mine;\nThis shame derives itself from unknown loins'?\nBut mine and mine I loved and mine I praised\nAnd mine that I was proud on, mine so much\nThat I myself was to myself not mine,\nValuing of her,--why, she, O, she is fallen\nInto a pit of ink, that the wide sea\nHath drops too few to wash her clean again\nAnd salt too little which may season give\nTo her foul-tainted flesh!


plain_text:
Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is stronger made\nWhich was before barr'd up with ribs of iron!\nWould the two princes lie, and Claudio lie,\nWho loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness,\nWash'd it with tears? Hence from her! let her die.


plain_text:
Hear me a little; for I have only been\nSilent so long and given way unto\nThis course of fortune [--]\nBy noting of the lady I have mark'd\nA thousand blushing apparitions\nTo start into her face, a thousand innocent shames\nIn angel whiteness beat away those blushes;\nAnd in her eye there hath appear'd a fire,\nTo burn the errors that these princes hold\nAgainst her maiden truth. Call me a fool;\nTrust not my reading nor my observations,\nWhich with experimental seal doth warrant\nThe tenor of my book; trust not my age,\nMy reverence, calling, nor divinity,\nIf this sweet lady lie not guiltless here\nUnder some biting error.


plain_text:
Friar, it cannot be.\nThou seest that all the grace that she hath left\nIs that she will not add to her damnation\nA sin of perjury; she not denies it:\nWhy seek'st thou then to cover with excuse\nThat which appears in proper nakedness?


plain_text:
They know that do accuse me; I know none:\nIf I know more of any man alive\nThan that which maiden modesty doth warrant,\nLet all my sins lack mercy! O my father,\nProve you that any man with me conversed\nAt hours unmeet, or that I yesternight\nMaintain'd the change of words with any creature,\nRefuse me, hate me, torture me to death!


plain_text:
Two of them have the very bent of honour;\nAnd if their wisdoms be misled in this,\nThe practise of it lives in John the bastard,\nWhose spirits toil in frame of villanies.


plain_text:
I know not. If they speak but truth of her,\nThese hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour,\nThe proudest of them shall well hear of it.\nTime hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,\nNor age so eat up my invention,\nNor fortune made such havoc of my means,\nNor my bad life reft me so much of friends,\nBut they shall find, awaked in such a kind,\nBoth strength of limb and policy of mind,\nAbility in means and choice of friends,\nTo quit me of them throughly.


plain_text:
Pause awhile,\nAnd let my counsel sway you in this case.\nYour daughter here the princes left for dead:\nLet her awhile be secretly kept in,\nAnd publish it that she is dead indeed;\nMaintain a mourning ostentation\nAnd on your family's old monument\nHang mournful epitaphs and do all rites\nThat appertain unto a burial.


plain_text:
Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf\nChange slander to remorse; that is some good:\nBut not for that dream I on this strange course,\nBut on this travail look for greater birth.\nShe dying, as it must so be maintain'd,\nUpon the instant that she was accused,\nShall be lamented, pitied and excused\nOf every hearer: for it so falls out\nThat what we have we prize not to the worth\nWhiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost,\nWhy, then we rack the value, then we find\nThe virtue that possession would not show us\nWhiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio:\nWhen he shall hear she died upon his words,\nThe idea of her life shall sweetly creep\nInto his study of imagination,\nAnd every lovely organ of her life\nShall come apparell'd in more precious habit,\nMore moving-delicate and full of life,\nInto the eye and prospect of his soul,\nThan when she lived indeed; then shall he mourn,\nIf ever love had interest in his liver,\nAnd wish he had not so accused her,\nNo, though he thought his accusation true.\nLet this be so, and doubt not but success\nWill fashion the event in better shape\nThan I can lay it down in likelihood.\nBut if all aim but this be levell'd false,\nThe supposition of the lady's death\nWill quench the wonder of her infamy:\nAnd if it sort not well, you may conceal her,\nAs best befits her wounded reputation,\nIn some reclusive and religious life,\nOut of all eyes, tongues, minds and injuries.


plain_text:
Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you:\nAnd though you know my inwardness and love\nIs very much unto the prince and Claudio,\nYet, by mine honour, I will deal in this\nAs secretly and justly as your soul\nShould with your body.


plain_text:
'Tis well consented: presently away;\nFor to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.\nCome, lady, die to live: this wedding-day\nPerhaps is but prolong'd: have patience and endure.


plain_text:
As strange as the thing I know not. It were as\npossible for me to say I loved nothing so well as\nyou: but believe me not; and yet I lie not; I\nconfess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.


plain_text:
Is he not approved in the height a villain, that\nhath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O\nthat I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they\ncome to take hands; and then, with public\naccusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,\n--O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart\nin the market-place.


plain_text:
Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony,\na goodly count, Count Comfect; a sweet gallant,\nsurely! O that I were a man for his sake! or that I\nhad any friend would be a man for my sake! But\nmanhood is melted into courtesies, valour into\ncompliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and\ntrim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules\nthat only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a\nman with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.


plain_text:
Enough, I am engaged; I will challenge him. I will\nkiss your hand, and so I leave you. By this hand,\nClaudio shall render me a dear account. As you\nhear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your\ncousin: I must say she is dead: and so, farewell.


plain_text:
[Exeunt]\n[Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and Sexton, in gowns; and]\nthe Watch, with CONRADE and BORACHIO]


plain_text:
Write down, that they hope they serve God: and\nwrite God first; for God defend but God should go\nbefore such villains! Masters, it is proved already\nthat you are little better than false knaves; and it\nwill go near to be thought so shortly. How answer\nyou for yourselves?


plain_text:
A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you: but I\nwill go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah; a\nword in your ear: sir, I say to you, it is thought\nyou are false knaves.


plain_text:
Master constable, you go not the way to examine:\nyou must call forth the watch that are their accusers.


plain_text:
Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. Let the watch\ncome forth. Masters, I charge you, in the prince's\nname, accuse these men.


plain_text:
And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to\ndisgrace Hero before the whole assembly. and not marry her.


plain_text:
And this is more, masters, than you can deny.\nPrince John is this morning secretly stolen away;\nHero was in this manner accused, in this very manner\nrefused, and upon the grief of this suddenly died.\nMaster constable, let these men be bound, and\nbrought to Leonato's: I will go before and show\nhim their examination.


plain_text:
God's my life, where's the sexton? let him write\ndown the prince's officer coxcomb. Come, bind them.\nThou naughty varlet!


plain_text:
Dost thou not suspect my place? dost thou not\nsuspect my years? O that he were here to write me\ndown an ass! But, masters, remember that I am an\nass; though it be not written down, yet forget not\nthat I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of\npiety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness.\nI am a wise fellow, and, which is more, an officer,\nand, which is more, a householder, and, which is\nmore, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in\nMessina, and one that knows the law, go to; and a\nrich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath\nhad losses, and one that hath two gowns and every\nthing handsome about him. Bring him away. O that\nI had been writ down an ass!


plain_text:
If you go on thus, you will kill yourself:\nAnd 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief\nAgainst yourself.


plain_text:
I pray thee, cease thy counsel,\nWhich falls into mine ears as profitless\nAs water in a sieve: give not me counsel;\nNor let no comforter delight mine ear\nBut such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.\nBring me a father that so loved his child,\nWhose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine,\nAnd bid him speak of patience;\nMeasure his woe the length and breadth of mine\nAnd let it answer every strain for strain,\nAs thus for thus and such a grief for such,\nIn every lineament, branch, shape, and form:\nIf such a one will smile and stroke his beard,\nBid sorrow wag, cry 'hem!' when he should groan,\nPatch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk\nWith candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,\nAnd I of him will gather patience.\nBut there is no such man: for, brother, men\nCan counsel and speak comfort to that grief\nWhich they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,\nTheir counsel turns to passion, which before\nWould give preceptial medicine to rage,\nFetter strong madness in a silken thread,\nCharm ache with air and agony with words:\nNo, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience\nTo those that wring under the load of sorrow,\nBut no man's virtue nor sufficiency\nTo be so moral when he shall endure\nThe like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:\nMy griefs cry louder than advertisement.


plain_text:
I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood;\nFor there was never yet philosopher\nThat could endure the toothache patiently,\nHowever they have writ the style of gods\nAnd made a push at chance and sufferance.


plain_text:
There thou speak'st reason: nay, I will do so.\nMy soul doth tell me Hero is belied;\nAnd that shall Claudio know; so shall the prince\nAnd all of them that thus dishonour her.


plain_text:
Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou:--\nNay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword;\nI fear thee not.


plain_text:
Marry, beshrew my hand,\nIf it should give your age such cause of fear:\nIn faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.


plain_text:
Tush, tush, man; never fleer and jest at me:\nI speak not like a dotard nor a fool,\nAs under privilege of age to brag\nWhat I have done being young, or what would do\nWere I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,\nThou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child and me\nThat I am forced to lay my reverence by\nAnd, with grey hairs and bruise of many days,\nDo challenge thee to trial of a man.\nI say thou hast belied mine innocent child;\nThy slander hath gone through and through her heart,\nAnd she lies buried with her ancestors;\nO, in a tomb where never scandal slept,\nSave this of hers, framed by thy villany!


plain_text:
My lord, my lord,\nI'll prove it on his body, if he dare,\nDespite his nice fence and his active practise,\nHis May of youth and bloom of lustihood.


plain_text:
He shall kill two of us, and men indeed:\nBut that's no matter; let him kill one first;\nWin me and wear me; let him answer me.\nCome, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me:\nSir boy, I'll whip you from your foining fence;\nNay, as I am a gentleman, I will.


plain_text:
Content yourself. God knows I loved my niece;\nAnd she is dead, slander'd to death by villains,\nThat dare as well answer a man indeed\nAs I dare take a serpent by the tongue:\nBoys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!


plain_text:
Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea,\nAnd what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,--\nScrambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys,\nThat lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,\nGo anticly, show outward hideousness,\nAnd speak off half a dozen dangerous words,\nHow they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;\nAnd this is all.


plain_text:
Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.\nMy heart is sorry for your daughter's death:\nBut, on my honour, she was charged with nothing\nBut what was true and very full of proof.


plain_text:
Leonato and his brother. What thinkest thou? Had\nwe fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them.


plain_text:
We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are\nhigh-proof melancholy and would fain have it beaten\naway. Wilt thou use thy wit?


plain_text:
Never any did so, though very many have been beside\ntheir wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the\nminstrels; draw, to pleasure us.


plain_text:
Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, and you\ncharge it against me. I pray you choose another subject.


plain_text:
[Aside to CLAUDIO] You are a villain; I jest not:\nI will make it good how you dare, with what you\ndare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will\nprotest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet\nlady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me\nhear from you.


plain_text:
I' faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf's\nhead and a capon; the which if I do not carve most\ncuriously, say my knife's naught. Shall I not find\na woodcock too?


plain_text:
I'll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the\nother day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit: 'True,'\nsaid she, 'a fine little one.' 'No,' said I, 'a\ngreat wit:' 'Right,' says she, 'a great gross one.'\n'Nay,' said I, 'a good wit:' 'Just,' said she, 'it\nhurts nobody.' 'Nay,' said I, 'the gentleman\nis wise:' 'Certain,' said she, 'a wise gentleman.'\n'Nay,' said I, 'he hath the tongues:' 'That I\nbelieve,' said she, 'for he swore a thing to me on\nMonday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning;\nthere's a double tongue; there's two tongues.' Thus\ndid she, an hour together, transshape thy particular\nvirtues: yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou\nwast the properest man in Italy.


plain_text:
Yea, that she did: but yet, for all that, an if she\ndid not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly:\nthe old man's daughter told us all.


plain_text:
Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave\nyou now to your gossip-like humour: you break jests\nas braggarts do their blades, which God be thanked,\nhurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank\nyou: I must discontinue your company: your brother\nthe bastard is fled from Messina: you have among\nyou killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord\nLackbeard there, he and I shall meet: and, till\nthen, peace be with him.


plain_text:
Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she\nshall ne'er weigh more reasons in her balance: nay,\nan you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to.


plain_text:
Marry, sir, they have committed false report;\nmoreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily,\nthey are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have\nbelied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust\nthings; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.


plain_text:
First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I\nask thee what's their offence; sixth and lastly, why\nthey are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay\nto their charge.


plain_text:
Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus\nbound to your answer? this learned constable is\ntoo cunning to be understood: what's your offence?


plain_text:
Sweet prince, let me go no farther to mine answer:\ndo you hear me, and let this count kill me. I have\ndeceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms\ncould not discover, these shallow fools have brought\nto light: who in the night overheard me confessing\nto this man how Don John your brother incensed me\nto slander the Lady Hero, how you were brought into\nthe orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero's\ngarments, how you disgraced her, when you should\nmarry her: my villany they have upon record; which\nI had rather seal with my death than repeat over\nto my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my\nmaster's false accusation; and, briefly, I desire\nnothing but the reward of a villain.


plain_text:
Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time our\nsexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter:\nand, masters, do not forget to specify, when time\nand place shall serve, that I am an ass.


plain_text:
Which is the villain? let me see his eyes,\nThat, when I note another man like him,\nI may avoid him: which of these is he?


plain_text:
No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself:\nHere stand a pair of honourable men;\nA third is fled, that had a hand in it.\nI thank you, princes, for my daughter's death:\nRecord it with your high and worthy deeds:\n'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.


plain_text:
I know not how to pray your patience;\nYet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself;\nImpose me to what penance your invention\nCan lay upon my sin: yet sinn'd I not\nBut in mistaking.


plain_text:
By my soul, nor I:\nAnd yet, to satisfy this good old man,\nI would bend under any heavy weight\nThat he'll enjoin me to.


plain_text:
I cannot bid you bid my daughter live;\nThat were impossible: but, I pray you both,\nPossess the people in Messina here\nHow innocent she died; and if your love\nCan labour ought in sad invention,\nHang her an epitaph upon her tomb\nAnd sing it to her bones, sing it to-night:\nTo-morrow morning come you to my house,\nAnd since you could not be my son-in-law,\nBe yet my nephew: my brother hath a daughter,\nAlmost the copy of my child that's dead,\nAnd she alone is heir to both of us:\nGive her the right you should have given her cousin,\nAnd so dies my revenge.


plain_text:
O noble sir,\nYour over-kindness doth wring tears from me!\nI do embrace your offer; and dispose\nFor henceforth of poor Claudio.


plain_text:
To-morrow then I will expect your coming;\nTo-night I take my leave. This naughty man\nShall face to face be brought to Margaret,\nWho I believe was pack'd in all this wrong,\nHired to it by your brother.


plain_text:
No, by my soul, she was not,\nNor knew not what she did when she spoke to me,\nBut always hath been just and virtuous\nIn any thing that I do know by her.


plain_text:
Moreover, sir, which indeed is not under white and\nblack, this plaintiff here, the offender, did call\nme ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his\npunishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of\none Deformed: they say be wears a key in his ear and\na lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God's\nname, the which he hath used so long and never paid\nthat now men grow hard-hearted and will lend nothing\nfor God's sake: pray you, examine him upon that point.


plain_text:
I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which I\nbeseech your worship to correct yourself, for the\nexample of others. God keep your worship! I wish\nyour worship well; God restore you to health! I\nhumbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry\nmeeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour.


plain_text:
[To the Watch] Bring you these fellows on. We'll\ntalk with Margaret,\nHow her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.


plain_text:
Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at\nmy hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.


plain_text:
In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living\nshall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou\ndeservest it.


plain_text:
A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a\nwoman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice: I give\nthee the bucklers.


plain_text:
If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the\npikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids.


plain_text:
And therefore will come.\n[Exit MARGARET]\n[Sings]\nThe god of love,\nThat sits above,\nAnd knows me, and knows me,\nHow pitiful I deserve,--\nI mean in singing; but in loving, Leander the good\nswimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and\na whole bookful of these quondam carpet-mangers,\nwhose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a\nblank verse, why, they were never so truly turned\nover and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I\ncannot show it in rhyme; I have tried: I can find\nout no rhyme to 'lady' but 'baby,' an innocent\nrhyme; for 'scorn,' 'horn,' a hard rhyme; for,\n'school,' 'fool,' a babbling rhyme; very ominous\nendings: no, I was not born under a rhyming planet,\nnor I cannot woo in festival terms.\n[Enter BEATRICE]\nSweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?


plain_text:
'Then' is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere\nI go, let me go with that I came; which is, with\nknowing what hath passed between you and Claudio.


plain_text:
Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but\nfoul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I\nwill depart unkissed.


plain_text:
Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense,\nso forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee\nplainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either\nI must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe\nhim a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me for\nwhich of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?


plain_text:
For them all together; which maintained so politic\na state of evil that they will not admit any good\npart to intermingle with them. But for which of my\ngood parts did you first suffer love for me?


plain_text:
In spite of your heart, I think; alas, poor heart!\nIf you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for\nyours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.


plain_text:
An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in\nthe lime of good neighbours. If a man do not erect\nin this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live\nno longer in monument than the bell rings and the\nwidow weeps.


plain_text:
Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in\nrheum: therefore is it most expedient for the\nwise, if Don Worm, his conscience, find no\nimpediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his\nown virtues, as I am to myself. So much for\npraising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is\npraiseworthy: and now tell me, how doth your cousin?


plain_text:
Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder's old\ncoil at home: it is proved my Lady Hero hath been\nfalsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily\nabused; and Don John is the author of all, who is\nfed and gone. Will you come presently?


plain_text:
I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be\nburied in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with\nthee to thy uncle's.


plain_text:
[Reading out of a scroll]\nDone to death by slanderous tongues\nWas the Hero that here lies:\nDeath, in guerdon of her wrongs,\nGives her fame which never dies.\nSo the life that died with shame\nLives in death with glorious fame.\nHang thou there upon the tomb,\nPraising her when I am dumb.\nNow, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.\nSONG.\nPardon, goddess of the night,\nThose that slew thy virgin knight;\nFor the which, with songs of woe,\nRound about her tomb they go.\nMidnight, assist our moan;\nHelp us to sigh and groan,\nHeavily, heavily:\nGraves, yawn and yield your dead,\nTill death be uttered,\nHeavily, heavily.


plain_text:
Good morrow, masters; put your torches out:\nThe wolves have prey'd; and look, the gentle day,\nBefore the wheels of Phoebus, round about\nDapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.\nThanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well.


plain_text:
So are the prince and Claudio, who accused her\nUpon the error that you heard debated:\nBut Margaret was in some fault for this,\nAlthough against her will, as it appears\nIn the true course of all the question.


plain_text:
Well, daughter, and you gentle-women all,\nWithdraw into a chamber by yourselves,\nAnd when I send for you, come hither mask'd.\n[Exeunt Ladies]\nThe prince and Claudio promised by this hour\nTo visit me. You know your office, brother:\nYou must be father to your brother's daughter\nAnd give her to young Claudio.


plain_text:
To bind me, or undo me; one of them.\nSignior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,\nYour niece regards me with an eye of favour.


plain_text:
Your answer, sir, is enigmatical:\nBut, for my will, my will is your good will\nMay stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd\nIn the state of honourable marriage:\nIn which, good friar, I shall desire your help.


plain_text:
Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio:\nWe here attend you. Are you yet determined\nTo-day to marry with my brother's daughter?


plain_text:
Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what's the matter,\nThat you have such a February face,\nSo full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?


plain_text:
I think he thinks upon the savage bull.\nTush, fear not, man; we'll tip thy horns with gold\nAnd all Europa shall rejoice at thee,\nAs once Europa did at lusty Jove,\nWhen he would play the noble beast in love.


plain_text:
Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low;\nAnd some such strange bull leap'd your father's cow,\nAnd got a calf in that same noble feat\nMuch like to you, for you have just his bleat.


plain_text:
For this I owe you: here comes other reckonings.\n[Re-enter ANTONIO, with the Ladies masked]\nWhich is the lady I must seize upon?


plain_text:
And when I lived, I was your other wife:\n[Unmasking]\nAnd when you loved, you were my other husband.


plain_text:
All this amazement can I qualify:\nWhen after that the holy rites are ended,\nI'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death:\nMeantime let wonder seem familiar,\nAnd to the chapel let us presently.


plain_text:
And I'll be sworn upon't that he loves her;\nFor here's a paper written in his hand,\nA halting sonnet of his own pure brain,\nFashion'd to Beatrice.


plain_text:
And here's another\nWrit in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket,\nContaining her affection unto Benedick.


plain_text:
A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts.\nCome, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take\nthee for pity.


plain_text:
I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield\nupon great persuasion; and partly to save your life,\nfor I was told you were in a consumption.


plain_text:
I'll tell thee what, prince; a college of\nwit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost\nthou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No:\nif a man will be beaten with brains, a' shall wear\nnothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do\npurpose to marry, I will think nothing to any\npurpose that the world can say against it; and\ntherefore never flout at me for what I have said\nagainst it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my\nconclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to\nhave beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my\nkinsman, live unbruised and love my cousin.


plain_text:
I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice,\nthat I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single\nlife, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of\nquestion, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look\nexceedingly narrowly to thee.


plain_text:
Come, come, we are friends: let's have a dance ere\nwe are married, that we may lighten our own hearts\nand our wives' heels.


plain_text:
First, of my word; therefore play, music. Prince,\nthou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife:\nthere is no staff more reverend than one tipped with horn.


plain_text:
Tush! never tell me; I take it much unkindly\nThat thou, Iago, who hast had my purse\nAs if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.


plain_text:
Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city,\nIn personal suit to make me his lieutenant,\nOff-capp'd to him: and, by the faith of man,\nI know my price, I am worth no worse a place:\nBut he; as loving his own pride and purposes,\nEvades them, with a bombast circumstance\nHorribly stuff'd with epithets of war;\nAnd, in conclusion,\nNonsuits my mediators; for, 'Certes,' says he,\n'I have already chose my officer.'\nAnd what was he?\nForsooth, a great arithmetician,\nOne Michael Cassio, a Florentine,\nA fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife;\nThat never set a squadron in the field,\nNor the division of a battle knows\nMore than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric,\nWherein the toged consuls can propose\nAs masterly as he: mere prattle, without practise,\nIs all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election:\nAnd I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof\nAt Rhodes, at Cyprus and on other grounds\nChristian and heathen, must be be-lee'd and calm'd\nBy debitor and creditor: this counter-caster,\nHe, in good time, must his lieutenant be,\nAnd I--God bless the mark!--his Moorship's ancient.


plain_text:
Why, there's no remedy; 'tis the curse of service,\nPreferment goes by letter and affection,\nAnd not by old gradation, where each second\nStood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself,\nWhether I in any just term am affined\nTo love the Moor.


plain_text:
O, sir, content you;\nI follow him to serve my turn upon him:\nWe cannot all be masters, nor all masters\nCannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark\nMany a duteous and knee-crooking knave,\nThat, doting on his own obsequious bondage,\nWears out his time, much like his master's ass,\nFor nought but provender, and when he's old, cashier'd:\nWhip me such honest knaves. Others there are\nWho, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty,\nKeep yet their hearts attending on themselves,\nAnd, throwing but shows of service on their lords,\nDo well thrive by them and when they have lined\ntheir coats\nDo themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;\nAnd such a one do I profess myself. For, sir,\nIt is as sure as you are Roderigo,\nWere I the Moor, I would not be Iago:\nIn following him, I follow but myself;\nHeaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,\nBut seeming so, for my peculiar end:\nFor when my outward action doth demonstrate\nThe native act and figure of my heart\nIn compliment extern, 'tis not long after\nBut I will wear my heart upon my sleeve\nFor daws to peck at: I am not what I am.


plain_text:
Call up her father,\nRouse him: make after him, poison his delight,\nProclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen,\nAnd, though he in a fertile climate dwell,\nPlague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,\nYet throw such changes of vexation on't,\nAs it may lose some colour.


plain_text:
Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell\nAs when, by night and negligence, the fire\nIs spied in populous cities.


plain_text:
Awake! what, ho, Brabantio! thieves! thieves! thieves!\nLook to your house, your daughter and your bags!\nThieves! thieves!


plain_text:
'Zounds, sir, you're robb'd; for shame, put on\nyour gown;\nYour heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;\nEven now, now, very now, an old black ram\nIs topping your white ewe. Arise, arise;\nAwake the snorting citizens with the bell,\nOr else the devil will make a grandsire of you:\nArise, I say.


plain_text:
The worser welcome:\nI have charged thee not to haunt about my doors:\nIn honest plainness thou hast heard me say\nMy daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness,\nBeing full of supper and distempering draughts,\nUpon malicious bravery, dost thou come\nTo start my quiet.


plain_text:
But thou must needs be sure\nMy spirit and my place have in them power\nTo make this bitter to thee.


plain_text:
'Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not\nserve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to\ndo you service and you think we are ruffians, you'll\nhave your daughter covered with a Barbary horse;\nyou'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have\ncoursers for cousins and gennets for germans.


plain_text:
I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter\nand the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.


plain_text:
Sir, I will answer any thing. But, I beseech you,\nIf't be your pleasure and most wise consent,\nAs partly I find it is, that your fair daughter,\nAt this odd-even and dull watch o' the night,\nTransported, with no worse nor better guard\nBut with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,\nTo the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor--\nIf this be known to you and your allowance,\nWe then have done you bold and saucy wrongs;\nBut if you know not this, my manners tell me\nWe have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe\nThat, from the sense of all civility,\nI thus would play and trifle with your reverence:\nYour daughter, if you have not given her leave,\nI say again, hath made a gross revolt;\nTying her duty, beauty, wit and fortunes\nIn an extravagant and wheeling stranger\nOf here and every where. Straight satisfy yourself:\nIf she be in her chamber or your house,\nLet loose on me the justice of the state\nFor thus deluding you.


plain_text:
Strike on the tinder, ho!\nGive me a taper! call up all my people!\nThis accident is not unlike my dream:\nBelief of it oppresses me already.\nLight, I say! light!


plain_text:
Farewell; for I must leave you:\nIt seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place,\nTo be produced--as, if I stay, I shall--\nAgainst the Moor: for, I do know, the state,\nHowever this may gall him with some cheque,\nCannot with safety cast him, for he's embark'd\nWith such loud reason to the Cyprus wars,\nWhich even now stand in act, that, for their souls,\nAnother of his fathom they have none,\nTo lead their business: in which regard,\nThough I do hate him as I do hell-pains.\nYet, for necessity of present life,\nI must show out a flag and sign of love,\nWhich is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him,\nLead to the Sagittary the raised search;\nAnd there will I be with him. So, farewell.


plain_text:
It is too true an evil: gone she is;\nAnd what's to come of my despised time\nIs nought but bitterness. Now, Roderigo,\nWhere didst thou see her? O unhappy girl!\nWith the Moor, say'st thou? Who would be a father!\nHow didst thou know 'twas she? O she deceives me\nPast thought! What said she to you? Get more tapers:\nRaise all my kindred. Are they married, think you?


plain_text:
O heaven! How got she out? O treason of the blood!\nFathers, from hence trust not your daughters' minds\nBy what you see them act. Is there not charms\nBy which the property of youth and maidhood\nMay be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo,\nOf some such thing?


plain_text:
Call up my brother. O, would you had had her!\nSome one way, some another. Do you know\nWhere we may apprehend her and the Moor?


plain_text:
Pray you, lead on. At every house I'll call;\nI may command at most. Get weapons, ho!\nAnd raise some special officers of night.\nOn, good Roderigo: I'll deserve your pains.


plain_text:
Though in the trade of war I have slain men,\nYet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscience\nTo do no contrived murder: I lack iniquity\nSometimes to do me service: nine or ten times\nI had thought to have yerk'd him here under the ribs.


plain_text:
Nay, but he prated,\nAnd spoke such scurvy and provoking terms\nAgainst your honour\nThat, with the little godliness I have,\nI did full hard forbear him. But, I pray you, sir,\nAre you fast married? Be assured of this,\nThat the magnifico is much beloved,\nAnd hath in his effect a voice potential\nAs double as the duke's: he will divorce you;\nOr put upon you what restraint and grievance\nThe law, with all his might to enforce it on,\nWill give him cable.


plain_text:
Let him do his spite:\nMy services which I have done the signiory\nShall out-tongue his complaints. 'Tis yet to know,--\nWhich, when I know that boasting is an honour,\nI shall promulgate--I fetch my life and being\nFrom men of royal siege, and my demerits\nMay speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune\nAs this that I have reach'd: for know, Iago,\nBut that I love the gentle Desdemona,\nI would not my unhoused free condition\nPut into circumscription and confine\nFor the sea's worth. But, look! what lights come yond?


plain_text:
Not I. I must be found:\nMy parts, my title and my perfect soul\nShall manifest me rightly. Is it they?


plain_text:
The servants of the duke, and my lieutenant.\nThe goodness of the night upon you, friends!\nWhat is the news?


plain_text:
The duke does greet you, general,\nAnd he requires your haste-post-haste appearance,\nEven on the instant.


plain_text:
Something from Cyprus as I may divine:\nIt is a business of some heat: the galleys\nHave sent a dozen sequent messengers\nThis very night at one another's heels,\nAnd many of the consuls, raised and met,\nAre at the duke's already: you have been\nhotly call'd for;\nWhen, being not at your lodging to be found,\nThe senate hath sent about three several guests\nTo search you out.


plain_text:
Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.\nGood signior, you shall more command with years\nThan with your weapons.


plain_text:
O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my daughter?\nDamn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her;\nFor I'll refer me to all things of sense,\nIf she in chains of magic were not bound,\nWhether a maid so tender, fair and happy,\nSo opposite to marriage that she shunned\nThe wealthy curled darlings of our nation,\nWould ever have, to incur a general mock,\nRun from her guardage to the sooty bosom\nOf such a thing as thou, to fear, not to delight.\nJudge me the world, if 'tis not gross in sense\nThat thou hast practised on her with foul charms,\nAbused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals\nThat weaken motion: I'll have't disputed on;\n'Tis probable and palpable to thinking.\nI therefore apprehend and do attach thee\nFor an abuser of the world, a practiser\nOf arts inhibited and out of warrant.\nLay hold upon him: if he do resist,\nSubdue him at his peril.


plain_text:
Hold your hands,\nBoth you of my inclining, and the rest:\nWere it my cue to fight, I should have known it\nWithout a prompter. Where will you that I go\nTo answer this your charge?


plain_text:
What if I do obey?\nHow may the duke be therewith satisfied,\nWhose messengers are here about my side,\nUpon some present business of the state\nTo bring me to him?


plain_text:
'Tis true, most worthy signior;\nThe duke's in council and your noble self,\nI am sure, is sent for.


plain_text:
How! the duke in council!\nIn this time of the night! Bring him away:\nMine's not an idle cause: the duke himself,\nOr any of my brothers of the state,\nCannot but feel this wrong as 'twere their own;\nFor if such actions may have passage free,\nBond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.


plain_text:
And mine, two hundred:\nBut though they jump not on a just account,--\nAs in these cases, where the aim reports,\n'Tis oft with difference--yet do they all confirm\nA Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus.


plain_text:
Nay, it is possible enough to judgment:\nI do not so secure me in the error,\nBut the main article I do approve\nIn fearful sense.


plain_text:
The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes;\nSo was I bid report here to the state\nBy Signior Angelo.


plain_text:
This cannot be,\nBy no assay of reason: 'tis a pageant,\nTo keep us in false gaze. When we consider\nThe importancy of Cyprus to the Turk,\nAnd let ourselves again but understand,\nThat as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes,\nSo may he with more facile question bear it,\nFor that it stands not in such warlike brace,\nBut altogether lacks the abilities\nThat Rhodes is dress'd in: if we make thought of this,\nWe must not think the Turk is so unskilful\nTo leave that latest which concerns him first,\nNeglecting an attempt of ease and gain,\nTo wake and wage a danger profitless.


plain_text:
The Ottomites, reverend and gracious,\nSteering with due course towards the isle of Rhodes,\nHave there injointed them with an after fleet.


plain_text:
Of thirty sail: and now they do restem\nTheir backward course, bearing with frank appearance\nTheir purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano,\nYour trusty and most valiant servitor,\nWith his free duty recommends you thus,\nAnd prays you to believe him.


plain_text:
Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you\nAgainst the general enemy Ottoman.\n[To BRABANTIO]\nI did not see you; welcome, gentle signior;\nWe lack'd your counsel and your help tonight.


plain_text:
So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me;\nNeither my place nor aught I heard of business\nHath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general care\nTake hold on me, for my particular grief\nIs of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature\nThat it engluts and swallows other sorrows\nAnd it is still itself.


plain_text:
Ay, to me;\nShe is abused, stol'n from me, and corrupted\nBy spells and medicines bought of mountebanks;\nFor nature so preposterously to err,\nBeing not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,\nSans witchcraft could not.


plain_text:
Whoe'er he be that in this foul proceeding\nHath thus beguiled your daughter of herself\nAnd you of her, the bloody book of law\nYou shall yourself read in the bitter letter\nAfter your own sense, yea, though our proper son\nStood in your action.


plain_text:
Humbly I thank your grace.\nHere is the man, this Moor, whom now, it seems,\nYour special mandate for the state-affairs\nHath hither brought.


plain_text:
Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,\nMy very noble and approved good masters,\nThat I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,\nIt is most true; true, I have married her:\nThe very head and front of my offending\nHath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,\nAnd little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace:\nFor since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,\nTill now some nine moons wasted, they have used\nTheir dearest action in the tented field,\nAnd little of this great world can I speak,\nMore than pertains to feats of broil and battle,\nAnd therefore little shall I grace my cause\nIn speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,\nI will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver\nOf my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,\nWhat conjuration and what mighty magic,\nFor such proceeding I am charged withal,\nI won his daughter.


plain_text:
A maiden never bold;\nOf spirit so still and quiet, that her motion\nBlush'd at herself; and she, in spite of nature,\nOf years, of country, credit, every thing,\nTo fall in love with what she fear'd to look on!\nIt is a judgment maim'd and most imperfect\nThat will confess perfection so could err\nAgainst all rules of nature, and must be driven\nTo find out practises of cunning hell,\nWhy this should be. I therefore vouch again\nThat with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood,\nOr with some dram conjured to this effect,\nHe wrought upon her.


plain_text:
To vouch this, is no proof,\nWithout more wider and more overt test\nThan these thin habits and poor likelihoods\nOf modern seeming do prefer against him.


plain_text:
But, Othello, speak:\nDid you by indirect and forced courses\nSubdue and poison this young maid's affections?\nOr came it by request and such fair question\nAs soul to soul affordeth?


plain_text:
I do beseech you,\nSend for the lady to the Sagittary,\nAnd let her speak of me before her father:\nIf you do find me foul in her report,\nThe trust, the office I do hold of you,\nNot only take away, but let your sentence\nEven fall upon my life.


plain_text:
Ancient, conduct them: you best know the place.\n[Exeunt IAGO and Attendants]\nAnd, till she come, as truly as to heaven\nI do confess the vices of my blood,\nSo justly to your grave ears I'll present\nHow I did thrive in this fair lady's love,\nAnd she in mine.


plain_text:
Her father loved me; oft invited me;\nStill question'd me the story of my life,\nFrom year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,\nThat I have passed.\nI ran it through, even from my boyish days,\nTo the very moment that he bade me tell it;\nWherein I spake of most disastrous chances,\nOf moving accidents by flood and field\nOf hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach,\nOf being taken by the insolent foe\nAnd sold to slavery, of my redemption thence\nAnd portance in my travels' history:\nWherein of antres vast and deserts idle,\nRough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven\nIt was my hint to speak,--such was the process;\nAnd of the Cannibals that each other eat,\nThe Anthropophagi and men whose heads\nDo grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear\nWould Desdemona seriously incline:\nBut still the house-affairs would draw her thence:\nWhich ever as she could with haste dispatch,\nShe'ld come again, and with a greedy ear\nDevour up my discourse: which I observing,\nTook once a pliant hour, and found good means\nTo draw from her a prayer of earnest heart\nThat I would all my pilgrimage dilate,\nWhereof by parcels she had something heard,\nBut not intentively: I did consent,\nAnd often did beguile her of her tears,\nWhen I did speak of some distressful stroke\nThat my youth suffer'd. My story being done,\nShe gave me for my pains a world of sighs:\nShe swore, in faith, twas strange, 'twas passing strange,\n'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:\nShe wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd\nThat heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me,\nAnd bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,\nI should but teach him how to tell my story.\nAnd that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:\nShe loved me for the dangers I had pass'd,\nAnd I loved her that she did pity them.\nThis only is the witchcraft I have used:\nHere comes the lady; let her witness it.


plain_text:
I think this tale would win my daughter too.\nGood Brabantio,\nTake up this mangled matter at the best:\nMen do their broken weapons rather use\nThan their bare hands.


plain_text:
I pray you, hear her speak:\nIf she confess that she was half the wooer,\nDestruction on my head, if my bad blame\nLight on the man! Come hither, gentle mistress:\nDo you perceive in all this noble company\nWhere most you owe obedience?


plain_text:
My noble father,\nI do perceive here a divided duty:\nTo you I am bound for life and education;\nMy life and education both do learn me\nHow to respect you; you are the lord of duty;\nI am hitherto your daughter: but here's my husband,\nAnd so much duty as my mother show'd\nTo you, preferring you before her father,\nSo much I challenge that I may profess\nDue to the Moor my lord.


plain_text:
God be wi' you! I have done.\nPlease it your grace, on to the state-affairs:\nI had rather to adopt a child than get it.\nCome hither, Moor:\nI here do give thee that with all my heart\nWhich, but thou hast already, with all my heart\nI would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel,\nI am glad at soul I have no other child:\nFor thy escape would teach me tyranny,\nTo hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord.


plain_text:
Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sentence,\nWhich, as a grise or step, may help these lovers\nInto your favour.\nWhen remedies are past, the griefs are ended\nBy seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.\nTo mourn a mischief that is past and gone\nIs the next way to draw new mischief on.\nWhat cannot be preserved when fortune takes\nPatience her injury a mockery makes.\nThe robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief;\nHe robs himself that spends a bootless grief.


plain_text:
So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile;\nWe lose it not, so long as we can smile.\nHe bears the sentence well that nothing bears\nBut the free comfort which from thence he hears,\nBut he bears both the sentence and the sorrow\nThat, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow.\nThese sentences, to sugar, or to gall,\nBeing strong on both sides, are equivocal:\nBut words are words; I never yet did hear\nThat the bruised heart was pierced through the ear.\nI humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state.


plain_text:
The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for\nCyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best\nknown to you; and though we have there a substitute\nof most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a\nsovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer\nvoice on you: you must therefore be content to\nslubber the gloss of your new fortunes with this\nmore stubborn and boisterous expedition.


plain_text:
The tyrant custom, most grave senators,\nHath made the flinty and steel couch of war\nMy thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnise\nA natural and prompt alacrity\nI find in hardness, and do undertake\nThese present wars against the Ottomites.\nMost humbly therefore bending to your state,\nI crave fit disposition for my wife.\nDue reference of place and exhibition,\nWith such accommodation and besort\nAs levels with her breeding.


plain_text:
Nor I; I would not there reside,\nTo put my father in impatient thoughts\nBy being in his eye. Most gracious duke,\nTo my unfolding lend your prosperous ear;\nAnd let me find a charter in your voice,\nTo assist my simpleness.


plain_text:
That I did love the Moor to live with him,\nMy downright violence and storm of fortunes\nMay trumpet to the world: my heart's subdued\nEven to the very quality of my lord:\nI saw Othello's visage in his mind,\nAnd to his honour and his valiant parts\nDid I my soul and fortunes consecrate.\nSo that, dear lords, if I be left behind,\nA moth of peace, and he go to the war,\nThe rites for which I love him are bereft me,\nAnd I a heavy interim shall support\nBy his dear absence. Let me go with him.


plain_text:
Let her have your voices.\nVouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not,\nTo please the palate of my appetite,\nNor to comply with heat--the young affects\nIn me defunct--and proper satisfaction.\nBut to be free and bounteous to her mind:\nAnd heaven defend your good souls, that you think\nI will your serious and great business scant\nFor she is with me: no, when light-wing'd toys\nOf feather'd Cupid seal with wanton dullness\nMy speculative and officed instruments,\nThat my disports corrupt and taint my business,\nLet housewives make a skillet of my helm,\nAnd all indign and base adversities\nMake head against my estimation!


plain_text:
Be it as you shall privately determine,\nEither for her stay or going: the affair cries haste,\nAnd speed must answer it.


plain_text:
At nine i' the morning here we'll meet again.\nOthello, leave some officer behind,\nAnd he shall our commission bring to you;\nWith such things else of quality and respect\nAs doth import you.


plain_text:
So please your grace, my ancient;\nA man he is of honest and trust:\nTo his conveyance I assign my wife,\nWith what else needful your good grace shall think\nTo be sent after me.


plain_text:
Let it be so.\nGood night to every one.\n[To BRABANTIO]\nAnd, noble signior,\nIf virtue no delighted beauty lack,\nYour son-in-law is far more fair than black.


plain_text:
My life upon her faith! Honest Iago,\nMy Desdemona must I leave to thee:\nI prithee, let thy wife attend on her:\nAnd bring them after in the best advantage.\nCome, Desdemona: I have but an hour\nOf love, of worldly matters and direction,\nTo spend with thee: we must obey the time.


plain_text:
It is silliness to live when to live is torment; and\nthen have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.


plain_text:
O villainous! I have looked upon the world for four\ntimes seven years; and since I could distinguish\nbetwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man\nthat knew how to love himself. Ere I would say, I\nwould drown myself for the love of a guinea-hen, I\nwould change my humanity with a baboon.


plain_text:
Virtue! a fig! 'tis in ourselves that we are thus\nor thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which\nour wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant\nnettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up\nthyme, supply it with one gender of herbs, or\ndistract it with many, either to have it sterile\nwith idleness, or manured with industry, why, the\npower and corrigible authority of this lies in our\nwills. If the balance of our lives had not one\nscale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the\nblood and baseness of our natures would conduct us\nto most preposterous conclusions: but we have\nreason to cool our raging motions, our carnal\nstings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that\nyou call love to be a sect or scion.


plain_text:
It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of\nthe will. Come, be a man. Drown thyself! drown\ncats and blind puppies. I have professed me thy\nfriend and I confess me knit to thy deserving with\ncables of perdurable toughness; I could never\nbetter stead thee than now. Put money in thy\npurse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy favour with\nan usurped beard; I say, put money in thy purse. It\ncannot be that Desdemona should long continue her\nlove to the Moor,-- put money in thy purse,--nor he\nhis to her: it was a violent commencement, and thou\nshalt see an answerable sequestration:--put but\nmoney in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in\ntheir wills: fill thy purse with money:--the food\nthat to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be\nto him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. She must\nchange for youth: when she is sated with his body,\nshe will find the error of her choice: she must\nhave change, she must: therefore put money in thy\npurse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a\nmore delicate way than drowning. Make all the money\nthou canst: if sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt\nan erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian not\ntoo hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou\nshalt enjoy her; therefore make money. A pox of\ndrowning thyself! it is clean out of the way: seek\nthou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than\nto be drowned and go without her.


plain_text:
Thou art sure of me:--go, make money:--I have told\nthee often, and I re-tell thee again and again, I\nhate the Moor: my cause is hearted; thine hath no\nless reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge\nagainst him: if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost\nthyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many\nevents in the womb of time which will be delivered.\nTraverse! go, provide thy money. We will have more\nof this to-morrow. Adieu.


plain_text:
Thus do I ever make my fool my purse:\nFor I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane,\nIf I would time expend with such a snipe.\nBut for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor:\nAnd it is thought abroad, that 'twixt my sheets\nHe has done my office: I know not if't be true;\nBut I, for mere suspicion in that kind,\nWill do as if for surety. He holds me well;\nThe better shall my purpose work on him.\nCassio's a proper man: let me see now:\nTo get his place and to plume up my will\nIn double knavery--How, how? Let's see:--\nAfter some time, to abuse Othello's ear\nThat he is too familiar with his wife.\nHe hath a person and a smooth dispose\nTo be suspected, framed to make women false.\nThe Moor is of a free and open nature,\nThat thinks men honest that but seem to be so,\nAnd will as tenderly be led by the nose\nAs asses are.\nI have't. It is engender'd. Hell and night\nMust bring this monstrous birth to the world's light.


plain_text:
Nothing at all: it is a highwrought flood;\nI cannot, 'twixt the heaven and the main,\nDescry a sail.


plain_text:
Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land;\nA fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements:\nIf it hath ruffian'd so upon the sea,\nWhat ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them,\nCan hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?


plain_text:
A segregation of the Turkish fleet:\nFor do but stand upon the foaming shore,\nThe chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds;\nThe wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous mane,\nseems to cast water on the burning bear,\nAnd quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole:\nI never did like molestation view\nOn the enchafed flood.


plain_text:
If that the Turkish fleet\nBe not enshelter'd and embay'd, they are drown'd:\nIt is impossible they bear it out.


plain_text:
News, lads! our wars are done.\nThe desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks,\nThat their designment halts: a noble ship of Venice\nHath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance\nOn most part of their fleet.


plain_text:
The ship is here put in,\nA Veronesa; Michael Cassio,\nLieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello,\nIs come on shore: the Moor himself at sea,\nAnd is in full commission here for Cyprus.


plain_text:
But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort\nTouching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly,\nAnd prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted\nWith foul and violent tempest.


plain_text:
Pray heavens he be;\nFor I have served him, and the man commands\nLike a full soldier. Let's to the seaside, ho!\nAs well to see the vessel that's come in\nAs to throw out our eyes for brave Othello,\nEven till we make the main and the aerial blue\nAn indistinct regard.


plain_text:
Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle,\nThat so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens\nGive him defence against the elements,\nFor I have lost us him on a dangerous sea.


plain_text:
His bark is stoutly timber'd, his pilot\nOf very expert and approved allowance;\nTherefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,\nStand in bold cure.


plain_text:
Most fortunately: he hath achieved a maid\nThat paragons description and wild fame;\nOne that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,\nAnd in the essential vesture of creation\nDoes tire the ingener.\n[Re-enter second Gentleman]\nHow now! who has put in?


plain_text:
Has had most favourable and happy speed:\nTempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds,\nThe gutter'd rocks and congregated sands--\nTraitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel,--\nAs having sense of beauty, do omit\nTheir mortal natures, letting go safely by\nThe divine Desdemona.


plain_text:
She that I spake of, our great captain's captain,\nLeft in the conduct of the bold Iago,\nWhose footing here anticipates our thoughts\nA se'nnight's speed. Great Jove, Othello guard,\nAnd swell his sail with thine own powerful breath,\nThat he may bless this bay with his tall ship,\nMake love's quick pants in Desdemona's arms,\nGive renew'd fire to our extincted spirits\nAnd bring all Cyprus comfort!\n[Enter DESDEMONA, EMILIA, IAGO, RODERIGO, and Attendants]\nO, behold,\nThe riches of the ship is come on shore!\nYe men of Cyprus, let her have your knees.\nHail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven,\nBefore, behind thee, and on every hand,\nEnwheel thee round!


plain_text:
See for the news.\n[Exit Gentleman]\nGood ancient, you are welcome.\n[To EMILIA]\nWelcome, mistress.\nLet it not gall your patience, good Iago,\nThat I extend my manners; 'tis my breeding\nThat gives me this bold show of courtesy.


plain_text:
Sir, would she give you so much of her lips\nAs of her tongue she oft bestows on me,\nYou'll have enough.


plain_text:
In faith, too much;\nI find it still, when I have list to sleep:\nMarry, before your ladyship, I grant,\nShe puts her tongue a little in her heart,\nAnd chides with thinking.


plain_text:
Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors,\nBells in your parlors, wild-cats in your kitchens,\nSaints m your injuries, devils being offended,\nPlayers in your housewifery, and housewives' in your beds.


plain_text:
I am not merry; but I do beguile\nThe thing I am, by seeming otherwise.\nCome, how wouldst thou praise me?


plain_text:
I am about it; but indeed my invention\nComes from my pate as birdlime does from frize;\nIt plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours,\nAnd thus she is deliver'd.\nIf she be fair and wise, fairness and wit,\nThe one's for use, the other useth it.


plain_text:
These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i'\nthe alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for\nher that's foul and foolish?


plain_text:
O heavy ignorance! thou praisest the worst best.\nBut what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving\nwoman indeed, one that, in the authority of her\nmerit, did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself?


plain_text:
She that was ever fair and never proud,\nHad tongue at will and yet was never loud,\nNever lack'd gold and yet went never gay,\nFled from her wish and yet said 'Now I may,'\nShe that being anger'd, her revenge being nigh,\nBade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly,\nShe that in wisdom never was so frail\nTo change the cod's head for the salmon's tail;\nShe that could think and ne'er disclose her mind,\nSee suitors following and not look behind,\nShe was a wight, if ever such wight were,--


plain_text:
O most lame and impotent conclusion! Do not learn\nof him, Emilia, though he be thy husband. How say\nyou, Cassio? is he not a most profane and liberal\ncounsellor?


plain_text:
[Aside] He takes her by the palm: ay, well said,\nwhisper: with as little a web as this will I\nensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon\nher, do; I will gyve thee in thine own courtship.\nYou say true; 'tis so, indeed: if such tricks as\nthese strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had\nbeen better you had not kissed your three fingers so\noft, which now again you are most apt to play the\nsir in. Very good; well kissed! an excellent\ncourtesy! 'tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers\nto your lips? would they were clyster-pipes for your sake!\n[Trumpet within]\nThe Moor! I know his trumpet.


plain_text:
It gives me wonder great as my content\nTo see you here before me. O my soul's joy!\nIf after every tempest come such calms,\nMay the winds blow till they have waken'd death!\nAnd let the labouring bark climb hills of seas\nOlympus-high and duck again as low\nAs hell's from heaven! If it were now to die,\n'Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear,\nMy soul hath her content so absolute\nThat not another comfort like to this\nSucceeds in unknown fate.


plain_text:
Amen to that, sweet powers!\nI cannot speak enough of this content;\nIt stops me here; it is too much of joy:\nAnd this, and this, the greatest discords be\n[Kissing her]\nThat e'er our hearts shall make!


plain_text:
[Aside] O, you are well tuned now!\nBut I'll set down the pegs that make this music,\nAs honest as I am.


plain_text:
Come, let us to the castle.\nNews, friends; our wars are done, the Turks\nare drown'd.\nHow does my old acquaintance of this isle?\nHoney, you shall be well desired in Cyprus;\nI have found great love amongst them. O my sweet,\nI prattle out of fashion, and I dote\nIn mine own comforts. I prithee, good Iago,\nGo to the bay and disembark my coffers:\nBring thou the master to the citadel;\nHe is a good one, and his worthiness\nDoes challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona,\nOnce more, well met at Cyprus.


plain_text:
Do thou meet me presently at the harbour. Come\nhither. If thou be'st valiant,-- as, they say, base\nmen being in love have then a nobility in their\nnatures more than is native to them--list me. The\nlieutenant tonight watches on the court of\nguard:--first, I must tell thee this--Desdemona is\ndirectly in love with him.


plain_text:
Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed.\nMark me with what violence she first loved the Moor,\nbut for bragging and telling her fantastical lies:\nand will she love him still for prating? let not\nthy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed;\nand what delight shall she have to look on the\ndevil? When the blood is made dull with the act of\nsport, there should be, again to inflame it and to\ngive satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favour,\nsympathy in years, manners and beauties; all which\nthe Moor is defective in: now, for want of these\nrequired conveniences, her delicate tenderness will\nfind itself abused, begin to heave the gorge,\ndisrelish and abhor the Moor; very nature will\ninstruct her in it and compel her to some second\nchoice. Now, sir, this granted,--as it is a most\npregnant and unforced position--who stands so\neminent in the degree of this fortune as Cassio\ndoes? a knave very voluble; no further\nconscionable than in putting on the mere form of\ncivil and humane seeming, for the better compassing\nof his salt and most hidden loose affection? why,\nnone; why, none: a slipper and subtle knave, a\nfinder of occasions, that has an eye can stamp and\ncounterfeit advantages, though true advantage never\npresent itself; a devilish knave. Besides, the\nknave is handsome, young, and hath all those\nrequisites in him that folly and green minds look\nafter: a pestilent complete knave; and the woman\nhath found him already.


plain_text:
Blessed fig's-end! the wine she drinks is made of\ngrapes: if she had been blessed, she would never\nhave loved the Moor. Blessed pudding! Didst thou\nnot see her paddle with the palm of his hand? didst\nnot mark that?


plain_text:
Lechery, by this hand; an index and obscure prologue\nto the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met\nso near with their lips that their breaths embraced\ntogether. Villanous thoughts, Roderigo! when these\nmutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes\nthe master and main exercise, the incorporate\nconclusion, Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me: I\nhave brought you from Venice. Watch you to-night;\nfor the command, I'll lay't upon you. Cassio knows\nyou not. I'll not be far from you: do you find\nsome occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking\ntoo loud, or tainting his discipline; or from what\nother course you please, which the time shall more\nfavourably minister.


plain_text:
Sir, he is rash and very sudden in choler, and haply\nmay strike at you: provoke him, that he may; for\neven out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to\nmutiny; whose qualification shall come into no true\ntaste again but by the displanting of Cassio. So\nshall you have a shorter journey to your desires by\nthe means I shall then have to prefer them; and the\nimpediment most profitably removed, without the\nwhich there were no expectation of our prosperity.


plain_text:
That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it;\nThat she loves him, 'tis apt and of great credit:\nThe Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,\nIs of a constant, loving, noble nature,\nAnd I dare think he'll prove to Desdemona\nA most dear husband. Now, I do love her too;\nNot out of absolute lust, though peradventure\nI stand accountant for as great a sin,\nBut partly led to diet my revenge,\nFor that I do suspect the lusty Moor\nHath leap'd into my seat; the thought whereof\nDoth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards;\nAnd nothing can or shall content my soul\nTill I am even'd with him, wife for wife,\nOr failing so, yet that I put the Moor\nAt least into a jealousy so strong\nThat judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do,\nIf this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash\nFor his quick hunting, stand the putting on,\nI'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,\nAbuse him to the Moor in the rank garb--\nFor I fear Cassio with my night-cap too--\nMake the Moor thank me, love me and reward me.\nFor making him egregiously an ass\nAnd practising upon his peace and quiet\nEven to madness. 'Tis here, but yet confused:\nKnavery's plain face is never seen tin used.


plain_text:
It is Othello's pleasure, our noble and valiant\ngeneral, that, upon certain tidings now arrived,\nimporting the mere perdition of the Turkish fleet,\nevery man put himself into triumph; some to dance,\nsome to make bonfires, each man to what sport and\nrevels his addiction leads him: for, besides these\nbeneficial news, it is the celebration of his\nnuptial. So much was his pleasure should be\nproclaimed. All offices are open, and there is full\nliberty of feasting from this present hour of five\ntill the bell have told eleven. Heaven bless the\nisle of Cyprus and our noble general Othello!


plain_text:
Good Michael, look you to the guard to-night:\nLet's teach ourselves that honourable stop,\nNot to outsport discretion.


plain_text:
Iago is most honest.\nMichael, good night: to-morrow with your earliest\nLet me have speech with you.\n[To DESDEMONA]\nCome, my dear love,\nThe purchase made, the fruits are to ensue;\nThat profit's yet to come 'tween me and you.\nGood night.


plain_text:
Not this hour, lieutenant; 'tis not yet ten o' the\nclock. Our general cast us thus early for the love\nof his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame:\nhe hath not yet made wanton the night with her; and\nshe is sport for Jove.


plain_text:
Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I\nhave a stoup of wine; and here without are a brace\nof Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to\nthe health of black Othello.


plain_text:
Not to-night, good Iago: I have very poor and\nunhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish\ncourtesy would invent some other custom of\nentertainment.


plain_text:
I have drunk but one cup to-night, and that was\ncraftily qualified too, and, behold, what innovation\nit makes here: I am unfortunate in the infirmity,\nand dare not task my weakness with any more.


plain_text:
If I can fasten but one cup upon him,\nWith that which he hath drunk to-night already,\nHe'll be as full of quarrel and offence\nAs my young mistress' dog. Now, my sick fool Roderigo,\nWhom love hath turn'd almost the wrong side out,\nTo Desdemona hath to-night caroused\nPotations pottle-deep; and he's to watch:\nThree lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits,\nThat hold their honours in a wary distance,\nThe very elements of this warlike isle,\nHave I to-night fluster'd with flowing cups,\nAnd they watch too. Now, 'mongst this flock of drunkards,\nAm I to put our Cassio in some action\nThat may offend the isle.--But here they come:\nIf consequence do but approve my dream,\nMy boat sails freely, both with wind and stream.


plain_text:
Some wine, ho!\n[Sings]\nAnd let me the canakin clink, clink;\nAnd let me the canakin clink\nA soldier's a man;\nA life's but a span;\nWhy, then, let a soldier drink.\nSome wine, boys!


plain_text:
I learned it in England, where, indeed, they are\nmost potent in potting: your Dane, your German, and\nyour swag-bellied Hollander--Drink, ho!--are nothing\nto your English.


plain_text:
Why, he drinks you, with facility, your Dane dead\ndrunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he\ngives your Hollander a vomit, ere the next pottle\ncan be filled.


plain_text:
O sweet England!\nKing Stephen was a worthy peer,\nHis breeches cost him but a crown;\nHe held them sixpence all too dear,\nWith that he call'd the tailor lown.\nHe was a wight of high renown,\nAnd thou art but of low degree:\n'Tis pride that pulls the country down;\nThen take thine auld cloak about thee.\nSome wine, ho!


plain_text:
No; for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that\ndoes those things. Well, God's above all; and there\nbe souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.


plain_text:
Ay, but, by your leave, not before me; the\nlieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let's\nhave no more of this; let's to our affairs.--Forgive\nus our sins!--Gentlemen, let's look to our business.\nDo not think, gentlemen. I am drunk: this is my\nancient; this is my right hand, and this is my left:\nI am not drunk now; I can stand well enough, and\nspeak well enough.


plain_text:
You see this fellow that is gone before;\nHe is a soldier fit to stand by Caesar\nAnd give direction: and do but see his vice;\n'Tis to his virtue a just equinox,\nThe one as long as the other: 'tis pity of him.\nI fear the trust Othello puts him in.\nOn some odd time of his infirmity,\nWill shake this island.


plain_text:
'Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep:\nHe'll watch the horologe a double set,\nIf drink rock not his cradle.


plain_text:
It were well\nThe general were put in mind of it.\nPerhaps he sees it not; or his good nature\nPrizes the virtue that appears in Cassio,\nAnd looks not on his evils: is not this true?


plain_text:
And 'tis great pity that the noble Moor\nShould hazard such a place as his own second\nWith one of an ingraft infirmity:\nIt were an honest action to say\nSo to the Moor.


plain_text:
Not I, for this fair island:\nI do love Cassio well; and would do much\nTo cure him of this evil--But, hark! what noise?


plain_text:
[Aside to RODERIGO] Away, I say; go out, and cry a mutiny.\n[Exit RODERIGO]\nNay, good lieutenant,--alas, gentlemen;--\nHelp, ho!--Lieutenant,--sir,--Montano,--sir;\nHelp, masters!--Here's a goodly watch indeed!\n[Bell rings]\nWho's that which rings the bell?--Diablo, ho!\nThe town will rise: God's will, lieutenant, hold!\nYou will be shamed for ever.


plain_text:
Hold, ho! Lieutenant,--sir--Montano,--gentlemen,--\nHave you forgot all sense of place and duty?\nHold! the general speaks to you; hold, hold, for shame!


plain_text:
Why, how now, ho! from whence ariseth this?\nAre we turn'd Turks, and to ourselves do that\nWhich heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?\nFor Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl:\nHe that stirs next to carve for his own rage\nHolds his soul light; he dies upon his motion.\nSilence that dreadful bell: it frights the isle\nFrom her propriety. What is the matter, masters?\nHonest Iago, that look'st dead with grieving,\nSpeak, who began this? on thy love, I charge thee.


plain_text:
I do not know: friends all but now, even now,\nIn quarter, and in terms like bride and groom\nDevesting them for bed; and then, but now--\nAs if some planet had unwitted men--\nSwords out, and tilting one at other's breast,\nIn opposition bloody. I cannot speak\nAny beginning to this peevish odds;\nAnd would in action glorious I had lost\nThose legs that brought me to a part of it!


plain_text:
Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil;\nThe gravity and stillness of your youth\nThe world hath noted, and your name is great\nIn mouths of wisest censure: what's the matter,\nThat you unlace your reputation thus\nAnd spend your rich opinion for the name\nOf a night-brawler? give me answer to it.


plain_text:
Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger:\nYour officer, Iago, can inform you,--\nWhile I spare speech, which something now\noffends me,--\nOf all that I do know: nor know I aught\nBy me that's said or done amiss this night;\nUnless self-charity be sometimes a vice,\nAnd to defend ourselves it be a sin\nWhen violence assails us.


plain_text:
Now, by heaven,\nMy blood begins my safer guides to rule;\nAnd passion, having my best judgment collied,\nAssays to lead the way: if I once stir,\nOr do but lift this arm, the best of you\nShall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know\nHow this foul rout began, who set it on;\nAnd he that is approved in this offence,\nThough he had twinn'd with me, both at a birth,\nShall lose me. What! in a town of war,\nYet wild, the people's hearts brimful of fear,\nTo manage private and domestic quarrel,\nIn night, and on the court and guard of safety!\n'Tis monstrous. Iago, who began't?


plain_text:
If partially affined, or leagued in office,\nThou dost deliver more or less than truth,\nThou art no soldier.


plain_text:
Touch me not so near:\nI had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth\nThan it should do offence to Michael Cassio;\nYet, I persuade myself, to speak the truth\nShall nothing wrong him. Thus it is, general.\nMontano and myself being in speech,\nThere comes a fellow crying out for help:\nAnd Cassio following him with determined sword,\nTo execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman\nSteps in to Cassio, and entreats his pause:\nMyself the crying fellow did pursue,\nLest by his clamour--as it so fell out--\nThe town might fall in fright: he, swift of foot,\nOutran my purpose; and I return'd the rather\nFor that I heard the clink and fall of swords,\nAnd Cassio high in oath; which till to-night\nI ne'er might say before. When I came back--\nFor this was brief--I found them close together,\nAt blow and thrust; even as again they were\nWhen you yourself did part them.\nMore of this matter cannot I report:\nBut men are men; the best sometimes forget:\nThough Cassio did some little wrong to him,\nAs men in rage strike those that wish them best,\nYet surely Cassio, I believe, received\nFrom him that fled some strange indignity,\nWhich patience could not pass.


plain_text:
I know, Iago,\nThy honesty and love doth mince this matter,\nMaking it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee\nBut never more be officer of mine.\n[Re-enter DESDEMONA, attended]\nLook, if my gentle love be not raised up!\nI'll make thee an example.


plain_text:
All's well now, sweeting; come away to bed.\nSir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon:\nLead him off.\n[To MONTANO, who is led off]\nIago, look with care about the town,\nAnd silence those whom this vile brawl distracted.\nCome, Desdemona: 'tis the soldiers' life\nTo have their balmy slumbers waked with strife.


plain_text:
Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost\nmy reputation! I have lost the immortal part of\nmyself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation,\nIago, my reputation!


plain_text:
As I am an honest man, I thought you had received\nsome bodily wound; there is more sense in that than\nin reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false\nimposition: oft got without merit, and lost without\ndeserving: you have lost no reputation at all,\nunless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man!\nthere are ways to recover the general again: you\nare but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in\npolicy than in malice, even so as one would beat his\noffenceless dog to affright an imperious lion: sue\nto him again, and he's yours.


plain_text:
I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so\ngood a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so\nindiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot?\nand squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse\nfustian with one's own shadow? O thou invisible\nspirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by,\nlet us call thee devil!


plain_text:
I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly;\na quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men\nshould put an enemy in their mouths to steal away\ntheir brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance\nrevel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!


plain_text:
It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place\nto the devil wrath; one unperfectness shows me\nanother, to make me frankly despise myself.


plain_text:
Come, you are too severe a moraler: as the time,\nthe place, and the condition of this country\nstands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen;\nbut, since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.


plain_text:
I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me\nI am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra,\nsuch an answer would stop them all. To be now a\nsensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a\nbeast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is\nunblessed and the ingredient is a devil.


plain_text:
Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature,\nif it be well used: exclaim no more against it.\nAnd, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you.


plain_text:
You or any man living may be drunk! at a time, man.\nI'll tell you what you shall do. Our general's wife\nis now the general: may say so in this respect, for\nthat he hath devoted and given up himself to the\ncontemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and\ngraces: confess yourself freely to her; importune\nher help to put you in your place again: she is of\nso free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition,\nshe holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more\nthan she is requested: this broken joint between\nyou and her husband entreat her to splinter; and, my\nfortunes against any lay worth naming, this\ncrack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before.


plain_text:
I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will\nbeseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me:\nI am desperate of my fortunes if they cheque me here.


plain_text:
And what's he then that says I play the villain?\nWhen this advice is free I give and honest,\nProbal to thinking and indeed the course\nTo win the Moor again? For 'tis most easy\nThe inclining Desdemona to subdue\nIn any honest suit: she's framed as fruitful\nAs the free elements. And then for her\nTo win the Moor--were't to renounce his baptism,\nAll seals and symbols of redeemed sin,\nHis soul is so enfetter'd to her love,\nThat she may make, unmake, do what she list,\nEven as her appetite shall play the god\nWith his weak function. How am I then a villain\nTo counsel Cassio to this parallel course,\nDirectly to his good? Divinity of hell!\nWhen devils will the blackest sins put on,\nThey do suggest at first with heavenly shows,\nAs I do now: for whiles this honest fool\nPlies Desdemona to repair his fortunes\nAnd she for him pleads strongly to the Moor,\nI'll pour this pestilence into his ear,\nThat she repeals him for her body's lust;\nAnd by how much she strives to do him good,\nShe shall undo her credit with the Moor.\nSo will I turn her virtue into pitch,\nAnd out of her own goodness make the net\nThat shall enmesh them all.\n[Re-enter RODERIGO]\nHow now, Roderigo!


plain_text:
I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound that\nhunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is\nalmost spent; I have been to-night exceedingly well\ncudgelled; and I think the issue will be, I shall\nhave so much experience for my pains, and so, with\nno money at all and a little more wit, return again to Venice.


plain_text:
How poor are they that have not patience!\nWhat wound did ever heal but by degrees?\nThou know'st we work by wit, and not by witchcraft;\nAnd wit depends on dilatory time.\nDoes't not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee.\nAnd thou, by that small hurt, hast cashier'd Cassio:\nThough other things grow fair against the sun,\nYet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe:\nContent thyself awhile. By the mass, 'tis morning;\nPleasure and action make the hours seem short.\nRetire thee; go where thou art billeted:\nAway, I say; thou shalt know more hereafter:\nNay, get thee gone.\n[Exit RODERIGO]\nTwo things are to be done:\nMy wife must move for Cassio to her mistress;\nI'll set her on;\nMyself the while to draw the Moor apart,\nAnd bring him jump when he may Cassio find\nSoliciting his wife: ay, that's the way\nDull not device by coldness and delay.


plain_text:
Masters, play here; I will content your pains;\nSomething that's brief; and bid 'Good morrow, general.'


plain_text:
Marry. sir, by many a wind-instrument that I know.\nBut, masters, here's money for you: and the general\nso likes your music, that he desires you, for love's\nsake, to make no more noise with it.


plain_text:
If you have any music that may not be heard, to't\nagain: but, as they say to hear music the general\ndoes not greatly care.


plain_text:
Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There's a poor piece\nof gold for thee: if the gentlewoman that attends\nthe general's wife be stirring, tell her there's\none Cassio entreats her a little favour of speech:\nwilt thou do this?


plain_text:
Why, no; the day had broke\nBefore we parted. I have made bold, Iago,\nTo send in to your wife: my suit to her\nIs, that she will to virtuous Desdemona\nProcure me some access.


plain_text:
I'll send her to you presently;\nAnd I'll devise a mean to draw the Moor\nOut of the way, that your converse and business\nMay be more free.


plain_text:
Good morrow, good Lieutenant: I am sorry\nFor your displeasure; but all will sure be well.\nThe general and his wife are talking of it;\nAnd she speaks for you stoutly: the Moor replies,\nThat he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus,\nAnd great affinity, and that in wholesome wisdom\nHe might not but refuse you; but he protests he loves you\nAnd needs no other suitor but his likings\nTo take the safest occasion by the front\nTo bring you in again.


plain_text:
Yet, I beseech you,\nIf you think fit, or that it may be done,\nGive me advantage of some brief discourse\nWith Desdemona alone.


plain_text:
These letters give, Iago, to the pilot;\nAnd by him do my duties to the senate:\nThat done, I will be walking on the works;\nRepair there to me.


plain_text:
O, that's an honest fellow. Do not doubt, Cassio,\nBut I will have my lord and you again\nAs friendly as you were.


plain_text:
Bounteous madam,\nWhatever shall become of Michael Cassio,\nHe's never any thing but your true servant.


plain_text:
I know't; I thank you. You do love my lord:\nYou have known him long; and be you well assured\nHe shall in strangeness stand no further off\nThan in a polite distance.


plain_text:
Ay, but, lady,\nThat policy may either last so long,\nOr feed upon such nice and waterish diet,\nOr breed itself so out of circumstance,\nThat, I being absent and my place supplied,\nMy general will forget my love and service.


plain_text:
Do not doubt that; before Emilia here\nI give thee warrant of thy place: assure thee,\nIf I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it\nTo the last article: my lord shall never rest;\nI'll watch him tame and talk him out of patience;\nHis bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift;\nI'll intermingle every thing he does\nWith Cassio's suit: therefore be merry, Cassio;\nFor thy solicitor shall rather die\nThan give thy cause away.


plain_text:
Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it,\nThat he would steal away so guilty-like,\nSeeing you coming.


plain_text:
How now, my lord!\nI have been talking with a suitor here,\nA man that languishes in your displeasure.


plain_text:
Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord,\nIf I have any grace or power to move you,\nHis present reconciliation take;\nFor if he be not one that truly loves you,\nThat errs in ignorance and not in cunning,\nI have no judgment in an honest face:\nI prithee, call him back.


plain_text:
Ay, sooth; so humbled\nThat he hath left part of his grief with me,\nTo suffer with him. Good love, call him back.


plain_text:
Why, then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday morn;\nOn Tuesday noon, or night; on Wednesday morn:\nI prithee, name the time, but let it not\nExceed three days: in faith, he's penitent;\nAnd yet his trespass, in our common reason--\nSave that, they say, the wars must make examples\nOut of their best--is not almost a fault\nTo incur a private cheque. When shall he come?\nTell me, Othello: I wonder in my soul,\nWhat you would ask me, that I should deny,\nOr stand so mammering on. What! Michael Cassio,\nThat came a-wooing with you, and so many a time,\nWhen I have spoke of you dispraisingly,\nHath ta'en your part; to have so much to do\nTo bring him in! Trust me, I could do much,--


plain_text:
Why, this is not a boon;\n'Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves,\nOr feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm,\nOr sue to you to do a peculiar profit\nTo your own person: nay, when I have a suit\nWherein I mean to touch your love indeed,\nIt shall be full of poise and difficult weight\nAnd fearful to be granted.


plain_text:
I will deny thee nothing:\nWhereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this,\nTo leave me but a little to myself.


plain_text:
Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,\nBut I do love thee! and when I love thee not,\nChaos is come again.


plain_text:
Think, my lord!\nBy heaven, he echoes me,\nAs if there were some monster in his thought\nToo hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something:\nI heard thee say even now, thou likedst not that,\nWhen Cassio left my wife: what didst not like?\nAnd when I told thee he was of my counsel\nIn my whole course of wooing, thou criedst 'Indeed!'\nAnd didst contract and purse thy brow together,\nAs if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain\nSome horrible conceit: if thou dost love me,\nShow me thy thought.


plain_text:
I think thou dost;\nAnd, for I know thou'rt full of love and honesty,\nAnd weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath,\nTherefore these stops of thine fright me the more:\nFor such things in a false disloyal knave\nAre tricks of custom, but in a man that's just\nThey are close delations, working from the heart\nThat passion cannot rule.


plain_text:
Nay, yet there's more in this:\nI prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings,\nAs thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts\nThe worst of words.


plain_text:
Good my lord, pardon me:\nThough I am bound to every act of duty,\nI am not bound to that all slaves are free to.\nUtter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false;\nAs where's that palace whereinto foul things\nSometimes intrude not? who has a breast so pure,\nBut some uncleanly apprehensions\nKeep leets and law-days and in session sit\nWith meditations lawful?


plain_text:
Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago,\nIf thou but think'st him wrong'd and makest his ear\nA stranger to thy thoughts.


plain_text:
I do beseech you--\nThough I perchance am vicious in my guess,\nAs, I confess, it is my nature's plague\nTo spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy\nShapes faults that are not--that your wisdom yet,\nFrom one that so imperfectly conceits,\nWould take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble\nOut of his scattering and unsure observance.\nIt were not for your quiet nor your good,\nNor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom,\nTo let you know my thoughts.


plain_text:
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,\nIs the immediate jewel of their souls:\nWho steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;\n'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands:\nBut he that filches from me my good name\nRobs me of that which not enriches him\nAnd makes me poor indeed.


plain_text:
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;\nIt is the green-eyed monster which doth mock\nThe meat it feeds on; that cuckold lives in bliss\nWho, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;\nBut, O, what damned minutes tells he o'er\nWho dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!


plain_text:
Poor and content is rich and rich enough,\nBut riches fineless is as poor as winter\nTo him that ever fears he shall be poor.\nGood heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend\nFrom jealousy!


plain_text:
Why, why is this?\nThink'st thou I'ld make a lie of jealousy,\nTo follow still the changes of the moon\nWith fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt\nIs once to be resolved: exchange me for a goat,\nWhen I shall turn the business of my soul\nTo such exsufflicate and blown surmises,\nMatching thy inference. 'Tis not to make me jealous\nTo say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,\nIs free of speech, sings, plays and dances well;\nWhere virtue is, these are more virtuous:\nNor from mine own weak merits will I draw\nThe smallest fear or doubt of her revolt;\nFor she had eyes, and chose me. No, Iago;\nI'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove;\nAnd on the proof, there is no more but this,--\nAway at once with love or jealousy!


plain_text:
I am glad of it; for now I shall have reason\nTo show the love and duty that I bear you\nWith franker spirit: therefore, as I am bound,\nReceive it from me. I speak not yet of proof.\nLook to your wife; observe her well with Cassio;\nWear your eye thus, not jealous nor secure:\nI would not have your free and noble nature,\nOut of self-bounty, be abused; look to't:\nI know our country disposition well;\nIn Venice they do let heaven see the pranks\nThey dare not show their husbands; their best conscience\nIs not to leave't undone, but keep't unknown.


plain_text:
She did deceive her father, marrying you;\nAnd when she seem'd to shake and fear your looks,\nShe loved them most.


plain_text:
Why, go to then;\nShe that, so young, could give out such a seeming,\nTo seal her father's eyes up close as oak-\nHe thought 'twas witchcraft--but I am much to blame;\nI humbly do beseech you of your pardon\nFor too much loving you.


plain_text:
I' faith, I fear it has.\nI hope you will consider what is spoke\nComes from my love. But I do see you're moved:\nI am to pray you not to strain my speech\nTo grosser issues nor to larger reach\nThan to suspicion.


plain_text:
Should you do so, my lord,\nMy speech should fall into such vile success\nAs my thoughts aim not at. Cassio's my worthy friend--\nMy lord, I see you're moved.


plain_text:
Ay, there's the point: as--to be bold with you--\nNot to affect many proposed matches\nOf her own clime, complexion, and degree,\nWhereto we see in all things nature tends--\nFoh! one may smell in such a will most rank,\nFoul disproportion thoughts unnatural.\nBut pardon me; I do not in position\nDistinctly speak of her; though I may fear\nHer will, recoiling to her better judgment,\nMay fall to match you with her country forms\nAnd happily repent.


plain_text:
Farewell, farewell:\nIf more thou dost perceive, let me know more;\nSet on thy wife to observe: leave me, Iago:


plain_text:
[Returning] My lord, I would I might entreat\nyour honour\nTo scan this thing no further; leave it to time:\nThough it be fit that Cassio have his place,\nFor sure, he fills it up with great ability,\nYet, if you please to hold him off awhile,\nYou shall by that perceive him and his means:\nNote, if your lady strain his entertainment\nWith any strong or vehement importunity;\nMuch will be seen in that. In the mean time,\nLet me be thought too busy in my fears--\nAs worthy cause I have to fear I am--\nAnd hold her free, I do beseech your honour.


plain_text:
This fellow's of exceeding honesty,\nAnd knows all qualities, with a learned spirit,\nOf human dealings. If I do prove her haggard,\nThough that her jesses were my dear heartstrings,\nI'ld whistle her off and let her down the wind,\nTo pray at fortune. Haply, for I am black\nAnd have not those soft parts of conversation\nThat chamberers have, or for I am declined\nInto the vale of years,--yet that's not much--\nShe's gone. I am abused; and my relief\nMust be to loathe her. O curse of marriage,\nThat we can call these delicate creatures ours,\nAnd not their appetites! I had rather be a toad,\nAnd live upon the vapour of a dungeon,\nThan keep a corner in the thing I love\nFor others' uses. Yet, 'tis the plague of great ones;\nPrerogatived are they less than the base;\n'Tis destiny unshunnable, like death:\nEven then this forked plague is fated to us\nWhen we do quicken. Desdemona comes:\n[Re-enter DESDEMONA and EMILIA]\nIf she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself!\nI'll not believe't.


plain_text:
How now, my dear Othello!\nYour dinner, and the generous islanders\nBy you invited, do attend your presence.


plain_text:
'Faith, that's with watching; 'twill away again:\nLet me but bind it hard, within this hour\nIt will be well.


plain_text:
Your napkin is too little:\n[He puts the handkerchief from him; and it drops]\nLet it alone. Come, I'll go in with you.


plain_text:
I am glad I have found this napkin:\nThis was her first remembrance from the Moor:\nMy wayward husband hath a hundred times\nWoo'd me to steal it; but she so loves the token,\nFor he conjured her she should ever keep it,\nThat she reserves it evermore about her\nTo kiss and talk to. I'll have the work ta'en out,\nAnd give't Iago: what he will do with it\nHeaven knows, not I;\nI nothing but to please his fantasy.


plain_text:
What handkerchief?\nWhy, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;\nThat which so often you did bid me steal.


plain_text:
No, 'faith; she let it drop by negligence.\nAnd, to the advantage, I, being here, took't up.\nLook, here it is.


plain_text:
If it be not for some purpose of import,\nGive't me again: poor lady, she'll run mad\nWhen she shall lack it.


plain_text:
Be not acknown on 't; I have use for it.\nGo, leave me.\n[Exit EMILIA]\nI will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin,\nAnd let him find it. Trifles light as air\nAre to the jealous confirmations strong\nAs proofs of holy writ: this may do something.\nThe Moor already changes with my poison:\nDangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons.\nWhich at the first are scarce found to distaste,\nBut with a little act upon the blood.\nBurn like the mines of Sulphur. I did say so:\nLook, where he comes!\n[Re-enter OTHELLO]\nNot poppy, nor mandragora,\nNor all the drowsy syrups of the world,\nShall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep\nWhich thou owedst yesterday.


plain_text:
Avaunt! be gone! thou hast set me on the rack:\nI swear 'tis better to be much abused\nThan but to know't a little.


plain_text:
What sense had I of her stol'n hours of lust?\nI saw't not, thought it not, it harm'd not me:\nI slept the next night well, was free and merry;\nI found not Cassio's kisses on her lips:\nHe that is robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n,\nLet him not know't, and he's not robb'd at all.


plain_text:
I had been happy, if the general camp,\nPioners and all, had tasted her sweet body,\nSo I had nothing known. O, now, for ever\nFarewell the tranquil mind! farewell content!\nFarewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,\nThat make ambition virtue! O, farewell!\nFarewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,\nThe spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,\nThe royal banner, and all quality,\nPride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!\nAnd, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats\nThe immortal Jove's dead clamours counterfeit,\nFarewell! Othello's occupation's gone!


plain_text:
Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore,\nBe sure of it; give me the ocular proof:\nOr by the worth of man's eternal soul,\nThou hadst been better have been born a dog\nThan answer my waked wrath!


plain_text:
Make me to see't; or, at the least, so prove it,\nThat the probation bear no hinge nor loop\nTo hang a doubt on; or woe upon thy life!


plain_text:
If thou dost slander her and torture me,\nNever pray more; abandon all remorse;\nOn horror's head horrors accumulate;\nDo deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed;\nFor nothing canst thou to damnation add\nGreater than that.


plain_text:
O grace! O heaven forgive me!\nAre you a man? have you a soul or sense?\nGod be wi' you; take mine office. O wretched fool.\nThat livest to make thine honesty a vice!\nO monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world,\nTo be direct and honest is not safe.\nI thank you for this profit; and from hence\nI'll love no friend, sith love breeds such offence.


plain_text:
By the world,\nI think my wife be honest and think she is not;\nI think that thou art just and think thou art not.\nI'll have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh\nAs Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black\nAs mine own face. If there be cords, or knives,\nPoison, or fire, or suffocating streams,\nI'll not endure it. Would I were satisfied!


plain_text:
I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion:\nI do repent me that I put it to you.\nYou would be satisfied?


plain_text:
And may: but, how? how satisfied, my lord?\nWould you, the supervisor, grossly gape on--\nBehold her topp'd?


plain_text:
It were a tedious difficulty, I think,\nTo bring them to that prospect: damn them then,\nIf ever mortal eyes do see them bolster\nMore than their own! What then? how then?\nWhat shall I say? Where's satisfaction?\nIt is impossible you should see this,\nWere they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys,\nAs salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross\nAs ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say,\nIf imputation and strong circumstances,\nWhich lead directly to the door of truth,\nWill give you satisfaction, you may have't.


plain_text:
I do not like the office:\nBut, sith I am enter'd in this cause so far,\nPrick'd to't by foolish honesty and love,\nI will go on. I lay with Cassio lately;\nAnd, being troubled with a raging tooth,\nI could not sleep.\nThere are a kind of men so loose of soul,\nThat in their sleeps will mutter their affairs:\nOne of this kind is Cassio:\nIn sleep I heard him say 'Sweet Desdemona,\nLet us be wary, let us hide our loves;'\nAnd then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand,\nCry 'O sweet creature!' and then kiss me hard,\nAs if he pluck'd up kisses by the roots\nThat grew upon my lips: then laid his leg\nOver my thigh, and sigh'd, and kiss'd; and then\nCried 'Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!'


plain_text:
Nay, but be wise: yet we see nothing done;\nShe may be honest yet. Tell me but this,\nHave you not sometimes seen a handkerchief\nSpotted with strawberries in your wife's hand?


plain_text:
I know not that; but such a handkerchief--\nI am sure it was your wife's--did I to-day\nSee Cassio wipe his beard with.


plain_text:
O, that the slave had forty thousand lives!\nOne is too poor, too weak for my revenge.\nNow do I see 'tis true. Look here, Iago;\nAll my fond love thus do I blow to heaven.\n'Tis gone.\nArise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell!\nYield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne\nTo tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,\nFor 'tis of aspics' tongues!


plain_text:
Never, Iago: Like to the Pontic sea,\nWhose icy current and compulsive course\nNe'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on\nTo the Propontic and the Hellespont,\nEven so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,\nShall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love,\nTill that a capable and wide revenge\nSwallow them up. Now, by yond marble heaven,\n[Kneels]\nIn the due reverence of a sacred vow\nI here engage my words.


plain_text:
Do not rise yet.\n[Kneels]\nWitness, you ever-burning lights above,\nYou elements that clip us round about,\nWitness that here Iago doth give up\nThe execution of his wit, hands, heart,\nTo wrong'd Othello's service! Let him command,\nAnd to obey shall be in me remorse,\nWhat bloody business ever.


plain_text:
I greet thy love,\nNot with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous,\nAnd will upon the instant put thee to't:\nWithin these three days let me hear thee say\nThat Cassio's not alive.


plain_text:
Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her!\nCome, go with me apart; I will withdraw,\nTo furnish me with some swift means of death\nFor the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.


plain_text:
I know not where he lodges, and for me to devise a\nlodging and say he lies here or he lies there, were\nto lie in mine own throat.


plain_text:
Seek him, bid him come hither: tell him I have\nmoved my lord on his behalf, and hope all will be well.


plain_text:
Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse\nFull of crusadoes: and, but my noble Moor\nIs true of mind and made of no such baseness\nAs jealous creatures are, it were enough\nTo put him to ill thinking.


plain_text:
I will not leave him now till Cassio\nBe call'd to him.\n[Enter OTHELLO]\nHow is't with you, my lord


plain_text:
This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart:\nHot, hot, and moist: this hand of yours requires\nA sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer,\nMuch castigation, exercise devout;\nFor here's a young and sweating devil here,\nThat commonly rebels. 'Tis a good hand,\nA frank one.


plain_text:
That is a fault.\nThat handkerchief\nDid an Egyptian to my mother give;\nShe was a charmer, and could almost read\nThe thoughts of people: she told her, while\nshe kept it,\n'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father\nEntirely to her love, but if she lost it\nOr made gift of it, my father's eye\nShould hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt\nAfter new fancies: she, dying, gave it me;\nAnd bid me, when my fate would have me wive,\nTo give it her. I did so: and take heed on't;\nMake it a darling like your precious eye;\nTo lose't or give't away were such perdition\nAs nothing else could match.


plain_text:
'Tis true: there's magic in the web of it:\nA sibyl, that had number'd in the world\nThe sun to course two hundred compasses,\nIn her prophetic fury sew'd the work;\nThe worms were hallow'd that did breed the silk;\nAnd it was dyed in mummy which the skilful\nConserved of maidens' hearts.


plain_text:
Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now.\nThis is a trick to put me from my suit:\nPray you, let Cassio be received again.


plain_text:
I ne'er saw this before.\nSure, there's some wonder in this handkerchief:\nI am most unhappy in the loss of it.


plain_text:
'Tis not a year or two shows us a man:\nThey are all but stomachs, and we all but food;\nTo eat us hungerly, and when they are full,\nThey belch us. Look you, Cassio and my husband!


plain_text:
Madam, my former suit: I do beseech you\nThat by your virtuous means I may again\nExist, and be a member of his love\nWhom I with all the office of my heart\nEntirely honour: I would not be delay'd.\nIf my offence be of such mortal kind\nThat nor my service past, nor present sorrows,\nNor purposed merit in futurity,\nCan ransom me into his love again,\nBut to know so must be my benefit;\nSo shall I clothe me in a forced content,\nAnd shut myself up in some other course,\nTo fortune's alms.


plain_text:
Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio!\nMy advocation is not now in tune;\nMy lord is not my lord; nor should I know him,\nWere he in favour as in humour alter'd.\nSo help me every spirit sanctified,\nAs I have spoken for you all my best\nAnd stood within the blank of his displeasure\nFor my free speech! you must awhile be patient:\nWhat I can do I will; and more I will\nThan for myself I dare: let that suffice you.


plain_text:
Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon,\nWhen it hath blown his ranks into the air,\nAnd, like the devil, from his very arm\nPuff'd his own brother:--and can he be angry?\nSomething of moment then: I will go meet him:\nThere's matter in't indeed, if he be angry.


plain_text:
I prithee, do so.\n[Exit IAGO]\nSomething, sure, of state,\nEither from Venice, or some unhatch'd practise\nMade demonstrable here in Cyprus to him,\nHath puddled his clear spirit: and in such cases\nMen's natures wrangle with inferior things,\nThough great ones are their object. 'Tis even so;\nFor let our finger ache, and it indues\nOur other healthful members even to that sense\nOf pain: nay, we must think men are not gods,\nNor of them look for such observances\nAs fit the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia,\nI was, unhandsome warrior as I am,\nArraigning his unkindness with my soul;\nBut now I find I had suborn'd the witness,\nAnd he's indicted falsely.


plain_text:
Pray heaven it be state-matters, as you think,\nAnd no conception nor no jealous toy\nConcerning you.


plain_text:
But jealous souls will not be answer'd so;\nThey are not ever jealous for the cause,\nBut jealous for they are jealous: 'tis a monster\nBegot upon itself, born on itself.


plain_text:
I will go seek him. Cassio, walk hereabout:\nIf I do find him fit, I'll move your suit\nAnd seek to effect it to my uttermost.


plain_text:
What make you from home?\nHow is it with you, my most fair Bianca?\nI' faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house.


plain_text:
And I was going to your lodging, Cassio.\nWhat, keep a week away? seven days and nights?\nEight score eight hours? and lovers' absent hours,\nMore tedious than the dial eight score times?\nO weary reckoning!


plain_text:
Pardon me, Bianca:\nI have this while with leaden thoughts been press'd:\nBut I shall, in a more continuate time,\nStrike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca,\n[Giving her DESDEMONA's handkerchief]\nTake me this work out.


plain_text:
O Cassio, whence came this?\nThis is some token from a newer friend:\nTo the felt absence now I feel a cause:\nIs't come to this? Well, well.


plain_text:
Go to, woman!\nThrow your vile guesses in the devil's teeth,\nFrom whence you have them. You are jealous now\nThat this is from some mistress, some remembrance:\nNo, in good troth, Bianca.


plain_text:
I know not, sweet: I found it in my chamber.\nI like the work well: ere it be demanded--\nAs like enough it will--I'ld have it copied:\nTake it, and do't; and leave me for this time.


plain_text:
I do attend here on the general;\nAnd think it no addition, nor my wish,\nTo have him see me woman'd.


plain_text:
But that you do not love me.\nI pray you, bring me on the way a little,\nAnd say if I shall see you soon at night.


plain_text:
Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm!\nIt is hypocrisy against the devil:\nThey that mean virtuously, and yet do so,\nThe devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven.


plain_text:
Her honour is an essence that's not seen;\nThey have it very oft that have it not:\nBut, for the handkerchief,--


plain_text:
By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it.\nThou said'st, it comes o'er my memory,\nAs doth the raven o'er the infected house,\nBoding to all--he had my handkerchief.


plain_text:
What,\nIf I had said I had seen him do you wrong?\nOr heard him say,--as knaves be such abroad,\nWho having, by their own importunate suit,\nOr voluntary dotage of some mistress,\nConvinced or supplied them, cannot choose\nBut they must blab--


plain_text:
Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie on her, when\nthey belie her. Lie with her! that's fulsome.\n--Handkerchief--confessions--handkerchief!--To\nconfess, and be hanged for his labour;--first, to be\nhanged, and then to confess.--I tremble at it.\nNature would not invest herself in such shadowing\npassion without some instruction. It is not words\nthat shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips.\n--Is't possible?--Confess--handkerchief!--O devil!--


plain_text:
Work on,\nMy medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught;\nAnd many worthy and chaste dames even thus,\nAll guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! my lord!\nMy lord, I say! Othello!\n[Enter CASSIO]\nHow now, Cassio!


plain_text:
No, forbear;\nThe lethargy must have his quiet course:\nIf not, he foams at mouth and by and by\nBreaks out to savage madness. Look he stirs:\nDo you withdraw yourself a little while,\nHe will recover straight: when he is gone,\nI would on great occasion speak with you.\n[Exit CASSIO]\nHow is it, general? have you not hurt your head?


plain_text:
Good sir, be a man;\nThink every bearded fellow that's but yoked\nMay draw with you: there's millions now alive\nThat nightly lie in those unproper beds\nWhich they dare swear peculiar: your case is better.\nO, 'tis the spite of hell, the fiend's arch-mock,\nTo lip a wanton in a secure couch,\nAnd to suppose her chaste! No, let me know;\nAnd knowing what I am, I know what she shall be.


plain_text:
Stand you awhile apart;\nConfine yourself but in a patient list.\nWhilst you were here o'erwhelmed with your grief--\nA passion most unsuiting such a man--\nCassio came hither: I shifted him away,\nAnd laid good 'scuse upon your ecstasy,\nBade him anon return and here speak with me;\nThe which he promised. Do but encave yourself,\nAnd mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns,\nThat dwell in every region of his face;\nFor I will make him tell the tale anew,\nWhere, how, how oft, how long ago, and when\nHe hath, and is again to cope your wife:\nI say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience;\nOr I shall say you are all in all in spleen,\nAnd nothing of a man.


plain_text:
Dost thou hear, Iago?\nI will be found most cunning in my patience;\nBut--dost thou hear?--most bloody.


plain_text:
That's not amiss;\nBut yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw?\n[OTHELLO retires]\nNow will I question Cassio of Bianca,\nA housewife that by selling her desires\nBuys herself bread and clothes: it is a creature\nThat dotes on Cassio; as 'tis the strumpet's plague\nTo beguile many and be beguiled by one:\nHe, when he hears of her, cannot refrain\nFrom the excess of laughter. Here he comes:\n[Re-enter CASSIO]\nAs he shall smile, Othello shall go mad;\nAnd his unbookish jealousy must construe\nPoor Cassio's smiles, gestures and light behavior,\nQuite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant?


plain_text:
Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on't.\n[Speaking lower]\nNow, if this suit lay in Bianco's power,\nHow quickly should you speed!


plain_text:
I marry her! what? a customer! Prithee, bear some\ncharity to my wit: do not think it so unwholesome.\nHa, ha, ha!


plain_text:
This is the monkey's own giving out: she is\npersuaded I will marry her, out of her own love and\nflattery, not out of my promise.


plain_text:
She was here even now; she haunts me in every place.\nI was the other day talking on the sea-bank with\ncertain Venetians; and thither comes the bauble,\nand, by this hand, she falls me thus about my neck--


plain_text:
Now he tells how she plucked him to my chamber. O,\nI see that nose of yours, but not that dog I shall\nthrow it to.


plain_text:
'Tis such another fitchew! marry a perfumed one.\n[Enter BIANCA]\nWhat do you mean by this haunting of me?


plain_text:
Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What did you\nmean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now?\nI was a fine fool to take it. I must take out the\nwork?--A likely piece of work, that you should find\nit in your chamber, and not know who left it there!\nThis is some minx's token, and I must take out the\nwork? There; give it your hobby-horse: wheresoever\nyou had it, I'll take out no work on't.


plain_text:
Yours by this hand: and to see how he prizes the\nfoolish woman your wife! she gave it him, and he\nhath given it his whore.


plain_text:
Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned to-night;\nfor she shall not live: no, my heart is turned to\nstone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O, the\nworld hath not a sweeter creature: she might lie by\nan emperor's side and command him tasks.


plain_text:
Hang her! I do but say what she is: so delicate\nwith her needle: an admirable musician: O! she\nwill sing the savageness out of a bear: of so high\nand plenteous wit and invention:--


plain_text:
If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her\npatent to offend; for, if it touch not you, it comes\nnear nobody.


plain_text:
Get me some poison, Iago; this night: I'll not\nexpostulate with her, lest her body and beauty\nunprovide my mind again: this night, Iago.


plain_text:
May be the letter moved him;\nFor, as I think, they do command him home,\nDeputing Cassio in his government.


plain_text:
My lord, this would not be believed in Venice,\nThough I should swear I saw't: 'tis very much:\nMake her amends; she weeps.


plain_text:
O devil, devil!\nIf that the earth could teem with woman's tears,\nEach drop she falls would prove a crocodile.\nOut of my sight!


plain_text:
Ay; you did wish that I would make her turn:\nSir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on,\nAnd turn again; and she can weep, sir, weep;\nAnd she's obedient, as you say, obedient,\nVery obedient. Proceed you in your tears.\nConcerning this, sir,--O well-painted passion!--\nI am commanded home. Get you away;\nI'll send for you anon. Sir, I obey the mandate,\nAnd will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt!\n[Exit DESDEMONA]\nCassio shall have my place. And, sir, tonight,\nI do entreat that we may sup together:\nYou are welcome, sir, to Cyprus.--Goats and monkeys!


plain_text:
Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate\nCall all in all sufficient? Is this the nature\nWhom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue\nThe shot of accident, nor dart of chance,\nCould neither graze nor pierce?


plain_text:
He's that he is: I may not breathe my censure\nWhat he might be: if what he might he is not,\nI would to heaven he were!


plain_text:
Alas, alas!\nIt is not honesty in me to speak\nWhat I have seen and known. You shall observe him,\nAnd his own courses will denote him so\nThat I may save my speech: do but go after,\nAnd mark how he continues.


plain_text:
I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest,\nLay down my soul at stake: if you think other,\nRemove your thought; it doth abuse your bosom.\nIf any wretch have put this in your head,\nLet heaven requite it with the serpent's curse!\nFor, if she be not honest, chaste, and true,\nThere's no man happy; the purest of their wives\nIs foul as slander.


plain_text:
Bid her come hither: go.\n[Exit EMILIA]\nShe says enough; yet she's a simple bawd\nThat cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore,\nA closet lock and key of villanous secrets\nAnd yet she'll kneel and pray; I have seen her do't.


plain_text:
[To EMILIA] Some of your function, mistress;\nLeave procreants alone and shut the door;\nCough, or cry 'hem,' if any body come:\nYour mystery, your mystery: nay, dispatch.


plain_text:
Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?\nI understand a fury in your words.\nBut not the words.


plain_text:
Come, swear it, damn thyself\nLest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves\nShould fear to seize thee: therefore be double damn'd:\nSwear thou art honest.


plain_text:
Alas the heavy day! Why do you weep?\nAm I the motive of these tears, my lord?\nIf haply you my father do suspect\nAn instrument of this your calling back,\nLay not your blame on me: If you have lost him,\nWhy, I have lost him too.


plain_text:
Had it pleased heaven\nTo try me with affliction; had they rain'd\nAll kinds of sores and shames on my bare head.\nSteep'd me in poverty to the very lips,\nGiven to captivity me and my utmost hopes,\nI should have found in some place of my soul\nA drop of patience: but, alas, to make me\nA fixed figure for the time of scorn\nTo point his slow unmoving finger at!\nYet could I bear that too; well, very well:\nBut there, where I have garner'd up my heart,\nWhere either I must live, or bear no life;\nThe fountain from the which my current runs,\nOr else dries up; to be discarded thence!\nOr keep it as a cistern for foul toads\nTo knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there,\nPatience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin,--\nAy, there, look grim as hell!


plain_text:
O, ay; as summer flies are in the shambles,\nThat quicken even with blowing. O thou weed,\nWho art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet\nThat the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst\nne'er been born!


plain_text:
Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,\nMade to write 'whore' upon? What committed!\nCommitted! O thou public commoner!\nI should make very forges of my cheeks,\nThat would to cinders burn up modesty,\nDid I but speak thy deeds. What committed!\nHeaven stops the nose at it and the moon winks,\nThe bawdy wind that kisses all it meets\nIs hush'd within the hollow mine of earth,\nAnd will not hear it. What committed!\nImpudent strumpet!


plain_text:
No, as I am a Christian:\nIf to preserve this vessel for my lord\nFrom any other foul unlawful touch\nBe not to be a strumpet, I am none.


plain_text:
I cry you mercy, then:\nI took you for that cunning whore of Venice\nThat married with Othello.\n[Raising his voice]\nYou, mistress,\nThat have the office opposite to Saint Peter,\nAnd keep the gate of hell!\n[Re-enter EMILIA]\nYou, you, ay, you!\nWe have done our course; there's money for your pains:\nI pray you, turn the key and keep our counsel.


plain_text:
I have none: do not talk to me, Emilia;\nI cannot weep; nor answer have I none,\nBut what should go by water. Prithee, tonight\nLay on my bed my wedding sheets: remember;\nAnd call thy husband hither.


plain_text:
'Tis meet I should be used so, very meet.\nHow have I been behaved, that he might stick\nThe small'st opinion on my least misuse?


plain_text:
I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babes\nDo it with gentle means and easy tasks:\nHe might have chid me so; for, in good faith,\nI am a child to chiding.


plain_text:
Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her.\nThrown such despite and heavy terms upon her,\nAs true hearts cannot bear.


plain_text:
Hath she forsook so many noble matches,\nHer father and her country and her friends,\nTo be call'd whore? would it not make one weep?


plain_text:
I will be hang'd, if some eternal villain,\nSome busy and insinuating rogue,\nSome cogging, cozening slave, to get some office,\nHave not devised this slander; I'll be hang'd else.


plain_text:
A halter pardon him! and hell gnaw his bones!\nWhy should he call her whore? who keeps her company?\nWhat place? what time? what form? what likelihood?\nThe Moor's abused by some most villanous knave,\nSome base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow.\nO heaven, that such companions thou'ldst unfold,\nAnd put in every honest hand a whip\nTo lash the rascals naked through the world\nEven from the east to the west!


plain_text:
O, fie upon them! Some such squire he was\nThat turn'd your wit the seamy side without,\nAnd made you to suspect me with the Moor.


plain_text:
O good Iago,\nWhat shall I do to win my lord again?\nGood friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven,\nI know not how I lost him. Here I kneel:\nIf e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,\nEither in discourse of thought or actual deed,\nOr that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,\nDelighted them in any other form;\nOr that I do not yet, and ever did.\nAnd ever will--though he do shake me off\nTo beggarly divorcement--love him dearly,\nComfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much;\nAnd his unkindness may defeat my life,\nBut never taint my love. I cannot say 'whore:'\nIt does abhor me now I speak the word;\nTo do the act that might the addition earn\nNot the world's mass of vanity could make me.


plain_text:
I pray you, be content; 'tis but his humour:\nThe business of the state does him offence,\nAnd he does chide with you.


plain_text:
'Tis but so, I warrant.\n[Trumpets within]\nHark, how these instruments summon to supper!\nThe messengers of Venice stay the meat;\nGo in, and weep not; all things shall be well.\n[Exeunt DESDEMONA and EMILIA]\n[Enter RODERIGO]\nHow now, Roderigo!


plain_text:
Every day thou daffest me with some device, Iago;\nand rather, as it seems to me now, keepest from me\nall conveniency than suppliest me with the least\nadvantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endure\nit, nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace what\nalready I have foolishly suffered.


plain_text:
With nought but truth. I have wasted myself out of\nmy means. The jewels you have had from me to\ndeliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted a\nvotarist: you have told me she hath received them\nand returned me expectations and comforts of sudden\nrespect and acquaintance, but I find none.


plain_text:
Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; nor 'tis\nnot very well: nay, I think it is scurvy, and begin\nto find myself fobbed in it.


plain_text:
I tell you 'tis not very well. I will make myself\nknown to Desdemona: if she will return me my\njewels, I will give over my suit and repent my\nunlawful solicitation; if not, assure yourself I\nwill seek satisfaction of you.


plain_text:
Why, now I see there's mettle in thee, and even from\nthis instant to build on thee a better opinion than\never before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo: thou hast\ntaken against me a most just exception; but yet, I\nprotest, I have dealt most directly in thy affair.


plain_text:
I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and your\nsuspicion is not without wit and judgment. But,\nRoderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, which I\nhave greater reason to believe now than ever, I mean\npurpose, courage and valour, this night show it: if\nthou the next night following enjoy not Desdemona,\ntake me from this world with treachery and devise\nengines for my life.


plain_text:
O, no; he goes into Mauritania and takes away with\nhim the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be\nlingered here by some accident: wherein none can be\nso determinate as the removing of Cassio.


plain_text:
Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit and a right.\nHe sups to-night with a harlotry, and thither will I\ngo to him: he knows not yet of his horrorable\nfortune. If you will watch his going thence, which\nI will fashion to fall out between twelve and one,\nyou may take him at your pleasure: I will be near\nto second your attempt, and he shall fall between\nus. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with\nme; I will show you such a necessity in his death\nthat you shall think yourself bound to put it on\nhim. It is now high suppertime, and the night grows\nto waste: about it.


plain_text:
Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned\nforthwith: dismiss your attendant there: look it be done.


plain_text:
He says he will return incontinent:\nHe hath commanded me to go to bed,\nAnd bade me to dismiss you.


plain_text:
It was his bidding: therefore, good Emilia,.\nGive me my nightly wearing, and adieu:\nWe must not now displease him.


plain_text:
So would not I. my love doth so approve him,\nThat even his stubbornness, his cheques, his frowns--\nPrithee, unpin me,--have grace and favour in them.


plain_text:
All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds!\nIf I do die before thee prithee, shroud me\nIn one of those same sheets.


plain_text:
My mother had a maid call'd Barbara:\nShe was in love, and he she loved proved mad\nAnd did forsake her: she had a song of 'willow;'\nAn old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,\nAnd she died singing it: that song to-night\nWill not go from my mind; I have much to do,\nBut to go hang my head all at one side,\nAnd sing it like poor Barbara. Prithee, dispatch.


plain_text:
[Singing] The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,\nSing all a green willow:\nHer hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,\nSing willow, willow, willow:\nThe fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans;\nSing willow, willow, willow;\nHer salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones;\nLay by these:--\n[Singing]\nSing willow, willow, willow;\nPrithee, hie thee; he'll come anon:--\n[Singing]\nSing all a green willow must be my garland.\nLet nobody blame him; his scorn I approve,-\nNay, that's not next.--Hark! who is't that knocks?


plain_text:
[Singing] I call'd my love false love; but what\nsaid he then?\nSing willow, willow, willow:\nIf I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men!\nSo, get thee gone; good night Ate eyes do itch;\nDoth that bode weeping?


plain_text:
I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men!\nDost thou in conscience think,--tell me, Emilia,--\nThat there be women do abuse their husbands\nIn such gross kind?


plain_text:
In troth, I think I should; and undo't when I had\ndone. Marry, I would not do such a thing for a\njoint-ring, nor for measures of lawn, nor for\ngowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty\nexhibition; but for the whole world,--why, who would\nnot make her husband a cuckold to make him a\nmonarch? I should venture purgatory for't.


plain_text:
Why the wrong is but a wrong i' the world: and\nhaving the world for your labour, tis a wrong in your\nown world, and you might quickly make it right.


plain_text:
Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage as would\nstore the world they played for.\nBut I do think it is their husbands' faults\nIf wives do fall: say that they slack their duties,\nAnd pour our treasures into foreign laps,\nOr else break out in peevish jealousies,\nThrowing restraint upon us; or say they strike us,\nOr scant our former having in despite;\nWhy, we have galls, and though we have some grace,\nYet have we some revenge. Let husbands know\nTheir wives have sense like them: they see and smell\nAnd have their palates both for sweet and sour,\nAs husbands have. What is it that they do\nWhen they change us for others? Is it sport?\nI think it is: and doth affection breed it?\nI think it doth: is't frailty that thus errs?\nIt is so too: and have not we affections,\nDesires for sport, and frailty, as men have?\nThen let them use us well: else let them know,\nThe ills we do, their ills instruct us so.


plain_text:
Here, stand behind this bulk; straight will he come:\nWear thy good rapier bare, and put it home:\nQuick, quick; fear nothing; I'll be at thy elbow:\nIt makes us, or it mars us; think on that,\nAnd fix most firm thy resolution.


plain_text:
I have no great devotion to the deed;\nAnd yet he hath given me satisfying reasons:\n'Tis but a man gone. Forth, my sword: he dies.


plain_text:
I have rubb'd this young quat almost to the sense,\nAnd he grows angry. Now, whether he kill Cassio,\nOr Cassio him, or each do kill the other,\nEvery way makes my gain: live Roderigo,\nHe calls me to a restitution large\nOf gold and jewels that I bobb'd from him,\nAs gifts to Desdemona;\nIt must not be: if Cassio do remain,\nHe hath a daily beauty in his life\nThat makes me ugly; and, besides, the Moor\nMay unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril:\nNo, he must die. But so: I hear him coming.


plain_text:
That thrust had been mine enemy indeed,\nBut that my coat is better than thou know'st\nI will make proof of thine.


plain_text:
'Tis he:--O brave Iago, honest and just,\nThat hast such noble sense of thy friend's wrong!\nThou teachest me. Minion, your dear lies dead,\nAnd your unblest fate hies: strumpet, I come.\nForth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted;\nThy bed, lust-stain'd, shall with lust's blood be spotted.


plain_text:
Two or three groan: it is a heavy night:\nThese may be counterfeits: let's think't unsafe\nTo come in to the cry without more help.


plain_text:
Kill men i' the dark!--Where be these bloody thieves?--\nHow silent is this town!--Ho! murder! murder!--\nWhat may you be? are you of good or evil?


plain_text:
Gentlemen all, I do suspect this trash\nTo be a party in this injury.\nPatience awhile, good Cassio. Come, come;\nLend me a light. Know we this face or no?\nAlas my friend and my dear countryman\nRoderigo! no:--yes, sure: O heaven! Roderigo.


plain_text:
Signior Gratiano? I cry you gentle pardon;\nThese bloody accidents must excuse my manners,\nThat so neglected you.


plain_text:
Some good man bear him carefully from hence;\nI'll fetch the general's surgeon.\n[To BIANCA]\nFor you, mistress,\nSave you your labour. He that lies slain\nhere, Cassio,\nWas my dear friend: what malice was between you?


plain_text:
[To BIANCA] What, look you pale? O, bear him out\no' the air.\n[CASSIO and RODERIGO are borne off]\nStay you, good gentlemen. Look you pale, mistress?\nDo you perceive the gastness of her eye?\nNay, if you stare, we shall hear more anon.\nBehold her well; I pray you, look upon her:\nDo you see, gentlemen? nay, guiltiness will speak,\nThough tongues were out of use.


plain_text:
Cassio hath here been set on in the dark\nBy Roderigo and fellows that are scaped:\nHe's almost slain, and Roderigo dead.


plain_text:
This is the fruit of whoring. Prithee, Emilia,\nGo know of Cassio where he supp'd to-night.\n[To BIANCA]\nWhat, do you shake at that?


plain_text:
Kind gentlemen, let's go see poor Cassio dress'd.\nCome, mistress, you must tell's another tale.\nEmilia run you to the citadel,\nAnd tell my lord and lady what hath happ'd.\nWill you go on? I pray.\n[Aside]\nThis is the night\nThat either makes me or fordoes me quite.


plain_text:
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,--\nLet me not name it to you, you chaste stars!--\nIt is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood;\nNor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,\nAnd smooth as monumental alabaster.\nYet she must die, else she'll betray more men.\nPut out the light, and then put out the light:\nIf I quench thee, thou flaming minister,\nI can again thy former light restore,\nShould I repent me: but once put out thy light,\nThou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,\nI know not where is that Promethean heat\nThat can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd the rose,\nI cannot give it vital growth again.\nIt must needs wither: I'll smell it on the tree.\n[Kissing her]\nAh balmy breath, that dost almost persuade\nJustice to break her sword! One more, one more.\nBe thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,\nAnd love thee after. One more, and this the last:\nSo sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,\nBut they are cruel tears: this sorrow's heavenly;\nIt strikes where it doth love. She wakes.


plain_text:
If you bethink yourself of any crime\nUnreconciled as yet to heaven and grace,\nSolicit for it straight.


plain_text:
Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by:\nI would not kill thy unprepared spirit;\nNo; heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul.


plain_text:
And yet I fear you; for you are fatal then\nWhen your eyes roll so: why I should fear I know not,\nSince guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear.


plain_text:
That death's unnatural that kills for loving.\nAlas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?\nSome bloody passion shakes your very frame:\nThese are portents; but yet I hope, I hope,\nThey do not point on me.


plain_text:
Yes, presently:\nTherefore confess thee freely of thy sin;\nFor to deny each article with oath\nCannot remove nor choke the strong conception\nThat I do groan withal. Thou art to die.


plain_text:
And have you mercy too! I never did\nOffend you in my life; never loved Cassio\nBut with such general warranty of heaven\nAs I might love: I never gave him token.


plain_text:
By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in's hand.\nO perjured woman! thou dost stone my heart,\nAnd makest me call what I intend to do\nA murder, which I thought a sacrifice:\nI saw the handkerchief.


plain_text:
What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead?\nI that am cruel am yet merciful;\nI would not have thee linger in thy pain: So, so.


plain_text:
Yes: 'tis Emilia. By and by. She's dead.\n'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death.--\nThe noise was here. Ha! no more moving?\nStill as the grave. Shall she come in? were't good?--\nI think she stirs again:--no. What's best to do?\nIf she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife:\nMy wife! my wife! what wife? I have no wife.\nO insupportable! O heavy hour!\nMethinks it should be now a huge eclipse\nOf sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe\nShould yawn at alteration.


plain_text:
I had forgot thee: O, come in, Emilia;\nSoft; by and by. Let me the curtains draw.\nWhere art thou?\n[Unlocks the door]\n[Enter EMILIA]\nWhat's the matter with thee now?


plain_text:
It is the very error of the moon;\nShe comes more nearer earth than she was wont,\nAnd makes men mad.


plain_text:
Out, and alas! that was my lady's voice.\nHelp! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again!\nSweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak!


plain_text:
Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else.\nO, I were damn'd beneath all depth in hell,\nBut that I did proceed upon just grounds\nTo this extremity. Thy husband knew it all.


plain_text:
Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true,\nIf heaven would make me such another world\nOf one entire and Perfect chrysolite,\nI'ld not have sold her for it.


plain_text:
Ay, 'twas he that told me first:\nAn honest man he is, and hates the slime\nThat sticks on filthy deeds.


plain_text:
He, woman;\nI say thy husband: dost understand the word?\nMy friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago.


plain_text:
If he say so, may his pernicious soul\nRot half a grain a day! he lies to the heart:\nShe was too fond of her most filthy bargain.


plain_text:
Thou hast not half that power to do me harm\nAs I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt!\nAs ignorant as dirt! thou hast done a deed--\nI care not for thy sword; I'll make thee known,\nThough I lost twenty lives.--Help! help, ho! help!\nThe Moor hath kill'd my mistress! Murder! murder!


plain_text:
Disprove this villain, if thou be'st a man:\nHe says thou told'st him that his wife was false:\nI know thou didst not, thou'rt not such a villain:\nSpeak, for my heart is full.


plain_text:
You told a lie, an odious, damned lie;\nUpon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.\nShe false with Cassio!--did you say with Cassio?


plain_text:
Villany, villany, villany!\nI think upon't, I think: I smell't: O villany!--\nI thought so then:--I'll kill myself for grief:--\nO villany, villany!


plain_text:
Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak:\n'Tis proper I obey him, but not now.\nPerchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home.


plain_text:
Nay, lay thee down and roar;\nFor thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent\nThat e'er did lift up eye.


plain_text:
[Rising] O, she was foul!\nI scarce did know you, uncle: there lies your niece,\nWhose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopp'd:\nI know this act shows horrible and grim.


plain_text:
Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead:\nThy match was mortal to him, and pure grief\nShore his old thread in twain: did he live now,\nThis sight would make him do a desperate turn,\nYea, curse his better angel from his side,\nAnd fall to reprobation.


plain_text:
'Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows\nThat she with Cassio hath the act of shame\nA thousand times committed; Cassio confess'd it:\nAnd she did gratify his amorous works\nWith that recognizance and pledge of love\nWhich I first gave her; I saw it in his hand:\nIt was a handkerchief, an antique token\nMy father gave my mother.


plain_text:
'Twill out, 'twill out: I peace!\nNo, I will speak as liberal as the north:\nLet heaven and men and devils, let them all,\nAll, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.


plain_text:
O thou dull Moor! that handkerchief thou speak'st of\nI found by fortune and did give my husband;\nFor often, with a solemn earnestness,\nMore than indeed belong'd to such a trifle,\nHe begg'd of me to steal it.


plain_text:
By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen.\nO murderous coxcomb! what should such a fool\nDo with so good a woman?


plain_text:
'Tis a notorious villain. Take you this weapon,\nWhich I have here recover'd from the Moor:\nCome, guard the door without; let him not pass,\nBut kill him rather. I'll after that same villain,\nFor 'tis a damned slave.


plain_text:
I am not valiant neither,\nBut ever puny whipster gets my sword:\nBut why should honour outlive honesty?\nLet it go all.


plain_text:
What did thy song bode, lady?\nHark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan.\nAnd die in music.\n[Singing]\nWillow, willow, willow,--\nMoor, she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor;\nSo come my soul to bliss, as I speak true;\nSo speaking as I think, I die, I die.


plain_text:
I have another weapon in this chamber;\nIt is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook's temper:--\nO, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth.


plain_text:
[Within] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear:\nThou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer.


plain_text:
Behold, I have a weapon;\nA better never did itself sustain\nUpon a soldier's thigh: I have seen the day,\nThat, with this little arm and this good sword,\nI have made my way through more impediments\nThan twenty times your stop: but, O vain boast!\nWho can control his fate? 'tis not so now.\nBe not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd;\nHere is my journey's end, here is my butt,\nAnd very sea-mark of my utmost sail.\nDo you go back dismay'd? 'tis a lost fear;\nMan but a rush against Othello's breast,\nAnd he retires. Where should Othello go?\nNow, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench!\nPale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,\nThis look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,\nAnd fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl!\nEven like thy chastity. O cursed slave!\nWhip me, ye devils,\nFrom the possession of this heavenly sight!\nBlow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur!\nWash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!\nO Desdemona! Desdemona! dead!\nOh! Oh! Oh!\n[Enter LODOVICO. MONTANO, CASSIO carried in a chair,]\nand Officers with IAGO, prisoner]


plain_text:
O thou Othello, thou wert once so good,\nFall'n in the practise of a damned slave,\nWhat shall be said to thee?


plain_text:
I do believe it, and I ask your pardon.\nWill you, I pray, demand that demi-devil\nWhy he hath thus ensnared my soul and body?


plain_text:
Sir, you shall understand what hath befall'n,\nWhich, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter\nFound in the pocket of the slain Roderigo;\nAnd here another: the one of them imports\nThe death of Cassio to be undertook\nBy Roderigo.


plain_text:
Now here's another discontented paper,\nFound in his pocket too; and this, it seems,\nRoderigo meant to have sent this damned villain;\nBut that belike Iago in the interim\nCame in and satisfied him.


plain_text:
I found it in my chamber:\nAnd he himself confess'd but even now\nThat there he dropp'd it for a special purpose\nWhich wrought to his desire.


plain_text:
There is besides in Roderigo's letter,\nHow he upbraids Iago, that he made him\nBrave me upon the watch; whereon it came\nThat I was cast: and even but now he spake,\nAfter long seeming dead, Iago hurt him,\nIago set him on.


plain_text:
You must forsake this room, and go with us:\nYour power and your command is taken off,\nAnd Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave,\nIf there be any cunning cruelty\nThat can torment him much and hold him long,\nIt shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest,\nTill that the nature of your fault be known\nTo the Venetian state. Come, bring him away.


plain_text:
Soft you; a word or two before you go.\nI have done the state some service, and they know't.\nNo more of that. I pray you, in your letters,\nWhen you shall these unlucky deeds relate,\nSpeak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,\nNor set down aught in malice: then must you speak\nOf one that loved not wisely but too well;\nOf one not easily jealous, but being wrought\nPerplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand,\nLike the base Indian, threw a pearl away\nRicher than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes,\nAlbeit unused to the melting mood,\nDrop tears as fast as the Arabian trees\nTheir medicinal gum. Set you down this;\nAnd say besides, that in Aleppo once,\nWhere a malignant and a turban'd Turk\nBeat a Venetian and traduced the state,\nI took by the throat the circumcised dog,\nAnd smote him, thus.


plain_text:
[To IAGO] O Spartan dog,\nMore fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea!\nLook on the tragic loading of this bed;\nThis is thy work: the object poisons sight;\nLet it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house,\nAnd seize upon the fortunes of the Moor,\nFor they succeed on you. To you, lord governor,\nRemains the censure of this hellish villain;\nThe time, the place, the torture: O, enforce it!\nMyself will straight aboard: and to the state\nThis heavy act with heavy heart relate.


plain_text:
When my love swears that she is made of truth,\nI do believe her, though I know she lies,\nThat she might think me some untutor'd youth,\nUnskilful in the world's false forgeries.\nThus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,\nAlthough I know my years be past the best,\nI smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,\nOutfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.\nBut wherefore says my love that she is young?\nAnd wherefore say not I that I am old?\nO, love's best habit is a soothing tongue,\nAnd age, in love, loves not to have years told.\nTherefore I'll lie with love, and love with me,\nSince that our faults in love thus smother'd be.


plain_text:
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,\nThat like two spirits do suggest me still;\nMy better angel is a man right fair,\nMy worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.\nTo win me soon to hell, my female evil\nTempteth my better angel from my side,\nAnd would corrupt my saint to be a devil,\nWooing his purity with her fair pride.\nAnd whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,\nSuspect I may, yet not directly tell:\nFor being both to me, both to each friend,\nI guess one angel in another's hell;\nThe truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,\nTill my bad angel fire my good one out.


plain_text:
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,\n'Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,\nPersuade my heart to this false perjury?\nVows for thee broke deserve not punishment.\nA woman I forswore; but I will prove,\nThou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:\nMy vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;\nThy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me.\nMy vow was breath, and breath a vapour is;\nThen, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine,\nExhale this vapour vow; in thee it is:\nIf broken, then it is no fault of mine.\nIf by me broke, what fool is not so wise\nTo break an oath, to win a paradise?


plain_text:
Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook\nWith young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,\nDid court the lad with many a lovely look,\nSuch looks as none could look but beauty's queen.\nShe told him stories to delight his ear;\nShe showed him favors to allure his eye;\nTo win his heart, she touch'd him here and there,--\nTouches so soft still conquer chastity.\nBut whether unripe years did want conceit,\nOr he refused to take her figured proffer,\nThe tender nibbler would not touch the bait,\nBut smile and jest at every gentle offer:\nThen fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward:\nHe rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward!


plain_text:
If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?\nO never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd:\nThough to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove;\nThose thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd.\nStudy his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,\nWhere all those pleasures live that art can comprehend.\nIf knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;\nWell learned is that tongue that well can thee commend;\nAll ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;\nWhich is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire:\nThine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful\nthunder,\nWhich, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.\nCelestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong,\nTo sing heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.


plain_text:
Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,\nAnd scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,\nWhen Cytherea, all in love forlorn,\nA longing tarriance for Adonis made\nUnder an osier growing by a brook,\nA brook where Adon used to cool his spleen:\nHot was the day; she hotter that did look\nFor his approach, that often there had been.\nAnon he comes, and throws his mantle by,\nAnd stood stark naked on the brook's green brim:\nThe sun look'd on the world with glorious eye,\nYet not so wistly as this queen on him.\nHe, spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood:\n'O Jove,' quoth she, 'why was not I a flood!'


plain_text:
Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle;\nMild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty;\nBrighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;\nSofter than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty:\nA lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,\nNone fairer, nor none falser to deface her.


plain_text:
Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,\nBetween each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!\nHow many tales to please me hath she coined,\nDreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing!\nYet in the midst of all her pure protestings,\nHer faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.


plain_text:
She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth;\nShe burn'd out love, as soon as straw outburneth;\nShe framed the love, and yet she foil'd the framing;\nShe bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.\nWas this a lover, or a lecher whether?\nBad in the best, though excellent in neither.


plain_text:
If music and sweet poetry agree,\nAs they must needs, the sister and the brother,\nThen must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,\nBecause thou lovest the one, and I the other.\nDowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch\nUpon the lute doth ravish human sense;\nSpenser to me, whose deep conceit is such\nAs, passing all conceit, needs no defence.\nThou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound\nThat Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes;\nAnd I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd\nWhen as himself to singing he betakes.\nOne god is god of both, as poets feign;\nOne knight loves both, and both in thee remain.


plain_text:
Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love,\n[		   ]\nPaler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,\nFor Adon's sake, a youngster proud and wild;\nHer stand she takes upon a steep-up hill:\nAnon Adonis comes with horn and hounds;\nShe, silly queen, with more than love's good will,\nForbade the boy he should not pass those grounds:\n'Once,' quoth she, 'did I see a fair sweet youth\nHere in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,\nDeep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth!\nSee, in my thigh,' quoth she, 'here was the sore.'\nShe showed hers: he saw more wounds than one,\nAnd blushing fled, and left her all alone.


plain_text:
Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck'd, soon vaded,\nPluck'd in the bud, and vaded in the spring!\nBright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded!\nFair creature, kill'd too soon by death's sharp sting!\nLike a green plum that hangs upon a tree,\nAnd falls, through wind, before the fall should be.


plain_text:
I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have;\nFor why thou left'st me nothing in thy will:\nAnd yet thou left'st me more than I did crave;\nFor why I craved nothing of thee still:\nO yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee,\nThy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.


plain_text:
Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her\nUnder a myrtle shade, began to woo him:\nShe told the youngling how god Mars did try her,\nAnd as he fell to her, so fell she to him.\n'Even thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike god embraced me,'\nAnd then she clipp'd Adonis in her arms;\n'Even thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike god unlaced me,'\nAs if the boy should use like loving charms;\n'Even thus,' quoth she, 'he seized on my lips,'\nAnd with her lips on his did act the seizure:\nAnd as she fetched breath, away he skips,\nAnd would not take her meaning nor her pleasure.\nAh, that I had my lady at this bay,\nTo kiss and clip me till I run away!


plain_text:
Crabbed age and youth cannot live together:\nYouth is full of pleasance, age is full of care;\nYouth like summer morn, age like winter weather;\nYouth like summer brave, age like winter bare.\nYouth is full of sport, age's breath is short;\nYouth is nimble, age is lame;\nYouth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold;\nYouth is wild, and age is tame.\nAge, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee;\nO, my love, my love is young!\nAge, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,\nFor methinks thou stay'st too long,


plain_text:
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good;\nA shining gloss that vadeth suddenly;\nA flower that dies when first it gins to bud;\nA brittle glass that's broken presently:\nA doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,\nLost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.


plain_text:
And as goods lost are seld or never found,\nAs vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,\nAs flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground,\nAs broken glass no cement can redress,\nSo beauty blemish'd once's for ever lost,\nIn spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.


plain_text:
Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share:\nShe bade good night that kept my rest away;\nAnd daff'd me to a cabin hang'd with care,\nTo descant on the doubts of my decay.\n'Farewell,' quoth she, 'and come again tomorrow:'\nFare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.


plain_text:
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,\nIn scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether:\n'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile,\n'T may be, again to make me wander thither:\n'Wander,' a word for shadows like myself,\nAs take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.


plain_text:
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!\nMy heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise\nDoth cite each moving sense from idle rest.\nNot daring trust the office of mine eyes,\nWhile Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,\nAnd wish her lays were tuned like the lark;


plain_text:
For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,\nAnd drives away dark dismal-dreaming night:\nThe night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty;\nHeart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;\nSorrow changed to solace, solace mix'd with sorrow;\nFor why, she sigh'd and bade me come tomorrow.


plain_text:
Were I with her, the night would post too soon;\nBut now are minutes added to the hours;\nTo spite me now, each minute seems a moon;\nYet not for me, shine sun to succor flowers!\nPack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow:\nShort, night, to-night, and length thyself tomorrow.


plain_text:
It was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of three,\nThat liked of her master as well as well might be,\nTill looking on an Englishman, the fair'st that eye could see,\nHer fancy fell a-turning.


plain_text:
Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight,\nTo leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight:\nTo put in practise either, alas, it was a spite\nUnto the silly damsel!


plain_text:
But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain\nThat nothing could be used to turn them both to gain,\nFor of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain:\nAlas, she could not help it!


plain_text:
Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,\nWhich by a gift of learning did bear the maid away:\nThen, lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay;\nFor now my song is ended.


plain_text:
On a day, alack the day!\nLove, whose month was ever May,\nSpied a blossom passing fair,\nPlaying in the wanton air:\nThrough the velvet leaves the wind\nAll unseen, gan passage find;\nThat the lover, sick to death,\nWish'd himself the heaven's breath,\n'Air,' quoth he, 'thy cheeks may blow;\nAir, would I might triumph so!\nBut, alas! my hand hath sworn\nNe'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:\nVow, alack! for youth unmeet:\nYouth, so apt to pluck a sweet.\nThou for whom Jove would swear\nJuno but an Ethiope were;\nAnd deny himself for Jove,\nTurning mortal for thy love.'


plain_text:
My flocks feed not,\nMy ewes breed not,\nMy rams speed not,\nAll is amiss:\nLove's denying,\nFaith's defying,\nHeart's renying,\nCauser of this.\nAll my merry jigs are quite forgot,\nAll my lady's love is lost, God wot:\nWhere her faith was firmly fix'd in love,\nThere a nay is placed without remove.\nOne silly cross\nWrought all my loss;\nO frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame!\nFor now I see\nInconstancy\nMore in women than in men remain.\nIn black mourn I,\nAll fears scorn I,\nLove hath forlorn me,\nLiving in thrall:\nHeart is bleeding,\nAll help needing,\nO cruel speeding,\nFraughted with gall.\nMy shepherd's pipe can sound no deal;\nMy wether's bell rings doleful knell;\nMy curtail dog, that wont to have play'd\nPlays not at all, but seems afraid;\nMy sighs so deep\nProcure to weep,\nIn howling wise, to see my doleful plight.\nHow sighs resound\nThrough heartless ground,\nLike a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight!\nClear wells spring not,\nSweet birds sing not,\nGreen plants bring not\nForth their dye;\nHerds stand weeping,\nFlocks all sleeping,\nNymphs back peeping\nFearfully:\nAll our pleasure known to us poor swains,\nAll our merry meetings on the plains,\nAll our evening sport from us is fled,\nAll our love is lost, for Love is dead\nFarewell, sweet lass,\nThy like ne'er was\nFor a sweet content, the cause of all my moan:\nPoor Corydon\nMust live alone;\nOther help for him I see that there is none.


plain_text:
When as thine eye hath chose the dame,\nAnd stall'd the deer that thou shouldst strike,\nLet reason rule things worthy blame,\nAs well as fancy partial might:\nTake counsel of some wiser head,\nNeither too young nor yet unwed.


plain_text:
And when thou comest thy tale to tell,\nSmooth not thy tongue with filed talk,\nLest she some subtle practise smell,--\nA cripple soon can find a halt;--\nBut plainly say thou lovest her well,


plain_text:
And set thy person forth to sell.\nWhat though her frowning brows be bent,\nHer cloudy looks will calm ere night:\nAnd then too late she will repent\nThat thus dissembled her delight;\nAnd twice desire, ere it be day,\nThat which with scorn she put away.


plain_text:
What though she strive to try her strength,\nAnd ban and brawl, and say thee nay,\nHer feeble force will yield at length,\nWhen craft hath taught her thus to say,\n'Had women been so strong as men,\nIn faith, you had not had it then.'


plain_text:
And to her will frame all thy ways;\nSpare not to spend, and chiefly there\nWhere thy desert may merit praise,\nBy ringing in thy lady's ear:\nThe strongest castle, tower, and town,\nThe golden bullet beats it down.


plain_text:
Serve always with assured trust,\nAnd in thy suit be humble true;\nUnless thy lady prove unjust,\nPress never thou to choose anew:\nWhen time shall serve, be thou not slack\nTo proffer, though she put thee back.


plain_text:
The wiles and guiles that women work,\nDissembled with an outward show,\nThe tricks and toys that in them lurk,\nThe cock that treads them shall not know.\nHave you not heard it said full oft,\nA woman's nay doth stand for nought?


plain_text:
Think women still to strive with men,\nTo sin and never for to saint:\nThere is no heaven, by holy then,\nWhen time with age doth them attaint.\nWere kisses all the joys in bed,\nOne woman would another wed.


plain_text:
But, soft! enough, too much, I fear\nLest that my mistress hear my song,\nShe will not stick to round me i' the ear,\nTo teach my tongue to be so long:\nYet will she blush, here be it said,\nTo hear her secrets so bewray'd.


plain_text:
Live with me, and be my love,\nAnd we will all the pleasures prove\nThat hills and valleys, dales and fields,\nAnd all the craggy mountains yields.


plain_text:
There will we sit upon the rocks,\nAnd see the shepherds feed their flocks,\nBy shallow rivers, by whose falls\nMelodious birds sing madrigals.


plain_text:
There will I make thee a bed of roses,\nWith a thousand fragrant posies,\nA cap of flowers, and a kirtle\nEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.


plain_text:
A belt of straw and ivy buds,\nWith coral clasps and amber studs;\nAnd if these pleasures may thee move,\nThen live with me and be my love.


plain_text:
[Love's Answer]\nIf that the world and love were young,\nAnd truth in every shepherd's tongue,\nThese pretty pleasures might me move\nTo live with thee and be thy love.


plain_text:
As it fell upon a day\nIn the merry month of May,\nSitting in a pleasant shade\nWhich a grove of myrtles made,\nBeasts did leap, and birds did sing,\nTrees did grow, and plants did spring;\nEvery thing did banish moan,\nSave the nightingale alone:\nShe, poor bird, as all forlorn,\nLean'd her breast up-till a thorn\nAnd there sung the dolefull'st ditty,\nThat to hear it was great pity:\n'Fie, fie, fie,' now would she cry;\n'Tereu, tereu!' by and by;\nThat to hear her so complain,\nScarce I could from tears refrain;\nFor her griefs, so lively shown,\nMade me think upon mine own.\nAh, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain!\nNone takes pity on thy pain:\nSenseless trees they cannot hear thee;\nRuthless beasts they will not cheer thee:\nKing Pandion he is dead;\nAll thy friends are lapp'd in lead;\nAll thy fellow birds do sing,\nCareless of thy sorrowing.\nEven so, poor bird, like thee,\nNone alive will pity me.\nWhilst as fickle Fortune smiled,\nThou and I were both beguiled.\nEvery one that flatters thee\nIs no friend in misery.\nWords are easy, like the wind;\nFaithful friends are hard to find:\nEvery man will be thy friend\nWhilst thou hast wherewith to spend;\nBut if store of crowns be scant,\nNo man will supply thy want.\nIf that one be prodigal,\nBountiful they will him call,\nAnd with such-like flattering,\n'Pity but he were a king;'\nIf he be addict to vice,\nQuickly him they will entice;\nIf to women he be bent,\nThey have at commandement:\nBut if Fortune once do frown,\nThen farewell his great renown\nThey that fawn'd on him before\nUse his company no more.\nHe that is thy friend indeed,\nHe will help thee in thy need:\nIf thou sorrow, he will weep;\nIf thou wake, he cannot sleep;\nThus of every grief in heart\nHe with thee doth bear a part.\nThese are certain signs to know\nFaithful friend from flattering foe.


plain_text:
To sing a song that old was sung,\nFrom ashes ancient Gower is come;\nAssuming man's infirmities,\nTo glad your ear, and please your eyes.\nIt hath been sung at festivals,\nOn ember-eves and holy-ales;\nAnd lords and ladies in their lives\nHave read it for restoratives:\nThe purchase is to make men glorious;\nEt bonum quo antiquius, eo melius.\nIf you, born in these latter times,\nWhen wit's more ripe, accept my rhymes.\nAnd that to hear an old man sing\nMay to your wishes pleasure bring\nI life would wish, and that I might\nWaste it for you, like taper-light.\nThis Antioch, then, Antiochus the Great\nBuilt up, this city, for his chiefest seat:\nThe fairest in all Syria,\nI tell you what mine authors say:\nThis king unto him took a fere,\nWho died and left a female heir,\nSo buxom, blithe, and full of face,\nAs heaven had lent her all his grace;\nWith whom the father liking took,\nAnd her to incest did provoke:\nBad child; worse father! to entice his own\nTo evil should be done by none:\nBut custom what they did begin\nWas with long use account no sin.\nThe beauty of this sinful dame\nMade many princes thither frame,\nTo seek her as a bed-fellow,\nIn marriage-pleasures play-fellow:\nWhich to prevent he made a law,\nTo keep her still, and men in awe,\nThat whoso ask'd her for his wife,\nHis riddle told not, lost his life:\nSo for her many a wight did die,\nAs yon grim looks do testify.\nWhat now ensues, to the judgment of your eye\nI give, my cause who best can justify.


plain_text:
I have, Antiochus, and, with a soul\nEmbolden'd with the glory of her praise,\nThink death no hazard in this enterprise.


plain_text:
Bring in our daughter, clothed like a bride,\nFor the embracements even of Jove himself;\nAt whose conception, till Lucina reign'd,\nNature this dowry gave, to glad her presence,\nThe senate-house of planets all did sit,\nTo knit in her their best perfections.


plain_text:
See where she comes, apparell'd like the spring,\nGraces her subjects, and her thoughts the king\nOf every virtue gives renown to men!\nHer face the book of praises, where is read\nNothing but curious pleasures, as from thence\nSorrow were ever razed and testy wrath\nCould never be her mild companion.\nYou gods that made me man, and sway in love,\nThat have inflamed desire in my breast\nTo taste the fruit of yon celestial tree,\nOr die in the adventure, be my helps,\nAs I am son and servant to your will,\nTo compass such a boundless happiness!


plain_text:
Before thee stands this fair Hesperides,\nWith golden fruit, but dangerous to be touch'd;\nFor death-like dragons here affright thee hard:\nHer face, like heaven, enticeth thee to view\nHer countless glory, which desert must gain;\nAnd which, without desert, because thine eye\nPresumes to reach, all thy whole heap must die.\nYon sometimes famous princes, like thyself,\nDrawn by report, adventurous by desire,\nTell thee, with speechless tongues and semblance pale,\nThat without covering, save yon field of stars,\nHere they stand martyrs, slain in Cupid's wars;\nAnd with dead cheeks advise thee to desist\nFor going on death's net, whom none resist.


plain_text:
Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath taught\nMy frail mortality to know itself,\nAnd by those fearful objects to prepare\nThis body, like to them, to what I must;\nFor death remember'd should be like a mirror,\nWho tells us life's but breath, to trust it error.\nI'll make my will then, and, as sick men do\nWho know the world, see heaven, but, feeling woe,\nGripe not at earthly joys as erst they did;\nSo I bequeath a happy peace to you\nAnd all good men, as every prince should do;\nMy riches to the earth from whence they came;\nBut my unspotted fire of love to you.\n[To the Daughter of ANTIOCHUS]\nThus ready for the way of life or death,\nI wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus.


plain_text:
Scorning advice, read the conclusion then:\nWhich read and not expounded, 'tis decreed,\nAs these before thee thou thyself shalt bleed.


plain_text:
Like a bold champion, I assume the lists,\nNor ask advice of any other thought\nBut faithfulness and courage.\n[He reads the riddle]\nI am no viper, yet I feed\nOn mother's flesh which did me breed.\nI sought a husband, in which labour\nI found that kindness in a father:\nHe's father, son, and husband mild;\nI mother, wife, and yet his child.\nHow they may be, and yet in two,\nAs you will live, resolve it you.\nSharp physic is the last: but, O you powers\nThat give heaven countless eyes to view men's acts,\nWhy cloud they not their sights perpetually,\nIf this be true, which makes me pale to read it?\nFair glass of light, I loved you, and could still,\n[Takes hold of the hand of the Daughter of ANTIOCHUS]\nWere not this glorious casket stored with ill:\nBut I must tell you, now my thoughts revolt\nFor he's no man on whom perfections wait\nThat, knowing sin within, will touch the gate.\nYou are a fair viol, and your sense the strings;\nWho, finger'd to make man his lawful music,\nWould draw heaven down, and all the gods, to hearken:\nBut being play'd upon before your time,\nHell only danceth at so harsh a chime.\nGood sooth, I care not for you.


plain_text:
Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life.\nFor that's an article within our law,\nAs dangerous as the rest. Your time's expired:\nEither expound now, or receive your sentence.


plain_text:
Great king,\nFew love to hear the sins they love to act;\n'Twould braid yourself too near for me to tell it.\nWho has a book of all that monarchs do,\nHe's more secure to keep it shut than shown:\nFor vice repeated is like the wandering wind.\nBlows dust in other's eyes, to spread itself;\nAnd yet the end of all is bought thus dear,\nThe breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear:\nTo stop the air would hurt them. The blind mole casts\nCopp'd hills towards heaven, to tell the earth is throng'd\nBy man's oppression; and the poor worm doth die for't.\nKings are earth's gods; in vice their law's\ntheir will;\nAnd if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill?\nIt is enough you know; and it is fit,\nWhat being more known grows worse, to smother it.\nAll love the womb that their first being bred,\nThen give my tongue like leave to love my head.


plain_text:
[Aside] Heaven, that I had thy head! he has found\nthe meaning:\nBut I will gloze with him.--Young prince of Tyre,\nThough by the tenor of our strict edict,\nYour exposition misinterpreting,\nWe might proceed to cancel of your days;\nYet hope, succeeding from so fair a tree\nAs your fair self, doth tune us otherwise:\nForty days longer we do respite you;\nIf by which time our secret be undone,\nThis mercy shows we'll joy in such a son:\nAnd until then your entertain shall be\nAs doth befit our honour and your worth.


plain_text:
How courtesy would seem to cover sin,\nWhen what is done is like an hypocrite,\nThe which is good in nothing but in sight!\nIf it be true that I interpret false,\nThen were it certain you were not so bad\nAs with foul incest to abuse your soul;\nWhere now you're both a father and a son,\nBy your untimely claspings with your child,\nWhich pleasure fits an husband, not a father;\nAnd she an eater of her mother's flesh,\nBy the defiling of her parent's bed;\nAnd both like serpents are, who though they feed\nOn sweetest flowers, yet they poison breed.\nAntioch, farewell! for wisdom sees, those men\nBlush not in actions blacker than the night,\nWill shun no course to keep them from the light.\nOne sin, I know, another doth provoke;\nMurder's as near to lust as flame to smoke:\nPoison and treason are the hands of sin,\nAy, and the targets, to put off the shame:\nThen, lest my lie be cropp'd to keep you clear,\nBy flight I'll shun the danger which I fear.


plain_text:
He hath found the meaning, for which we mean\nTo have his head.\nHe must not live to trumpet forth my infamy,\nNor tell the world Antiochus doth sin\nIn such a loathed manner;\nAnd therefore instantly this prince must die:\nFor by his fall my honour must keep high.\nWho attends us there?


plain_text:
Thaliard,\nYou are of our chamber, and our mind partakes\nHer private actions to your secrecy;\nAnd for your faithfulness we will advance you.\nThaliard, behold, here's poison, and here's gold;\nWe hate the prince of Tyre, and thou must kill him:\nIt fits thee not to ask the reason why,\nBecause we bid it. Say, is it done?


plain_text:
As thou\nWilt live, fly after: and like an arrow shot\nFrom a well-experienced archer hits the mark\nHis eye doth level at, so thou ne'er return\nUnless thou say 'Prince Pericles is dead.'


plain_text:
My lord,\nIf I can get him within my pistol's length,\nI'll make him sure enough: so, farewell to your highness.


plain_text:
[To Lords without] Let none disturb us.--Why should\nthis change of thoughts,\nThe sad companion, dull-eyed melancholy,\nBe my so used a guest as not an hour,\nIn the day's glorious walk, or peaceful night,\nThe tomb where grief should sleep, can breed me quiet?\nHere pleasures court mine eyes, and mine eyes shun them,\nAnd danger, which I fear'd, is at Antioch,\nWhose aim seems far too short to hit me here:\nYet neither pleasure's art can joy my spirits,\nNor yet the other's distance comfort me.\nThen it is thus: the passions of the mind,\nThat have their first conception by mis-dread,\nHave after-nourishment and life by care;\nAnd what was first but fear what might be done,\nGrows elder now and cares it be not done.\nAnd so with me: the great Antiochus,\n'Gainst whom I am too little to contend,\nSince he's so great can make his will his act,\nWill think me speaking, though I swear to silence;\nNor boots it me to say I honour him.\nIf he suspect I may dishonour him:\nAnd what may make him blush in being known,\nHe'll stop the course by which it might be known;\nWith hostile forces he'll o'erspread the land,\nAnd with the ostent of war will look so huge,\nAmazement shall drive courage from the state;\nOur men be vanquish'd ere they do resist,\nAnd subjects punish'd that ne'er thought offence:\nWhich care of them, not pity of myself,\nWho am no more but as the tops of trees,\nWhich fence the roots they grow by and defend them,\nMakes both my body pine and soul to languish,\nAnd punish that before that he would punish.


plain_text:
Peace, peace, and give experience tongue.\nThey do abuse the king that flatter him:\nFor flattery is the bellows blows up sin;\nThe thing which is flatter'd, but a spark,\nTo which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing;\nWhereas reproof, obedient and in order,\nFits kings, as they are men, for they may err.\nWhen Signior Sooth here does proclaim a peace,\nHe flatters you, makes war upon your life.\nPrince, pardon me, or strike me, if you please;\nI cannot be much lower than my knees.


plain_text:
All leave us else; but let your cares o'erlook\nWhat shipping and what lading's in our haven,\nAnd then return to us.\n[Exeunt Lords]\nHelicanus, thou\nHast moved us: what seest thou in our looks?


plain_text:
Rise, prithee, rise.\nSit down: thou art no flatterer:\nI thank thee for it; and heaven forbid\nThat kings should let their ears hear their\nfaults hid!\nFit counsellor and servant for a prince,\nWho by thy wisdom makest a prince thy servant,\nWhat wouldst thou have me do?


plain_text:
Thou speak'st like a physician, Helicanus,\nThat minister'st a potion unto me\nThat thou wouldst tremble to receive thyself.\nAttend me, then: I went to Antioch,\nWhere as thou know'st, against the face of death,\nI sought the purchase of a glorious beauty.\nFrom whence an issue I might propagate,\nAre arms to princes, and bring joys to subjects.\nHer face was to mine eye beyond all wonder;\nThe rest--hark in thine ear--as black as incest:\nWhich by my knowledge found, the sinful father\nSeem'd not to strike, but smooth: but thou\nknow'st this,\n'Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.\nSuch fear so grew in me, I hither fled,\nUnder the covering of a careful night,\nWho seem'd my good protector; and, being here,\nBethought me what was past, what might succeed.\nI knew him tyrannous; and tyrants' fears\nDecrease not, but grow faster than the years:\nAnd should he doubt it, as no doubt he doth,\nThat I should open to the listening air\nHow many worthy princes' bloods were shed,\nTo keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope,\nTo lop that doubt, he'll fill this land with arms,\nAnd make pretence of wrong that I have done him:\nWhen all, for mine, if I may call offence,\nMust feel war's blow, who spares not innocence:\nWhich love to all, of which thyself art one,\nWho now reprovest me for it,--


plain_text:
Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood from my cheeks,\nMusings into my mind, with thousand doubts\nHow I might stop this tempest ere it came;\nAnd finding little comfort to relieve them,\nI thought it princely charity to grieve them.


plain_text:
Well, my lord, since you have given me leave to speak.\nFreely will I speak. Antiochus you fear,\nAnd justly too, I think, you fear the tyrant,\nWho either by public war or private treason\nWill take away your life.\nTherefore, my lord, go travel for a while,\nTill that his rage and anger be forgot,\nOr till the Destinies do cut his thread of life.\nYour rule direct to any; if to me.\nDay serves not light more faithful than I'll be.


plain_text:
Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to Tarsus\nIntend my travel, where I'll hear from thee;\nAnd by whose letters I'll dispose myself.\nThe care I had and have of subjects' good\nOn thee I lay whose wisdom's strength can bear it.\nI'll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath:\nWho shuns not to break one will sure crack both:\nBut in our orbs we'll live so round and safe,\nThat time of both this truth shall ne'er convince,\nThou show'dst a subject's shine, I a true prince.


plain_text:
So, this is Tyre, and this the court. Here must I\nkill King Pericles; and if I do it not, I am sure to\nbe hanged at home: 'tis dangerous. Well, I perceive\nhe was a wise fellow, and had good discretion, that,\nbeing bid to ask what he would of the king, desired\nhe might know none of his secrets: now do I see he\nhad some reason for't; for if a king bid a man be a\nvillain, he's bound by the indenture of his oath to\nbe one! Hush! here come the lords of Tyre.


plain_text:
You shall not need, my fellow peers of Tyre,\nFurther to question me of your king's departure:\nHis seal'd commission, left in trust with me,\nDoth speak sufficiently he's gone to travel.


plain_text:
If further yet you will be satisfied,\nWhy, as it were unlicensed of your loves,\nHe would depart, I'll give some light unto you.\nBeing at Antioch--


plain_text:
Royal Antiochus--on what cause I know not--\nTook some displeasure at him; at least he judged so:\nAnd doubting lest that he had err'd or sinn'd,\nTo show his sorrow, he'ld correct himself;\nSo puts himself unto the shipman's toil,\nWith whom each minute threatens life or death.


plain_text:
[Aside] Well, I perceive\nI shall not be hang'd now, although I would;\nBut since he's gone, the king's seas must please:\nHe 'scaped the land, to perish at the sea.\nI'll present myself. Peace to the lords of Tyre!


plain_text:
From him I come\nWith message unto princely Pericles;\nBut since my landing I have understood\nYour lord has betook himself to unknown travels,\nMy message must return from whence it came.


plain_text:
We have no reason to desire it,\nCommended to our master, not to us:\nYet, ere you shall depart, this we desire,\nAs friends to Antioch, we may feast in Tyre.


plain_text:
My Dionyza, shall we rest us here,\nAnd by relating tales of others' griefs,\nSee if 'twill teach us to forget our own?


plain_text:
That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it;\nFor who digs hills because they do aspire\nThrows down one mountain to cast up a higher.\nO my distressed lord, even such our griefs are;\nHere they're but felt, and seen with mischief's eyes,\nBut like to groves, being topp'd, they higher rise.


plain_text:
O Dionyza,\nWho wanteth food, and will not say he wants it,\nOr can conceal his hunger till he famish?\nOur tongues and sorrows do sound deep\nOur woes into the air; our eyes do weep,\nTill tongues fetch breath that may proclaim them louder;\nThat, if heaven slumber while their creatures want,\nThey may awake their helps to comfort them.\nI'll then discourse our woes, felt several years,\nAnd wanting breath to speak help me with tears.


plain_text:
This Tarsus, o'er which I have the government,\nA city on whom plenty held full hand,\nFor riches strew'd herself even in the streets;\nWhose towers bore heads so high they kiss'd the clouds,\nAnd strangers ne'er beheld but wondered at;\nWhose men and dames so jetted and adorn'd,\nLike one another's glass to trim them by:\nTheir tables were stored full, to glad the sight,\nAnd not so much to feed on as delight;\nAll poverty was scorn'd, and pride so great,\nThe name of help grew odious to repeat.


plain_text:
But see what heaven can do! By this our change,\nThese mouths, who but of late, earth, sea, and air,\nWere all too little to content and please,\nAlthough they gave their creatures in abundance,\nAs houses are defiled for want of use,\nThey are now starved for want of exercise:\nThose palates who, not yet two summers younger,\nMust have inventions to delight the taste,\nWould now be glad of bread, and beg for it:\nThose mothers who, to nousle up their babes,\nThought nought too curious, are ready now\nTo eat those little darlings whom they loved.\nSo sharp are hunger's teeth, that man and wife\nDraw lots who first shall die to lengthen life:\nHere stands a lord, and there a lady weeping;\nHere many sink, yet those which see them fall\nHave scarce strength left to give them burial.\nIs not this true?


plain_text:
O, let those cities that of plenty's cup\nAnd her prosperities so largely taste,\nWith their superfluous riots, hear these tears!\nThe misery of Tarsus may be theirs.


plain_text:
Here.\nSpeak out thy sorrows which thou bring'st in haste,\nFor comfort is too far for us to expect.


plain_text:
I thought as much.\nOne sorrow never comes but brings an heir,\nThat may succeed as his inheritor;\nAnd so in ours: some neighbouring nation,\nTaking advantage of our misery,\nHath stuff'd these hollow vessels with their power,\nTo beat us down, the which are down already;\nAnd make a conquest of unhappy me,\nWhereas no glory's got to overcome.


plain_text:
That's the least fear; for, by the semblance\nOf their white flags display'd, they bring us peace,\nAnd come to us as favourers, not as foes.


plain_text:
Thou speak'st like him's untutor'd to repeat:\nWho makes the fairest show means most deceit.\nBut bring they what they will and what they can,\nWhat need we fear?\nThe ground's the lowest, and we are half way there.\nGo tell their general we attend him here,\nTo know for what he comes, and whence he comes,\nAnd what he craves.


plain_text:
Lord governor, for so we hear you are,\nLet not our ships and number of our men\nBe like a beacon fired to amaze your eyes.\nWe have heard your miseries as far as Tyre,\nAnd seen the desolation of your streets:\nNor come we to add sorrow to your tears,\nBut to relieve them of their heavy load;\nAnd these our ships, you happily may think\nAre like the Trojan horse was stuff'd within\nWith bloody veins, expecting overthrow,\nAre stored with corn to make your needy bread,\nAnd give them life whom hunger starved half dead.


plain_text:
Arise, I pray you, rise:\nWe do not look for reverence, but to love,\nAnd harbourage for ourself, our ships, and men.


plain_text:
The which when any shall not gratify,\nOr pay you with unthankfulness in thought,\nBe it our wives, our children, or ourselves,\nThe curse of heaven and men succeed their evils!\nTill when,--the which I hope shall ne'er be seen,--\nYour grace is welcome to our town and us.


plain_text:
Here have you seen a mighty king\nHis child, I wis, to incest bring;\nA better prince and benign lord,\nThat will prove awful both in deed and word.\nBe quiet then as men should be,\nTill he hath pass'd necessity.\nI'll show you those in troubles reign,\nLosing a mite, a mountain gain.\nThe good in conversation,\nTo whom I give my benison,\nIs still at Tarsus, where each man\nThinks all is writ he speken can;\nAnd, to remember what he does,\nBuild his statue to make him glorious:\nBut tidings to the contrary\nAre brought your eyes; what need speak I?\nDUMB SHOW.\n[Enter at one door PERICLES talking with CLEON; all]\nthe train with them. Enter at another door a\nGentleman, with a letter to PERICLES; PERICLES\nshows the letter to CLEON; gives the Messenger a\nreward, and knights him. Exit PERICLES at one\ndoor, and CLEON at another]\nGood Helicane, that stay'd at home,\nNot to eat honey like a drone\nFrom others' labours; for though he strive\nTo killen bad, keep good alive;\nAnd to fulfil his prince' desire,\nSends word of all that haps in Tyre:\nHow Thaliard came full bent with sin\nAnd had intent to murder him;\nAnd that in Tarsus was not best\nLonger for him to make his rest.\nHe, doing so, put forth to seas,\nWhere when men been, there's seldom ease;\nFor now the wind begins to blow;\nThunder above and deeps below\nMake such unquiet, that the ship\nShould house him safe is wreck'd and split;\nAnd he, good prince, having all lost,\nBy waves from coast to coast is tost:\nAll perishen of man, of pelf,\nNe aught escapen but himself;\nTill fortune, tired with doing bad,\nThrew him ashore, to give him glad:\nAnd here he comes. What shall be next,\nPardon old Gower,--this longs the text.


plain_text:
Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven!\nWind, rain, and thunder, remember, earthly man\nIs but a substance that must yield to you;\nAnd I, as fits my nature, do obey you:\nAlas, the sea hath cast me on the rocks,\nWash'd me from shore to shore, and left me breath\nNothing to think on but ensuing death:\nLet it suffice the greatness of your powers\nTo have bereft a prince of all his fortunes;\nAnd having thrown him from your watery grave,\nHere to have death in peace is all he'll crave.


plain_text:
Alas, poor souls, it grieved my heart to hear what\npitiful cries they made to us to help them, when,\nwell-a-day, we could scarce help ourselves.


plain_text:
Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the\nporpus how he bounced and tumbled? they say\nthey're half fish, half flesh: a plague on them,\nthey ne'er come but I look to be washed. Master, I\nmarvel how the fishes live in the sea.


plain_text:
Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the\nlittle ones: I can compare our rich misers to\nnothing so fitly as to a whale; a' plays and\ntumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at\nlast devours them all at a mouthful: such whales\nhave I heard on o' the land, who never leave gaping\ntill they've swallowed the whole parish, church,\nsteeple, bells, and all.


plain_text:
Because he should have swallowed me too: and when I\nhad been in his belly, I would have kept such a\njangling of the bells, that he should never have\nleft, till he cast bells, steeple, church, and\nparish up again. But if the good King Simonides\nwere of my mind,--


plain_text:
[Aside] How from the finny subject of the sea\nThese fishers tell the infirmities of men;\nAnd from their watery empire recollect\nAll that may men approve or men detect!\nPeace be at your labour, honest fishermen.


plain_text:
Honest! good fellow, what's that? If it be a day\nfits you, search out of the calendar, and nobody\nlook after it.


plain_text:
A man whom both the waters and the wind,\nIn that vast tennis-court, have made the ball\nFor them to play upon, entreats you pity him:\nHe asks of you, that never used to beg.


plain_text:
No, friend, cannot you beg? Here's them in our\ncountry Greece gets more with begging than we can do\nwith working.


plain_text:
Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure; for here's nothing\nto be got now-a-days, unless thou canst fish for't.


plain_text:
What I have been I have forgot to know;\nBut what I am, want teaches me to think on:\nA man throng'd up with cold: my veins are chill,\nAnd have no more of life than may suffice\nTo give my tongue that heat to ask your help;\nWhich if you shall refuse, when I am dead,\nFor that I am a man, pray see me buried.


plain_text:
Die quoth-a? Now gods forbid! I have a gown here;\ncome, put it on; keep thee warm. Now, afore me, a\nhandsome fellow! Come, thou shalt go home, and\nwe'll have flesh for holidays, fish for\nfasting-days, and moreo'er puddings and flap-jacks,\nand thou shalt be welcome.


plain_text:
O, not all, my friend, not all; for if all your\nbeggars were whipped, I would wish no better office\nthan to be beadle. But, master, I'll go draw up the\nnet.


plain_text:
He is a happy king, since he gains from his subjects\nthe name of good by his government. How far is his\ncourt distant from this shore?


plain_text:
Marry, sir, half a day's journey: and I'll tell\nyou, he hath a fair daughter, and to-morrow is her\nbirth-day; and there are princes and knights come\nfrom all parts of the world to just and tourney for her love.


plain_text:
O, sir, things must be as they may; and what a man\ncannot get, he may lawfully deal for--his wife's soul.


plain_text:
Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net,\nlike a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly\ncome out. Ha! bots on't, 'tis come at last, and\n'tis turned to a rusty armour.


plain_text:
An armour, friends! I pray you, let me see it.\nThanks, fortune, yet, that, after all my crosses,\nThou givest me somewhat to repair myself;\nAnd though it was mine own, part of my heritage,\nWhich my dead father did bequeath to me.\nWith this strict charge, even as he left his life,\n'Keep it, my Pericles; it hath been a shield\nTwixt me and death;'--and pointed to this brace;--\n'For that it saved me, keep it; in like necessity--\nThe which the gods protect thee from!--may\ndefend thee.'\nIt kept where I kept, I so dearly loved it;\nTill the rough seas, that spare not any man,\nTook it in rage, though calm'd have given't again:\nI thank thee for't: my shipwreck now's no ill,\nSince I have here my father's gift in's will.


plain_text:
To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of worth,\nFor it was sometime target to a king;\nI know it by this mark. He loved me dearly,\nAnd for his sake I wish the having of it;\nAnd that you'ld guide me to your sovereign's court,\nWhere with it I may appear a gentleman;\nAnd if that ever my low fortune's better,\nI'll pay your bounties; till then rest your debtor.


plain_text:
Ay, but hark you, my friend; 'twas we that made up\nthis garment through the rough seams of the waters:\nthere are certain condolements, certain vails. I\nhope, sir, if you thrive, you'll remember from\nwhence you had it.


plain_text:
Believe 't, I will.\nBy your furtherance I am clothed in steel;\nAnd, spite of all the rapture of the sea,\nThis jewel holds his building on my arm:\nUnto thy value I will mount myself\nUpon a courser, whose delightful steps\nShall make the gazer joy to see him tread.\nOnly, my friend, I yet am unprovided\nOf a pair of bases.


plain_text:
We'll sure provide: thou shalt have my best gown to\nmake thee a pair; and I'll bring thee to the court myself.


plain_text:
Return them, we are ready; and our daughter,\nIn honour of whose birth these triumphs are,\nSits here, like beauty's child, whom nature gat\nFor men to see, and seeing wonder at.


plain_text:
It's fit it should be so; for princes are\nA model which heaven makes like to itself:\nAs jewels lose their glory if neglected,\nSo princes their renowns if not respected.\n'Tis now your honour, daughter, to explain\nThe labour of each knight in his device.


plain_text:
Which, to preserve mine honour, I'll perform.\n[Enter a Knight; he passes over, and his Squire]\npresents his shield to the Princess]


plain_text:
A knight of Sparta, my renowned father;\nAnd the device he bears upon his shield\nIs a black Ethiope reaching at the sun\nThe word, 'Lux tua vita mihi.'


plain_text:
He loves you well that holds his life of you.\n[The Second Knight passes over]\nWho is the second that presents himself?


plain_text:
A prince of Macedon, my royal father;\nAnd the device he bears upon his shield\nIs an arm'd knight that's conquer'd by a lady;\nThe motto thus, in Spanish, 'Piu por dulzura que por fuerza.'


plain_text:
The fifth, an hand environed with clouds,\nHolding out gold that's by the touchstone tried;\nThe motto thus, 'Sic spectanda fides.'


plain_text:
And what's\nThe sixth and last, the which the knight himself\nWith such a graceful courtesy deliver'd?


plain_text:
He seems to be a stranger; but his present is\nA wither'd branch, that's only green at top;\nThe motto, 'In hac spe vivo.'


plain_text:
A pretty moral;\nFrom the dejected state wherein he is,\nHe hopes by you his fortunes yet may flourish.


plain_text:
He had need mean better than his outward show\nCan any way speak in his just commend;\nFor by his rusty outside he appears\nTo have practised more the whipstock than the lance.


plain_text:
Opinion's but a fool, that makes us scan\nThe outward habit by the inward man.\nBut stay, the knights are coming: we will withdraw\nInto the gallery.


plain_text:
[Great shouts within and all cry 'The mean knight!']\n[Enter SIMONIDES, THAISA, Lords, Attendants, and]\nKnights, from tilting]


plain_text:
Knights,\nTo say you're welcome were superfluous.\nTo place upon the volume of your deeds,\nAs in a title-page, your worth in arms,\nWere more than you expect, or more than's fit,\nSince every worth in show commends itself.\nPrepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast:\nYou are princes and my guests.


plain_text:
But you, my knight and guest;\nTo whom this wreath of victory I give,\nAnd crown you king of this day's happiness.


plain_text:
Call it by what you will, the day is yours;\nAnd here, I hope, is none that envies it.\nIn framing an artist, art hath thus decreed,\nTo make some good, but others to exceed;\nAnd you are her labour'd scholar. Come, queen o'\nthe feast,--\nFor, daughter, so you are,--here take your place:\nMarshal the rest, as they deserve their grace.


plain_text:
Contend not, sir; for we are gentlemen\nThat neither in our hearts nor outward eyes\nEnvy the great nor do the low despise.


plain_text:
By Juno, that is queen of marriage,\nAll viands that I eat do seem unsavoury.\nWishing him my meat. Sure, he's a gallant gentleman.


plain_text:
He's but a country gentleman;\nHas done no more than other knights have done;\nHas broken a staff or so; so let it pass.


plain_text:
Yon king's to me like to my father's picture,\nWhich tells me in that glory once he was;\nHad princes sit, like stars, about his throne,\nAnd he the sun, for them to reverence;\nNone that beheld him, but, like lesser lights,\nDid vail their crowns to his supremacy:\nWhere now his son's like a glow-worm in the night,\nThe which hath fire in darkness, none in light:\nWhereby I see that Time's the king of men,\nHe's both their parent, and he is their grave,\nAnd gives them what he will, not what they crave.


plain_text:
Here, with a cup that's stored unto the brim,--\nAs you do love, fill to your mistress' lips,--\nWe drink this health to you.


plain_text:
Yet pause awhile:\nYon knight doth sit too melancholy,\nAs if the entertainment in our court\nHad not a show might countervail his worth.\nNote it not you, Thaisa?


plain_text:
O, attend, my daughter:\nPrinces in this should live like gods above,\nWho freely give to every one that comes\nTo honour them:\nAnd princes not doing so are like to gnats,\nWhich make a sound, but kill'd are wonder'd at.\nTherefore to make his entrance more sweet,\nHere, say we drink this standing-bowl of wine to him.


plain_text:
Alas, my father, it befits not me\nUnto a stranger knight to be so bold:\nHe may my proffer take for an offence,\nSince men take women's gifts for impudence.


plain_text:
A gentleman of Tyre; my name, Pericles;\nMy education been in arts and arms;\nWho, looking for adventures in the world,\nWas by the rough seas reft of ships and men,\nAnd after shipwreck driven upon this shore.


plain_text:
He thanks your grace; names himself Pericles,\nA gentleman of Tyre,\nWho only by misfortune of the seas\nBereft of ships and men, cast on this shore.


plain_text:
Now, by the gods, I pity his misfortune,\nAnd will awake him from his melancholy.\nCome, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles,\nAnd waste the time, which looks for other revels.\nEven in your armours, as you are address'd,\nWill very well become a soldier's dance.\nI will not have excuse, with saying this\nLoud music is too harsh for ladies' heads,\nSince they love men in arms as well as beds.\n[The Knights dance]\nSo, this was well ask'd,'twas so well perform'd.\nCome, sir;\nHere is a lady that wants breathing too:\nAnd I have heard, you knights of Tyre\nAre excellent in making ladies trip;\nAnd that their measures are as excellent.


plain_text:
O, that's as much as you would be denied\nOf your fair courtesy.\n[The Knights and Ladies dance]\nUnclasp, unclasp:\nThanks, gentlemen, to all; all have done well.\n[To PERICLES]\nBut you the best. Pages and lights, to conduct\nThese knights unto their several lodgings!\n[To PERICLES]\nYours, sir,\nWe have given order to be next our own.


plain_text:
Princes, it is too late to talk of love;\nAnd that's the mark I know you level at:\nTherefore each one betake him to his rest;\nTo-morrow all for speeding do their best.


plain_text:
No, Escanes, know this of me,\nAntiochus from incest lived not free:\nFor which, the most high gods not minding longer\nTo withhold the vengeance that they had in store,\nDue to this heinous capital offence,\nEven in the height and pride of all his glory,\nWhen he was seated in a chariot\nOf an inestimable value, and his daughter with him,\nA fire from heaven came and shrivell'd up\nTheir bodies, even to loathing; for they so stunk,\nThat all those eyes adored them ere their fall\nScorn now their hand should give them burial.


plain_text:
And yet but justice; for though\nThis king were great, his greatness was no guard\nTo bar heaven's shaft, but sin had his reward.


plain_text:
Wrong not yourself, then, noble Helicane;\nBut if the prince do live, let us salute him,\nOr know what ground's made happy by his breath.\nIf in the world he live, we'll seek him out;\nIf in his grave he rest, we'll find him there;\nAnd be resolved he lives to govern us,\nOr dead, give's cause to mourn his funeral,\nAnd leave us to our free election.


plain_text:
Whose death indeed's the strongest in our censure:\nAnd knowing this kingdom is without a head,--\nLike goodly buildings left without a roof\nSoon fall to ruin,--your noble self,\nThat best know how to rule and how to reign,\nWe thus submit unto,--our sovereign.


plain_text:
For honour's cause, forbear your suffrages:\nIf that you love Prince Pericles, forbear.\nTake I your wish, I leap into the seas,\nWhere's hourly trouble for a minute's ease.\nA twelvemonth longer, let me entreat you to\nForbear the absence of your king:\nIf in which time expired, he not return,\nI shall with aged patience bear your yoke.\nBut if I cannot win you to this love,\nGo search like nobles, like noble subjects,\nAnd in your search spend your adventurous worth;\nWhom if you find, and win unto return,\nYou shall like diamonds sit about his crown.


plain_text:
To wisdom he's a fool that will not yield;\nAnd since Lord Helicane enjoineth us,\nWe with our travels will endeavour us.


plain_text:
Knights, from my daughter this I let you know,\nThat for this twelvemonth she'll not undertake\nA married life.\nHer reason to herself is only known,\nWhich yet from her by no means can I get.


plain_text:
'Faith, by no means; she has so strictly tied\nHer to her chamber, that 'tis impossible.\nOne twelve moons more she'll wear Diana's livery;\nThis by the eye of Cynthia hath she vow'd\nAnd on her virgin honour will not break it.


plain_text:
So,\nThey are well dispatch'd; now to my daughter's letter:\nShe tells me here, she'd wed the stranger knight,\nOr never more to view nor day nor light.\n'Tis well, mistress; your choice agrees with mine;\nI like that well: nay, how absolute she's in't,\nNot minding whether I dislike or no!\nWell, I do commend her choice;\nAnd will no longer have it be delay'd.\nSoft! here he comes: I must dissemble it.


plain_text:
To you as much, sir! I am beholding to you\nFor your sweet music this last night: I do\nProtest my ears were never better fed\nWith such delightful pleasing harmony.


plain_text:
Sir, my daughter thinks very well of you;\nAy, so well, that you must be her master,\nAnd she will be your scholar: therefore look to it.


plain_text:
[Aside] What's here?\nA letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre!\n'Tis the king's subtlety to have my life.\nO, seek not to entrap me, gracious lord,\nA stranger and distressed gentleman,\nThat never aim'd so high to love your daughter,\nBut bent all offices to honour her.


plain_text:
By the gods, I have not:\nNever did thought of mine levy offence;\nNor never did my actions yet commence\nA deed might gain her love or your displeasure.


plain_text:
My actions are as noble as my thoughts,\nThat never relish'd of a base descent.\nI came unto your court for honour's cause,\nAnd not to be a rebel to her state;\nAnd he that otherwise accounts of me,\nThis sword shall prove he's honour's enemy.


plain_text:
Then, as you are as virtuous as fair,\nResolve your angry father, if my tongue\nDid ere solicit, or my hand subscribe\nTo any syllable that made love to you.


plain_text:
Yea, mistress, are you so peremptory?\n[Aside]\nI am glad on't with all my heart.--\nI'll tame you; I'll bring you in subjection.\nWill you, not having my consent,\nBestow your love and your affections\nUpon a stranger?\n[Aside]\nwho, for aught I know,\nMay be, nor can I think the contrary,\nAs great in blood as I myself.--\nTherefore hear you, mistress; either frame\nYour will to mine,--and you, sir, hear you,\nEither be ruled by me, or I will make you--\nMan and wife:\nNay, come, your hands and lips must seal it too:\nAnd being join'd, I'll thus your hopes destroy;\nAnd for a further grief,--God give you joy!--\nWhat, are you both pleased?


plain_text:
Now sleep y-slaked hath the rout;\nNo din but snores the house about,\nMade louder by the o'er-fed breast\nOf this most pompous marriage-feast.\nThe cat, with eyne of burning coal,\nNow crouches fore the mouse's hole;\nAnd crickets sing at the oven's mouth,\nE'er the blither for their drouth.\nHymen hath brought the bride to bed.\nWhere, by the loss of maidenhead,\nA babe is moulded. Be attent,\nAnd time that is so briefly spent\nWith your fine fancies quaintly eche:\nWhat's dumb in show I'll plain with speech.\nDUMB SHOW.\n[Enter, PERICLES and SIMONIDES at one door, with]\nAttendants; a Messenger meets them, kneels, and\ngives PERICLES a letter: PERICLES shows it\nSIMONIDES; the Lords kneel to him. Then enter\nTHAISA with child, with LYCHORIDA a nurse. The\nKING shows her the letter; she rejoices: she and\nPERICLES takes leave of her father, and depart with\nLYCHORIDA and their Attendants. Then exeunt\nSIMONIDES and the rest]\nBy many a dern and painful perch\nOf Pericles the careful search,\nBy the four opposing coigns\nWhich the world together joins,\nIs made with all due diligence\nThat horse and sail and high expense\nCan stead the quest. At last from Tyre,\nFame answering the most strange inquire,\nTo the court of King Simonides\nAre letters brought, the tenor these:\nAntiochus and his daughter dead;\nThe men of Tyrus on the head\nOf Helicanus would set on\nThe crown of Tyre, but he will none:\nThe mutiny he there hastes t' oppress;\nSays to 'em, if King Pericles\nCome not home in twice six moons,\nHe, obedient to their dooms,\nWill take the crown. The sum of this,\nBrought hither to Pentapolis,\nY-ravished the regions round,\nAnd every one with claps can sound,\n'Our heir-apparent is a king!\nWho dream'd, who thought of such a thing?'\nBrief, he must hence depart to Tyre:\nHis queen with child makes her desire--\nWhich who shall cross?--along to go:\nOmit we all their dole and woe:\nLychorida, her nurse, she takes,\nAnd so to sea. Their vessel shakes\nOn Neptune's billow; half the flood\nHath their keel cut: but fortune's mood\nVaries again; the grisly north\nDisgorges such a tempest forth,\nThat, as a duck for life that dives,\nSo up and down the poor ship drives:\nThe lady shrieks, and well-a-near\nDoes fall in travail with her fear:\nAnd what ensues in this fell storm\nShall for itself itself perform.\nI nill relate, action may\nConveniently the rest convey;\nWhich might not what by me is told.\nIn your imagination hold\nThis stage the ship, upon whose deck\nThe sea-tost Pericles appears to speak.


plain_text:
Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these surges,\nWhich wash both heaven and hell; and thou, that hast\nUpon the winds command, bind them in brass,\nHaving call'd them from the deep! O, still\nThy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench\nThy nimble, sulphurous flashes! O, how, Lychorida,\nHow does my queen? Thou stormest venomously;\nWilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman's whistle\nIs as a whisper in the ears of death,\nUnheard. Lychorida!--Lucina, O\nDivinest patroness, and midwife gentle\nTo those that cry by night, convey thy deity\nAboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs\nOf my queen's travails!\n[Enter LYCHORIDA, with an Infant]\nNow, Lychorida!


plain_text:
Here is a thing too young for such a place,\nWho, if it had conceit, would die, as I\nAm like to do: take in your arms this piece\nOf your dead queen.


plain_text:
Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm.\nHere's all that is left living of your queen,\nA little daughter: for the sake of it,\nBe manly, and take comfort.


plain_text:
O you gods!\nWhy do you make us love your goodly gifts,\nAnd snatch them straight away? We here below\nRecall not what we give, and therein may\nUse honour with you.


plain_text:
Now, mild may be thy life!\nFor a more blustrous birth had never babe:\nQuiet and gentle thy conditions! for\nThou art the rudeliest welcome to this world\nThat ever was prince's child. Happy what follows!\nThou hast as chiding a nativity\nAs fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make,\nTo herald thee from the womb: even at the first\nThy loss is more than can thy portage quit,\nWith all thou canst find here. Now, the good gods\nThrow their best eyes upon't!


plain_text:
Courage enough: I do not fear the flaw;\nIt hath done to me the worst. Yet, for the love\nOf this poor infant, this fresh-new sea-farer,\nI would it would be quiet.


plain_text:
Sir, your queen must overboard: the sea works high,\nthe wind is loud, and will not lie till the ship be\ncleared of the dead.


plain_text:
Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it hath been still\nobserved: and we are strong in custom. Therefore\nbriefly yield her; for she must overboard straight.


plain_text:
A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear;\nNo light, no fire: the unfriendly elements\nForgot thee utterly: nor have I time\nTo give thee hallow'd to thy grave, but straight\nMust cast thee, scarcely coffin'd, in the ooze;\nWhere, for a monument upon thy bones,\nAnd e'er-remaining lamps, the belching whale\nAnd humming water must o'erwhelm thy corpse,\nLying with simple shells. O Lychorida,\nBid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper,\nMy casket and my jewels; and bid Nicander\nBring me the satin coffer: lay the babe\nUpon the pillow: hie thee, whiles I say\nA priestly farewell to her: suddenly, woman.


plain_text:
O, make for Tarsus!\nThere will I visit Cleon, for the babe\nCannot hold out to Tyrus: there I'll leave it\nAt careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mariner:\nI'll bring the body presently.


plain_text:
Your master will be dead ere you return;\nThere's nothing can be minister'd to nature\nThat can recover him.\n[To PHILEMON]\nGive this to the 'pothecary,\nAnd tell me how it works.


plain_text:
Sir,\nOur lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea,\nShook as the earth did quake;\nThe very principals did seem to rend,\nAnd all-to topple: pure surprise and fear\nMade me to quit the house.


plain_text:
But I much marvel that your lordship, having\nRich tire about you, should at these early hours\nShake off the golden slumber of repose.\n'Tis most strange,\nNature should be so conversant with pain,\nBeing thereto not compell'd.


plain_text:
I hold it ever,\nVirtue and cunning were endowments greater\nThan nobleness and riches: careless heirs\nMay the two latter darken and expend;\nBut immortality attends the former.\nMaking a man a god. 'Tis known, I ever\nHave studied physic, through which secret art,\nBy turning o'er authorities, I have,\nTogether with my practise, made familiar\nTo me and to my aid the blest infusions\nThat dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones;\nAnd I can speak of the disturbances\nThat nature works, and of her cures; which doth give me\nA more content in course of true delight\nThan to be thirsty after tottering honour,\nOr tie my treasure up in silken bags,\nTo please the fool and death.


plain_text:
Your honour has through Ephesus pour'd forth\nYour charity, and hundreds call themselves\nYour creatures, who by you have been restored:\nAnd not your knowledge, your personal pain, but even\nYour purse, still open, hath built Lord Cerimon\nSuch strong renown as time shall ne'er decay.


plain_text:
Whate'er it be,\n'Tis wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight:\nIf the sea's stomach be o'ercharged with gold,\n'Tis a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us.


plain_text:
Shrouded in cloth of state; balm'd and entreasured\nWith full bags of spices! A passport too!\nApollo, perfect me in the characters!\n[Reads from a scroll]\n'Here I give to understand,\nIf e'er this coffin drive a-land,\nI, King Pericles, have lost\nThis queen, worth all our mundane cost.\nWho finds her, give her burying;\nShe was the daughter of a king:\nBesides this treasure for a fee,\nThe gods requite his charity!'\nIf thou livest, Pericles, thou hast a heart\nThat even cracks for woe! This chanced tonight.


plain_text:
Nay, certainly to-night;\nFor look how fresh she looks! They were too rough\nThat threw her in the sea. Make a fire within:\nFetch hither all my boxes in my closet.\n[Exit a Servant]\nDeath may usurp on nature many hours,\nAnd yet the fire of life kindle again\nThe o'erpress'd spirits. I heard of an Egyptian\nThat had nine hours lien dead,\nWho was by good appliance recovered.\n[Re-enter a Servant, with boxes, napkins, and fire]\nWell said, well said; the fire and cloths.\nThe rough and woeful music that we have,\nCause it to sound, beseech you.\nThe viol once more: how thou stirr'st, thou block!\nThe music there!--I pray you, give her air.\nGentlemen.\nThis queen will live: nature awakes; a warmth\nBreathes out of her: she hath not been entranced\nAbove five hours: see how she gins to blow\nInto life's flower again!


plain_text:
She is alive; behold,\nHer eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels\nWhich Pericles hath lost,\nBegin to part their fringes of bright gold;\nThe diamonds of a most praised water\nDo appear, to make the world twice rich. Live,\nAnd make us weep to hear your fate, fair creature,\nRare as you seem to be.


plain_text:
Hush, my gentle neighbours!\nLend me your hands; to the next chamber bear her.\nGet linen: now this matter must be look'd to,\nFor her relapse is mortal. Come, come;\nAnd AEsculapius guide us!


plain_text:
[Exeunt, carrying her away]\n[Enter PERICLES, CLEON, DIONYZA, and LYCHORIDA with]\nMARINA in her arms]


plain_text:
Most honour'd Cleon, I must needs be gone;\nMy twelve months are expired, and Tyrus stands\nIn a litigious peace. You, and your lady,\nTake from my heart all thankfulness! The gods\nMake up the rest upon you!


plain_text:
O your sweet queen!\nThat the strict fates had pleased you had brought her hither,\nTo have bless'd mine eyes with her!


plain_text:
We cannot but obey\nThe powers above us. Could I rage and roar\nAs doth the sea she lies in, yet the end\nMust be as 'tis. My gentle babe Marina, whom,\nFor she was born at sea, I have named so, here\nI charge your charity withal, leaving her\nThe infant of your care; beseeching you\nTo give her princely training, that she may be\nManner'd as she is born.


plain_text:
Fear not, my lord, but think\nYour grace, that fed my country with your corn,\nFor which the people's prayers still fall upon you,\nMust in your child be thought on. If neglection\nShould therein make me vile, the common body,\nBy you relieved, would force me to my duty:\nBut if to that my nature need a spur,\nThe gods revenge it upon me and mine,\nTo the end of generation!


plain_text:
I believe you;\nYour honour and your goodness teach me to't,\nWithout your vows. Till she be married, madam,\nBy bright Diana, whom we honour, all\nUnscissor'd shall this hair of mine remain,\nThough I show ill in't. So I take my leave.\nGood madam, make me blessed in your care\nIn bringing up my child.


plain_text:
We'll bring your grace e'en to the edge o' the shore,\nThen give you up to the mask'd Neptune and\nThe gentlest winds of heaven.


plain_text:
I will embrace\nYour offer. Come, dearest madam. O, no tears,\nLychorida, no tears:\nLook to your little mistress, on whose grace\nYou may depend hereafter. Come, my lord.


plain_text:
Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels,\nLay with you in your coffer: which are now\nAt your command. Know you the character?


plain_text:
It is my lord's.\nThat I was shipp'd at sea, I well remember,\nEven on my eaning time; but whether there\nDeliver'd, by the holy gods,\nI cannot rightly say. But since King Pericles,\nMy wedded lord, I ne'er shall see again,\nA vestal livery will I take me to,\nAnd never more have joy.


plain_text:
Madam, if this you purpose as ye speak,\nDiana's temple is not distant far,\nWhere you may abide till your date expire.\nMoreover, if you please, a niece of mine\nShall there attend you.


plain_text:
Imagine Pericles arrived at Tyre,\nWelcomed and settled to his own desire.\nHis woeful queen we leave at Ephesus,\nUnto Diana there a votaress.\nNow to Marina bend your mind,\nWhom our fast-growing scene must find\nAt Tarsus, and by Cleon train'd\nIn music, letters; who hath gain'd\nOf education all the grace,\nWhich makes her both the heart and place\nOf general wonder. But, alack,\nThat monster envy, oft the wrack\nOf earned praise, Marina's life\nSeeks to take off by treason's knife.\nAnd in this kind hath our Cleon\nOne daughter, and a wench full grown,\nEven ripe for marriage-rite; this maid\nHight Philoten: and it is said\nFor certain in our story, she\nWould ever with Marina be:\nBe't when she weaved the sleided silk\nWith fingers long, small, white as milk;\nOr when she would with sharp needle wound\nThe cambric, which she made more sound\nBy hurting it; or when to the lute\nShe sung, and made the night-bird mute,\nThat still records with moan; or when\nShe would with rich and constant pen\nVail to her mistress Dian; still\nThis Philoten contends in skill\nWith absolute Marina: so\nWith the dove of Paphos might the crow\nVie feathers white. Marina gets\nAll praises, which are paid as debts,\nAnd not as given. This so darks\nIn Philoten all graceful marks,\nThat Cleon's wife, with envy rare,\nA present murderer does prepare\nFor good Marina, that her daughter\nMight stand peerless by this slaughter.\nThe sooner her vile thoughts to stead,\nLychorida, our nurse, is dead:\nAnd cursed Dionyza hath\nThe pregnant instrument of wrath\nPrest for this blow. The unborn event\nI do commend to your content:\nOnly I carry winged time\nPost on the lame feet of my rhyme;\nWhich never could I so convey,\nUnless your thoughts went on my way.\nDionyza does appear,\nWith Leonine, a murderer.


plain_text:
Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do't:\n'Tis but a blow, which never shall be known.\nThou canst not do a thing in the world so soon,\nTo yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience,\nWhich is but cold, inflaming love i' thy bosom,\nInflame too nicely; nor let pity, which\nEven women have cast off, melt thee, but be\nA soldier to thy purpose.


plain_text:
The fitter, then, the gods should have her. Here\nshe comes weeping for her only mistress' death.\nThou art resolved?


plain_text:
No, I will rob Tellus of her weed,\nTo strew thy green with flowers: the yellows, blues,\nThe purple violets, and marigolds,\nShall as a carpet hang upon thy grave,\nWhile summer-days do last. Ay me! poor maid,\nBorn in a tempest, when my mother died,\nThis world to me is like a lasting storm,\nWhirring me from my friends.


plain_text:
How now, Marina! why do you keep alone?\nHow chance my daughter is not with you? Do not\nConsume your blood with sorrowing: you have\nA nurse of me. Lord, how your favour's changed\nWith this unprofitable woe!\nCome, give me your flowers, ere the sea mar it.\nWalk with Leonine; the air is quick there,\nAnd it pierces and sharpens the stomach. Come,\nLeonine, take her by the arm, walk with her.


plain_text:
Come, come;\nI love the king your father, and yourself,\nWith more than foreign heart. We every day\nExpect him here: when he shall come and find\nOur paragon to all reports thus blasted,\nHe will repent the breadth of his great voyage;\nBlame both my lord and me, that we have taken\nNo care to your best courses. Go, I pray you,\nWalk, and be cheerful once again; reserve\nThat excellent complexion, which did steal\nThe eyes of young and old. Care not for me\nI can go home alone.


plain_text:
Come, come, I know 'tis good for you.\nWalk half an hour, Leonine, at the least:\nRemember what I have said.


plain_text:
I'll leave you, my sweet lady, for a while:\nPray, walk softly, do not heat your blood:\nWhat! I must have a care of you.


plain_text:
My father, as nurse said, did never fear,\nBut cried 'Good seaman!' to the sailors, galling\nHis kingly hands, haling ropes;\nAnd, clasping to the mast, endured a sea\nThat almost burst the deck.


plain_text:
When I was born:\nNever was waves nor wind more violent;\nAnd from the ladder-tackle washes off\nA canvas-climber. 'Ha!' says one, 'wilt out?'\nAnd with a dropping industry they skip\nFrom stem to stern: the boatswain whistles, and\nThe master calls, and trebles their confusion.


plain_text:
If you require a little space for prayer,\nI grant it: pray; but be not tedious,\nFor the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn\nTo do my work with haste.


plain_text:
Why would she have me kill'd?\nNow, as I can remember, by my troth,\nI never did her hurt in all my life:\nI never spake bad word, nor did ill turn\nTo any living creature: believe me, la,\nI never kill'd a mouse, nor hurt a fly:\nI trod upon a worm against my will,\nBut I wept for it. How have I offended,\nWherein my death might yield her any profit,\nOr my life imply her any danger?


plain_text:
You will not do't for all the world, I hope.\nYou are well favour'd, and your looks foreshow\nYou have a gentle heart. I saw you lately,\nWhen you caught hurt in parting two that fought:\nGood sooth, it show'd well in you: do so now:\nYour lady seeks my life; come you between,\nAnd save poor me, the weaker.


plain_text:
These roguing thieves serve the great pirate Valdes;\nAnd they have seized Marina. Let her go:\nThere's no hope she will return. I'll swear\nshe's dead,\nAnd thrown into the sea. But I'll see further:\nPerhaps they will but please themselves upon her,\nNot carry her aboard. If she remain,\nWhom they have ravish'd must by me be slain.


plain_text:
Search the market narrowly; Mytilene is full of\ngallants. We lost too much money this mart by being\ntoo wenchless.


plain_text:
We were never so much out of creatures. We have but\npoor three, and they can do no more than they can\ndo; and they with continual action are even as good as rotten.


plain_text:
Therefore let's have fresh ones, whate'er we pay for\nthem. If there be not a conscience to be used in\nevery trade, we shall never prosper.


plain_text:
Thou sayest true: 'tis not our bringing up of poor\nbastards,--as, I think, I have brought up some eleven--


plain_text:
What else, man? The stuff we have, a strong wind\nwill blow it to pieces, they are so pitifully sodden.


plain_text:
Thou sayest true; they're too unwholesome, o'\nconscience. The poor Transylvanian is dead, that\nlay with the little baggage.


plain_text:
O, our credit comes not in like the commodity, nor\nthe commodity wages not with the danger: therefore,\nif in our youths we could pick up some pretty\nestate, 'twere not amiss to keep our door hatched.\nBesides, the sore terms we stand upon with the gods\nwill be strong with us for giving over.


plain_text:
As well as we! ay, and better too; we offend worse.\nNeither is our profession any trade; it's no\ncalling. But here comes Boult.


plain_text:
Master, I have gone through for this piece, you see:\nif you like her, so; if not, I have lost my earnest.


plain_text:
She has a good face, speaks well, and has excellent\ngood clothes: there's no further necessity of\nqualities can make her be refused.


plain_text:
Well, follow me, my masters, you shall have your\nmoney presently. Wife, take her in; instruct her\nwhat she has to do, that she may not be raw in her\nentertainment.


plain_text:
Boult, take you the marks of her, the colour of her\nhair, complexion, height, age, with warrant of her\nvirginity; and cry 'He that will give most shall\nhave her first.' Such a maidenhead were no cheap\nthing, if men were as they have been. Get this done\nas I command you.


plain_text:
Alack that Leonine was so slack, so slow!\nHe should have struck, not spoke; or that these pirates,\nNot enough barbarous, had not o'erboard thrown me\nFor to seek my mother!


plain_text:
Yes, indeed shall you, and taste gentlemen of all\nfashions: you shall fare well; you shall have the\ndifference of all complexions. What! do you stop your ears?


plain_text:
Marry, whip thee, gosling: I think I shall have\nsomething to do with you. Come, you're a young\nfoolish sapling, and must be bowed as I would have\nyou.


plain_text:
If it please the gods to defend you by men, then men\nmust comfort you, men must feed you, men must stir\nyou up. Boult's returned.\n[Re-enter BOULT]\nNow, sir, hast thou cried her through the market?


plain_text:
And I prithee tell me, how dost thou find the\ninclination of the people, especially of the younger sort?


plain_text:
'Faith, they listened to me as they would have\nhearkened to their father's testament. There was a\nSpaniard's mouth so watered, that he went to bed to\nher very description.


plain_text:
Ay, he: he offered to cut a caper at the\nproclamation; but he made a groan at it, and swore\nhe would see her to-morrow.


plain_text:
Well, well; as for him, he brought his disease\nhither: here he does but repair it. I know he will\ncome in our shadow, to scatter his crowns in the\nsun.


plain_text:
[To MARINA] Pray you, come hither awhile. You\nhave fortunes coming upon you. Mark me: you must\nseem to do that fearfully which you commit\nwillingly, despise profit where you have most gain.\nTo weep that you live as ye do makes pity in your\nlovers: seldom but that pity begets you a good\nopinion, and that opinion a mere profit.


plain_text:
O, take her home, mistress, take her home: these\nblushes of hers must be quenched with some present practise.


plain_text:
Thou sayest true, i' faith, so they must; for your\nbride goes to that with shame which is her way to go\nwith warrant.


plain_text:
Boult, spend thou that in the town: report what a\nsojourner we have; you'll lose nothing by custom.\nWhen nature flamed this piece, she meant thee a good\nturn; therefore say what a paragon she is, and thou\nhast the harvest out of thine own report.


plain_text:
I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall not so awake\nthe beds of eels as my giving out her beauty stir up\nthe lewdly-inclined. I'll bring home some to-night.


plain_text:
If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters deep,\nUntied I still my virgin knot will keep.\nDiana, aid my purpose!


plain_text:
Were I chief lord of all this spacious world,\nI'ld give it to undo the deed. O lady,\nMuch less in blood than virtue, yet a princess\nTo equal any single crown o' the earth\nI' the justice of compare! O villain Leonine!\nWhom thou hast poison'd too:\nIf thou hadst drunk to him, 't had been a kindness\nBecoming well thy fact: what canst thou say\nWhen noble Pericles shall demand his child?


plain_text:
That she is dead. Nurses are not the fates,\nTo foster it, nor ever to preserve.\nShe died at night; I'll say so. Who can cross it?\nUnless you play the pious innocent,\nAnd for an honest attribute cry out\n'She died by foul play.'


plain_text:
Be one of those that think\nThe petty wrens of Tarsus will fly hence,\nAnd open this to Pericles. I do shame\nTo think of what a noble strain you are,\nAnd of how coward a spirit.


plain_text:
To such proceeding\nWho ever but his approbation added,\nThough not his prime consent, he did not flow\nFrom honourable sources.


plain_text:
Be it so, then:\nYet none does know, but you, how she came dead,\nNor none can know, Leonine being gone.\nShe did disdain my child, and stood between\nHer and her fortunes: none would look on her,\nBut cast their gazes on Marina's face;\nWhilst ours was blurted at and held a malkin\nNot worth the time of day. It pierced me through;\nAnd though you call my course unnatural,\nYou not your child well loving, yet I find\nIt greets me as an enterprise of kindness\nPerform'd to your sole daughter.


plain_text:
And as for Pericles,\nWhat should he say? We wept after her hearse,\nAnd yet we mourn: her monument\nIs almost finish'd, and her epitaphs\nIn glittering golden characters express\nA general praise to her, and care in us\nAt whose expense 'tis done.


plain_text:
Thou art like the harpy,\nWhich, to betray, dost, with thine angel's face,\nSeize with thine eagle's talons.


plain_text:
You are like one that superstitiously\nDoth swear to the gods that winter kills the flies:\nBut yet I know you'll do as I advise.


plain_text:
Thus time we waste, and longest leagues make short;\nSail seas in cockles, have an wish but for't;\nMaking, to take your imagination,\nFrom bourn to bourn, region to region.\nBy you being pardon'd, we commit no crime\nTo use one language in each several clime\nWhere our scenes seem to live. I do beseech you\nTo learn of me, who stand i' the gaps to teach you,\nThe stages of our story. Pericles\nIs now again thwarting the wayward seas,\nAttended on by many a lord and knight.\nTo see his daughter, all his life's delight.\nOld Escanes, whom Helicanus late\nAdvanced in time to great and high estate,\nIs left to govern. Bear you it in mind,\nOld Helicanus goes along behind.\nWell-sailing ships and bounteous winds have brought\nThis king to Tarsus,--think his pilot thought;\nSo with his steerage shall your thoughts grow on,--\nTo fetch his daughter home, who first is gone.\nLike motes and shadows see them move awhile;\nYour ears unto your eyes I'll reconcile.\nDUMB SHOW.\n[Enter PERICLES, at one door, with all his train;]\nCLEON and DIONYZA, at the other. CLEON shows\nPERICLES the tomb; whereat PERICLES makes\nlamentation, puts on sackcloth, and in a mighty\npassion departs. Then exeunt CLEON and DIONYZA]\nSee how belief may suffer by foul show!\nThis borrow'd passion stands for true old woe;\nAnd Pericles, in sorrow all devour'd,\nWith sighs shot through, and biggest tears\no'ershower'd,\nLeaves Tarsus and again embarks. He swears\nNever to wash his face, nor cut his hairs:\nHe puts on sackcloth, and to sea. He bears\nA tempest, which his mortal vessel tears,\nAnd yet he rides it out. Now please you wit.\nThe epitaph is for Marina writ\nBy wicked Dionyza.\n[Reads the inscription on MARINA's monument]\n'The fairest, sweet'st, and best lies here,\nWho wither'd in her spring of year.\nShe was of Tyrus the king's daughter,\nOn whom foul death hath made this slaughter;\nMarina was she call'd; and at her birth,\nThetis, being proud, swallow'd some part o' the earth:\nTherefore the earth, fearing to be o'erflow'd,\nHath Thetis' birth-child on the heavens bestow'd:\nWherefore she does, and swears she'll never stint,\nMake raging battery upon shores of flint.'\nNo visor does become black villany\nSo well as soft and tender flattery.\nLet Pericles believe his daughter's dead,\nAnd bear his courses to be ordered\nBy Lady Fortune; while our scene must play\nHis daughter's woe and heavy well-a-day\nIn her unholy service. Patience, then,\nAnd think you now are all in Mytilene.


plain_text:
Fie, fie upon her! she's able to freeze the god\nPriapus, and undo a whole generation. We must\neither get her ravished, or be rid of her. When she\nshould do for clients her fitment, and do me the\nkindness of our profession, she has me her quirks,\nher reasons, her master reasons, her prayers, her\nknees; that she would make a puritan of the devil,\nif he should cheapen a kiss of her.


plain_text:
'Faith, I must ravish her, or she'll disfurnish us\nof all our cavaliers, and make our swearers priests.


plain_text:
'Faith, there's no way to be rid on't but by the\nway to the pox. Here comes the Lord Lysimachus disguised.


plain_text:
You may so; 'tis the better for you that your\nresorters stand upon sound legs. How now!\nwholesome iniquity have you that a man may deal\nwithal, and defy the surgeon?


plain_text:
For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you shall\nsee a rose; and she were a rose indeed, if she had but--


plain_text:
Here comes that which grows to the stalk; never\nplucked yet, I can assure you.\n[Re-enter BOULT with MARINA]\nIs she not a fair creature?


plain_text:
If he govern the country, you are bound to him\nindeed; but how honourable he is in that, I know not.


plain_text:
Pray you, without any more virginal fencing, will\nyou use him kindly? He will line your apron with gold.


plain_text:
My lord, she's not paced yet: you must take some\npains to work her to your manage. Come, we will\nleave his honour and her together. Go thy ways.


plain_text:
Do you know this house to be a place of such resort,\nand will come into 't? I hear say you are of\nhonourable parts, and are the governor of this place.


plain_text:
Why, your herb-woman; she that sets seeds and roots\nof shame and iniquity. O, you have heard something\nof my power, and so stand aloof for more serious\nwooing. But I protest to thee, pretty one, my\nauthority shall not see thee, or else look friendly\nupon thee. Come, bring me to some private place:\ncome, come.


plain_text:
If you were born to honour, show it now;\nIf put upon you, make the judgment good\nThat thought you worthy of it.


plain_text:
For me,\nThat am a maid, though most ungentle fortune\nHave placed me in this sty, where, since I came,\nDiseases have been sold dearer than physic,\nO, that the gods\nWould set me free from this unhallow'd place,\nThough they did change me to the meanest bird\nThat flies i' the purer air!


plain_text:
I did not think\nThou couldst have spoke so well; ne'er dream'd thou couldst.\nHad I brought hither a corrupted mind,\nThy speech had alter'd it. Hold, here's gold for thee:\nPersever in that clear way thou goest,\nAnd the gods strengthen thee!


plain_text:
For me, be you thoughten\nThat I came with no ill intent; for to me\nThe very doors and windows savour vilely.\nFare thee well. Thou art a piece of virtue, and\nI doubt not but thy training hath been noble.\nHold, here's more gold for thee.\nA curse upon him, die he like a thief,\nThat robs thee of thy goodness! If thou dost\nHear from me, it shall be for thy good.


plain_text:
Avaunt, thou damned door-keeper!\nYour house, but for this virgin that doth prop it,\nWould sink and overwhelm you. Away!


plain_text:
How's this? We must take another course with you.\nIf your peevish chastity, which is not worth a\nbreakfast in the cheapest country under the cope,\nshall undo a whole household, let me be gelded like\na spaniel. Come your ways.


plain_text:
I must have your maidenhead taken off, or the common\nhangman shall execute it. Come your ways. We'll\nhave no more gentlemen driven away. Come your ways, I say.


plain_text:
The nobleman would have dealt with her like a\nnobleman, and she sent him away as cold as a\nsnowball; saying his prayers too.


plain_text:
Boult, take her away; use her at thy pleasure:\ncrack the glass of her virginity, and make the rest malleable.


plain_text:
She conjures: away with her! Would she had never\ncome within my doors! Marry, hang you! She's born\nto undo us. Will you not go the way of women-kind?\nMarry, come up, my dish of chastity with rosemary and bays!


plain_text:
Neither of these are so bad as thou art,\nSince they do better thee in their command.\nThou hold'st a place, for which the pained'st fiend\nOf hell would not in reputation change:\nThou art the damned doorkeeper to every\nCoistrel that comes inquiring for his Tib;\nTo the choleric fisting of every rogue\nThy ear is liable; thy food is such\nAs hath been belch'd on by infected lungs.


plain_text:
What would you have me do? go to the wars, would\nyou? where a man may serve seven years for the loss\nof a leg, and have not money enough in the end to\nbuy him a wooden one?


plain_text:
Do any thing but this thou doest. Empty\nOLD receptacles, or common shores, of filth;\nServe by indenture to the common hangman:\nAny of these ways are yet better than this;\nFor what thou professest, a baboon, could he speak,\nWould own a name too dear. O, that the gods\nWould safely deliver me from this place!\nHere, here's gold for thee.\nIf that thy master would gain by thee,\nProclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance,\nWith other virtues, which I'll keep from boast:\nAnd I will undertake all these to teach.\nI doubt not but this populous city will\nYield many scholars.


plain_text:
Prove that I cannot, take me home again,\nAnd prostitute me to the basest groom\nThat doth frequent your house.


plain_text:
'Faith, my acquaintance lies little amongst them.\nBut since my master and mistress have bought you,\nthere's no going but by their consent: therefore I\nwill make them acquainted with your purpose, and I\ndoubt not but I shall find them tractable enough.\nCome, I'll do for thee what I can; come your ways.


plain_text:
Marina thus the brothel 'scapes, and chances\nInto an honest house, our story says.\nShe sings like one immortal, and she dances\nAs goddess-like to her admired lays;\nDeep clerks she dumbs; and with her needle composes\nNature's own shape, of bud, bird, branch, or berry,\nThat even her art sisters the natural roses;\nHer inkle, silk, twin with the rubied cherry:\nThat pupils lacks she none of noble race,\nWho pour their bounty on her; and her gain\nShe gives the cursed bawd. Here we her place;\nAnd to her father turn our thoughts again,\nWhere we left him, on the sea. We there him lost;\nWhence, driven before the winds, he is arrived\nHere where his daughter dwells; and on this coast\nSuppose him now at anchor. The city strived\nGod Neptune's annual feast to keep: from whence\nLysimachus our Tyrian ship espies,\nHis banners sable, trimm'd with rich expense;\nAnd to him in his barge with fervor hies.\nIn your supposing once more put your sight\nOf heavy Pericles; think this his bark:\nWhere what is done in action, more, if might,\nShall be discover'd; please you, sit and hark.


plain_text:
[Exit]\npavilion on deck, with a curtain before it; PERICLES\nwithin it, reclined on a couch. A barge lying\nbeside the Tyrian vessel.\n[Enter two Sailors, one belonging to the Tyrian]\nvessel, the other to the barge; to them HELICANUS]


plain_text:
[To the Sailor of Mytilene] Where is lord Helicanus?\nhe can resolve you.\nO, here he is.\nSir, there's a barge put off from Mytilene,\nAnd in it is Lysimachus the governor,\nWho craves to come aboard. What is your will?


plain_text:
Gentlemen, there's some of worth would come aboard;\nI pray ye, greet them fairly.\n[The Gentlemen and the two Sailors descend, and go]\non board the barge]\n[Enter, from thence, LYSIMACHUS and Lords; with the]\nGentlemen and the two Sailors]


plain_text:
You wish me well.\nBeing on shore, honouring of Neptune's triumphs,\nSeeing this goodly vessel ride before us,\nI made to it, to know of whence you are.


plain_text:
Sir,\nOur vessel is of Tyre, in it the king;\nA man who for this three months hath not spoken\nTo any one, nor taken sustenance\nBut to prorogue his grief.


plain_text:
'Twould be too tedious to repeat;\nBut the main grief springs from the loss\nOf a beloved daughter and a wife.


plain_text:
Behold him.\n[PERICLES discovered]\nThis was a goodly person,\nTill the disaster that, one mortal night,\nDrove him to this.


plain_text:
'Tis well bethought.\nShe questionless with her sweet harmony\nAnd other chosen attractions, would allure,\nAnd make a battery through his deafen'd parts,\nWhich now are midway stopp'd:\nShe is all happy as the fairest of all,\nAnd, with her fellow maids is now upon\nThe leafy shelter that abuts against\nThe island's side.


plain_text:
Sure, all's effectless; yet nothing we'll omit\nThat bears recovery's name. But, since your kindness\nWe have stretch'd thus far, let us beseech you\nThat for our gold we may provision have,\nWherein we are not destitute for want,\nBut weary for the staleness.


plain_text:
O, sir, a courtesy\nWhich if we should deny, the most just gods\nFor every graff would send a caterpillar,\nAnd so afflict our province. Yet once more\nLet me entreat to know at large the cause\nOf your king's sorrow.


plain_text:
Sit, sir, I will recount it to you:\nBut, see, I am prevented.\n[Re-enter, from the barge, Lord, with MARINA, and a]\nyoung Lady]


plain_text:
She's such a one, that, were I well assured\nCame of a gentle kind and noble stock,\nI'ld wish no better choice, and think me rarely wed.\nFair one, all goodness that consists in bounty\nExpect even here, where is a kingly patient:\nIf that thy prosperous and artificial feat\nCan draw him but to answer thee in aught,\nThy sacred physic shall receive such pay\nAs thy desires can wish.


plain_text:
Sir, I will use\nMy utmost skill in his recovery, Provided\nThat none but I and my companion maid\nBe suffer'd to come near him.


plain_text:
I am a maid,\nMy lord, that ne'er before invited eyes,\nBut have been gazed on like a comet: she speaks,\nMy lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief\nMight equal yours, if both were justly weigh'd.\nThough wayward fortune did malign my state,\nMy derivation was from ancestors\nWho stood equivalent with mighty kings:\nBut time hath rooted out my parentage,\nAnd to the world and awkward casualties\nBound me in servitude.\n[Aside]\nI will desist;\nBut there is something glows upon my cheek,\nAnd whispers in mine ear, 'Go not till he speak.'


plain_text:
I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes upon me.\nYou are like something that--What country-woman?\nHere of these shores?


plain_text:
I am great with woe, and shall deliver weeping.\nMy dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one\nMy daughter might have been: my queen's square brows;\nHer stature to an inch; as wand-like straight;\nAs silver-voiced; her eyes as jewel-like\nAnd cased as richly; in pace another Juno;\nWho starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry,\nThe more she gives them speech. Where do you live?


plain_text:
Prithee, speak:\nFalseness cannot come from thee; for thou look'st\nModest as Justice, and thou seem'st a palace\nFor the crown'd Truth to dwell in: I will\nbelieve thee,\nAnd make my senses credit thy relation\nTo points that seem impossible; for thou look'st\nLike one I loved indeed. What were thy friends?\nDidst thou not say, when I did push thee back--\nWhich was when I perceived thee--that thou camest\nFrom good descending?


plain_text:
Report thy parentage. I think thou said'st\nThou hadst been toss'd from wrong to injury,\nAnd that thou thought'st thy griefs might equal mine,\nIf both were open'd.


plain_text:
Tell thy story;\nIf thine consider'd prove the thousandth part\nOf my endurance, thou art a man, and I\nHave suffer'd like a girl: yet thou dost look\nLike Patience gazing on kings' graves, and smiling\nExtremity out of act. What were thy friends?\nHow lost thou them? Thy name, my most kind virgin?\nRecount, I do beseech thee: come, sit by me.


plain_text:
But are you flesh and blood?\nHave you a working pulse? and are no fairy?\nMotion! Well; speak on. Where were you born?\nAnd wherefore call'd Marina?


plain_text:
My mother was the daughter of a king;\nWho died the minute I was born,\nAs my good nurse Lychorida hath oft\nDeliver'd weeping.


plain_text:
O, stop there a little!\n[Aside]\nThis is the rarest dream that e'er dull sleep\nDid mock sad fools withal: this cannot be:\nMy daughter's buried. Well: where were you bred?\nI'll hear you more, to the bottom of your story,\nAnd never interrupt you.


plain_text:
I will believe you by the syllable\nOf what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave:\nHow came you in these parts? where were you bred?


plain_text:
The king my father did in Tarsus leave me;\nTill cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife,\nDid seek to murder me: and having woo'd\nA villain to attempt it, who having drawn to do't,\nA crew of pirates came and rescued me;\nBrought me to Mytilene. But, good sir,\nWhither will you have me? Why do you weep?\nIt may be,\nYou think me an impostor: no, good faith;\nI am the daughter to King Pericles,\nIf good King Pericles be.


plain_text:
Thou art a grave and noble counsellor,\nMost wise in general: tell me, if thou canst,\nWhat this maid is, or what is like to be,\nThat thus hath made me weep?


plain_text:
O Helicanus, strike me, honour'd sir;\nGive me a gash, put me to present pain;\nLest this great sea of joys rushing upon me\nO'erbear the shores of my mortality,\nAnd drown me with their sweetness. O, come hither,\nThou that beget'st him that did thee beget;\nThou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus,\nAnd found at sea again! O Helicanus,\nDown on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud\nAs thunder threatens us: this is Marina.\nWhat was thy mother's name? tell me but that,\nFor truth can never be confirm'd enough,\nThough doubts did ever sleep.


plain_text:
I am Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now\nMy drown'd queen's name, as in the rest you said\nThou hast been godlike perfect,\nThe heir of kingdoms and another like\nTo Pericles thy father.


plain_text:
Is it no more to be your daughter than\nTo say my mother's name was Thaisa?\nThaisa was my mother, who did end\nThe minute I began.


plain_text:
Now, blessing on thee! rise; thou art my child.\nGive me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus;\nShe is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have been,\nBy savage Cleon: she shall tell thee all;\nWhen thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge\nShe is thy very princess. Who is this?


plain_text:
I embrace you.\nGive me my robes. I am wild in my beholding.\nO heavens bless my girl! But, hark, what music?\nTell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him\nO'er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt,\nHow sure you are my daughter. But, what music?


plain_text:
Most heavenly music!\nIt nips me unto listening, and thick slumber\nHangs upon mine eyes: let me rest.


plain_text:
A pillow for his head:\nSo, leave him all. Well, my companion friends,\nIf this but answer to my just belief,\nI'll well remember you.


plain_text:
My temple stands in Ephesus: hie thee thither,\nAnd do upon mine altar sacrifice.\nThere, when my maiden priests are met together,\nBefore the people all,\nReveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife:\nTo mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter's, call\nAnd give them repetition to the life.\nOr perform my bidding, or thou livest in woe;\nDo it, and happy; by my silver bow!\nAwake, and tell thy dream.


plain_text:
My purpose was for Tarsus, there to strike\nThe inhospitable Cleon; but I am\nFor other service first: toward Ephesus\nTurn our blown sails; eftsoons I'll tell thee why.\n[To LYSIMACHUS]\nShall we refresh us, sir, upon your shore,\nAnd give you gold for such provision\nAs our intents will need?


plain_text:
Now our sands are almost run;\nMore a little, and then dumb.\nThis, my last boon, give me,\nFor such kindness must relieve me,\nThat you aptly will suppose\nWhat pageantry, what feats, what shows,\nWhat minstrelsy, and pretty din,\nThe regent made in Mytilene\nTo greet the king. So he thrived,\nThat he is promised to be wived\nTo fair Marina; but in no wise\nTill he had done his sacrifice,\nAs Dian bade: whereto being bound,\nThe interim, pray you, all confound.\nIn feather'd briefness sails are fill'd,\nAnd wishes fall out as they're will'd.\nAt Ephesus, the temple see,\nOur king and all his company.\nThat he can hither come so soon,\nIs by your fancy's thankful doom.


plain_text:
[Exit]\nnear the altar, as high priestess; a number of\nVirgins on each side; CERIMON and other Inhabitants\nof Ephesus attending.\n[Enter PERICLES, with his train; LYSIMACHUS,]\nHELICANUS, MARINA, and a Lady]


plain_text:
Hail, Dian! to perform thy just command,\nI here confess myself the king of Tyre;\nWho, frighted from my country, did wed\nAt Pentapolis the fair Thaisa.\nAt sea in childbed died she, but brought forth\nA maid-child call'd Marina; who, O goddess,\nWears yet thy silver livery. She at Tarsus\nWas nursed with Cleon; who at fourteen years\nHe sought to murder: but her better stars\nBrought her to Mytilene; 'gainst whose shore\nRiding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard us,\nWhere, by her own most clear remembrance, she\nMade known herself my daughter.


plain_text:
Look to the lady; O, she's but o'erjoy'd.\nEarly in blustering morn this lady was\nThrown upon this shore. I oped the coffin,\nFound there rich jewels; recover'd her, and placed her\nHere in Diana's temple.


plain_text:
O, let me look!\nIf he be none of mine, my sanctity\nWill to my sense bend no licentious ear,\nBut curb it, spite of seeing. O, my lord,\nAre you not Pericles? Like him you spake,\nLike him you are: did you not name a tempest,\nA birth, and death?


plain_text:
Now I know you better.\nWhen we with tears parted Pentapolis,\nThe king my father gave you such a ring.


plain_text:
This, this: no more, you gods! your present kindness\nMakes my past miseries sports: you shall do well,\nThat on the touching of her lips I may\nMelt and no more be seen. O, come, be buried\nA second time within these arms.


plain_text:
Look, who kneels here! Flesh of thy flesh, Thaisa;\nThy burden at the sea, and call'd Marina\nFor she was yielded there.


plain_text:
You have heard me say, when I did fly from Tyre,\nI left behind an ancient substitute:\nCan you remember what I call'd the man?\nI have named him oft.


plain_text:
Still confirmation:\nEmbrace him, dear Thaisa; this is he.\nNow do I long to hear how you were found;\nHow possibly preserved; and who to thank,\nBesides the gods, for this great miracle.


plain_text:
Lord Cerimon, my lord; this man,\nThrough whom the gods have shown their power; that can\nFrom first to last resolve you.


plain_text:
Reverend sir,\nThe gods can have no mortal officer\nMore like a god than you. Will you deliver\nHow this dead queen re-lives?


plain_text:
I will, my lord.\nBeseech you, first go with me to my house,\nWhere shall be shown you all was found with her;\nHow she came placed here in the temple;\nNo needful thing omitted.


plain_text:
Pure Dian, bless thee for thy vision! I\nWill offer night-oblations to thee. Thaisa,\nThis prince, the fair-betrothed of your daughter,\nShall marry her at Pentapolis. And now,\nThis ornament\nMakes me look dismal will I clip to form;\nAnd what this fourteen years no razor touch'd,\nTo grace thy marriage-day, I'll beautify.


plain_text:
Heavens make a star of him! Yet there, my queen,\nWe'll celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves\nWill in that kingdom spend our following days:\nOur son and daughter shall in Tyrus reign.\nLord Cerimon, we do our longing stay\nTo hear the rest untold: sir, lead's the way.


plain_text:
In Antiochus and his daughter you have heard\nOf monstrous lust the due and just reward:\nIn Pericles, his queen and daughter, seen,\nAlthough assail'd with fortune fierce and keen,\nVirtue preserved from fell destruction's blast,\nLed on by heaven, and crown'd with joy at last:\nIn Helicanus may you well descry\nA figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty:\nIn reverend Cerimon there well appears\nThe worth that learned charity aye wears:\nFor wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame\nHad spread their cursed deed, and honour'd name\nOf Pericles, to rage the city turn,\nThat him and his they in his palace burn;\nThe gods for murder seemed so content\nTo punish them; although not done, but meant.\nSo, on your patience evermore attending,\nNew joy wait on you! Here our play has ending.


plain_text:
Let the bird of loudest lay,\nOn the sole Arabian tree,\nHerald sad and trumpet be,\nTo whose sound chaste wings obey.


plain_text:
But thou shrieking harbinger,\nFoul precurrer of the fiend,\nAugur of the fever's end,\nTo this troop come thou not near!


plain_text:
From this session interdict\nEvery fowl of tyrant wing,\nSave the eagle, feather'd king:\nKeep the obsequy so strict.


plain_text:
Let the priest in surplice white,\nThat defunctive music can,\nBe the death-divining swan,\nLest the requiem lack his right.


plain_text:
And thou treble-dated crow,\nThat thy sable gender makest\nWith the breath thou givest and takest,\n'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.


plain_text:
Here the anthem doth commence:\nLove and constancy is dead;\nPhoenix and the turtle fled\nIn a mutual flame from hence.


plain_text:
So they loved, as love in twain\nHad the essence but in one;\nTwo distincts, division none:\nNumber there in love was slain.


plain_text:
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;\nDistance, and no space was seen\n'Twixt the turtle and his queen:\nBut in them it were a wonder.


plain_text:
So between them love did shine,\nThat the turtle saw his right\nFlaming in the phoenix' sight;\nEither was the other's mine.


plain_text:
Property was thus appalled,\nThat the self was not the same;\nSingle nature's double name\nNeither two nor one was called.


plain_text:
Reason, in itself confounded,\nSaw division grow together,\nTo themselves yet either neither,\nSimple were so well compounded,


plain_text:
That it cried, How true a twain\nSeemeth this concordant one!\nLove hath reason, reason none,\nIf what parts can so remain.


plain_text:
Whereupon it made this threne\nTo the phoenix and the dove,\nCo-supremes and stars of love,\nAs chorus to their tragic scene.


plain_text:
The love I dedicate to your lordship is without end; whereof\nthis pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety.\nThe warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth\nof my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I\nhave done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in\nall I have, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would\nshow greater; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your lordship,\nto whom I wish long life, still lengthened with all happiness.


plain_text:
Lucius Tarquinius, for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus,\nafter he had caused his own father-in-law Servius Tullius to be\ncruelly murdered, and, contrary to the Roman laws and customs,\nnot requiring or staying for the people's suffrages, had\npossessed himself of the kingdom, went, accompanied with his sons\nand other noblemen of Rome, to besiege Ardea. During which siege\nthe principal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of\nSextus Tarquinius, the king's son, in their discourses after\nsupper every one commended the virtues of his own wife: among\nwhom Collatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife\nLucretia. In that pleasant humour they posted to Rome; and\nintending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of\nthat which every one had before avouched, only Collatinus finds\nhis wife, though it were late in the night, spinning amongst her\nmaids: the other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, or\nin several disports. Whereupon the noblemen yielded Collatinus\nthe victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus\nTarquinius being inflamed with Lucrece' beauty, yet smothering\nhis passions for the present, departed with the rest back to the\ncamp; from whence he shortly after privily withdrew himself, and\nwas, according to his estate, royally entertained and lodged by\nLucrece at Collatium. The same night he treacherously stealeth\ninto her chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the\nmorning speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight,\nhastily dispatcheth messengers, one to Rome for her father,\nanother to the camp for Collatine. They came, the one\naccompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius;\nand finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause\nof her sorrow. She, first taking an oath of them for her\nrevenge, revealed the actor, and whole manner of his dealing, and\nwithal suddenly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent\nthey all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the\nTarquins; and bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted\nthe people with the doer and manner of the vile deed, with a\nbitter invective against the tyranny of the king: wherewith the\npeople were so moved, that with one consent and a general\nacclamation the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state\ngovernment changed from kings to consuls.


plain_text:
From the besieged Ardea all in post,\nBorne by the trustless wings of false desire,\nLust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,\nAnd to Collatium bears the lightless fire\nWhich, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire\nAnd girdle with embracing flames the waist\nOf Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.


plain_text:
Haply that name of 'chaste' unhappily set\nThis bateless edge on his keen appetite;\nWhen Collatine unwisely did not let\nTo praise the clear unmatched red and white\nWhich triumph'd in that sky of his delight,\nWhere mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties,\nWith pure aspects did him peculiar duties.


plain_text:
For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,\nUnlock'd the treasure of his happy state;\nWhat priceless wealth the heavens had him lent\nIn the possession of his beauteous mate;\nReckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,\nThat kings might be espoused to more fame,\nBut king nor peer to such a peerless dame.


plain_text:
O happiness enjoy'd but of a few!\nAnd, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done\nAs is the morning's silver-melting dew\nAgainst the golden splendor of the sun!\nAn expired date, cancell'd ere well begun:\nHonour and beauty, in the owner's arms,\nAre weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.


plain_text:
Beauty itself doth of itself persuade\nThe eyes of men without an orator;\nWhat needeth then apologies be made,\nTo set forth that which is so singular?\nOr why is Collatine the publisher\nOf that rich jewel he should keep unknown\nFrom thievish ears, because it is his own?


plain_text:
Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty\nSuggested this proud issue of a king;\nFor by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:\nPerchance that envy of so rich a thing,\nBraving compare, disdainfully did sting\nHis high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt\nThat golden hap which their superiors want.


plain_text:
But some untimely thought did instigate\nHis all-too-timeless speed, if none of those:\nHis honour, his affairs, his friends, his state,\nNeglected all, with swift intent he goes\nTo quench the coal which in his liver glows.\nO rash false heat, wrapp'd in repentant cold,\nThy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old!


plain_text:
When at Collatium this false lord arrived,\nWell was he welcomed by the Roman dame,\nWithin whose face beauty and virtue strived\nWhich of them both should underprop her fame:\nWhen virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame;\nWhen beauty boasted blushes, in despite\nVirtue would stain that o'er with silver white.


plain_text:
But beauty, in that white intituled,\nFrom Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field:\nThen virtue claims from beauty beauty's red,\nWhich virtue gave the golden age to gild\nTheir silver cheeks, and call'd it then their shield;\nTeaching them thus to use it in the fight,\nWhen shame assail'd, the red should fence the white.


plain_text:
This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen,\nArgued by beauty's red and virtue's white\nOf either's colour was the other queen,\nProving from world's minority their right:\nYet their ambition makes them still to fight;\nThe sovereignty of either being so great,\nThat oft they interchange each other's seat.


plain_text:
Their silent war of lilies and of roses,\nWhich Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field,\nIn their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses;\nWhere, lest between them both it should be kill'd,\nThe coward captive vanquished doth yield\nTo those two armies that would let him go,\nRather than triumph in so false a foe.


plain_text:
Now thinks he that her husband's shallow tongue,--\nThe niggard prodigal that praised her so,--\nIn that high task hath done her beauty wrong,\nWhich far exceeds his barren skill to show:\nTherefore that praise which Collatine doth owe\nEnchanted Tarquin answers with surmise,\nIn silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.


plain_text:
This earthly saint, adored by this devil,\nLittle suspecteth the false worshipper;\nFor unstain'd thoughts do seldom dream on evil;\nBirds never limed no secret bushes fear:\nSo guiltless she securely gives good cheer\nAnd reverend welcome to her princely guest,\nWhose inward ill no outward harm express'd:


plain_text:
For that he colour'd with his high estate,\nHiding base sin in plaits of majesty;\nThat nothing in him seem'd inordinate,\nSave something too much wonder of his eye,\nWhich, having all, all could not satisfy;\nBut, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store,\nThat, cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.


plain_text:
But she, that never coped with stranger eyes,\nCould pick no meaning from their parling looks,\nNor read the subtle-shining secrecies\nWrit in the glassy margents of such books:\nShe touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks;\nNor could she moralize his wanton sight,\nMore than his eyes were open'd to the light.


plain_text:
He stories to her ears her husband's fame,\nWon in the fields of fruitful Italy;\nAnd decks with praises Collatine's high name,\nMade glorious by his manly chivalry\nWith bruised arms and wreaths of victory:\nHer joy with heaved-up hand she doth express,\nAnd, wordless, so greets heaven for his success.


plain_text:
Far from the purpose of his coming hither,\nHe makes excuses for his being there:\nNo cloudy show of stormy blustering weather\nDoth yet in his fair welkin once appear;\nTill sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear,\nUpon the world dim darkness doth display,\nAnd in her vaulty prison stows the Day.


plain_text:
For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,\nIntending weariness with heavy spright;\nFor, after supper, long he questioned\nWith modest Lucrece, and wore out the night:\nNow leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight;\nAnd every one to rest themselves betake,\nSave thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, that wake.


plain_text:
As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving\nThe sundry dangers of his will's obtaining;\nYet ever to obtain his will resolving,\nThough weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining:\nDespair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining;\nAnd when great treasure is the meed proposed,\nThough death be adjunct, there's no death supposed.


plain_text:
Those that much covet are with gain so fond,\nFor what they have not, that which they possess\nThey scatter and unloose it from their bond,\nAnd so, by hoping more, they have but less;\nOr, gaining more, the profit of excess\nIs but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,\nThat they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.


plain_text:
The aim of all is but to nurse the life\nWith honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age;\nAnd in this aim there is such thwarting strife,\nThat one for all, or all for one we gage;\nAs life for honour in fell battle's rage;\nHonour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost\nThe death of all, and all together lost.


plain_text:
So that in venturing ill we leave to be\nThe things we are for that which we expect;\nAnd this ambitious foul infirmity,\nIn having much, torments us with defect\nOf that we have: so then we do neglect\nThe thing we have; and, all for want of wit,\nMake something nothing by augmenting it.


plain_text:
Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make,\nPawning his honour to obtain his lust;\nAnd for himself himself be must forsake:\nThen where is truth, if there be no self-trust?\nWhen shall he think to find a stranger just,\nWhen he himself himself confounds, betrays\nTo slanderous tongues and wretched hateful days?


plain_text:
Now stole upon the time the dead of night,\nWhen heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes:\nNo comfortable star did lend his light,\nNo noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries;\nNow serves the season that they may surprise\nThe silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still,\nWhile lust and murder wake to stain and kill.


plain_text:
And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed,\nThrowing his mantle rudely o'er his arm;\nIs madly toss'd between desire and dread;\nTh' one sweetly flatters, th' other feareth harm;\nBut honest fear, bewitch'd with lust's foul charm,\nDoth too too oft betake him to retire,\nBeaten away by brain-sick rude desire.


plain_text:
His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,\nThat from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly;\nWhereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,\nWhich must be lode-star to his lustful eye;\nAnd to the flame thus speaks advisedly,\n'As from this cold flint I enforced this fire,\nSo Lucrece must I force to my desire.'


plain_text:
Here pale with fear he doth premeditate\nThe dangers of his loathsome enterprise,\nAnd in his inward mind he doth debate\nWhat following sorrow may on this arise:\nThen looking scornfully, he doth despise\nHis naked armour of still-slaughter'd lust,\nAnd justly thus controls his thoughts unjust:


plain_text:
'Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not\nTo darken her whose light excelleth thine:\nAnd die, unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot\nWith your uncleanness that which is divine;\nOffer pure incense to so pure a shrine:\nLet fair humanity abhor the deed\nThat spots and stains love's modest snow-white weed.


plain_text:
'O shame to knighthood and to shining arms!\nO foul dishonour to my household's grave!\nO impious act, including all foul harms!\nA martial man to be soft fancy's slave!\nTrue valour still a true respect should have;\nThen my digression is so vile, so base,\nThat it will live engraven in my face.


plain_text:
'Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive,\nAnd be an eye-sore in my golden coat;\nSome loathsome dash the herald will contrive,\nTo cipher me how fondly I did dote;\nThat my posterity, shamed with the note\nShall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin\nTo wish that I their father had not bin.


plain_text:
'What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?\nA dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.\nWho buys a minute's mirth to wail a week?\nOr sells eternity to get a toy?\nFor one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?\nOr what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,\nWould with the sceptre straight be strucken down?


plain_text:
'If Collatinus dream of my intent,\nWill he not wake, and in a desperate rage\nPost hither, this vile purpose to prevent?\nThis siege that hath engirt his marriage,\nThis blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage,\nThis dying virtue, this surviving shame,\nWhose crime will bear an ever-during blame?


plain_text:
'O, what excuse can my invention make,\nWhen thou shalt charge me with so black a deed?\nWill not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,\nMine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed?\nThe guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;\nAnd extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,\nBut coward-like with trembling terror die.


plain_text:
'Had Collatinus kill'd my son or sire,\nOr lain in ambush to betray my life,\nOr were he not my dear friend, this desire\nMight have excuse to work upon his wife,\nAs in revenge or quittal of such strife:\nBut as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,\nThe shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.


plain_text:
'Shameful it is; ay, if the fact be known:\nHateful it is; there is no hate in loving:\nI'll beg her love; but she is own:\nThe worst is but denial and reproving:\nMy will is strong, past reason's weak removing.\nWho fears a sentence or an old man's saw\nShall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.'


plain_text:
Thus, graceless, holds he disputation\n'Tween frozen conscience and hot-burning will,\nAnd with good thoughts make dispensation,\nUrging the worser sense for vantage still;\nWhich in a moment doth confound and kill\nAll pure effects, and doth so far proceed,\nThat what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.


plain_text:
Quoth he, 'She took me kindly by the hand,\nAnd gazed for tidings in my eager eyes,\nFearing some hard news from the warlike band,\nWhere her beloved Collatinus lies.\nO, how her fear did make her colour rise!\nFirst red as roses that on lawn we lay,\nThen white as lawn, the roses took away.


plain_text:
'And how her hand, in my hand being lock'd\nForced it to tremble with her loyal fear!\nWhich struck her sad, and then it faster rock'd,\nUntil her husband's welfare she did hear;\nWhereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer,\nThat had Narcissus seen her as she stood,\nSelf-love had never drown'd him in the flood.


plain_text:
'Why hunt I then for colour or excuses?\nAll orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth;\nPoor wretches have remorse in poor abuses;\nLove thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth:\nAffection is my captain, and he leadeth;\nAnd when his gaudy banner is display'd,\nThe coward fights and will not be dismay'd.


plain_text:
'Then, childish fear, avaunt! debating, die!\nRespect and reason, wait on wrinkled age!\nMy heart shall never countermand mine eye:\nSad pause and deep regard beseem the sage;\nMy part is youth, and beats these from the stage:\nDesire my pilot is, beauty my prize;\nThen who fears sinking where such treasure lies?'


