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'Tis well: the citizens,\nI am sure, have shown at full their royal minds--\nAs, let 'em have their rights, they are ever forward--\nIn celebration of this day with shows,\nPageants and sights of honour.


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Yes; 'tis the list\nOf those that claim their offices this day\nBy custom of the coronation.\nThe Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims\nTo be high-steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk,\nHe to be earl marshal: you may read the rest.


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I thank you, sir: had I not known those customs,\nI should have been beholding to your paper.\nBut, I beseech you, what's become of Katharine,\nThe princess dowager? how goes her business?


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That I can tell you too. The Archbishop\nOf Canterbury, accompanied with other\nLearned and reverend fathers of his order,\nHeld a late court at Dunstable, six miles off\nFrom Ampthill where the princess lay; to which\nShe was often cited by them, but appear'd not:\nAnd, to be short, for not appearance and\nThe king's late scruple, by the main assent\nOf all these learned men she was divorced,\nAnd the late marriage made of none effect\nSince which she was removed to Kimbolton,\nWhere she remains now sick.


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Alas, good lady!\n[Trumpets]\nThe trumpets sound: stand close, the queen is coming.\n[Hautboys]\n[THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION]\n1. A lively flourish of Trumpets.\n2. Then, two Judges.\n3. Lord Chancellor, with the purse and mace\nbefore him.\n4. Choristers, singing.\n[Music]\n5. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then\nGarter, in his coat of arms, and on his\nhead a gilt copper crown.\n6. Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold,\non his head a demi-coronal of gold. With\nhim, SURREY, bearing the rod of silver with\nthe dove, crowned with an earl's coronet.\nCollars of SS.\n7. SUFFOLK, in his robe of estate, his coronet\non his head, bearing a long white wand, as\nhigh-steward. With him, NORFOLK, with the\nrod of marshalship, a coronet on his head.\nCollars of SS.\n8. A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports;\nunder it, QUEEN ANNE in her robe; in her hair\nrichly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each\nside her, the Bishops of London and\nWinchester.\n9. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of\ngold, wrought with flowers, bearing QUEEN\nANNE's train.\n10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain\ncirclets of gold without flowers.


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Heaven bless thee!\n[Looking on QUEEN ANNE]\nThou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on.\nSir, as I have a soul, she is an angel;\nOur king has all the Indies in his arms,\nAnd more and richer, when he strains that lady:\nI cannot blame his conscience.


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Those men are happy; and so are all are near her.\nI take it, she that carries up the train\nIs that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk.


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Among the crowd i' the Abbey; where a finger\nCould not be wedged in more: I am stifled\nWith the mere rankness of their joy.


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As well as I am able. The rich stream\nOf lords and ladies, having brought the queen\nTo a prepared place in the choir, fell off\nA distance from her; while her grace sat down\nTo rest awhile, some half an hour or so,\nIn a rich chair of state, opposing freely\nThe beauty of her person to the people.\nBelieve me, sir, she is the goodliest woman\nThat ever lay by man: which when the people\nHad the full view of, such a noise arose\nAs the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,\nAs loud, and to as many tunes: hats, cloaks--\nDoublets, I think,--flew up; and had their faces\nBeen loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy\nI never saw before. Great-bellied women,\nThat had not half a week to go, like rams\nIn the old time of war, would shake the press,\nAnd make 'em reel before 'em. No man living\nCould say 'This is my wife' there; all were woven\nSo strangely in one piece.


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At length her grace rose, and with modest paces\nCame to the altar; where she kneel'd, and saint-like\nCast her fair eyes to heaven and pray'd devoutly.\nThen rose again and bow'd her to the people:\nWhen by the Archbishop of Canterbury\nShe had all the royal makings of a queen;\nAs holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown,\nThe rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems\nLaid nobly on her: which perform'd, the choir,\nWith all the choicest music of the kingdom,\nTogether sung 'Te Deum.' So she parted,\nAnd with the same full state paced back again\nTo York-place, where the feast is held.


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Sir,\nYou must no more call it York-place, that's past;\nFor, since the cardinal fell, that title's lost:\n'Tis now the king's, and call'd Whitehall.


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Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of Winchester,\nNewly preferr'd from the king's secretary,\nThe other, London.


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All the land knows that:\nHowever, yet there is no great breach; when it comes,\nCranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.


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Thomas Cromwell;\nA man in much esteem with the king, and truly\nA worthy friend. The king has made him master\nO' the jewel house,\nAnd one, already, of the privy council.


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Yes, without all doubt.\nCome, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which\nIs to the court, and there ye shall be my guests:\nSomething I can command. As I walk thither,\nI'll tell ye more.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter KATHARINE, Dowager, sick; led between]\nGRIFFITH, her gentleman usher, and PATIENCE, her woman]


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O Griffith, sick to death!\nMy legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth,\nWilling to leave their burthen. Reach a chair:\nSo; now, methinks, I feel a little ease.\nDidst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me,\nThat the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead?


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Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died:\nIf well, he stepp'd before me, happily\nFor my example.


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Well, the voice goes, madam:\nFor after the stout Earl Northumberland\nArrested him at York, and brought him forward,\nAs a man sorely tainted, to his answer,\nHe fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill\nHe could not sit his mule.


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At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,\nLodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,\nWith all his covent, honourably received him;\nTo whom he gave these words, 'O, father abbot,\nAn old man, broken with the storms of state,\nIs come to lay his weary bones among ye;\nGive him a little earth for charity!'\nSo went to bed; where eagerly his sickness\nPursued him still: and, three nights after this,\nAbout the hour of eight, which he himself\nForetold should be his last, full of repentance,\nContinual meditations, tears, and sorrows,\nHe gave his honours to the world again,\nHis blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.


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So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!\nYet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,\nAnd yet with charity. He was a man\nOf an unbounded stomach, ever ranking\nHimself with princes; one that, by suggestion,\nTied all the kingdom: simony was fair-play;\nHis own opinion was his law: i' the presence\nHe would say untruths; and be ever double\nBoth in his words and meaning: he was never,\nBut where he meant to ruin, pitiful:\nHis promises were, as he then was, mighty;\nBut his performance, as he is now, nothing:\nOf his own body he was ill, and gave\nThe clergy in example.


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Noble madam,\nMen's evil manners live in brass; their virtues\nWe write in water. May it please your highness\nTo hear me speak his good now?


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This cardinal,\nThough from an humble stock, undoubtedly\nWas fashion'd to much honour from his cradle.\nHe was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;\nExceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading:\nLofty and sour to them that loved him not;\nBut to those men that sought him sweet as summer.\nAnd though he were unsatisfied in getting,\nWhich was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam,\nHe was most princely: ever witness for him\nThose twins Of learning that he raised in you,\nIpswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him,\nUnwilling to outlive the good that did it;\nThe other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous,\nSo excellent in art, and still so rising,\nThat Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.\nHis overthrow heap'd happiness upon him;\nFor then, and not till then, he felt himself,\nAnd found the blessedness of being little:\nAnd, to add greater honours to his age\nThan man could give him, he died fearing God.


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After my death I wish no other herald,\nNo other speaker of my living actions,\nTo keep mine honour from corruption,\nBut such an honest chronicler as Griffith.\nWhom I most hated living, thou hast made me,\nWith thy religious truth and modesty,\nNow in his ashes honour: peace be with him!\nPatience, be near me still; and set me lower:\nI have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,\nCause the musicians play me that sad note\nI named my knell, whilst I sit meditating\nOn that celestial harmony I go to.


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She is asleep: good wench, let's sit down quiet,\nFor fear we wake her: softly, gentle Patience.\n[The vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after]\nanother, six personages, clad in white robes,\nwearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden\nvizards on their faces; branches of bays or palm in\ntheir hands. They first congee unto her, then\ndance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold\na spare garland over her head; at which the other\nfour make reverent curtsies; then the two that held\nthe garland deliver the same to the other next two,\nwho observe the same order in their changes, and\nholding the garland over her head: which done,\nthey deliver the same garland to the last two, who\nlikewise observe the same order: at which, as it\nwere by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs\nof rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven:\nand so in their dancing vanish, carrying the\ngarland with them. The music continues]


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No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop\nInvite me to a banquet; whose bright faces\nCast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?\nThey promised me eternal happiness;\nAnd brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel\nI am not worthy yet to wear: I shall, assuredly.


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Do you note\nHow much her grace is alter'd on the sudden?\nHow long her face is drawn? how pale she looks,\nAnd of an earthy cold? Mark her eyes!


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You are to blame,\nKnowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,\nTo use so rude behavior; go to, kneel.


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I humbly do entreat your highness' pardon;\nMy haste made me unmannerly. There is staying\nA gentleman, sent from the king, to see you.


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Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this fellow\nLet me ne'er see again.\n[Exeunt GRIFFITH and Messenger]\n[Re-enter GRIFFITH, with CAPUCIUS]\nIf my sight fail not,\nYou should be lord ambassador from the emperor,\nMy royal nephew, and your name Capucius.


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O, my lord,\nThe times and titles now are alter'd strangely\nWith me since first you knew me. But, I pray you,\nWhat is your pleasure with me?


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Noble lady,\nFirst mine own service to your grace; the next,\nThe king's request that I would visit you;\nWho grieves much for your weakness, and by me\nSends you his princely commendations,\nAnd heartily entreats you take good comfort.


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O my good lord, that comfort comes too late;\n'Tis like a pardon after execution:\nThat gentle physic, given in time, had cured me;\nBut now I am past an comforts here, but prayers.\nHow does his highness?


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So may he ever do! and ever flourish,\nWhen I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name\nBanish'd the kingdom! Patience, is that letter,\nI caused you write, yet sent away?


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In which I have commended to his goodness\nThe model of our chaste loves, his young daughter;\nThe dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!\nBeseeching him to give her virtuous breeding--\nShe is young, and of a noble modest nature,\nI hope she will deserve well,--and a little\nTo love her for her mother's sake, that loved him,\nHeaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition\nIs, that his noble grace would have some pity\nUpon my wretched women, that so long\nHave follow'd both my fortunes faithfully:\nOf which there is not one, I dare avow,\nAnd now I should not lie, but will deserve\nFor virtue and true beauty of the soul,\nFor honesty and decent carriage,\nA right good husband, let him be a noble\nAnd, sure, those men are happy that shall have 'em.\nThe last is, for my men; they are the poorest,\nBut poverty could never draw 'em from me;\nThat they may have their wages duly paid 'em,\nAnd something over to remember me by:\nIf heaven had pleased to have given me longer life\nAnd able means, we had not parted thus.\nThese are the whole contents: and, good my lord,\nBy that you love the dearest in this world,\nAs you wish Christian peace to souls departed,\nStand these poor people's friend, and urge the king\nTo do me this last right.


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I thank you, honest lord. Remember me\nIn all humility unto his highness:\nSay his long trouble now is passing\nOut of this world; tell him, in death I bless'd him,\nFor so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell,\nMy lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience,\nYou must not leave me yet: I must to bed;\nCall in more women. When I am dead, good wench,\nLet me be used with honour: strew me over\nWith maiden flowers, that all the world may know\nI was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me,\nThen lay me forth: although unqueen'd, yet like\nA queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.\nI can no more.


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[Exeunt, leading KATHARINE]\n[Enter GARDINER, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a]\ntorch before him, met by LOVELL]


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These should be hours for necessities,\nNot for delights; times to repair our nature\nWith comforting repose, and not for us\nTo waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas!\nWhither so late?


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Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What's the matter?\nIt seems you are in haste: an if there be\nNo great offence belongs to't, give your friend\nSome touch of your late business: affairs, that walk,\nAs they say spirits do, at midnight, have\nIn them a wilder nature than the business\nThat seeks dispatch by day.


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My lord, I love you;\nAnd durst commend a secret to your ear\nMuch weightier than this work. The queen's in labour,\nThey say, in great extremity; and fear'd\nShe'll with the labour end.


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The fruit she goes with\nI pray for heartily, that it may find\nGood time, and live: but for the stock, Sir Thomas,\nI wish it grubb'd up now.


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Methinks I could\nCry the amen; and yet my conscience says\nShe's a good creature, and, sweet lady, does\nDeserve our better wishes.


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But, sir, sir,\nHear me, Sir Thomas: you're a gentleman\nOf mine own way; I know you wise, religious;\nAnd, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well,\n'Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take't of me,\nTill Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,\nSleep in their graves.


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Now, sir, you speak of two\nThe most remark'd i' the kingdom. As for Cromwell,\nBeside that of the jewel house, is made master\nO' the rolls, and the king's secretary; further, sir,\nStands in the gap and trade of moe preferments,\nWith which the time will load him. The archbishop\nIs the king's hand and tongue; and who dare speak\nOne syllable against him?


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Yes, yes, Sir Thomas,\nThere are that dare; and I myself have ventured\nTo speak my mind of him: and indeed this day,\nSir, I may tell it you, I think I have\nIncensed the lords o' the council, that he is,\nFor so I know he is, they know he is,\nA most arch heretic, a pestilence\nThat does infect the land: with which they moved\nHave broken with the king; who hath so far\nGiven ear to our complaint, of his great grace\nAnd princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs\nOur reasons laid before him, hath commanded\nTo-morrow morning to the council-board\nHe be convented. He's a rank weed, Sir Thomas,\nAnd we must root him out. From your affairs\nI hinder you too long: good night, Sir Thomas.


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But little, Charles;\nNor shall not, when my fancy's on my play.\nNow, Lovell, from the queen what is the news?


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I could not personally deliver to her\nWhat you commanded me, but by her woman\nI sent your message; who return'd her thanks\nIn the great'st humbleness, and desired your highness\nMost heartily to pray for her.


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God safely quit her of her burthen, and\nWith gentle travail, to the gladding of\nYour highness with an heir!


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'Tis midnight, Charles;\nPrithee, to bed; and in thy prayers remember\nThe estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone;\nFor I must think of that which company\nWould not be friendly to.


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Pray you, arise,\nMy good and gracious Lord of Canterbury.\nCome, you and I must walk a turn together;\nI have news to tell you: come, come, give me your hand.\nAh, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak,\nAnd am right sorry to repeat what follows\nI have, and most unwillingly, of late\nHeard many grievous, I do say, my lord,\nGrievous complaints of you; which, being consider'd,\nHave moved us and our council, that you shall\nThis morning come before us; where, I know,\nYou cannot with such freedom purge yourself,\nBut that, till further trial in those charges\nWhich will require your answer, you must take\nYour patience to you, and be well contented\nTo make your house our Tower: you a brother of us,\nIt fits we thus proceed, or else no witness\nWould come against you.


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[Kneeling]\nI humbly thank your highness;\nAnd am right glad to catch this good occasion\nMost throughly to be winnow'd, where my chaff\nAnd corn shall fly asunder: for, I know,\nThere's none stands under more calumnious tongues\nThan I myself, poor man.


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Stand up, good Canterbury:\nThy truth and thy integrity is rooted\nIn us, thy friend: give me thy hand, stand up:\nPrithee, let's walk. Now, by my holidame.\nWhat manner of man are you? My lord, I look'd\nYou would have given me your petition, that\nI should have ta'en some pains to bring together\nYourself and your accusers; and to have heard you,\nWithout indurance, further.


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Most dread liege,\nThe good I stand on is my truth and honesty:\nIf they shall fail, I, with mine enemies,\nWill triumph o'er my person; which I weigh not,\nBeing of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing\nWhat can be said against me.


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Know you not\nHow your state stands i' the world, with the whole world?\nYour enemies are many, and not small; their practises\nMust bear the same proportion; and not ever\nThe justice and the truth o' the question carries\nThe due o' the verdict with it: at what ease\nMight corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt\nTo swear against you? such things have been done.\nYou are potently opposed; and with a malice\nOf as great size. Ween you of better luck,\nI mean, in perjured witness, than your master,\nWhose minister you are, whiles here he lived\nUpon this naughty earth? Go to, go to;\nYou take a precipice for no leap of danger,\nAnd woo your own destruction.


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Be of good cheer;\nThey shall no more prevail than we give way to.\nKeep comfort to you; and this morning see\nYou do appear before them: if they shall chance,\nIn charging you with matters, to commit you,\nThe best persuasions to the contrary\nFail not to use, and with what vehemency\nThe occasion shall instruct you: if entreaties\nWill render you no remedy, this ring\nDeliver them, and your appeal to us\nThere make before them. Look, the good man weeps!\nHe's honest, on mine honour. God's blest mother!\nI swear he is true--hearted; and a soul\nNone better in my kingdom. Get you gone,\nAnd do as I have bid you.\n[Exit CRANMER]\nHe has strangled\nHis language in his tears.


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I'll not come back; the tidings that I bring\nWill make my boldness manners. Now, good angels\nFly o'er thy royal head, and shade thy person\nUnder their blessed wings!


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Ay, ay, my liege;\nAnd of a lovely boy: the God of heaven\nBoth now and ever bless her! 'tis a girl,\nPromises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen\nDesires your visitation, and to be\nAcquainted with this stranger 'tis as like you\nAs cherry is to cherry.


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An hundred marks! By this light, I'll ha' more.\nAn ordinary groom is for such payment.\nI will have more, or scold it out of him.\nSaid I for this, the girl was like to him?\nI will have more, or else unsay't; and now,\nWhile it is hot, I'll put it to the issue.


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I hope I am not too late; and yet the gentleman,\nThat was sent to me from the council, pray'd me\nTo make great haste. All fast? what means this? Ho!\nWho waits there? Sure, you know me?


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[Aside] This is a piece of malice. I am glad\nI came this way so happily: the king\nShall understand it presently.


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[Aside]. 'Tis Butts,\nThe king's physician: as he pass'd along,\nHow earnestly he cast his eyes upon me!\nPray heaven, he sound not my disgrace! For certain,\nThis is of purpose laid by some that hate me--\nGod turn their hearts! I never sought their malice--\nTo quench mine honour: they would shame to make me\nWait else at door, a fellow-counsellor,\n'Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures\nMust be fulfill'd, and I attend with patience.


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There, my lord:\nThe high promotion of his grace of Canterbury;\nWho holds his state at door, 'mongst pursuivants,\nPages, and footboys.


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Ha! 'tis he, indeed:\nIs this the honour they do one another?\n'Tis well there's one above 'em yet. I had thought\nThey had parted so much honesty among 'em\nAt least, good manners, as not thus to suffer\nA man of his place, and so near our favour,\nTo dance attendance on their lordships' pleasures,\nAnd at the door too, like a post with packets.\nBy holy Mary, Butts, there's knavery:\nLet 'em alone, and draw the curtain close:\nWe shall hear more anon.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter Chancellor; places himself at the upper end]\nof the table on the left hand; a seat being left\nvoid above him, as for CRANMER's seat. SUFFOLK,\nNORFOLK, SURREY, Chamberlain, GARDINER, seat\nthemselves in order on each side. CROMWELL at\nlower end, as secretary. Keeper at the door]


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My good lord archbishop, I'm very sorry\nTo sit here at this present, and behold\nThat chair stand empty: but we all are men,\nIn our own natures frail, and capable\nOf our flesh; few are angels: out of which frailty\nAnd want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us,\nHave misdemean'd yourself, and not a little,\nToward the king first, then his laws, in filling\nThe whole realm, by your teaching and your chaplains,\nFor so we are inform'd, with new opinions,\nDivers and dangerous; which are heresies,\nAnd, not reform'd, may prove pernicious.


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Which reformation must be sudden too,\nMy noble lords; for those that tame wild horses\nPace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle,\nBut stop their mouths with stubborn bits, and spur 'em,\nTill they obey the manage. If we suffer,\nOut of our easiness and childish pity\nTo one man's honour, this contagious sickness,\nFarewell all physic: and what follows then?\nCommotions, uproars, with a general taint\nOf the whole state: as, of late days, our neighbours,\nThe upper Germany, can dearly witness,\nYet freshly pitied in our memories.


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My good lords, hitherto, in all the progress\nBoth of my life and office, I have labour'd,\nAnd with no little study, that my teaching\nAnd the strong course of my authority\nMight go one way, and safely; and the end\nWas ever, to do well: nor is there living,\nI speak it with a single heart, my lords,\nA man that more detests, more stirs against,\nBoth in his private conscience and his place,\nDefacers of a public peace, than I do.\nPray heaven, the king may never find a heart\nWith less allegiance in it! Men that make\nEnvy and crooked malice nourishment\nDare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships,\nThat, in this case of justice, my accusers,\nBe what they will, may stand forth face to face,\nAnd freely urge against me.


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My lord, because we have business of more moment,\nWe will be short with you. 'Tis his highness' pleasure,\nAnd our consent, for better trial of you,\nFrom hence you be committed to the Tower;\nWhere, being but a private man again,\nYou shall know many dare accuse you boldly,\nMore than, I fear, you are provided for.


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Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you;\nYou are always my good friend; if your will pass,\nI shall both find your lordship judge and juror,\nYou are so merciful: I see your end;\n'Tis my undoing: love and meekness, lord,\nBecome a churchman better than ambition:\nWin straying souls with modesty again,\nCast none away. That I shall clear myself,\nLay all the weight ye can upon my patience,\nI make as little doubt, as you do conscience\nIn doing daily wrongs. I could say more,\nBut reverence to your calling makes me modest.


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My lord, my lord, you are a sectary,\nThat's the plain truth: your painted gloss discovers,\nTo men that understand you, words and weakness.


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My Lord of Winchester, you are a little,\nBy your good favour, too sharp; men so noble,\nHowever faulty, yet should find respect\nFor what they have been: 'tis a cruelty\nTo load a falling man.


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Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed,\nI take it, by all voices, that forthwith\nYou be convey'd to the Tower a prisoner;\nThere to remain till the king's further pleasure\nBe known unto us: are you all agreed, lords?


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Stay, good my lords,\nI have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords;\nBy virtue of that ring, I take my cause\nOut of the gripes of cruel men, and give it\nTo a most noble judge, the king my master.


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'Tis the right ring, by heaven: I told ye all,\nWhen ye first put this dangerous stone a-rolling,\n'Twould fall upon ourselves.


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My mind gave me,\nIn seeking tales and informations\nAgainst this man, whose honesty the devil\nAnd his disciples only envy at,\nYe blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye!


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Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven\nIn daily thanks, that gave us such a prince;\nNot only good and wise, but most religious:\nOne that, in all obedience, makes the church\nThe chief aim of his honour; and, to strengthen\nThat holy duty, out of dear respect,\nHis royal self in judgment comes to hear\nThe cause betwixt her and this great offender.


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You were ever good at sudden commendations,\nBishop of Winchester. But know, I come not\nTo hear such flattery now, and in my presence;\nThey are too thin and bare to hide offences.\nTo me you cannot reach, you play the spaniel,\nAnd think with wagging of your tongue to win me;\nBut, whatsoe'er thou takest me for, I'm sure\nThou hast a cruel nature and a bloody.\n[To CRANMER]\nGood man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest\nHe, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee:\nBy all that's holy, he had better starve\nThan but once think this place becomes thee not.


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No, sir, it does not please me.\nI had thought I had had men of some understanding\nAnd wisdom of my council; but I find none.\nWas it discretion, lords, to let this man,\nThis good man,--few of you deserve that title,--\nThis honest man, wait like a lousy footboy\nAt chamber--door? and one as great as you are?\nWhy, what a shame was this! Did my commission\nBid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye\nPower as he was a counsellor to try him,\nNot as a groom: there's some of ye, I see,\nMore out of malice than integrity,\nWould try him to the utmost, had ye mean;\nWhich ye shall never have while I live.


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Thus far,\nMy most dread sovereign, may it like your grace\nTo let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed\nConcerning his imprisonment, was rather,\nIf there be faith in men, meant for his trial,\nAnd fair purgation to the world, than malice,\nI'm sure, in me.


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Well, well, my lords, respect him;\nTake him, and use him well, he's worthy of it.\nI will say thus much for him, if a prince\nMay be beholding to a subject, I\nAm, for his love and service, so to him.\nMake me no more ado, but all embrace him:\nBe friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of\nCanterbury,\nI have a suit which you must not deny me;\nThat is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism,\nYou must be godfather, and answer for her.


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The greatest monarch now alive may glory\nIn such an honour: how may I deserve it\nThat am a poor and humble subject to you?


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Come, come, my lord, you'ld spare your spoons: you\nshall have two noble partners with you; the old\nDuchess of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dorset: will\nthese please you?\nOnce more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you,\nEmbrace and love this man.


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Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart:\nThe common voice, I see, is verified\nOf thee, which says thus, 'Do my Lord of Canterbury\nA shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.'\nCome, lords, we trifle time away; I long\nTo have this young one made a Christian.\nAs I have made ye one, lords, one remain;\nSo I grow stronger, you more honour gain.


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You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: do you\ntake the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves,\nleave your gaping.\n[Within]\nGood master porter, I belong to the larder.


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Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! is\nthis a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree\nstaves, and strong ones: these are but switches to\n'em. I'll scratch your heads: you must be seeing\nchristenings? do you look for ale and cakes here,\nyou rude rascals?


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Pray, sir, be patient: 'tis as much impossible--\nUnless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons--\nTo scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleep\nOn May-day morning; which will never be:\nWe may as well push against Powle's, as stir em.


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Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in?\nAs much as one sound cudgel of four foot--\nYou see the poor remainder--could distribute,\nI made no spare, sir.


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I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,\nTo mow 'em down before me: but if I spared any\nThat had a head to hit, either young or old,\nHe or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,\nLet me ne'er hope to see a chine again\nAnd that I would not for a cow, God save her!\n[Within]\nDo you hear, master porter?


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What should you do, but knock 'em down by the\ndozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have\nwe some strange Indian with the great tool come to\ncourt, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a\nfry of fornication is at door! On my Christian\nconscience, this one christening will beget a\nthousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together.


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The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a\nfellow somewhat near the door, he should be a\nbrazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty\nof the dog-days now reign in's nose; all that stand\nabout him are under the line, they need no other\npenance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on\nthe head, and three times was his nose discharged\nagainst me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to\nblow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small\nwit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked\nporringer fell off her head, for kindling such a\ncombustion in the state. I missed the meteor once,\nand hit that woman; who cried out 'Clubs!' when I\nmight see from far some forty truncheoners draw to\nher succor, which were the hope o' the Strand, where\nshe was quartered. They fell on; I made good my\nplace: at length they came to the broom-staff to\nme; I defied 'em still: when suddenly a file of\nboys behind 'em, loose shot, delivered such a shower\nof pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in,\nand let 'em win the work: the devil was amongst\n'em, I think, surely.


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These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse,\nand fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but\nthe tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of\nLimehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure.\nI have some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they\nare like to dance these three days; besides the\nrunning banquet of two beadles that is to come.


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Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here!\nThey grow still too; from all parts they are coming,\nAs if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,\nThese lazy knaves? Ye have made a fine hand, fellows:\nThere's a trim rabble let in: are all these\nYour faithful friends o' the suburbs? We shall have\nGreat store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,\nWhen they pass back from the christening.


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An't please\nyour honour,\nWe are but men; and what so many may do,\nNot being torn a-pieces, we have done:\nAn army cannot rule 'em.


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As I live,\nIf the king blame me for't, I'll lay ye all\nBy the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads\nClap round fines for neglect: ye are lazy knaves;\nAnd here ye lie baiting of bombards, when\nYe should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound;\nThey're come already from the christening:\nGo, break among the press, and find a way out\nTo let the troop pass fairly; or I'll find\nA Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord]\nMayor, Garter, CRANMER, NORFOLK with his marshal's\nstaff, SUFFOLK, two Noblemen bearing great\nstanding-bowls for the christening-gifts; then\nfour Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the\nDuchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child\nrichly habited in a mantle, &c., train borne by a\nLady; then follows the Marchioness Dorset, the\nother godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once\nabout the stage, and Garter speaks]


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Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous\nlife, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty\nprincess of England, Elizabeth!


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[Kneeling] And to your royal grace, and the good queen,\nMy noble partners, and myself, thus pray:\nAll comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady,\nHeaven ever laid up to make parents happy,\nMay hourly fall upon ye!


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Stand up, lord.\n[KING HENRY VIII kisses the child]\nWith this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee!\nInto whose hand I give thy life.


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My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal:\nI thank ye heartily; so shall this lady,\nWhen she has so much English.


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Let me speak, sir,\nFor heaven now bids me; and the words I utter\nLet none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth.\nThis royal infant--heaven still move about her!--\nThough in her cradle, yet now promises\nUpon this land a thousand thousand blessings,\nWhich time shall bring to ripeness: she shall be--\nBut few now living can behold that goodness--\nA pattern to all princes living with her,\nAnd all that shall succeed: Saba was never\nMore covetous of wisdom and fair virtue\nThan this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,\nThat mould up such a mighty piece as this is,\nWith all the virtues that attend the good,\nShall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,\nHoly and heavenly thoughts still counsel her:\nShe shall be loved and fear'd: her own shall bless her;\nHer foes shake like a field of beaten corn,\nAnd hang their heads with sorrow: good grows with her:\nIn her days every man shall eat in safety,\nUnder his own vine, what he plants; and sing\nThe merry songs of peace to all his neighbours:\nGod shall be truly known; and those about her\nFrom her shall read the perfect ways of honour,\nAnd by those claim their greatness, not by blood.\nNor shall this peace sleep with her: but as when\nThe bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,\nHer ashes new create another heir,\nAs great in admiration as herself;\nSo shall she leave her blessedness to one,\nWhen heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,\nWho from the sacred ashes of her honour\nShall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,\nAnd so stand fix'd: peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,\nThat were the servants to this chosen infant,\nShall then be his, and like a vine grow to him:\nWherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,\nHis honour and the greatness of his name\nShall be, and make new nations: he shall flourish,\nAnd, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches\nTo all the plains about him: our children's children\nShall see this, and bless heaven.


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She shall be, to the happiness of England,\nAn aged princess; many days shall see her,\nAnd yet no day without a deed to crown it.\nWould I had known no more! but she must die,\nShe must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin,\nA most unspotted lily shall she pass\nTo the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.


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O lord archbishop,\nThou hast made me now a man! never, before\nThis happy child, did I get any thing:\nThis oracle of comfort has so pleased me,\nThat when I am in heaven I shall desire\nTo see what this child does, and praise my Maker.\nI thank ye all. To you, my good lord mayor,\nAnd your good brethren, I am much beholding;\nI have received much honour by your presence,\nAnd ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords:\nYe must all see the queen, and she must thank ye,\nShe will be sick else. This day, no man think\nHas business at his house; for all shall stay:\nThis little one shall make it holiday.\n[Exeunt]\nEPILOGUE


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'Tis ten to one this play can never please\nAll that are here: some come to take their ease,\nAnd sleep an act or two; but those, we fear,\nWe have frighted with our trumpets; so, 'tis clear,\nThey'll say 'tis naught: others, to hear the city\nAbused extremely, and to cry 'That's witty!'\nWhich we have not done neither: that, I fear,\nAll the expected good we're like to hear\nFor this play at this time, is only in\nThe merciful construction of good women;\nFor such a one we show'd 'em: if they smile,\nAnd say 'twill do, I know, within a while\nAll the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap,\nIf they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap.


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Hence! home, you idle creatures get you home:\nIs this a holiday? what! know you not,\nBeing mechanical, you ought not walk\nUpon a labouring day without the sign\nOf your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?


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Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?\nWhat dost thou with thy best apparel on?\nYou, sir, what trade are you?


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A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe\nconscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.


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Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl: I\nmeddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's\nmatters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon\nto old shoes; when they are in great danger, I\nrecover them. As proper men as ever trod upon\nneat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.


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Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself\ninto more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday,\nto see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.


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Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?\nWhat tributaries follow him to Rome,\nTo grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?\nYou blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!\nO you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,\nKnew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft\nHave you climb'd up to walls and battlements,\nTo towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,\nYour infants in your arms, and there have sat\nThe livelong day, with patient expectation,\nTo see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:\nAnd when you saw his chariot but appear,\nHave you not made an universal shout,\nThat Tiber trembled underneath her banks,\nTo hear the replication of your sounds\nMade in her concave shores?\nAnd do you now put on your best attire?\nAnd do you now cull out a holiday?\nAnd do you now strew flowers in his way\nThat comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone!\nRun to your houses, fall upon your knees,\nPray to the gods to intermit the plague\nThat needs must light on this ingratitude.


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Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,\nAssemble all the poor men of your sort;\nDraw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears\nInto the channel, till the lowest stream\nDo kiss the most exalted shores of all.\n[Exeunt all the Commoners]\nSee whether their basest metal be not moved;\nThey vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.\nGo you down that way towards the Capitol;\nThis way will I disrobe the images,\nIf you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.


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It is no matter; let no images\nBe hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about,\nAnd drive away the vulgar from the streets:\nSo do you too, where you perceive them thick.\nThese growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing\nWill make him fly an ordinary pitch,\nWho else would soar above the view of men\nAnd keep us all in servile fearfulness.


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Exeunt\n[Flourish. Enter CAESAR; ANTONY, for the course;]\nCALPURNIA, PORTIA, DECIUS BRUTUS, CICERO, BRUTUS,\nCASSIUS, and CASCA; a great crowd following, among\nthem a Soothsayer


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Forget not, in your speed, Antonius,\nTo touch Calpurnia; for our elders say,\nThe barren, touched in this holy chase,\nShake off their sterile curse.


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Who is it in the press that calls on me?\nI hear a tongue, shriller than all the music,\nCry 'Caesar!' Speak; Caesar is turn'd to hear.


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I am not gamesome: I do lack some part\nOf that quick spirit that is in Antony.\nLet me not hinder, Cassius, your desires;\nI'll leave you.


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Brutus, I do observe you now of late:\nI have not from your eyes that gentleness\nAnd show of love as I was wont to have:\nYou bear too stubborn and too strange a hand\nOver your friend that loves you.


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Cassius,\nBe not deceived: if I have veil'd my look,\nI turn the trouble of my countenance\nMerely upon myself. Vexed I am\nOf late with passions of some difference,\nConceptions only proper to myself,\nWhich give some soil perhaps to my behaviors;\nBut let not therefore my good friends be grieved--\nAmong which number, Cassius, be you one--\nNor construe any further my neglect,\nThan that poor Brutus, with himself at war,\nForgets the shows of love to other men.


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Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion;\nBy means whereof this breast of mine hath buried\nThoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.\nTell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?


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'Tis just:\nAnd it is very much lamented, Brutus,\nThat you have no such mirrors as will turn\nYour hidden worthiness into your eye,\nThat you might see your shadow. I have heard,\nWhere many of the best respect in Rome,\nExcept immortal Caesar, speaking of Brutus\nAnd groaning underneath this age's yoke,\nHave wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes.


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Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,\nThat you would have me seek into myself\nFor that which is not in me?


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Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear:\nAnd since you know you cannot see yourself\nSo well as by reflection, I, your glass,\nWill modestly discover to yourself\nThat of yourself which you yet know not of.\nAnd be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus:\nWere I a common laugher, or did use\nTo stale with ordinary oaths my love\nTo every new protester; if you know\nThat I do fawn on men and hug them hard\nAnd after scandal them, or if you know\nThat I profess myself in banqueting\nTo all the rout, then hold me dangerous.


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I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well.\nBut wherefore do you hold me here so long?\nWhat is it that you would impart to me?\nIf it be aught toward the general good,\nSet honour in one eye and death i' the other,\nAnd I will look on both indifferently,\nFor let the gods so speed me as I love\nThe name of honour more than I fear death.


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I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,\nAs well as I do know your outward favour.\nWell, honour is the subject of my story.\nI cannot tell what you and other men\nThink of this life; but, for my single self,\nI had as lief not be as live to be\nIn awe of such a thing as I myself.\nI was born free as Caesar; so were you:\nWe both have fed as well, and we can both\nEndure the winter's cold as well as he:\nFor once, upon a raw and gusty day,\nThe troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,\nCaesar said to me 'Darest thou, Cassius, now\nLeap in with me into this angry flood,\nAnd swim to yonder point?' Upon the word,\nAccoutred as I was, I plunged in\nAnd bade him follow; so indeed he did.\nThe torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it\nWith lusty sinews, throwing it aside\nAnd stemming it with hearts of controversy;\nBut ere we could arrive the point proposed,\nCaesar cried 'Help me, Cassius, or I sink!'\nI, as Aeneas, our great ancestor,\nDid from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder\nThe old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber\nDid I the tired Caesar. And this man\nIs now become a god, and Cassius is\nA wretched creature and must bend his body,\nIf Caesar carelessly but nod on him.\nHe had a fever when he was in Spain,\nAnd when the fit was on him, I did mark\nHow he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake;\nHis coward lips did from their colour fly,\nAnd that same eye whose bend doth awe the world\nDid lose his lustre: I did hear him groan:\nAy, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans\nMark him and write his speeches in their books,\nAlas, it cried 'Give me some drink, Tintinius,'\nAs a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me\nA man of such a feeble temper should\nSo get the start of the majestic world\nAnd bear the palm alone.


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Another general shout!\nI do believe that these applauses are\nFor some new honours that are heap'd on Caesar.


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Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world\nLike a Colossus, and we petty men\nWalk under his huge legs and peep about\nTo find ourselves dishonourable graves.\nMen at some time are masters of their fates:\nThe fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,\nBut in ourselves, that we are underlings.\nBrutus and Caesar: what should be in that 'Caesar'?\nWhy should that name be sounded more than yours?\nWrite them together, yours is as fair a name;\nSound them, it doth become the mouth as well;\nWeigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em,\nBrutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar.\nNow, in the names of all the gods at once,\nUpon what meat doth this our Caesar feed,\nThat he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed!\nRome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!\nWhen went there by an age, since the great flood,\nBut it was famed with more than with one man?\nWhen could they say till now, that talk'd of Rome,\nThat her wide walls encompass'd but one man?\nNow is it Rome indeed and room enough,\nWhen there is in it but one only man.\nO, you and I have heard our fathers say,\nThere was a Brutus once that would have brook'd\nThe eternal devil to keep his state in Rome\nAs easily as a king.


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That you do love me, I am nothing jealous;\nWhat you would work me to, I have some aim:\nHow I have thought of this and of these times,\nI shall recount hereafter; for this present,\nI would not, so with love I might entreat you,\nBe any further moved. What you have said\nI will consider; what you have to say\nI will with patience hear, and find a time\nBoth meet to hear and answer such high things.\nTill then, my noble friend, chew upon this:\nBrutus had rather be a villager\nThan to repute himself a son of Rome\nUnder these hard conditions as this time\nIs like to lay upon us.


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As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve;\nAnd he will, after his sour fashion, tell you\nWhat hath proceeded worthy note to-day.


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I will do so. But, look you, Cassius,\nThe angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow,\nAnd all the rest look like a chidden train:\nCalpurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero\nLooks with such ferret and such fiery eyes\nAs we have seen him in the Capitol,\nBeing cross'd in conference by some senators.


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Let me have men about me that are fat;\nSleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights:\nYond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;\nHe thinks too much: such men are dangerous.


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Would he were fatter! But I fear him not:\nYet if my name were liable to fear,\nI do not know the man I should avoid\nSo soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much;\nHe is a great observer and he looks\nQuite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,\nAs thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;\nSeldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort\nAs if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit\nThat could be moved to smile at any thing.\nSuch men as he be never at heart's ease\nWhiles they behold a greater than themselves,\nAnd therefore are they very dangerous.\nI rather tell thee what is to be fear'd\nThan what I fear; for always I am Caesar.\nCome on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,\nAnd tell me truly what thou think'st of him.


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Why, there was a crown offered him: and being\noffered him, he put it by with the back of his hand,\nthus; and then the people fell a-shouting.


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Ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every\ntime gentler than other, and at every putting-by\nmine honest neighbours shouted.


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I can as well be hanged as tell the manner of it:\nit was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark\nAntony offer him a crown;--yet 'twas not a crown\nneither, 'twas one of these coronets;--and, as I told\nyou, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my\nthinking, he would fain have had it. Then he\noffered it to him again; then he put it by again:\nbut, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his\nfingers off it. And then he offered it the third\ntime; he put it the third time by: and still as he\nrefused it, the rabblement hooted and clapped their\nchapped hands and threw up their sweaty night-caps\nand uttered such a deal of stinking breath because\nCaesar refused the crown that it had almost choked\nCaesar; for he swounded and fell down at it: and\nfor mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of\nopening my lips and receiving the bad air.


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I know not what you mean by that; but, I am sure,\nCaesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not\nclap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and\ndispleased them, as they use to do the players in\nthe theatre, I am no true man.


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Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the\ncommon herd was glad he refused the crown, he\nplucked me ope his doublet and offered them his\nthroat to cut. An I had been a man of any\noccupation, if I would not have taken him at a word,\nI would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so\nhe fell. When he came to himself again, he said,\nIf he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired\ntheir worships to think it was his infirmity. Three\nor four wenches, where I stood, cried 'Alas, good\nsoul!' and forgave him with all their hearts: but\nthere's no heed to be taken of them; if Caesar had\nstabbed their mothers, they would have done no less.


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Nay, an I tell you that, Ill ne'er look you i' the\nface again: but those that understood him smiled at\none another and shook their heads; but, for mine own\npart, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more\nnews too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs\noff Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you\nwell. There was more foolery yet, if I could\nremember it.


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So is he now in execution\nOf any bold or noble enterprise,\nHowever he puts on this tardy form.\nThis rudeness is a sauce to his good wit,\nWhich gives men stomach to digest his words\nWith better appetite.


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And so it is. For this time I will leave you:\nTo-morrow, if you please to speak with me,\nI will come home to you; or, if you will,\nCome home to me, and I will wait for you.


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I will do so: till then, think of the world.\n[Exit BRUTUS]\nWell, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see,\nThy honourable metal may be wrought\nFrom that it is disposed: therefore it is meet\nThat noble minds keep ever with their likes;\nFor who so firm that cannot be seduced?\nCaesar doth bear me hard; but he loves Brutus:\nIf I were Brutus now and he were Cassius,\nHe should not humour me. I will this night,\nIn several hands, in at his windows throw,\nAs if they came from several citizens,\nWritings all tending to the great opinion\nThat Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely\nCaesar's ambition shall be glanced at:\nAnd after this let Caesar seat him sure;\nFor we will shake him, or worse days endure.


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Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth\nShakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero,\nI have seen tempests, when the scolding winds\nHave rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen\nThe ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam,\nTo be exalted with the threatening clouds:\nBut never till to-night, never till now,\nDid I go through a tempest dropping fire.\nEither there is a civil strife in heaven,\nOr else the world, too saucy with the gods,\nIncenses them to send destruction.


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A common slave--you know him well by sight--\nHeld up his left hand, which did flame and burn\nLike twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand,\nNot sensible of fire, remain'd unscorch'd.\nBesides--I ha' not since put up my sword--\nAgainst the Capitol I met a lion,\nWho glared upon me, and went surly by,\nWithout annoying me: and there were drawn\nUpon a heap a hundred ghastly women,\nTransformed with their fear; who swore they saw\nMen all in fire walk up and down the streets.\nAnd yesterday the bird of night did sit\nEven at noon-day upon the market-place,\nHooting and shrieking. When these prodigies\nDo so conjointly meet, let not men say\n'These are their reasons; they are natural;'\nFor, I believe, they are portentous things\nUnto the climate that they point upon.


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Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time:\nBut men may construe things after their fashion,\nClean from the purpose of the things themselves.\nCome Caesar to the Capitol to-morrow?


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Those that have known the earth so full of faults.\nFor my part, I have walk'd about the streets,\nSubmitting me unto the perilous night,\nAnd, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see,\nHave bared my bosom to the thunder-stone;\nAnd when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open\nThe breast of heaven, I did present myself\nEven in the aim and very flash of it.


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But wherefore did you so much tempt the heavens?\nIt is the part of men to fear and tremble,\nWhen the most mighty gods by tokens send\nSuch dreadful heralds to astonish us.


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You are dull, Casca, and those sparks of life\nThat should be in a Roman you do want,\nOr else you use not. You look pale and gaze\nAnd put on fear and cast yourself in wonder,\nTo see the strange impatience of the heavens:\nBut if you would consider the true cause\nWhy all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,\nWhy birds and beasts from quality and kind,\nWhy old men fool and children calculate,\nWhy all these things change from their ordinance\nTheir natures and preformed faculties\nTo monstrous quality,--why, you shall find\nThat heaven hath infused them with these spirits,\nTo make them instruments of fear and warning\nUnto some monstrous state.\nNow could I, Casca, name to thee a man\nMost like this dreadful night,\nThat thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars\nAs doth the lion in the Capitol,\nA man no mightier than thyself or me\nIn personal action, yet prodigious grown\nAnd fearful, as these strange eruptions are.


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Let it be who it is: for Romans now\nHave thews and limbs like to their ancestors;\nBut, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead,\nAnd we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits;\nOur yoke and sufferance show us womanish.


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Indeed, they say the senators tomorrow\nMean to establish Caesar as a king;\nAnd he shall wear his crown by sea and land,\nIn every place, save here in Italy.


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I know where I will wear this dagger then;\nCassius from bondage will deliver Cassius:\nTherein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong;\nTherein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat:\nNor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,\nNor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,\nCan be retentive to the strength of spirit;\nBut life, being weary of these worldly bars,\nNever lacks power to dismiss itself.\nIf I know this, know all the world besides,\nThat part of tyranny that I do bear\nI can shake off at pleasure.


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And why should Caesar be a tyrant then?\nPoor man! I know he would not be a wolf,\nBut that he sees the Romans are but sheep:\nHe were no lion, were not Romans hinds.\nThose that with haste will make a mighty fire\nBegin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome,\nWhat rubbish and what offal, when it serves\nFor the base matter to illuminate\nSo vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief,\nWhere hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this\nBefore a willing bondman; then I know\nMy answer must be made. But I am arm'd,\nAnd dangers are to me indifferent.


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You speak to Casca, and to such a man\nThat is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand:\nBe factious for redress of all these griefs,\nAnd I will set this foot of mine as far\nAs who goes farthest.


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There's a bargain made.\nNow know you, Casca, I have moved already\nSome certain of the noblest-minded Romans\nTo undergo with me an enterprise\nOf honourable-dangerous consequence;\nAnd I do know, by this, they stay for me\nIn Pompey's porch: for now, this fearful night,\nThere is no stir or walking in the streets;\nAnd the complexion of the element\nIn favour's like the work we have in hand,\nMost bloody, fiery, and most terrible.


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I am glad on 't. What a fearful night is this!\nThere's two or three of us have seen strange sights.


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Be you content: good Cinna, take this paper,\nAnd look you lay it in the praetor's chair,\nWhere Brutus may but find it; and throw this\nIn at his window; set this up with wax\nUpon old Brutus' statue: all this done,\nRepair to Pompey's porch, where you shall find us.\nIs Decius Brutus and Trebonius there?


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All but Metellus Cimber; and he's gone\nTo seek you at your house. Well, I will hie,\nAnd so bestow these papers as you bade me.


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That done, repair to Pompey's theatre.\n[Exit CINNA]\nCome, Casca, you and I will yet ere day\nSee Brutus at his house: three parts of him\nIs ours already, and the man entire\nUpon the next encounter yields him ours.


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O, he sits high in all the people's hearts:\nAnd that which would appear offence in us,\nHis countenance, like richest alchemy,\nWill change to virtue and to worthiness.


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Him and his worth and our great need of him\nYou have right well conceited. Let us go,\nFor it is after midnight; and ere day\nWe will awake him and be sure of him.


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What, Lucius, ho!\nI cannot, by the progress of the stars,\nGive guess how near to day. Lucius, I say!\nI would it were my fault to sleep so soundly.\nWhen, Lucius, when? awake, I say! what, Lucius!


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It must be by his death: and for my part,\nI know no personal cause to spurn at him,\nBut for the general. He would be crown'd:\nHow that might change his nature, there's the question.\nIt is the bright day that brings forth the adder;\nAnd that craves wary walking. Crown him?--that;--\nAnd then, I grant, we put a sting in him,\nThat at his will he may do danger with.\nThe abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins\nRemorse from power: and, to speak truth of Caesar,\nI have not known when his affections sway'd\nMore than his reason. But 'tis a common proof,\nThat lowliness is young ambition's ladder,\nWhereto the climber-upward turns his face;\nBut when he once attains the upmost round.\nHe then unto the ladder turns his back,\nLooks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees\nBy which he did ascend. So Caesar may.\nThen, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel\nWill bear no colour for the thing he is,\nFashion it thus; that what he is, augmented,\nWould run to these and these extremities:\nAnd therefore think him as a serpent's egg\nWhich, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous,\nAnd kill him in the shell.


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The taper burneth in your closet, sir.\nSearching the window for a flint, I found\nThis paper, thus seal'd up; and, I am sure,\nIt did not lie there when I went to bed.


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The exhalations whizzing in the air\nGive so much light that I may read by them.\n[Opens the letter and reads]\n'Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake, and see thyself.\nShall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress!\nBrutus, thou sleep'st: awake!'\nSuch instigations have been often dropp'd\nWhere I have took them up.\n'Shall Rome, &c.' Thus must I piece it out:\nShall Rome stand under one man's awe? What, Rome?\nMy ancestors did from the streets of Rome\nThe Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king.\n'Speak, strike, redress!' Am I entreated\nTo speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise:\nIf the redress will follow, thou receivest\nThy full petition at the hand of Brutus!


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'Tis good. Go to the gate; somebody knocks.\n[Exit LUCIUS]\nSince Cassius first did whet me against Caesar,\nI have not slept.\nBetween the acting of a dreadful thing\nAnd the first motion, all the interim is\nLike a phantasma, or a hideous dream:\nThe Genius and the mortal instruments\nAre then in council; and the state of man,\nLike to a little kingdom, suffers then\nThe nature of an insurrection.


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No, sir; their hats are pluck'd about their ears,\nAnd half their faces buried in their cloaks,\nThat by no means I may discover them\nBy any mark of favour.


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Let 'em enter.\n[Exit LUCIUS]\nThey are the faction. O conspiracy,\nShamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night,\nWhen evils are most free? O, then by day\nWhere wilt thou find a cavern dark enough\nTo mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy;\nHide it in smiles and affability:\nFor if thou path, thy native semblance on,\nNot Erebus itself were dim enough\nTo hide thee from prevention.\n[Enter the conspirators, CASSIUS, CASCA, DECIUS]\nBRUTUS, CINNA, METELLUS CIMBER, and TREBONIUS


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Yes, every man of them, and no man here\nBut honours you; and every one doth wish\nYou had but that opinion of yourself\nWhich every noble Roman bears of you.\nThis is Trebonius.


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You shall confess that you are both deceived.\nHere, as I point my sword, the sun arises,\nWhich is a great way growing on the south,\nWeighing the youthful season of the year.\nSome two months hence up higher toward the north\nHe first presents his fire; and the high east\nStands, as the Capitol, directly here.


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No, not an oath: if not the face of men,\nThe sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse,--\nIf these be motives weak, break off betimes,\nAnd every man hence to his idle bed;\nSo let high-sighted tyranny range on,\nTill each man drop by lottery. But if these,\nAs I am sure they do, bear fire enough\nTo kindle cowards and to steel with valour\nThe melting spirits of women, then, countrymen,\nWhat need we any spur but our own cause,\nTo prick us to redress? what other bond\nThan secret Romans, that have spoke the word,\nAnd will not palter? and what other oath\nThan honesty to honesty engaged,\nThat this shall be, or we will fall for it?\nSwear priests and cowards and men cautelous,\nOld feeble carrions and such suffering souls\nThat welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear\nSuch creatures as men doubt; but do not stain\nThe even virtue of our enterprise,\nNor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits,\nTo think that or our cause or our performance\nDid need an oath; when every drop of blood\nThat every Roman bears, and nobly bears,\nIs guilty of a several bastardy,\nIf he do break the smallest particle\nOf any promise that hath pass'd from him.


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O, let us have him, for his silver hairs\nWill purchase us a good opinion\nAnd buy men's voices to commend our deeds:\nIt shall be said, his judgment ruled our hands;\nOur youths and wildness shall no whit appear,\nBut all be buried in his gravity.


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O, name him not: let us not break with him;\nFor he will never follow any thing\nThat other men begin.


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Decius, well urged: I think it is not meet,\nMark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar,\nShould outlive Caesar: we shall find of him\nA shrewd contriver; and, you know, his means,\nIf he improve them, may well stretch so far\nAs to annoy us all: which to prevent,\nLet Antony and Caesar fall together.


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Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius,\nTo cut the head off and then hack the limbs,\nLike wrath in death and envy afterwards;\nFor Antony is but a limb of Caesar:\nLet us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius.\nWe all stand up against the spirit of Caesar;\nAnd in the spirit of men there is no blood:\nO, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit,\nAnd not dismember Caesar! But, alas,\nCaesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends,\nLet's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully;\nLet's carve him as a dish fit for the gods,\nNot hew him as a carcass fit for hounds:\nAnd let our hearts, as subtle masters do,\nStir up their servants to an act of rage,\nAnd after seem to chide 'em. This shall make\nOur purpose necessary and not envious:\nWhich so appearing to the common eyes,\nWe shall be call'd purgers, not murderers.\nAnd for Mark Antony, think not of him;\nFor he can do no more than Caesar's arm\nWhen Caesar's head is off.


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Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him:\nIf he love Caesar, all that he can do\nIs to himself, take thought and die for Caesar:\nAnd that were much he should; for he is given\nTo sports, to wildness and much company.


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But it is doubtful yet,\nWhether Caesar will come forth to-day, or no;\nFor he is superstitious grown of late,\nQuite from the main opinion he held once\nOf fantasy, of dreams and ceremonies:\nIt may be, these apparent prodigies,\nThe unaccustom'd terror of this night,\nAnd the persuasion of his augurers,\nMay hold him from the Capitol to-day.


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Never fear that: if he be so resolved,\nI can o'ersway him; for he loves to hear\nThat unicorns may be betray'd with trees,\nAnd bears with glasses, elephants with holes,\nLions with toils and men with flatterers;\nBut when I tell him he hates flatterers,\nHe says he does, being then most flattered.\nLet me work;\nFor I can give his humour the true bent,\nAnd I will bring him to the Capitol.


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Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard,\nWho rated him for speaking well of Pompey:\nI wonder none of you have thought of him.


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Now, good Metellus, go along by him:\nHe loves me well, and I have given him reasons;\nSend him but hither, and I'll fashion him.


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The morning comes upon 's: we'll leave you, Brutus.\nAnd, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember\nWhat you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.


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Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily;\nLet not our looks put on our purposes,\nBut bear it as our Roman actors do,\nWith untired spirits and formal constancy:\nAnd so good morrow to you every one.\n[Exeunt all but BRUTUS]\nBoy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter;\nEnjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber:\nThou hast no figures nor no fantasies,\nWhich busy care draws in the brains of men;\nTherefore thou sleep'st so sound.


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Portia, what mean you? wherefore rise you now?\nIt is not for your health thus to commit\nYour weak condition to the raw cold morning.


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Nor for yours neither. You've ungently, Brutus,\nStole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper,\nYou suddenly arose, and walk'd about,\nMusing and sighing, with your arms across,\nAnd when I ask'd you what the matter was,\nYou stared upon me with ungentle looks;\nI urged you further; then you scratch'd your head,\nAnd too impatiently stamp'd with your foot;\nYet I insisted, yet you answer'd not,\nBut, with an angry wafture of your hand,\nGave sign for me to leave you: so I did;\nFearing to strengthen that impatience\nWhich seem'd too much enkindled, and withal\nHoping it was but an effect of humour,\nWhich sometime hath his hour with every man.\nIt will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep,\nAnd could it work so much upon your shape\nAs it hath much prevail'd on your condition,\nI should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,\nMake me acquainted with your cause of grief.


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Is Brutus sick? and is it physical\nTo walk unbraced and suck up the humours\nOf the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick,\nAnd will he steal out of his wholesome bed,\nTo dare the vile contagion of the night\nAnd tempt the rheumy and unpurged air\nTo add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus;\nYou have some sick offence within your mind,\nWhich, by the right and virtue of my place,\nI ought to know of: and, upon my knees,\nI charm you, by my once-commended beauty,\nBy all your vows of love and that great vow\nWhich did incorporate and make us one,\nThat you unfold to me, yourself, your half,\nWhy you are heavy, and what men to-night\nHave had to resort to you: for here have been\nSome six or seven, who did hide their faces\nEven from darkness.


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I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus.\nWithin the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,\nIs it excepted I should know no secrets\nThat appertain to you? Am I yourself\nBut, as it were, in sort or limitation,\nTo keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,\nAnd talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs\nOf your good pleasure? If it be no more,\nPortia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.


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If this were true, then should I know this secret.\nI grant I am a woman; but withal\nA woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:\nI grant I am a woman; but withal\nA woman well-reputed, Cato's daughter.\nThink you I am no stronger than my sex,\nBeing so father'd and so husbanded?\nTell me your counsels, I will not disclose 'em:\nI have made strong proof of my constancy,\nGiving myself a voluntary wound\nHere, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience.\nAnd not my husband's secrets?


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O ye gods,\nRender me worthy of this noble wife!\n[Knocking within]\nHark, hark! one knocks: Portia, go in awhile;\nAnd by and by thy bosom shall partake\nThe secrets of my heart.\nAll my engagements I will construe to thee,\nAll the charactery of my sad brows:\nLeave me with haste.\n[Exit PORTIA]\nLucius, who's that knocks?


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By all the gods that Romans bow before,\nI here discard my sickness! Soul of Rome!\nBrave son, derived from honourable loins!\nThou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up\nMy mortified spirit. Now bid me run,\nAnd I will strive with things impossible;\nYea, get the better of them. What's to do?


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That must we also. What it is, my Caius,\nI shall unfold to thee, as we are going\nTo whom it must be done.


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Set on your foot,\nAnd with a heart new-fired I follow you,\nTo do I know not what: but it sufficeth\nThat Brutus leads me on.


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Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace to-night:\nThrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out,\n'Help, ho! they murder Caesar!' Who's within?


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Caesar shall forth: the things that threaten'd me\nNe'er look'd but on my back; when they shall see\nThe face of Caesar, they are vanished.


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Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies,\nYet now they fright me. There is one within,\nBesides the things that we have heard and seen,\nRecounts most horrid sights seen by the watch.\nA lioness hath whelped in the streets;\nAnd graves have yawn'd, and yielded up their dead;\nFierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds,\nIn ranks and squadrons and right form of war,\nWhich drizzled blood upon the Capitol;\nThe noise of battle hurtled in the air,\nHorses did neigh, and dying men did groan,\nAnd ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets.\nO Caesar! these things are beyond all use,\nAnd I do fear them.


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What can be avoided\nWhose end is purposed by the mighty gods?\nYet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictions\nAre to the world in general as to Caesar.


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When beggars die, there are no comets seen;\nThe heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.


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Cowards die many times before their deaths;\nThe valiant never taste of death but once.\nOf all the wonders that I yet have heard.\nIt seems to me most strange that men should fear;\nSeeing that death, a necessary end,\nWill come when it will come.\n[Re-enter Servant]\nWhat say the augurers?


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They would not have you to stir forth to-day.\nPlucking the entrails of an offering forth,\nThey could not find a heart within the beast.


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The gods do this in shame of cowardice:\nCaesar should be a beast without a heart,\nIf he should stay at home to-day for fear.\nNo, Caesar shall not: danger knows full well\nThat Caesar is more dangerous than he:\nWe are two lions litter'd in one day,\nAnd I the elder and more terrible:\nAnd Caesar shall go forth.


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Alas, my lord,\nYour wisdom is consumed in confidence.\nDo not go forth to-day: call it my fear\nThat keeps you in the house, and not your own.\nWe'll send Mark Antony to the senate-house:\nAnd he shall say you are not well to-day:\nLet me, upon my knee, prevail in this.


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Mark Antony shall say I am not well,\nAnd, for thy humour, I will stay at home.\n[Enter DECIUS BRUTUS]\nHere's Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so.


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And you are come in very happy time,\nTo bear my greeting to the senators\nAnd tell them that I will not come to-day:\nCannot, is false, and that I dare not, falser:\nI will not come to-day: tell them so, Decius.


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Shall Caesar send a lie?\nHave I in conquest stretch'd mine arm so far,\nTo be afraid to tell graybeards the truth?\nDecius, go tell them Caesar will not come.


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The cause is in my will: I will not come;\nThat is enough to satisfy the senate.\nBut for your private satisfaction,\nBecause I love you, I will let you know:\nCalpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home:\nShe dreamt to-night she saw my statua,\nWhich, like a fountain with an hundred spouts,\nDid run pure blood: and many lusty Romans\nCame smiling, and did bathe their hands in it:\nAnd these does she apply for warnings, and portents,\nAnd evils imminent; and on her knee\nHath begg'd that I will stay at home to-day.


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This dream is all amiss interpreted;\nIt was a vision fair and fortunate:\nYour statue spouting blood in many pipes,\nIn which so many smiling Romans bathed,\nSignifies that from you great Rome shall suck\nReviving blood, and that great men shall press\nFor tinctures, stains, relics and cognizance.\nThis by Calpurnia's dream is signified.


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I have, when you have heard what I can say:\nAnd know it now: the senate have concluded\nTo give this day a crown to mighty Caesar.\nIf you shall send them word you will not come,\nTheir minds may change. Besides, it were a mock\nApt to be render'd, for some one to say\n'Break up the senate till another time,\nWhen Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams.'\nIf Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper\n'Lo, Caesar is afraid'?\nPardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love\nTo our proceeding bids me tell you this;\nAnd reason to my love is liable.


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How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia!\nI am ashamed I did yield to them.\nGive me my robe, for I will go.\n[Enter PUBLIUS, BRUTUS, LIGARIUS, METELLUS, CASCA,]\nTREBONIUS, and CINNA\nAnd look where Publius is come to fetch me.


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Welcome, Publius.\nWhat, Brutus, are you stirr'd so early too?\nGood morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius,\nCaesar was ne'er so much your enemy\nAs that same ague which hath made you lean.\nWhat is 't o'clock?


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I thank you for your pains and courtesy.\n[Enter ANTONY]\nSee! Antony, that revels long o' nights,\nIs notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony.


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Bid them prepare within:\nI am to blame to be thus waited for.\nNow, Cinna: now, Metellus: what, Trebonius!\nI have an hour's talk in store for you;\nRemember that you call on me to-day:\nBe near me, that I may remember you.


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Caesar, I will:\n[Aside]\nand so near will I be,\nThat your best friends shall wish I had been further.


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Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me;\nAnd we, like friends, will straightway go together.


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'Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius;\ncome not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna, trust not\nTrebonius: mark well Metellus Cimber: Decius Brutus\nloves thee not: thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius.\nThere is but one mind in all these men, and it is\nbent against Caesar. If thou beest not immortal,\nlook about you: security gives way to conspiracy.\nThe mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover,\n'ARTEMIDORUS.'\nHere will I stand till Caesar pass along,\nAnd as a suitor will I give him this.\nMy heart laments that virtue cannot live\nOut of the teeth of emulation.\nIf thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayst live;\nIf not, the Fates with traitors do contrive.


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I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house;\nStay not to answer me, but get thee gone:\nWhy dost thou stay?


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I would have had thee there, and here again,\nEre I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there.\nO constancy, be strong upon my side,\nSet a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue!\nI have a man's mind, but a woman's might.\nHow hard it is for women to keep counsel!\nArt thou here yet?


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Madam, what should I do?\nRun to the Capitol, and nothing else?\nAnd so return to you, and nothing else?


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Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well,\nFor he went sickly forth: and take good note\nWhat Caesar doth, what suitors press to him.\nHark, boy! what noise is that?


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Prithee, listen well;\nI heard a bustling rumour, like a fray,\nAnd the wind brings it from the Capitol.


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That I have, lady: if it will please Caesar\nTo be so good to Caesar as to hear me,\nI shall beseech him to befriend himself.


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None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance.\nGood morrow to you. Here the street is narrow:\nThe throng that follows Caesar at the heels,\nOf senators, of praetors, common suitors,\nWill crowd a feeble man almost to death:\nI'll get me to a place more void, and there\nSpeak to great Caesar as he comes along.


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I must go in. Ay me, how weak a thing\nThe heart of woman is! O Brutus,\nThe heavens speed thee in thine enterprise!\nSure, the boy heard me: Brutus hath a suit\nThat Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint.\nRun, Lucius, and commend me to my lord;\nSay I am merry: come to me again,\nAnd bring me word what he doth say to thee.


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Exeunt severally\n[A crowd of people; among them ARTEMIDORUS and the]\nSoothsayer. Flourish. Enter CAESAR, BRUTUS,\nCASSIUS, CASCA, DECIUS BRUTUS, METELLUS CIMBER,\nTREBONIUS, CINNA, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, POPILIUS,\nPUBLIUS, and others


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What, urge you your petitions in the street?\nCome to the Capitol.\n[CAESAR goes up to the Senate-House, the rest]\nfollowing


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Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention.\nBrutus, what shall be done? If this be known,\nCassius or Caesar never shall turn back,\nFor I will slay myself.


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Cassius, be constant:\nPopilius Lena speaks not of our purposes;\nFor, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change.


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Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar,\nMetellus Cimber throws before thy seat\nAn humble heart,--


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I must prevent thee, Cimber.\nThese couchings and these lowly courtesies\nMight fire the blood of ordinary men,\nAnd turn pre-ordinance and first decree\nInto the law of children. Be not fond,\nTo think that Caesar bears such rebel blood\nThat will be thaw'd from the true quality\nWith that which melteth fools; I mean, sweet words,\nLow-crooked court'sies and base spaniel-fawning.\nThy brother by decree is banished:\nIf thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him,\nI spurn thee like a cur out of my way.\nKnow, Caesar doth not wrong, nor without cause\nWill he be satisfied.


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Is there no voice more worthy than my own\nTo sound more sweetly in great Caesar's ear\nFor the repealing of my banish'd brother?


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I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar;\nDesiring thee that Publius Cimber may\nHave an immediate freedom of repeal.


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Pardon, Caesar; Caesar, pardon:\nAs low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall,\nTo beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber.


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I could be well moved, if I were as you:\nIf I could pray to move, prayers would move me:\nBut I am constant as the northern star,\nOf whose true-fix'd and resting quality\nThere is no fellow in the firmament.\nThe skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks,\nThey are all fire and every one doth shine,\nBut there's but one in all doth hold his place:\nSo in the world; 'tis furnish'd well with men,\nAnd men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive;\nYet in the number I do know but one\nThat unassailable holds on his rank,\nUnshaked of motion: and that I am he,\nLet me a little show it, even in this;\nThat I was constant Cimber should be banish'd,\nAnd constant do remain to keep him so.


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Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer;\nThere is no harm intended to your person,\nNor to no Roman else: so tell them, Publius.


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Fates, we will know your pleasures:\nThat we shall die, we know; 'tis but the time\nAnd drawing days out, that men stand upon.


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Grant that, and then is death a benefit:\nSo are we Caesar's friends, that have abridged\nHis time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop,\nAnd let us bathe our hands in Caesar's blood\nUp to the elbows, and besmear our swords:\nThen walk we forth, even to the market-place,\nAnd, waving our red weapons o'er our heads,\nLet's all cry 'Peace, freedom and liberty!'


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Stoop, then, and wash. How many ages hence\nShall this our lofty scene be acted over\nIn states unborn and accents yet unknown!


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How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport,\nThat now on Pompey's basis lies along\nNo worthier than the dust!


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So oft as that shall be,\nSo often shall the knot of us be call'd\nThe men that gave their country liberty.


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Ay, every man away:\nBrutus shall lead; and we will grace his heels\nWith the most boldest and best hearts of Rome.


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Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel:\nThus did Mark Antony bid me fall down;\nAnd, being prostrate, thus he bade me say:\nBrutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest;\nCaesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving:\nSay I love Brutus, and I honour him;\nSay I fear'd Caesar, honour'd him and loved him.\nIf Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony\nMay safely come to him, and be resolved\nHow Caesar hath deserved to lie in death,\nMark Antony shall not love Caesar dead\nSo well as Brutus living; but will follow\nThe fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus\nThorough the hazards of this untrod state\nWith all true faith. So says my master Antony.


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Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman;\nI never thought him worse.\nTell him, so please him come unto this place,\nHe shall be satisfied; and, by my honour,\nDepart untouch'd.


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I wish we may: but yet have I a mind\nThat fears him much; and my misgiving still\nFalls shrewdly to the purpose.


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O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low?\nAre all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,\nShrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well.\nI know not, gentlemen, what you intend,\nWho else must be let blood, who else is rank:\nIf I myself, there is no hour so fit\nAs Caesar's death hour, nor no instrument\nOf half that worth as those your swords, made rich\nWith the most noble blood of all this world.\nI do beseech ye, if you bear me hard,\nNow, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke,\nFulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years,\nI shall not find myself so apt to die:\nNo place will please me so, no mean of death,\nAs here by Caesar, and by you cut off,\nThe choice and master spirits of this age.


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O Antony, beg not your death of us.\nThough now we must appear bloody and cruel,\nAs, by our hands and this our present act,\nYou see we do, yet see you but our hands\nAnd this the bleeding business they have done:\nOur hearts you see not; they are pitiful;\nAnd pity to the general wrong of Rome--\nAs fire drives out fire, so pity pity--\nHath done this deed on Caesar. For your part,\nTo you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony:\nOur arms, in strength of malice, and our hearts\nOf brothers' temper, do receive you in\nWith all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence.


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Only be patient till we have appeased\nThe multitude, beside themselves with fear,\nAnd then we will deliver you the cause,\nWhy I, that did love Caesar when I struck him,\nHave thus proceeded.


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I doubt not of your wisdom.\nLet each man render me his bloody hand:\nFirst, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you;\nNext, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand;\nNow, Decius Brutus, yours: now yours, Metellus;\nYours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours;\nThough last, not last in love, yours, good Trebonius.\nGentlemen all,--alas, what shall I say?\nMy credit now stands on such slippery ground,\nThat one of two bad ways you must conceit me,\nEither a coward or a flatterer.\nThat I did love thee, Caesar, O, 'tis true:\nIf then thy spirit look upon us now,\nShall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death,\nTo see thy thy Anthony making his peace,\nShaking the bloody fingers of thy foes,\nMost noble! in the presence of thy corse?\nHad I as many eyes as thou hast wounds,\nWeeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood,\nIt would become me better than to close\nIn terms of friendship with thine enemies.\nPardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay'd, brave hart;\nHere didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand,\nSign'd in thy spoil, and crimson'd in thy lethe.\nO world, thou wast the forest to this hart;\nAnd this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee.\nHow like a deer, strucken by many princes,\nDost thou here lie!


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Pardon me, Caius Cassius:\nThe enemies of Caesar shall say this;\nThen, in a friend, it is cold modesty.


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I blame you not for praising Caesar so;\nBut what compact mean you to have with us?\nWill you be prick'd in number of our friends;\nOr shall we on, and not depend on you?


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Therefore I took your hands, but was, indeed,\nSway'd from the point, by looking down on Caesar.\nFriends am I with you all and love you all,\nUpon this hope, that you shall give me reasons\nWhy and wherein Caesar was dangerous.


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Or else were this a savage spectacle:\nOur reasons are so full of good regard\nThat were you, Antony, the son of Caesar,\nYou should be satisfied.


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That's all I seek:\nAnd am moreover suitor that I may\nProduce his body to the market-place;\nAnd in the pulpit, as becomes a friend,\nSpeak in the order of his funeral.


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Brutus, a word with you.\n[Aside to BRUTUS]\nYou know not what you do: do not consent\nThat Antony speak in his funeral:\nKnow you how much the people may be moved\nBy that which he will utter?


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By your pardon;\nI will myself into the pulpit first,\nAnd show the reason of our Caesar's death:\nWhat Antony shall speak, I will protest\nHe speaks by leave and by permission,\nAnd that we are contented Caesar shall\nHave all true rites and lawful ceremonies.\nIt shall advantage more than do us wrong.


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Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar's body.\nYou shall not in your funeral speech blame us,\nBut speak all good you can devise of Caesar,\nAnd say you do't by our permission;\nElse shall you not have any hand at all\nAbout his funeral: and you shall speak\nIn the same pulpit whereto I am going,\nAfter my speech is ended.


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O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,\nThat I am meek and gentle with these butchers!\nThou art the ruins of the noblest man\nThat ever lived in the tide of times.\nWoe to the hand that shed this costly blood!\nOver thy wounds now do I prophesy,--\nWhich, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,\nTo beg the voice and utterance of my tongue--\nA curse shall light upon the limbs of men;\nDomestic fury and fierce civil strife\nShall cumber all the parts of Italy;\nBlood and destruction shall be so in use\nAnd dreadful objects so familiar\nThat mothers shall but smile when they behold\nTheir infants quarter'd with the hands of war;\nAll pity choked with custom of fell deeds:\nAnd Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge,\nWith Ate by his side come hot from hell,\nShall in these confines with a monarch's voice\nCry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;\nThat this foul deed shall smell above the earth\nWith carrion men, groaning for burial.\n[Enter a Servant]\nYou serve Octavius Caesar, do you not?


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Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep.\nPassion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes,\nSeeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine,\nBegan to water. Is thy master coming?


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Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanced:\nHere is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome,\nNo Rome of safety for Octavius yet;\nHie hence, and tell him so. Yet, stay awhile;\nThou shalt not back till I have borne this corse\nInto the market-place: there shall I try\nIn my oration, how the people take\nThe cruel issue of these bloody men;\nAccording to the which, thou shalt discourse\nTo young Octavius of the state of things.\nLend me your hand.


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Then follow me, and give me audience, friends.\nCassius, go you into the other street,\nAnd part the numbers.\nThose that will hear me speak, let 'em stay here;\nThose that will follow Cassius, go with him;\nAnd public reasons shall be rendered\nOf Caesar's death.


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I will hear Cassius; and compare their reasons,\nWhen severally we hear them rendered.\n[Exit CASSIUS, with some of the Citizens. BRUTUS]\ngoes into the pulpit


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Be patient till the last.\nRomans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my\ncause, and be silent, that you may hear: believe me\nfor mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that\nyou may believe: censure me in your wisdom, and\nawake your senses, that you may the better judge.\nIf there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of\nCaesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar\nwas no less than his. If then that friend demand\nwhy Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer:\n--Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved\nRome more. Had you rather Caesar were living and\ndie all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live\nall free men? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him;\nas he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was\nvaliant, I honour him: but, as he was ambitious, I\nslew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his\nfortune; honour for his valour; and death for his\nambition. Who is here so base that would be a\nbondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended.\nWho is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If\nany, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so\nvile that will not love his country? If any, speak;\nfor him have I offended. I pause for a reply.


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Then none have I offended. I have done no more to\nCaesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of\nhis death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not\nextenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his offences\nenforced, for which he suffered death.\n[Enter ANTONY and others, with CAESAR's body]\nHere comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony: who,\nthough he had no hand in his death, shall receive\nthe benefit of his dying, a place in the\ncommonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this\nI depart,--that, as I slew my best lover for the\ngood of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself,\nwhen it shall please my country to need my death.


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Good countrymen, let me depart alone,\nAnd, for my sake, stay here with Antony:\nDo grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech\nTending to Caesar's glories; which Mark Antony,\nBy our permission, is allow'd to make.\nI do entreat you, not a man depart,\nSave I alone, till Antony have spoke.


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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;\nI come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.\nThe evil that men do lives after them;\nThe good is oft interred with their bones;\nSo let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus\nHath told you Caesar was ambitious:\nIf it were so, it was a grievous fault,\nAnd grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.\nHere, under leave of Brutus and the rest--\nFor Brutus is an honourable man;\nSo are they all, all honourable men--\nCome I to speak in Caesar's funeral.\nHe was my friend, faithful and just to me:\nBut Brutus says he was ambitious;\nAnd Brutus is an honourable man.\nHe hath brought many captives home to Rome\nWhose ransoms did the general coffers fill:\nDid this in Caesar seem ambitious?\nWhen that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:\nAmbition should be made of sterner stuff:\nYet Brutus says he was ambitious;\nAnd Brutus is an honourable man.\nYou all did see that on the Lupercal\nI thrice presented him a kingly crown,\nWhich he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?\nYet Brutus says he was ambitious;\nAnd, sure, he is an honourable man.\nI speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,\nBut here I am to speak what I do know.\nYou all did love him once, not without cause:\nWhat cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?\nO judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,\nAnd men have lost their reason. Bear with me;\nMy heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,\nAnd I must pause till it come back to me.


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But yesterday the word of Caesar might\nHave stood against the world; now lies he there.\nAnd none so poor to do him reverence.\nO masters, if I were disposed to stir\nYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,\nI should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,\nWho, you all know, are honourable men:\nI will not do them wrong; I rather choose\nTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,\nThan I will wrong such honourable men.\nBut here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar;\nI found it in his closet, 'tis his will:\nLet but the commons hear this testament--\nWhich, pardon me, I do not mean to read--\nAnd they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds\nAnd dip their napkins in his sacred blood,\nYea, beg a hair of him for memory,\nAnd, dying, mention it within their wills,\nBequeathing it as a rich legacy\nUnto their issue.


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Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;\nIt is not meet you know how Caesar loved you.\nYou are not wood, you are not stones, but men;\nAnd, being men, bearing the will of Caesar,\nIt will inflame you, it will make you mad:\n'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;\nFor, if you should, O, what would come of it!


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Will you be patient? will you stay awhile?\nI have o'ershot myself to tell you of it:\nI fear I wrong the honourable men\nWhose daggers have stabb'd Caesar; I do fear it.


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You will compel me, then, to read the will?\nThen make a ring about the corpse of Caesar,\nAnd let me show you him that made the will.\nShall I descend? and will you give me leave?


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If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.\nYou all do know this mantle: I remember\nThe first time ever Caesar put it on;\n'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,\nThat day he overcame the Nervii:\nLook, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:\nSee what a rent the envious Casca made:\nThrough this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd;\nAnd as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,\nMark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it,\nAs rushing out of doors, to be resolved\nIf Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no;\nFor Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:\nJudge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!\nThis was the most unkindest cut of all;\nFor when the noble Caesar saw him stab,\nIngratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,\nQuite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart;\nAnd, in his mantle muffling up his face,\nEven at the base of Pompey's statua,\nWhich all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.\nO, what a fall was there, my countrymen!\nThen I, and you, and all of us fell down,\nWhilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.\nO, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel\nThe dint of pity: these are gracious drops.\nKind souls, what, weep you when you but behold\nOur Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here,\nHere is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors.


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Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up\nTo such a sudden flood of mutiny.\nThey that have done this deed are honourable:\nWhat private griefs they have, alas, I know not,\nThat made them do it: they are wise and honourable,\nAnd will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.\nI come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:\nI am no orator, as Brutus is;\nBut, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,\nThat love my friend; and that they know full well\nThat gave me public leave to speak of him:\nFor I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,\nAction, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,\nTo stir men's blood: I only speak right on;\nI tell you that which you yourselves do know;\nShow you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,\nAnd bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,\nAnd Brutus Antony, there were an Antony\nWould ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue\nIn every wound of Caesar that should move\nThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.


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Why, friends, you go to do you know not what:\nWherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves?\nAlas, you know not: I must tell you then:\nYou have forgot the will I told you of.


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Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal.\nTo every Roman citizen he gives,\nTo every several man, seventy-five drachmas.


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Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,\nHis private arbours and new-planted orchards,\nOn this side Tiber; he hath left them you,\nAnd to your heirs for ever, common pleasures,\nTo walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.\nHere was a Caesar! when comes such another?


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Never, never. Come, away, away!\nWe'll burn his body in the holy place,\nAnd with the brands fire the traitors' houses.\nTake up the body.


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Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,\nTake thou what course thou wilt!\n[Enter a Servant]\nHow now, fellow!


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And thither will I straight to visit him:\nHe comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry,\nAnd in this mood will give us any thing.


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I dreamt to-night that I did feast with Caesar,\nAnd things unlucky charge my fantasy:\nI have no will to wander forth of doors,\nYet something leads me forth.


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What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I\ndwell? Am I a married man or a bachelor? Then, to\nanswer every man directly and briefly, wisely and\ntruly: wisely I say, I am a bachelor.


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That's as much as to say, they are fools that marry:\nyou'll bear me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed; directly.


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Tear him, tear him! Come, brands ho! fire-brands:\nto Brutus', to Cassius'; burn all: some to Decius'\nhouse, and some to Casca's; some to Ligarius': away, go!


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He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him.\nBut, Lepidus, go you to Caesar's house;\nFetch the will hither, and we shall determine\nHow to cut off some charge in legacies.


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This is a slight unmeritable man,\nMeet to be sent on errands: is it fit,\nThe three-fold world divided, he should stand\nOne of the three to share it?


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So you thought him;\nAnd took his voice who should be prick'd to die,\nIn our black sentence and proscription.


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Octavius, I have seen more days than you:\nAnd though we lay these honours on this man,\nTo ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads,\nHe shall but bear them as the ass bears gold,\nTo groan and sweat under the business,\nEither led or driven, as we point the way;\nAnd having brought our treasure where we will,\nThen take we down his load, and turn him off,\nLike to the empty ass, to shake his ears,\nAnd graze in commons.


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So is my horse, Octavius; and for that\nI do appoint him store of provender:\nIt is a creature that I teach to fight,\nTo wind, to stop, to run directly on,\nHis corporal motion govern'd by my spirit.\nAnd, in some taste, is Lepidus but so;\nHe must be taught and train'd and bid go forth;\nA barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds\nOn abjects, orts and imitations,\nWhich, out of use and staled by other men,\nBegin his fashion: do not talk of him,\nBut as a property. And now, Octavius,\nListen great things:--Brutus and Cassius\nAre levying powers: we must straight make head:\nTherefore let our alliance be combined,\nOur best friends made, our means stretch'd\nAnd let us presently go sit in council,\nHow covert matters may be best disclosed,\nAnd open perils surest answered.


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Let us do so: for we are at the stake,\nAnd bay'd about with many enemies;\nAnd some that smile have in their hearts, I fear,\nMillions of mischiefs.


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He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus,\nIn his own change, or by ill officers,\nHath given me some worthy cause to wish\nThings done, undone: but, if he be at hand,\nI shall be satisfied.


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With courtesy and with respect enough;\nBut not with such familiar instances,\nNor with such free and friendly conference,\nAs he hath used of old.


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Thou hast described\nA hot friend cooling: ever note, Lucilius,\nWhen love begins to sicken and decay,\nIt useth an enforced ceremony.\nThere are no tricks in plain and simple faith;\nBut hollow men, like horses hot at hand,\nMake gallant show and promise of their mettle;\nBut when they should endure the bloody spur,\nThey fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades,\nSink in the trial. Comes his army on?


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They mean this night in Sardis to be quarter'd;\nThe greater part, the horse in general,\nAre come with Cassius.


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Cassius, be content.\nSpeak your griefs softly: I do know you well.\nBefore the eyes of both our armies here,\nWhich should perceive nothing but love from us,\nLet us not wrangle: bid them move away;\nThen in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs,\nAnd I will give you audience.


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Lucilius, do you the like; and let no man\nCome to our tent till we have done our conference.\nLet Lucius and Tintinius guard our door.


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That you have wrong'd me doth appear in this:\nYou have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella\nFor taking bribes here of the Sardians;\nWherein my letters, praying on his side,\nBecause I knew the man, were slighted off.


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Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself\nAre much condemn'd to have an itching palm;\nTo sell and mart your offices for gold\nTo undeservers.


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I an itching palm!\nYou know that you are Brutus that speak this,\nOr, by the gods, this speech were else your last.


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Remember March, the ides of March remember:\nDid not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?\nWhat villain touch'd his body, that did stab,\nAnd not for justice? What, shall one of us\nThat struck the foremost man of all this world\nBut for supporting robbers, shall we now\nContaminate our fingers with base bribes,\nAnd sell the mighty space of our large honours\nFor so much trash as may be grasped thus?\nI had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,\nThan such a Roman.


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Brutus, bay not me;\nI'll not endure it: you forget yourself,\nTo hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,\nOlder in practise, abler than yourself\nTo make conditions.


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Hear me, for I will speak.\nMust I give way and room to your rash choler?\nShall I be frighted when a madman stares?


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All this! ay, more: fret till your proud heart break;\nGo show your slaves how choleric you are,\nAnd make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?\nMust I observe you? must I stand and crouch\nUnder your testy humour? By the gods\nYou shall digest the venom of your spleen,\nThough it do split you; for, from this day forth,\nI'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,\nWhen you are waspish.


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You say you are a better soldier:\nLet it appear so; make your vaunting true,\nAnd it shall please me well: for mine own part,\nI shall be glad to learn of noble men.


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You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;\nI said, an elder soldier, not a better:\nDid I say 'better'?


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You have done that you should be sorry for.\nThere is no terror, Cassius, in your threats,\nFor I am arm'd so strong in honesty\nThat they pass by me as the idle wind,\nWhich I respect not. I did send to you\nFor certain sums of gold, which you denied me:\nFor I can raise no money by vile means:\nBy heaven, I had rather coin my heart,\nAnd drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring\nFrom the hard hands of peasants their vile trash\nBy any indirection: I did send\nTo you for gold to pay my legions,\nWhich you denied me: was that done like Cassius?\nShould I have answer'd Caius Cassius so?\nWhen Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,\nTo lock such rascal counters from his friends,\nBe ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;\nDash him to pieces!


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I did not: he was but a fool that brought\nMy answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart:\nA friend should bear his friend's infirmities,\nBut Brutus makes mine greater than they are.


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Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,\nRevenge yourselves alone on Cassius,\nFor Cassius is aweary of the world;\nHated by one he loves; braved by his brother;\nCheque'd like a bondman; all his faults observed,\nSet in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote,\nTo cast into my teeth. O, I could weep\nMy spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger,\nAnd here my naked breast; within, a heart\nDearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold:\nIf that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;\nI, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:\nStrike, as thou didst at Caesar; for, I know,\nWhen thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better\nThan ever thou lovedst Cassius.


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Sheathe your dagger:\nBe angry when you will, it shall have scope;\nDo what you will, dishonour shall be humour.\nO Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb\nThat carries anger as the flint bears fire;\nWho, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,\nAnd straight is cold again.


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Hath Cassius lived\nTo be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,\nWhen grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him?


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Have not you love enough to bear with me,\nWhen that rash humour which my mother gave me\nMakes me forgetful?


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Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,\nWhen you are over-earnest with your Brutus,\nHe'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.


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[Within Let me go in to see the generals;\nThere is some grudge between 'em, 'tis not meet\nThey be alone.


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For shame, you generals! what do you mean?\nLove, and be friends, as two such men should be;\nFor I have seen more years, I'm sure, than ye.


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I'll know his humour, when he knows his time:\nWhat should the wars do with these jigging fools?\nCompanion, hence!


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How 'scaped I killing when I cross'd you so?\nO insupportable and touching loss!\nUpon what sickness?


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Impatient of my absence,\nAnd grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony\nHave made themselves so strong:--for with her death\nThat tidings came;--with this she fell distract,\nAnd, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire.


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My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge.\nFill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup;\nI cannot drink too much of Brutus' love.


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Come in, Tintinius!\n[Exit LUCIUS]\n[Re-enter Tintinius, with MESSALA]\nWelcome, good Messala.\nNow sit we close about this taper here,\nAnd call in question our necessities.


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No more, I pray you.\nMessala, I have here received letters,\nThat young Octavius and Mark Antony\nCome down upon us with a mighty power,\nBending their expedition toward Philippi.


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That by proscription and bills of outlawry,\nOctavius, Antony, and Lepidus,\nHave put to death an hundred senators.


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Therein our letters do not well agree;\nMine speak of seventy senators that died\nBy their proscriptions, Cicero being one.


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Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala:\nWith meditating that she must die once,\nI have the patience to endure it now.


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This it is:\n'Tis better that the enemy seek us:\nSo shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers,\nDoing himself offence; whilst we, lying still,\nAre full of rest, defense, and nimbleness.


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Good reasons must, of force, give place to better.\nThe people 'twixt Philippi and this ground\nDo stand but in a forced affection;\nFor they have grudged us contribution:\nThe enemy, marching along by them,\nBy them shall make a fuller number up,\nCome on refresh'd, new-added, and encouraged;\nFrom which advantage shall we cut him off,\nIf at Philippi we do face him there,\nThese people at our back.


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Under your pardon. You must note beside,\nThat we have tried the utmost of our friends,\nOur legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe:\nThe enemy increaseth every day;\nWe, at the height, are ready to decline.\nThere is a tide in the affairs of men,\nWhich, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;\nOmitted, all the voyage of their life\nIs bound in shallows and in miseries.\nOn such a full sea are we now afloat;\nAnd we must take the current when it serves,\nOr lose our ventures.


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The deep of night is crept upon our talk,\nAnd nature must obey necessity;\nWhich we will niggard with a little rest.\nThere is no more to say?


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Lucius!\n[Enter LUCIUS]\nMy gown.\n[Exit LUCIUS]\nFarewell, good Messala:\nGood night, Tintinius. Noble, noble Cassius,\nGood night, and good repose.


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O my dear brother!\nThis was an ill beginning of the night:\nNever come such division 'tween our souls!\nLet it not, Brutus.


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Farewell, every one.\n[Exeunt all but BRUTUS]\n[Re-enter LUCIUS, with the gown]\nGive me the gown. Where is thy instrument?


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What, thou speak'st drowsily?\nPoor knave, I blame thee not; thou art o'er-watch'd.\nCall Claudius and some other of my men:\nI'll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.


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I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep;\nIt may be I shall raise you by and by\nOn business to my brother Cassius.


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I will not have it so: lie down, good sirs;\nIt may be I shall otherwise bethink me.\nLook, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so;\nI put it in the pocket of my gown.


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Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful.\nCanst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile,\nAnd touch thy instrument a strain or two?


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It was well done; and thou shalt sleep again;\nI will not hold thee long: if I do live,\nI will be good to thee.\n[Music, and a song]\nThis is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber,\nLay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy,\nThat plays thee music? Gentle knave, good night;\nI will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee:\nIf thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument;\nI'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night.\nLet me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn'd down\nWhere I left reading? Here it is, I think.\n[Enter the Ghost of CAESAR]\nHow ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here?\nI think it is the weakness of mine eyes\nThat shapes this monstrous apparition.\nIt comes upon me. Art thou any thing?\nArt thou some god, some angel, or some devil,\nThat makest my blood cold and my hair to stare?\nSpeak to me what thou art.


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Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then.\n[Exit Ghost]\nNow I have taken heart thou vanishest:\nIll spirit, I would hold more talk with thee.\nBoy, Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake! Claudius!


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Go and commend me to my brother Cassius;\nBid him set on his powers betimes before,\nAnd we will follow.


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Now, Antony, our hopes are answered:\nYou said the enemy would not come down,\nBut keep the hills and upper regions;\nIt proves not so: their battles are at hand;\nThey mean to warn us at Philippi here,\nAnswering before we do demand of them.


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Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I know\nWherefore they do it: they could be content\nTo visit other places; and come down\nWith fearful bravery, thinking by this face\nTo fasten in our thoughts that they have courage;\nBut 'tis not so.


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Prepare you, generals:\nThe enemy comes on in gallant show;\nTheir bloody sign of battle is hung out,\nAnd something to be done immediately.


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I do not cross you; but I will do so.\n[March]\n[Drum. Enter BRUTUS, CASSIUS, and their Army;]\nLUCILIUS, Tintinius, MESSALA, and others


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In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words:\nWitness the hole you made in Caesar's heart,\nCrying 'Long live! hail, Caesar!'


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Antony,\nThe posture of your blows are yet unknown;\nBut for your words, they rob the Hybla bees,\nAnd leave them honeyless.


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O, yes, and soundless too;\nFor you have stol'n their buzzing, Antony,\nAnd very wisely threat before you sting.


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Villains, you did not so, when your vile daggers\nHack'd one another in the sides of Caesar:\nYou show'd your teeth like apes, and fawn'd like hounds,\nAnd bow'd like bondmen, kissing Caesar's feet;\nWhilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind\nStruck Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers!


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Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank yourself:\nThis tongue had not offended so to-day,\nIf Cassius might have ruled.


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Come, come, the cause: if arguing make us sweat,\nThe proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look;\nI draw a sword against conspirators;\nWhen think you that the sword goes up again?\nNever, till Caesar's three and thirty wounds\nBe well avenged; or till another Caesar\nHave added slaughter to the sword of traitors.


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Come, Antony, away!\nDefiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth:\nIf you dare fight to-day, come to the field;\nIf not, when you have stomachs.


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Messala,\nThis is my birth-day; as this very day\nWas Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala:\nBe thou my witness that against my will,\nAs Pompey was, am I compell'd to set\nUpon one battle all our liberties.\nYou know that I held Epicurus strong\nAnd his opinion: now I change my mind,\nAnd partly credit things that do presage.\nComing from Sardis, on our former ensign\nTwo mighty eagles fell, and there they perch'd,\nGorging and feeding from our soldiers' hands;\nWho to Philippi here consorted us:\nThis morning are they fled away and gone;\nAnd in their steads do ravens, crows and kites,\nFly o'er our heads and downward look on us,\nAs we were sickly prey: their shadows seem\nA canopy most fatal, under which\nOur army lies, ready to give up the ghost.


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I but believe it partly;\nFor I am fresh of spirit and resolved\nTo meet all perils very constantly.


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Now, most noble Brutus,\nThe gods to-day stand friendly, that we may,\nLovers in peace, lead on our days to age!\nBut since the affairs of men rest still incertain,\nLet's reason with the worst that may befall.\nIf we do lose this battle, then is this\nThe very last time we shall speak together:\nWhat are you then determined to do?


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Even by the rule of that philosophy\nBy which I did blame Cato for the death\nWhich he did give himself, I know not how,\nBut I do find it cowardly and vile,\nFor fear of what might fall, so to prevent\nThe time of life: arming myself with patience\nTo stay the providence of some high powers\nThat govern us below.


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Then, if we lose this battle,\nYou are contented to be led in triumph\nThorough the streets of Rome?


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No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman,\nThat ever Brutus will go bound to Rome;\nHe bears too great a mind. But this same day\nMust end that work the ides of March begun;\nAnd whether we shall meet again I know not.\nTherefore our everlasting farewell take:\nFor ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius!\nIf we do meet again, why, we shall smile;\nIf not, why then, this parting was well made.


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For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus!\nIf we do meet again, we'll smile indeed;\nIf not, 'tis true this parting was well made.


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Why, then, lead on. O, that a man might know\nThe end of this day's business ere it come!\nBut it sufficeth that the day will end,\nAnd then the end is known. Come, ho! away!


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Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills\nUnto the legions on the other side.\n[Loud alarum]\nLet them set on at once; for I perceive\nBut cold demeanor in Octavius' wing,\nAnd sudden push gives them the overthrow.\nRide, ride, Messala: let them all come down.


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O, look, Tintinius, look, the villains fly!\nMyself have to mine own turn'd enemy:\nThis ensign here of mine was turning back;\nI slew the coward, and did take it from him.


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O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early;\nWho, having some advantage on Octavius,\nTook it too eagerly: his soldiers fell to spoil,\nWhilst we by Antony are all enclosed.


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Fly further off, my lord, fly further off;\nMark Antony is in your tents, my lord\nFly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off.


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Tintinius, if thou lovest me,\nMount thou my horse, and hide thy spurs in him,\nTill he have brought thee up to yonder troops,\nAnd here again; that I may rest assured\nWhether yond troops are friend or enemy.


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Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill;\nMy sight was ever thick; regard Tintinius,\nAnd tell me what thou notest about the field.\n[PINDARUS ascends the hill]\nThis day I breathed first: time is come round,\nAnd where I did begin, there shall I end;\nMy life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news?


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[Above Tintinius is enclosed round about\nWith horsemen, that make to him on the spur;\nYet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him.\nNow, Tintinius! Now some light. O, he lights too.\nHe's ta'en.\n[Shout]\nAnd, hark! they shout for joy.


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Come down, behold no more.\nO, coward that I am, to live so long,\nTo see my best friend ta'en before my face!\n[PINDARUS descends]\nCome hither, sirrah:\nIn Parthia did I take thee prisoner;\nAnd then I swore thee, saving of thy life,\nThat whatsoever I did bid thee do,\nThou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath;\nNow be a freeman: and with this good sword,\nThat ran through Caesar's bowels, search this bosom.\nStand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts;\nAnd, when my face is cover'd, as 'tis now,\nGuide thou the sword.\n[PINDARUS stabs him]\nCaesar, thou art revenged,\nEven with the sword that kill'd thee.


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So, I am free; yet would not so have been,\nDurst I have done my will. O Cassius,\nFar from this country Pindarus shall run,\nWhere never Roman shall take note of him.


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It is but change, Tintinius; for Octavius\nIs overthrown by noble Brutus' power,\nAs Cassius' legions are by Antony.


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No, this was he, Messala,\nBut Cassius is no more. O setting sun,\nAs in thy red rays thou dost sink to-night,\nSo in his red blood Cassius' day is set;\nThe sun of Rome is set! Our day is gone;\nClouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done!\nMistrust of my success hath done this deed.


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Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.\nO hateful error, melancholy's child,\nWhy dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men\nThe things that are not? O error, soon conceived,\nThou never comest unto a happy birth,\nBut kill'st the mother that engender'd thee!


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Seek him, Tintinius, whilst I go to meet\nThe noble Brutus, thrusting this report\nInto his ears; I may say, thrusting it;\nFor piercing steel and darts envenomed\nShall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus\nAs tidings of this sight.


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Hie you, Messala,\nAnd I will seek for Pindarus the while.\n[Exit MESSALA]\nWhy didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius?\nDid I not meet thy friends? and did not they\nPut on my brows this wreath of victory,\nAnd bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts?\nAlas, thou hast misconstrued every thing!\nBut, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow;\nThy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I\nWill do his bidding. Brutus, come apace,\nAnd see how I regarded Caius Cassius.\nBy your leave, gods:--this is a Roman's part\nCome, Cassius' sword, and find Tintinius' heart.\n[Kills himself]\n[Alarum. Re-enter MESSALA, with BRUTUS, CATO,]\nSTRATO, VOLUMNIUS, and LUCILIUS


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O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!\nThy spirit walks abroad and turns our swords\nIn our own proper entrails.


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Are yet two Romans living such as these?\nThe last of all the Romans, fare thee well!\nIt is impossible that ever Rome\nShould breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears\nTo this dead man than you shall see me pay.\nI shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.\nCome, therefore, and to Thasos send his body:\nHis funerals shall not be in our camp,\nLest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come;\nAnd come, young Cato; let us to the field.\nLabeo and Flavius, set our battles on:\n'Tis three o'clock; and, Romans, yet ere night\nWe shall try fortune in a second fight.


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What bastard doth not? Who will go with me?\nI will proclaim my name about the field:\nI am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!\nA foe to tyrants, and my country's friend;\nI am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!


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O young and noble Cato, art thou down?\nWhy, now thou diest as bravely as Tintinius;\nAnd mayst be honour'd, being Cato's son.


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Only I yield to die:\nThere is so much that thou wilt kill me straight;\n[Offering money]\nKill Brutus, and be honour'd in his death.


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I'll tell the news. Here comes the general.\n[Enter ANTONY]\nBrutus is ta'en, Brutus is ta'en, my lord.


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Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough:\nI dare assure thee that no enemy\nShall ever take alive the noble Brutus:\nThe gods defend him from so great a shame!\nWhen you do find him, or alive or dead,\nHe will be found like Brutus, like himself.


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This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you,\nA prize no less in worth: keep this man safe;\nGive him all kindness: I had rather have\nSuch men my friends than enemies. Go on,\nAnd see whether Brutus be alive or dead;\nAnd bring us word unto Octavius' tent\nHow every thing is chanced.


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Why, this, Volumnius:\nThe ghost of Caesar hath appear'd to me\nTwo several times by night; at Sardis once,\nAnd, this last night, here in Philippi fields:\nI know my hour is come.


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Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius.\nThou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes;\nOur enemies have beat us to the pit:\n[Low alarums]\nIt is more worthy to leap in ourselves,\nThan tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius,\nThou know'st that we two went to school together:\nEven for that our love of old, I prithee,\nHold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it.


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Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius.\nStrato, thou hast been all this while asleep;\nFarewell to thee too, Strato. Countrymen,\nMy heart doth joy that yet in all my life\nI found no man but he was true to me.\nI shall have glory by this losing day\nMore than Octavius and Mark Antony\nBy this vile conquest shall attain unto.\nSo fare you well at once; for Brutus' tongue\nHath almost ended his life's history:\nNight hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest,\nThat have but labour'd to attain this hour.


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Hence! I will follow.\n[Exeunt CLITUS, DARDANIUS, and VOLUMNIUS]\nI prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord:\nThou art a fellow of a good respect;\nThy life hath had some smatch of honour in it:\nHold then my sword, and turn away thy face,\nWhile I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?


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Farewell, good Strato.\n[Runs on his sword]\nCaesar, now be still:\nI kill'd not thee with half so good a will.\n[Dies]\n[Alarum. Retreat. Enter OCTAVIUS, ANTONY, MESSALA,]\nLUCILIUS, and the army


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Free from the bondage you are in, Messala:\nThe conquerors can but make a fire of him;\nFor Brutus only overcame himself,\nAnd no man else hath honour by his death.


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This was the noblest Roman of them all:\nAll the conspirators save only he\nDid that they did in envy of great Caesar;\nHe only, in a general honest thought\nAnd common good to all, made one of them.\nHis life was gentle, and the elements\nSo mix'd in him that Nature might stand up\nAnd say to all the world 'This was a man!'


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According to his virtue let us use him,\nWith all respect and rites of burial.\nWithin my tent his bones to-night shall lie,\nMost like a soldier, order'd honourably.\nSo call the field to rest; and let's away,\nTo part the glories of this happy day.


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Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France\nIn my behavior to the majesty,\nThe borrow'd majesty, of England here.


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Philip of France, in right and true behalf\nOf thy deceased brother Geffrey's son,\nArthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim\nTo this fair island and the territories,\nTo Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,\nDesiring thee to lay aside the sword\nWhich sways usurpingly these several titles,\nAnd put these same into young Arthur's hand,\nThy nephew and right royal sovereign.


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Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace:\nBe thou as lightning in the eyes of France;\nFor ere thou canst report I will be there,\nThe thunder of my cannon shall be heard:\nSo hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath\nAnd sullen presage of your own decay.\nAn honourable conduct let him have:\nPembroke, look to 't. Farewell, Chatillon.


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What now, my son! have I not ever said\nHow that ambitious Constance would not cease\nTill she had kindled France and all the world,\nUpon the right and party of her son?\nThis might have been prevented and made whole\nWith very easy arguments of love,\nWhich now the manage of two kingdoms must\nWith fearful bloody issue arbitrate.


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Your strong possession much more than your right,\nOr else it must go wrong with you and me:\nSo much my conscience whispers in your ear,\nWhich none but heaven and you and I shall hear.


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My liege, here is the strangest controversy\nCome from country to be judged by you,\nThat e'er I heard: shall I produce the men?


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Let them approach.\nOur abbeys and our priories shall pay\nThis expedition's charge.\n[Enter ROBERT and the BASTARD]\nWhat men are you?


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Your faithful subject I, a gentleman\nBorn in Northamptonshire and eldest son,\nAs I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge,\nA soldier, by the honour-giving hand\nOf Coeur-de-lion knighted in the field.


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Most certain of one mother, mighty king;\nThat is well known; and, as I think, one father:\nBut for the certain knowledge of that truth\nI put you o'er to heaven and to my mother:\nOf that I doubt, as all men's children may.


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I, madam? no, I have no reason for it;\nThat is my brother's plea and none of mine;\nThe which if he can prove, a' pops me out\nAt least from fair five hundred pound a year:\nHeaven guard my mother's honour and my land!


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I know not why, except to get the land.\nBut once he slander'd me with bastardy:\nBut whether I be as true begot or no,\nThat still I lay upon my mother's head,\nBut that I am as well begot, my liege,--\nFair fall the bones that took the pains for me!--\nCompare our faces and be judge yourself.\nIf old sir Robert did beget us both\nAnd were our father and this son like him,\nO old sir Robert, father, on my knee\nI give heaven thanks I was not like to thee!


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He hath a trick of Coeur-de-lion's face;\nThe accent of his tongue affecteth him.\nDo you not read some tokens of my son\nIn the large composition of this man?


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Mine eye hath well examined his parts\nAnd finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak,\nWhat doth move you to claim your brother's land?


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Because he hath a half-face, like my father.\nWith half that face would he have all my land:\nA half-faced groat five hundred pound a year!


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And once dispatch'd him in an embassy\nTo Germany, there with the emperor\nTo treat of high affairs touching that time.\nThe advantage of his absence took the king\nAnd in the mean time sojourn'd at my father's;\nWhere how he did prevail I shame to speak,\nBut truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores\nBetween my father and my mother lay,\nAs I have heard my father speak himself,\nWhen this same lusty gentleman was got.\nUpon his death-bed he by will bequeath'd\nHis lands to me, and took it on his death\nThat this my mother's son was none of his;\nAnd if he were, he came into the world\nFull fourteen weeks before the course of time.\nThen, good my liege, let me have what is mine,\nMy father's land, as was my father's will.


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Sirrah, your brother is legitimate;\nYour father's wife did after wedlock bear him,\nAnd if she did play false, the fault was hers;\nWhich fault lies on the hazards of all husbands\nThat marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother,\nWho, as you say, took pains to get this son,\nHad of your father claim'd this son for his?\nIn sooth, good friend, your father might have kept\nThis calf bred from his cow from all the world;\nIn sooth he might; then, if he were my brother's,\nMy brother might not claim him; nor your father,\nBeing none of his, refuse him: this concludes;\nMy mother's son did get your father's heir;\nYour father's heir must have your father's land.


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Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge\nAnd like thy brother, to enjoy thy land,\nOr the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion,\nLord of thy presence and no land beside?


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Madam, an if my brother had my shape,\nAnd I had his, sir Robert's his, like him;\nAnd if my legs were two such riding-rods,\nMy arms such eel-skins stuff'd, my face so thin\nThat in mine ear I durst not stick a rose\nLest men should say 'Look, where three-farthings goes!'\nAnd, to his shape, were heir to all this land,\nWould I might never stir from off this place,\nI would give it every foot to have this face;\nI would not be sir Nob in any case.


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I like thee well: wilt thou forsake thy fortune,\nBequeath thy land to him and follow me?\nI am a soldier and now bound to France.


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Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance.\nYour face hath got five hundred pound a year,\nYet sell your face for five pence and 'tis dear.\nMadam, I'll follow you unto the death.


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From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bear'st:\nKneel thou down Philip, but rise more great,\nArise sir Richard and Plantagenet.


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Brother by the mother's side, give me your hand:\nMy father gave me honour, yours gave land.\nNow blessed by the hour, by night or day,\nWhen I was got, sir Robert was away!


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Madam, by chance but not by truth; what though?\nSomething about, a little from the right,\nIn at the window, or else o'er the hatch:\nWho dares not stir by day must walk by night,\nAnd have is have, however men do catch:\nNear or far off, well won is still well shot,\nAnd I am I, howe'er I was begot.


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Go, Faulconbridge: now hast thou thy desire;\nA landless knight makes thee a landed squire.\nCome, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed\nFor France, for France, for it is more than need.


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Brother, adieu: good fortune come to thee!\nFor thou wast got i' the way of honesty.\n[Exeunt all but BASTARD]\nA foot of honour better than I was;\nBut many a many foot of land the worse.\nWell, now can I make any Joan a lady.\n'Good den, sir Richard!'--'God-a-mercy, fellow!'--\nAnd if his name be George, I'll call him Peter;\nFor new-made honour doth forget men's names;\n'Tis too respective and too sociable\nFor your conversion. Now your traveller,\nHe and his toothpick at my worship's mess,\nAnd when my knightly stomach is sufficed,\nWhy then I suck my teeth and catechise\nMy picked man of countries: 'My dear sir,'\nThus, leaning on mine elbow, I begin,\n'I shall beseech you'--that is question now;\nAnd then comes answer like an Absey book:\n'O sir,' says answer, 'at your best command;\nAt your employment; at your service, sir;'\n'No, sir,' says question, 'I, sweet sir, at yours:'\nAnd so, ere answer knows what question would,\nSaving in dialogue of compliment,\nAnd talking of the Alps and Apennines,\nThe Pyrenean and the river Po,\nIt draws toward supper in conclusion so.\nBut this is worshipful society\nAnd fits the mounting spirit like myself,\nFor he is but a bastard to the time\nThat doth not smack of observation;\nAnd so am I, whether I smack or no;\nAnd not alone in habit and device,\nExterior form, outward accoutrement,\nBut from the inward motion to deliver\nSweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth:\nWhich, though I will not practise to deceive,\nYet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn;\nFor it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.\nBut who comes in such haste in riding-robes?\nWhat woman-post is this? hath she no husband\nThat will take pains to blow a horn before her?\n[Enter LADY FAULCONBRIDGE and GURNEY]\nO me! it is my mother. How now, good lady!\nWhat brings you here to court so hastily?


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My brother Robert? old sir Robert's son?\nColbrand the giant, that same mighty man?\nIs it sir Robert's son that you seek so?


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Sir Robert's son! Ay, thou unreverend boy,\nSir Robert's son: why scorn'st thou at sir Robert?\nHe is sir Robert's son, and so art thou.


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Philip! sparrow: James,\nThere's toys abroad: anon I'll tell thee more.\n[Exit GURNEY]\nMadam, I was not old sir Robert's son:\nSir Robert might have eat his part in me\nUpon Good-Friday and ne'er broke his fast:\nSir Robert could do well: marry, to confess,\nCould he get me? Sir Robert could not do it:\nWe know his handiwork: therefore, good mother,\nTo whom am I beholding for these limbs?\nSir Robert never holp to make this leg.


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Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,\nThat for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour?\nWhat means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?


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Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like.\nWhat! I am dubb'd! I have it on my shoulder.\nBut, mother, I am not sir Robert's son;\nI have disclaim'd sir Robert and my land;\nLegitimation, name and all is gone:\nThen, good my mother, let me know my father;\nSome proper man, I hope: who was it, mother?


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King Richard Coeur-de-lion was thy father:\nBy long and vehement suit I was seduced\nTo make room for him in my husband's bed:\nHeaven lay not my transgression to my charge!\nThou art the issue of my dear offence,\nWhich was so strongly urged past my defence.


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Now, by this light, were I to get again,\nMadam, I would not wish a better father.\nSome sins do bear their privilege on earth,\nAnd so doth yours; your fault was not your folly:\nNeeds must you lay your heart at his dispose,\nSubjected tribute to commanding love,\nAgainst whose fury and unmatched force\nThe aweless lion could not wage the fight,\nNor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand.\nHe that perforce robs lions of their hearts\nMay easily win a woman's. Ay, my mother,\nWith all my heart I thank thee for my father!\nWho lives and dares but say thou didst not well\nWhen I was got, I'll send his soul to hell.\nCome, lady, I will show thee to my kin;\nAnd they shall say, when Richard me begot,\nIf thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin:\nWho says it was, he lies; I say 'twas not.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter AUSTRIA and forces, drums, etc. on one side:]\non the other KING PHILIP and his power; LEWIS,\nARTHUR, CONSTANCE and attendants]


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Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.\nArthur, that great forerunner of thy blood,\nRichard, that robb'd the lion of his heart\nAnd fought the holy wars in Palestine,\nBy this brave duke came early to his grave:\nAnd for amends to his posterity,\nAt our importance hither is he come,\nTo spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf,\nAnd to rebuke the usurpation\nOf thy unnatural uncle, English John:\nEmbrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.


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God shall forgive you Coeur-de-lion's death\nThe rather that you give his offspring life,\nShadowing their right under your wings of war:\nI give you welcome with a powerless hand,\nBut with a heart full of unstained love:\nWelcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.


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Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,\nAs seal to this indenture of my love,\nThat to my home I will no more return,\nTill Angiers and the right thou hast in France,\nTogether with that pale, that white-faced shore,\nWhose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides\nAnd coops from other lands her islanders,\nEven till that England, hedged in with the main,\nThat water-walled bulwark, still secure\nAnd confident from foreign purposes,\nEven till that utmost corner of the west\nSalute thee for her king: till then, fair boy,\nWill I not think of home, but follow arms.


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O, take his mother's thanks, a widow's thanks,\nTill your strong hand shall help to give him strength\nTo make a more requital to your love!


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Well then, to work: our cannon shall be bent\nAgainst the brows of this resisting town.\nCall for our chiefest men of discipline,\nTo cull the plots of best advantages:\nWe'll lay before this town our royal bones,\nWade to the market-place in Frenchmen's blood,\nBut we will make it subject to this boy.


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Stay for an answer to your embassy,\nLest unadvised you stain your swords with blood:\nMy Lord Chatillon may from England bring,\nThat right in peace which here we urge in war,\nAnd then we shall repent each drop of blood\nThat hot rash haste so indirectly shed.


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A wonder, lady! lo, upon thy wish,\nOur messenger Chatillon is arrived!\nWhat England says, say briefly, gentle lord;\nWe coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak.


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Then turn your forces from this paltry siege\nAnd stir them up against a mightier task.\nEngland, impatient of your just demands,\nHath put himself in arms: the adverse winds,\nWhose leisure I have stay'd, have given him time\nTo land his legions all as soon as I;\nHis marches are expedient to this town,\nHis forces strong, his soldiers confident.\nWith him along is come the mother-queen,\nAn Ate, stirring him to blood and strife;\nWith her her niece, the Lady Blanch of Spain;\nWith them a bastard of the king's deceased,\nAnd all the unsettled humours of the land,\nRash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries,\nWith ladies' faces and fierce dragons' spleens,\nHave sold their fortunes at their native homes,\nBearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,\nTo make hazard of new fortunes here:\nIn brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits\nThan now the English bottoms have waft o'er\nDid nearer float upon the swelling tide,\nTo do offence and scath in Christendom.\n[Drum beats]\nThe interruption of their churlish drums\nCuts off more circumstance: they are at hand,\nTo parley or to fight; therefore prepare.


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By how much unexpected, by so much\nWe must awake endavour for defence;\nFor courage mounteth with occasion:\nLet them be welcome then: we are prepared.\n[Enter KING JOHN, QUEEN ELINOR, BLANCH, the BASTARD,]\nLords, and forces]


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Peace be to France, if France in peace permit\nOur just and lineal entrance to our own;\nIf not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven,\nWhiles we, God's wrathful agent, do correct\nTheir proud contempt that beats His peace to heaven.


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Peace be to England, if that war return\nFrom France to England, there to live in peace.\nEngland we love; and for that England's sake\nWith burden of our armour here we sweat.\nThis toil of ours should be a work of thine;\nBut thou from loving England art so far,\nThat thou hast under-wrought his lawful king\nCut off the sequence of posterity,\nOut-faced infant state and done a rape\nUpon the maiden virtue of the crown.\nLook here upon thy brother Geffrey's face;\nThese eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his:\nThis little abstract doth contain that large\nWhich died in Geffrey, and the hand of time\nShall draw this brief into as huge a volume.\nThat Geffrey was thy elder brother born,\nAnd this his son; England was Geffrey's right\nAnd this is Geffrey's: in the name of God\nHow comes it then that thou art call'd a king,\nWhen living blood doth in these temples beat,\nWhich owe the crown that thou o'ermasterest?


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From that supernal judge, that stirs good thoughts\nIn any breast of strong authority,\nTo look into the blots and stains of right:\nThat judge hath made me guardian to this boy:\nUnder whose warrant I impeach thy wrong\nAnd by whose help I mean to chastise it.


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My bed was ever to thy son as true\nAs thine was to thy husband; and this boy\nLiker in feature to his father Geffrey\nThan thou and John in manners; being as like\nAs rain to water, or devil to his dam.\nMy boy a bastard! By my soul, I think\nHis father never was so true begot:\nIt cannot be, an if thou wert his mother.


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One that will play the devil, sir, with you,\nAn a' may catch your hide and you alone:\nYou are the hare of whom the proverb goes,\nWhose valour plucks dead lions by the beard;\nI'll smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right;\nSirrah, look to't; i' faith, I will, i' faith.


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It lies as sightly on the back of him\nAs great Alcides' shows upon an ass:\nBut, ass, I'll take that burthen from your back,\nOr lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.


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Women and fools, break off your conference.\nKing John, this is the very sum of all;\nEngland and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,\nIn right of Arthur do I claim of thee:\nWilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms?


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My life as soon: I do defy thee, France.\nArthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand;\nAnd out of my dear love I'll give thee more\nThan e'er the coward hand of France can win:\nSubmit thee, boy.


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Do, child, go to it grandam, child:\nGive grandam kingdom, and it grandam will\nGive it a plum, a cherry, and a fig:\nThere's a good grandam.


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Good my mother, peace!\nI would that I were low laid in my grave:\nI am not worth this coil that's made for me.


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Now shame upon you, whether she does or no!\nHis grandam's wrongs, and not his mother's shames,\nDraws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes,\nWhich heaven shall take in nature of a fee;\nAy, with these crystal beads heaven shall be bribed\nTo do him justice and revenge on you.


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Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth!\nCall not me slanderer; thou and thine usurp\nThe dominations, royalties and rights\nOf this oppressed boy: this is thy eld'st son's son,\nInfortunate in nothing but in thee:\nThy sins are visited in this poor child;\nThe canon of the law is laid on him,\nBeing but the second generation\nRemoved from thy sin-conceiving womb.


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I have but this to say,\nThat he is not only plagued for her sin,\nBut God hath made her sin and her the plague\nOn this removed issue, plague for her\nAnd with her plague; her sin his injury,\nHer injury the beadle to her sin,\nAll punish'd in the person of this child,\nAnd all for her; a plague upon her!


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Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate:\nIt ill beseems this presence to cry aim\nTo these ill-tuned repetitions.\nSome trumpet summon hither to the walls\nThese men of Angiers: let us hear them speak\nWhose title they admit, Arthur's or John's.


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For our advantage; therefore hear us first.\nThese flags of France, that are advanced here\nBefore the eye and prospect of your town,\nHave hither march'd to your endamagement:\nThe cannons have their bowels full of wrath,\nAnd ready mounted are they to spit forth\nTheir iron indignation 'gainst your walls:\nAll preparation for a bloody siege\nAll merciless proceeding by these French\nConfronts your city's eyes, your winking gates;\nAnd but for our approach those sleeping stones,\nThat as a waist doth girdle you about,\nBy the compulsion of their ordinance\nBy this time from their fixed beds of lime\nHad been dishabited, and wide havoc made\nFor bloody power to rush upon your peace.\nBut on the sight of us your lawful king,\nWho painfully with much expedient march\nHave brought a countercheque before your gates,\nTo save unscratch'd your city's threatened cheeks,\nBehold, the French amazed vouchsafe a parle;\nAnd now, instead of bullets wrapp'd in fire,\nTo make a shaking fever in your walls,\nThey shoot but calm words folded up in smoke,\nTo make a faithless error in your ears:\nWhich trust accordingly, kind citizens,\nAnd let us in, your king, whose labour'd spirits,\nForwearied in this action of swift speed,\nCrave harbourage within your city walls.


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When I have said, make answer to us both.\nLo, in this right hand, whose protection\nIs most divinely vow'd upon the right\nOf him it holds, stands young Plantagenet,\nSon to the elder brother of this man,\nAnd king o'er him and all that he enjoys:\nFor this down-trodden equity, we tread\nIn warlike march these greens before your town,\nBeing no further enemy to you\nThan the constraint of hospitable zeal\nIn the relief of this oppressed child\nReligiously provokes. Be pleased then\nTo pay that duty which you truly owe\nTo that owes it, namely this young prince:\nAnd then our arms, like to a muzzled bear,\nSave in aspect, hath all offence seal'd up;\nOur cannons' malice vainly shall be spent\nAgainst the invulnerable clouds of heaven;\nAnd with a blessed and unvex'd retire,\nWith unhack'd swords and helmets all unbruised,\nWe will bear home that lusty blood again\nWhich here we came to spout against your town,\nAnd leave your children, wives and you in peace.\nBut if you fondly pass our proffer'd offer,\n'Tis not the roundure of your old-faced walls\nCan hide you from our messengers of war,\nThough all these English and their discipline\nWere harbour'd in their rude circumference.\nThen tell us, shall your city call us lord,\nIn that behalf which we have challenged it?\nOr shall we give the signal to our rage\nAnd stalk in blood to our possession?


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That can we not; but he that proves the king,\nTo him will we prove loyal: till that time\nHave we ramm'd up our gates against the world.


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Doth not the crown of England prove the king?\nAnd if not that, I bring you witnesses,\nTwice fifteen thousand hearts of England's breed,--


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Then God forgive the sin of all those souls\nThat to their everlasting residence,\nBefore the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,\nIn dreadful trial of our kingdom's king!


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Saint George, that swinged the dragon, and e'er since\nSits on his horseback at mine hostess' door,\nTeach us some fence!\n[To AUSTRIA]\nSirrah, were I at home,\nAt your den, sirrah, with your lioness\nI would set an ox-head to your lion's hide,\nAnd make a monster of you.


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It shall be so; and at the other hill\nCommand the rest to stand. God and our right!\n[Exeunt]\n[Here after excursions, enter the Herald of France,]\nwith trumpets, to the gates]


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You men of Angiers, open wide your gates,\nAnd let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in,\nWho by the hand of France this day hath made\nMuch work for tears in many an English mother,\nWhose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground;\nMany a widow's husband grovelling lies,\nColdly embracing the discolour'd earth;\nAnd victory, with little loss, doth play\nUpon the dancing banners of the French,\nWho are at hand, triumphantly display'd,\nTo enter conquerors and to proclaim\nArthur of Bretagne England's king and yours.


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Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells:\nKing John, your king and England's doth approach,\nCommander of this hot malicious day:\nTheir armours, that march'd hence so silver-bright,\nHither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood;\nThere stuck no plume in any English crest\nThat is removed by a staff of France;\nOur colours do return in those same hands\nThat did display them when we first march'd forth;\nAnd, like a troop of jolly huntsmen, come\nOur lusty English, all with purpled hands,\nDyed in the dying slaughter of their foes:\nOpen your gates and gives the victors way.


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Heralds, from off our towers we might behold,\nFrom first to last, the onset and retire\nOf both your armies; whose equality\nBy our best eyes cannot be censured:\nBlood hath bought blood and blows have answered blows;\nStrength match'd with strength, and power confronted power:\nBoth are alike; and both alike we like.\nOne must prove greatest: while they weigh so even,\nWe hold our town for neither, yet for both.\n[Re-enter KING JOHN and KING PHILIP, with their]\npowers, severally]


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France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?\nSay, shall the current of our right run on?\nWhose passage, vex'd with thy impediment,\nShall leave his native channel and o'erswell\nWith course disturb'd even thy confining shores,\nUnless thou let his silver water keep\nA peaceful progress to the ocean.


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England, thou hast not saved one drop of blood,\nIn this hot trial, more than we of France;\nRather, lost more. And by this hand I swear,\nThat sways the earth this climate overlooks,\nBefore we will lay down our just-borne arms,\nWe'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear,\nOr add a royal number to the dead,\nGracing the scroll that tells of this war's loss\nWith slaughter coupled to the name of kings.


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Ha, majesty! how high thy glory towers,\nWhen the rich blood of kings is set on fire!\nO, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel;\nThe swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs;\nAnd now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men,\nIn undetermined differences of kings.\nWhy stand these royal fronts amazed thus?\nCry, 'havoc!' kings; back to the stained field,\nYou equal potents, fiery kindled spirits!\nThen let confusion of one part confirm\nThe other's peace: till then, blows, blood and death!


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In us, that are our own great deputy\nAnd bear possession of our person here,\nLord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.


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A greater power then we denies all this;\nAnd till it be undoubted, we do lock\nOur former scruple in our strong-barr'd gates;\nKing'd of our fears, until our fears, resolved,\nBe by some certain king purged and deposed.


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By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you, kings,\nAnd stand securely on their battlements,\nAs in a theatre, whence they gape and point\nAt your industrious scenes and acts of death.\nYour royal presences be ruled by me:\nDo like the mutines of Jerusalem,\nBe friends awhile and both conjointly bend\nYour sharpest deeds of malice on this town:\nBy east and west let France and England mount\nTheir battering cannon charged to the mouths,\nTill their soul-fearing clamours have brawl'd down\nThe flinty ribs of this contemptuous city:\nI'ld play incessantly upon these jades,\nEven till unfenced desolation\nLeave them as naked as the vulgar air.\nThat done, dissever your united strengths,\nAnd part your mingled colours once again;\nTurn face to face and bloody point to point;\nThen, in a moment, Fortune shall cull forth\nOut of one side her happy minion,\nTo whom in favour she shall give the day,\nAnd kiss him with a glorious victory.\nHow like you this wild counsel, mighty states?\nSmacks it not something of the policy?


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Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads,\nI like it well. France, shall we knit our powers\nAnd lay this Angiers even to the ground;\nThen after fight who shall be king of it?


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An if thou hast the mettle of a king,\nBeing wronged as we are by this peevish town,\nTurn thou the mouth of thy artillery,\nAs we will ours, against these saucy walls;\nAnd when that we have dash'd them to the ground,\nWhy then defy each other and pell-mell\nMake work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell.


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O prudent discipline! From north to south:\nAustria and France shoot in each other's mouth:\nI'll stir them to it. Come, away, away!


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Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay,\nAnd I shall show you peace and fair-faced league;\nWin you this city without stroke or wound;\nRescue those breathing lives to die in beds,\nThat here come sacrifices for the field:\nPersever not, but hear me, mighty kings.


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That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch,\nIs niece to England: look upon the years\nOf Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid:\nIf lusty love should go in quest of beauty,\nWhere should he find it fairer than in Blanch?\nIf zealous love should go in search of virtue,\nWhere should he find it purer than in Blanch?\nIf love ambitious sought a match of birth,\nWhose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch?\nSuch as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,\nIs the young Dauphin every way complete:\nIf not complete of, say he is not she;\nAnd she again wants nothing, to name want,\nIf want it be not that she is not he:\nHe is the half part of a blessed man,\nLeft to be finished by such as she;\nAnd she a fair divided excellence,\nWhose fulness of perfection lies in him.\nO, two such silver currents, when they join,\nDo glorify the banks that bound them in;\nAnd two such shores to two such streams made one,\nTwo such controlling bounds shall you be, kings,\nTo these two princes, if you marry them.\nThis union shall do more than battery can\nTo our fast-closed gates; for at this match,\nWith swifter spleen than powder can enforce,\nThe mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope,\nAnd give you entrance: but without this match,\nThe sea enraged is not half so deaf,\nLions more confident, mountains and rocks\nMore free from motion, no, not Death himself\nIn moral fury half so peremptory,\nAs we to keep this city.


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Here's a stay\nThat shakes the rotten carcass of old Death\nOut of his rags! Here's a large mouth, indeed,\nThat spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas,\nTalks as familiarly of roaring lions\nAs maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs!\nWhat cannoneer begot this lusty blood?\nHe speaks plain cannon fire, and smoke and bounce;\nHe gives the bastinado with his tongue:\nOur ears are cudgell'd; not a word of his\nBut buffets better than a fist of France:\nZounds! I was never so bethump'd with words\nSince I first call'd my brother's father dad.


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Son, list to this conjunction, make this match;\nGive with our niece a dowry large enough:\nFor by this knot thou shalt so surely tie\nThy now unsured assurance to the crown,\nThat yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe\nThe bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit.\nI see a yielding in the looks of France;\nMark, how they whisper: urge them while their souls\nAre capable of this ambition,\nLest zeal, now melted by the windy breath\nOf soft petitions, pity and remorse,\nCool and congeal again to what it was.


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If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son,\nCan in this book of beauty read 'I love,'\nHer dowry shall weigh equal with a queen:\nFor Anjou and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers,\nAnd all that we upon this side the sea,\nExcept this city now by us besieged,\nFind liable to our crown and dignity,\nShall gild her bridal bed and make her rich\nIn titles, honours and promotions,\nAs she in beauty, education, blood,\nHolds hand with any princess of the world.


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I do, my lord; and in her eye I find\nA wonder, or a wondrous miracle,\nThe shadow of myself form'd in her eye:\nWhich being but the shadow of your son,\nBecomes a sun and makes your son a shadow:\nI do protest I never loved myself\nTill now infixed I beheld myself\nDrawn in the flattering table of her eye.


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Drawn in the flattering table of her eye!\nHang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow!\nAnd quarter'd in her heart! he doth espy\nHimself love's traitor: this is pity now,\nThat hang'd and drawn and quartered, there should be\nIn such a love so vile a lout as he.


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My uncle's will in this respect is mine:\nIf he see aught in you that makes him like,\nThat any thing he sees, which moves his liking,\nI can with ease translate it to my will;\nOr if you will, to speak more properly,\nI will enforce it easily to my love.\nFurther I will not flatter you, my lord,\nThat all I see in you is worthy love,\nThan this; that nothing do I see in you,\nThough churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge,\nThat I can find should merit any hate.


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Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine,\nPoictiers and Anjou, these five provinces,\nWith her to thee; and this addition more,\nFull thirty thousand marks of English coin.\nPhilip of France, if thou be pleased withal,\nCommand thy son and daughter to join hands.


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Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,\nLet in that amity which you have made;\nFor at Saint Mary's chapel presently\nThe rites of marriage shall be solemnized.\nIs not the Lady Constance in this troop?\nI know she is not, for this match made up\nHer presence would have interrupted much:\nWhere is she and her son? tell me, who knows.


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And, by my faith, this league that we have made\nWill give her sadness very little cure.\nBrother of England, how may we content\nThis widow lady? In her right we came;\nWhich we, God knows, have turn'd another way,\nTo our own vantage.


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We will heal up all;\nFor we'll create young Arthur Duke of Bretagne\nAnd Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town\nWe make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance;\nSome speedy messenger bid her repair\nTo our solemnity: I trust we shall,\nIf not fill up the measure of her will,\nYet in some measure satisfy her so\nThat we shall stop her exclamation.\nGo we, as well as haste will suffer us,\nTo this unlook'd for, unprepared pomp.


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Mad world! mad kings! mad composition!\nJohn, to stop Arthur's title in the whole,\nHath willingly departed with a part,\nAnd France, whose armour conscience buckled on,\nWhom zeal and charity brought to the field\nAs God's own soldier, rounded in the ear\nWith that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,\nThat broker, that still breaks the pate of faith,\nThat daily break-vow, he that wins of all,\nOf kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,\nWho, having no external thing to lose\nBut the word 'maid,' cheats the poor maid of that,\nThat smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity,\nCommodity, the bias of the world,\nThe world, who of itself is peised well,\nMade to run even upon even ground,\nTill this advantage, this vile-drawing bias,\nThis sway of motion, this Commodity,\nMakes it take head from all indifferency,\nFrom all direction, purpose, course, intent:\nAnd this same bias, this Commodity,\nThis bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,\nClapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France,\nHath drawn him from his own determined aid,\nFrom a resolved and honourable war,\nTo a most base and vile-concluded peace.\nAnd why rail I on this Commodity?\nBut for because he hath not woo'd me yet:\nNot that I have the power to clutch my hand,\nWhen his fair angels would salute my palm;\nBut for my hand, as unattempted yet,\nLike a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.\nWell, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail\nAnd say there is no sin but to be rich;\nAnd being rich, my virtue then shall be\nTo say there is no vice but beggary.\nSince kings break faith upon commodity,\nGain, be my lord, for I will worship thee.


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Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!\nFalse blood to false blood join'd! gone to be friends!\nShall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces?\nIt is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard:\nBe well advised, tell o'er thy tale again:\nIt cannot be; thou dost but say 'tis so:\nI trust I may not trust thee; for thy word\nIs but the vain breath of a common man:\nBelieve me, I do not believe thee, man;\nI have a king's oath to the contrary.\nThou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,\nFor I am sick and capable of fears,\nOppress'd with wrongs and therefore full of fears,\nA widow, husbandless, subject to fears,\nA woman, naturally born to fears;\nAnd though thou now confess thou didst but jest,\nWith my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce,\nBut they will quake and tremble all this day.\nWhat dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?\nWhy dost thou look so sadly on my son?\nWhat means that hand upon that breast of thine?\nWhy holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,\nLike a proud river peering o'er his bounds?\nBe these sad signs confirmers of thy words?\nThen speak again; not all thy former tale,\nBut this one word, whether thy tale be true.


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O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,\nTeach thou this sorrow how to make me die,\nAnd let belief and life encounter so\nAs doth the fury of two desperate men\nWhich in the very meeting fall and die.\nLewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou?\nFrance friend with England, what becomes of me?\nFellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight:\nThis news hath made thee a most ugly man.


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If thou, that bid'st me be content, wert grim,\nUgly and slanderous to thy mother's womb,\nFull of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,\nLame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,\nPatch'd with foul moles and eye-offending marks,\nI would not care, I then would be content,\nFor then I should not love thee, no, nor thou\nBecome thy great birth nor deserve a crown.\nBut thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy,\nNature and Fortune join'd to make thee great:\nOf Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast,\nAnd with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O,\nShe is corrupted, changed and won from thee;\nShe adulterates hourly with thine uncle John,\nAnd with her golden hand hath pluck'd on France\nTo tread down fair respect of sovereignty,\nAnd made his majesty the bawd to theirs.\nFrance is a bawd to Fortune and King John,\nThat strumpet Fortune, that usurping John!\nTell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?\nEnvenom him with words, or get thee gone\nAnd leave those woes alone which I alone\nAm bound to under-bear.


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Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee:\nI will instruct my sorrows to be proud;\nFor grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.\nTo me and to the state of my great grief\nLet kings assemble; for my grief's so great\nThat no supporter but the huge firm earth\nCan hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;\nHere is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.\n[Seats herself on the ground]\n[Enter KING JOHN, KING PHILLIP, LEWIS, BLANCH,]\nQUEEN ELINOR, the BASTARD, AUSTRIA, and Attendants]


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'Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day\nEver in France shall be kept festival:\nTo solemnize this day the glorious sun\nStays in his course and plays the alchemist,\nTurning with splendor of his precious eye\nThe meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold:\nThe yearly course that brings this day about\nShall never see it but a holiday.


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A wicked day, and not a holy day!\n[Rising]\nWhat hath this day deserved? what hath it done,\nThat it in golden letters should be set\nAmong the high tides in the calendar?\nNay, rather turn this day out of the week,\nThis day of shame, oppression, perjury.\nOr, if it must stand still, let wives with child\nPray that their burthens may not fall this day,\nLest that their hopes prodigiously be cross'd:\nBut on this day let seamen fear no wreck;\nNo bargains break that are not this day made:\nThis day, all things begun come to ill end,\nYea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!


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By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause\nTo curse the fair proceedings of this day:\nHave I not pawn'd to you my majesty?


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You have beguiled me with a counterfeit\nResembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried,\nProves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn;\nYou came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood,\nBut now in arms you strengthen it with yours:\nThe grappling vigour and rough frown of war\nIs cold in amity and painted peace,\nAnd our oppression hath made up this league.\nArm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured kings!\nA widow cries; be husband to me, heavens!\nLet not the hours of this ungodly day\nWear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,\nSet armed discord 'twixt these perjured kings!\nHear me, O, hear me!


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War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war\nO Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame\nThat bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward!\nThou little valiant, great in villany!\nThou ever strong upon the stronger side!\nThou Fortune's champion that dost never fight\nBut when her humorous ladyship is by\nTo teach thee safety! thou art perjured too,\nAnd soothest up greatness. What a fool art thou,\nA ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear\nUpon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,\nHast thou not spoke like thunder on my side,\nBeen sworn my soldier, bidding me depend\nUpon thy stars, thy fortune and thy strength,\nAnd dost thou now fall over to my fores?\nThou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,\nAnd hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.


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Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!\nTo thee, King John, my holy errand is.\nI Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,\nAnd from Pope Innocent the legate here,\nDo in his name religiously demand\nWhy thou against the church, our holy mother,\nSo wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce\nKeep Stephen Langton, chosen archbishop\nOf Canterbury, from that holy see?\nThis, in our foresaid holy father's name,\nPope Innocent, I do demand of thee.


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What earthy name to interrogatories\nCan task the free breath of a sacred king?\nThou canst not, cardinal, devise a name\nSo slight, unworthy and ridiculous,\nTo charge me to an answer, as the pope.\nTell him this tale; and from the mouth of England\nAdd thus much more, that no Italian priest\nShall tithe or toll in our dominions;\nBut as we, under heaven, are supreme head,\nSo under Him that great supremacy,\nWhere we do reign, we will alone uphold,\nWithout the assistance of a mortal hand:\nSo tell the pope, all reverence set apart\nTo him and his usurp'd authority.


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Though you and all the kings of Christendom\nAre led so grossly by this meddling priest,\nDreading the curse that money may buy out;\nAnd by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust,\nPurchase corrupted pardon of a man,\nWho in that sale sells pardon from himself,\nThough you and all the rest so grossly led\nThis juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish,\nYet I alone, alone do me oppose\nAgainst the pope and count his friends my foes.


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Then, by the lawful power that I have,\nThou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate.\nAnd blessed shall he be that doth revolt\nFrom his allegiance to an heretic;\nAnd meritorious shall that hand be call'd,\nCanonized and worshipped as a saint,\nThat takes away by any secret course\nThy hateful life.


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O, lawful let it be\nThat I have room with Rome to curse awhile!\nGood father cardinal, cry thou amen\nTo my keen curses; for without my wrong\nThere is no tongue hath power to curse him right.


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And for mine too: when law can do no right,\nLet it be lawful that law bar no wrong:\nLaw cannot give my child his kingdom here,\nFor he that holds his kingdom holds the law;\nTherefore, since law itself is perfect wrong,\nHow can the law forbid my tongue to curse?


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Philip of France, on peril of a curse,\nLet go the hand of that arch-heretic;\nAnd raise the power of France upon his head,\nUnless he do submit himself to Rome.


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Bethink you, father; for the difference\nIs purchase of a heavy curse from Rome,\nOr the light loss of England for a friend:\nForego the easier.


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O, if thou grant my need,\nWhich only lives but by the death of faith,\nThat need must needs infer this principle,\nThat faith would live again by death of need.\nO then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up;\nKeep my need up, and faith is trodden down!


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Good reverend father, make my person yours,\nAnd tell me how you would bestow yourself.\nThis royal hand and mine are newly knit,\nAnd the conjunction of our inward souls\nMarried in league, coupled and linked together\nWith all religious strength of sacred vows;\nThe latest breath that gave the sound of words\nWas deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love\nBetween our kingdoms and our royal selves,\nAnd even before this truce, but new before,\nNo longer than we well could wash our hands\nTo clap this royal bargain up of peace,\nHeaven knows, they were besmear'd and over-stain'd\nWith slaughter's pencil, where revenge did paint\nThe fearful difference of incensed kings:\nAnd shall these hands, so lately purged of blood,\nSo newly join'd in love, so strong in both,\nUnyoke this seizure and this kind regreet?\nPlay fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven,\nMake such unconstant children of ourselves,\nAs now again to snatch our palm from palm,\nUnswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed\nOf smiling peace to march a bloody host,\nAnd make a riot on the gentle brow\nOf true sincerity? O, holy sir,\nMy reverend father, let it not be so!\nOut of your grace, devise, ordain, impose\nSome gentle order; and then we shall be blest\nTo do your pleasure and continue friends.


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All form is formless, order orderless,\nSave what is opposite to England's love.\nTherefore to arms! be champion of our church,\nOr let the church, our mother, breathe her curse,\nA mother's curse, on her revolting son.\nFrance, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,\nA chafed lion by the mortal paw,\nA fasting tiger safer by the tooth,\nThan keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.


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So makest thou faith an enemy to faith;\nAnd like a civil war set'st oath to oath,\nThy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow\nFirst made to heaven, first be to heaven perform'd,\nThat is, to be the champion of our church!\nWhat since thou sworest is sworn against thyself\nAnd may not be performed by thyself,\nFor that which thou hast sworn to do amiss\nIs not amiss when it is truly done,\nAnd being not done, where doing tends to ill,\nThe truth is then most done not doing it:\nThe better act of purposes mistook\nIs to mistake again; though indirect,\nYet indirection thereby grows direct,\nAnd falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire\nWithin the scorched veins of one new-burn'd.\nIt is religion that doth make vows kept;\nBut thou hast sworn against religion,\nBy what thou swear'st against the thing thou swear'st,\nAnd makest an oath the surety for thy truth\nAgainst an oath: the truth thou art unsure\nTo swear, swears only not to be forsworn;\nElse what a mockery should it be to swear!\nBut thou dost swear only to be forsworn;\nAnd most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear.\nTherefore thy later vows against thy first\nIs in thyself rebellion to thyself;\nAnd better conquest never canst thou make\nThan arm thy constant and thy nobler parts\nAgainst these giddy loose suggestions:\nUpon which better part our prayers come in,\nIf thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know\nThe peril of our curses light on thee\nSo heavy as thou shalt not shake them off,\nBut in despair die under their black weight.


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Upon thy wedding-day?\nAgainst the blood that thou hast married?\nWhat, shall our feast be kept with slaughter'd men?\nShall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums,\nClamours of hell, be measures to our pomp?\nO husband, hear me! ay, alack, how new\nIs husband in my mouth! even for that name,\nWhich till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce,\nUpon my knee I beg, go not to arms\nAgainst mine uncle.


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O, upon my knee,\nMade hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,\nThou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom\nForethought by heaven!


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The sun's o'ercast with blood: fair day, adieu!\nWhich is the side that I must go withal?\nI am with both: each army hath a hand;\nAnd in their rage, I having hold of both,\nThey swirl asunder and dismember me.\nHusband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win;\nUncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose;\nFather, I may not wish the fortune thine;\nGrandam, I will not wish thy fortunes thrive:\nWhoever wins, on that side shall I lose\nAssured loss before the match be play'd.


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Cousin, go draw our puissance together.\n[Exit BASTARD]\nFrance, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath;\nA rage whose heat hath this condition,\nThat nothing can allay, nothing but blood,\nThe blood, and dearest-valued blood, of France.


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Thy rage sham burn thee up, and thou shalt turn\nTo ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:\nLook to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.


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Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot;\nSome airy devil hovers in the sky\nAnd pours down mischief. Austria's head lie there,\nWhile Philip breathes.


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My lord, I rescued her;\nHer highness is in safety, fear you not:\nBut on, my liege; for very little pains\nWill bring this labour to an happy end.


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[Exeunt]\n[Alarums, excursions, retreat. Enter KING JOHN,]\nQUEEN ELINOR, ARTHUR, the BASTARD, HUBERT,\nand Lords]


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[To QUEEN ELINOR] So shall it be; your grace shall\nstay behind\nSo strongly guarded.\n[To ARTHUR]\nCousin, look not sad:\nThy grandam loves thee; and thy uncle will\nAs dear be to thee as thy father was.


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[To the BASTARD] Cousin, away for England!\nhaste before:\nAnd, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags\nOf hoarding abbots; imprisoned angels\nSet at liberty: the fat ribs of peace\nMust by the hungry now be fed upon:\nUse our commission in his utmost force.


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Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back,\nWhen gold and silver becks me to come on.\nI leave your highness. Grandam, I will pray,\nIf ever I remember to be holy,\nFor your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand.


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Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,\nWe owe thee much! within this wall of flesh\nThere is a soul counts thee her creditor\nAnd with advantage means to pay thy love:\nAnd my good friend, thy voluntary oath\nLives in this bosom, dearly cherished.\nGive me thy hand. I had a thing to say,\nBut I will fit it with some better time.\nBy heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed\nTo say what good respect I have of thee.


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Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet,\nBut thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,\nYet it shall come from me to do thee good.\nI had a thing to say, but let it go:\nThe sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,\nAttended with the pleasures of the world,\nIs all too wanton and too full of gawds\nTo give me audience: if the midnight bell\nDid, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,\nSound on into the drowsy race of night;\nIf this same were a churchyard where we stand,\nAnd thou possessed with a thousand wrongs,\nOr if that surly spirit, melancholy,\nHad baked thy blood and made it heavy-thick,Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,\nMaking that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes\nAnd strain their cheeks to idle merriment,\nA passion hateful to my purposes,\nOr if that thou couldst see me without eyes,\nHear me without thine ears, and make reply\nWithout a tongue, using conceit alone,\nWithout eyes, ears and harmful sound of words;\nThen, in despite of brooded watchful day,\nI would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:\nBut, ah, I will not! yet I love thee well;\nAnd, by my troth, I think thou lovest me well.


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So well, that what you bid me undertake,\nThough that my death were adjunct to my act,\nBy heaven, I would do it.


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Do not I know thou wouldst?\nGood Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye\nOn yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend,\nHe is a very serpent in my way;\nAnd whereso'er this foot of mine doth tread,\nHe lies before me: dost thou understand me?\nThou art his keeper.


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Enough.\nI could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;\nWell, I'll not say what I intend for thee:\nRemember. Madam, fare you well:\nI'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.


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For England, cousin, go:\nHubert shall be your man, attend on you\nWith all true duty. On toward Calais, ho!


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So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,\nA whole armado of convicted sail\nIs scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship.


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What can go well, when we have run so ill?\nAre we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?\nArthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?\nAnd bloody England into England gone,\nO'erbearing interruption, spite of France?


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What he hath won, that hath he fortified:\nSo hot a speed with such advice disposed,\nSuch temperate order in so fierce a cause,\nDoth want example: who hath read or heard\nOf any kindred action like to this?


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Well could I bear that England had this praise,\nSo we could find some pattern of our shame.\n[Enter CONSTANCE]\nLook, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;\nHolding the eternal spirit against her will,\nIn the vile prison of afflicted breath.\nI prithee, lady, go away with me.


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No, I defy all counsel, all redress,\nBut that which ends all counsel, true redress,\nDeath, death; O amiable lovely death!\nThou odouriferous stench! sound rottenness!\nArise forth from the couch of lasting night,\nThou hate and terror to prosperity,\nAnd I will kiss thy detestable bones\nAnd put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows\nAnd ring these fingers with thy household worms\nAnd stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust\nAnd be a carrion monster like thyself:\nCome, grin on me, and I will think thou smilest\nAnd buss thee as thy wife. Misery's love,\nO, come to me!


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No, no, I will not, having breath to cry:\nO, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!\nThen with a passion would I shake the world;\nAnd rouse from sleep that fell anatomy\nWhich cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,\nWhich scorns a modern invocation.


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Thou art not holy to belie me so;\nI am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;\nMy name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;\nYoung Arthur is my son, and he is lost:\nI am not mad: I would to heaven I were!\nFor then, 'tis like I should forget myself:\nO, if I could, what grief should I forget!\nPreach some philosophy to make me mad,\nAnd thou shalt be canonized, cardinal;\nFor being not mad but sensible of grief,\nMy reasonable part produces reason\nHow I may be deliver'd of these woes,\nAnd teaches me to kill or hang myself:\nIf I were mad, I should forget my son,\nOr madly think a babe of clouts were he:\nI am not mad; too well, too well I feel\nThe different plague of each calamity.


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Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note\nIn the fair multitude of those her hairs!\nWhere but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,\nEven to that drop ten thousand wiry friends\nDo glue themselves in sociable grief,\nLike true, inseparable, faithful loves,\nSticking together in calamity.


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Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?\nI tore them from their bonds and cried aloud\n'O that these hands could so redeem my son,\nAs they have given these hairs their liberty!'\nBut now I envy at their liberty,\nAnd will again commit them to their bonds,\nBecause my poor child is a prisoner.\nAnd, father cardinal, I have heard you say\nThat we shall see and know our friends in heaven:\nIf that be true, I shall see my boy again;\nFor since the birth of Cain, the first male child,\nTo him that did but yesterday suspire,\nThere was not such a gracious creature born.\nBut now will canker-sorrow eat my bud\nAnd chase the native beauty from his cheek\nAnd he will look as hollow as a ghost,\nAs dim and meagre as an ague's fit,\nAnd so he'll die; and, rising so again,\nWhen I shall meet him in the court of heaven\nI shall not know him: therefore never, never\nMust I behold my pretty Arthur more.


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Grief fills the room up of my absent child,\nLies in his bed, walks up and down with me,\nPuts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,\nRemembers me of all his gracious parts,\nStuffs out his vacant garments with his form;\nThen, have I reason to be fond of grief?\nFare you well: had you such a loss as I,\nI could give better comfort than you do.\nI will not keep this form upon my head,\nWhen there is such disorder in my wit.\nO Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!\nMy life, my joy, my food, my all the world!\nMy widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!


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There's nothing in this world can make me joy:\nLife is as tedious as a twice-told tale\nVexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;\nAnd bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste\nThat it yields nought but shame and bitterness.


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Before the curing of a strong disease,\nEven in the instant of repair and health,\nThe fit is strongest; evils that take leave,\nOn their departure most of all show evil:\nWhat have you lost by losing of this day?


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If you had won it, certainly you had.\nNo, no; when Fortune means to men most good,\nShe looks upon them with a threatening eye.\n'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost\nIn this which he accounts so clearly won:\nAre not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner?


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Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.\nNow hear me speak with a prophetic spirit;\nFor even the breath of what I mean to speak\nShall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,\nOut of the path which shall directly lead\nThy foot to England's throne; and therefore mark.\nJohn hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be\nThat, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,\nThe misplaced John should entertain an hour,\nOne minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest.\nA sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand\nMust be as boisterously maintain'd as gain'd;\nAnd he that stands upon a slippery place\nMakes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:\nThat John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;\nSo be it, for it cannot be but so.


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How green you are and fresh in this old world!\nJohn lays you plots; the times conspire with you;\nFor he that steeps his safety in true blood\nShall find but bloody safety and untrue.\nThis act so evilly born shall cool the hearts\nOf all his people and freeze up their zeal,\nThat none so small advantage shall step forth\nTo cheque his reign, but they will cherish it;\nNo natural exhalation in the sky,\nNo scope of nature, no distemper'd day,\nNo common wind, no customed event,\nBut they will pluck away his natural cause\nAnd call them meteors, prodigies and signs,\nAbortives, presages and tongues of heaven,\nPlainly denouncing vengeance upon John.


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O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach,\nIf that young Arthur be not gone already,\nEven at that news he dies; and then the hearts\nOf all his people shall revolt from him\nAnd kiss the lips of unacquainted change\nAnd pick strong matter of revolt and wrath\nOut of the bloody fingers' ends of John.\nMethinks I see this hurly all on foot:\nAnd, O, what better matter breeds for you\nThan I have named! The bastard Faulconbridge\nIs now in England, ransacking the church,\nOffending charity: if but a dozen French\nWere there in arms, they would be as a call\nTo train ten thousand English to their side,\nOr as a little snow, tumbled about,\nAnon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin,\nGo with me to the king: 'tis wonderful\nWhat may be wrought out of their discontent,\nNow that their souls are topful of offence.\nFor England go: I will whet on the king.


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Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand\nWithin the arras: when I strike my foot\nUpon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,\nAnd bind the boy which you shall find with me\nFast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.


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Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to't.\n[Exeunt Executioners]\nYoung lad, come forth; I have to say with you.


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Mercy on me!\nMethinks no body should be sad but I:\nYet, I remember, when I was in France,\nYoung gentlemen would be as sad as night,\nOnly for wantonness. By my christendom,\nSo I were out of prison and kept sheep,\nI should be as merry as the day is long;\nAnd so I would be here, but that I doubt\nMy uncle practises more harm to me:\nHe is afraid of me and I of him:\nIs it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?\nNo, indeed, is't not; and I would to heaven\nI were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.


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[Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate\nHe will awake my mercy which lies dead:\nTherefore I will be sudden and dispatch.


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Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:\nIn sooth, I would you were a little sick,\nThat I might sit all night and watch with you:\nI warrant I love you more than you do me.


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[Aside] His words do take possession of my bosom.\nRead here, young Arthur.\n[Showing a paper]\n[Aside]\nHow now, foolish rheum!\nTurning dispiteous torture out of door!\nI must be brief, lest resolution drop\nOut at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.\nCan you not read it? Is it not fair writ?


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Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,\nI knit my handercher about your brows,\nThe best I had, a princess wrought it me,\nAnd I did never ask it you again;\nAnd with my hand at midnight held your head,\nAnd like the watchful minutes to the hour,\nStill and anon cheer'd up the heavy time,\nSaying, 'What lack you?' and 'Where lies your grief?'\nOr 'What good love may I perform for you?'\nMany a poor man's son would have lien still\nAnd ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;\nBut you at your sick service had a prince.\nNay, you may think my love was crafty love\nAnd call it cunning: do, an if you will:\nIf heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,\nWhy then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?\nThese eyes that never did nor never shall\nSo much as frown on you.


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Ah, none but in this iron age would do it!\nThe iron of itself, though heat red-hot,\nApproaching near these eyes, would drink my tears\nAnd quench his fiery indignation\nEven in the matter of mine innocence;\nNay, after that, consume away in rust\nBut for containing fire to harm mine eye.\nAre you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?\nAn if an angel should have come to me\nAnd told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,\nI would not have believed him,--no tongue but Hubert's.


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Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough?\nI will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.\nFor heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!\nNay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away,\nAnd I will sit as quiet as a lamb;\nI will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,\nNor look upon the iron angerly:\nThrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,\nWhatever torment you do put me to.


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Alas, I then have chid away my friend!\nHe hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:\nLet him come back, that his compassion may\nGive life to yours.


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O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours,\nA grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,\nAny annoyance in that precious sense!\nThen feeling what small things are boisterous there,\nYour vile intent must needs seem horrible.


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Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues\nMust needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:\nLet me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert;\nOr, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,\nSo I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes.\nThough to no use but still to look on you!\nLo, by my truth, the instrument is cold\nAnd would not harm me.


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No, in good sooth: the fire is dead with grief,\nBeing create for comfort, to be used\nIn undeserved extremes: see else yourself;\nThere is no malice in this burning coal;\nThe breath of heaven has blown his spirit out\nAnd strew'd repentent ashes on his head.


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An if you do, you will but make it blush\nAnd glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:\nNay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes;\nAnd like a dog that is compell'd to fight,\nSnatch at his master that doth tarre him on.\nAll things that you should use to do me wrong\nDeny their office: only you do lack\nThat mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,\nCreatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.


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Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye\nFor all the treasure that thine uncle owes:\nYet am I sworn and I did purpose, boy,\nWith this same very iron to burn them out.


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Peace; no more. Adieu.\nYour uncle must not know but you are dead;\nI'll fill these dogged spies with false reports:\nAnd, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,\nThat Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,\nWill not offend thee.


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This 'once again,' but that your highness pleased,\nWas once superfluous: you were crown'd before,\nAnd that high royalty was ne'er pluck'd off,\nThe faiths of men ne'er stained with revolt;\nFresh expectation troubled not the land\nWith any long'd-for change or better state.


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Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp,\nTo guard a title that was rich before,\nTo gild refined gold, to paint the lily,\nTo throw a perfume on the violet,\nTo smooth the ice, or add another hue\nUnto the rainbow, or with taper-light\nTo seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,\nIs wasteful and ridiculous excess.


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But that your royal pleasure must be done,\nThis act is as an ancient tale new told,\nAnd in the last repeating troublesome,\nBeing urged at a time unseasonable.


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In this the antique and well noted face\nOf plain old form is much disfigured;\nAnd, like a shifted wind unto a sail,\nIt makes the course of thoughts to fetch about,\nStartles and frights consideration,\nMakes sound opinion sick and truth suspected,\nFor putting on so new a fashion'd robe.


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When workmen strive to do better than well,\nThey do confound their skill in covetousness;\nAnd oftentimes excusing of a fault\nDoth make the fault the worse by the excuse,\nAs patches set upon a little breach\nDiscredit more in hiding of the fault\nThan did the fault before it was so patch'd.


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To this effect, before you were new crown'd,\nWe breathed our counsel: but it pleased your highness\nTo overbear it, and we are all well pleased,\nSince all and every part of what we would\nDoth make a stand at what your highness will.


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Some reasons of this double coronation\nI have possess'd you with and think them strong;\nAnd more, more strong, then lesser is my fear,\nI shall indue you with: meantime but ask\nWhat you would have reform'd that is not well,\nAnd well shall you perceive how willingly\nI will both hear and grant you your requests.


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Then I, as one that am the tongue of these,\nTo sound the purpose of all their hearts,\nBoth for myself and them, but, chief of all,\nYour safety, for the which myself and them\nBend their best studies, heartily request\nThe enfranchisement of Arthur; whose restraint\nDoth move the murmuring lips of discontent\nTo break into this dangerous argument,--\nIf what in rest you have in right you hold,\nWhy then your fears, which, as they say, attend\nThe steps of wrong, should move you to mew up\nYour tender kinsman and to choke his days\nWith barbarous ignorance and deny his youth\nThe rich advantage of good exercise?\nThat the time's enemies may not have this\nTo grace occasions, let it be our suit\nThat you have bid us ask his liberty;\nWhich for our goods we do no further ask\nThan whereupon our weal, on you depending,\nCounts it your weal he have his liberty.


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This is the man should do the bloody deed;\nHe show'd his warrant to a friend of mine:\nThe image of a wicked heinous fault\nLives in his eye; that close aspect of his\nDoes show the mood of a much troubled breast;\nAnd I do fearfully believe 'tis done,\nWhat we so fear'd he had a charge to do.


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The colour of the king doth come and go\nBetween his purpose and his conscience,\nLike heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set:\nHis passion is so ripe, it needs must break.


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We cannot hold mortality's strong hand:\nGood lords, although my will to give is living,\nThe suit which you demand is gone and dead:\nHe tells us Arthur is deceased to-night.


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Indeed we heard how near his death he was\nBefore the child himself felt he was sick:\nThis must be answer'd either here or hence.


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Why do you bend such solemn brows on me?\nThink you I bear the shears of destiny?\nHave I commandment on the pulse of life?


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It is apparent foul play; and 'tis shame\nThat greatness should so grossly offer it:\nSo thrive it in your game! and so, farewell.


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Stay yet, Lord Salisbury; I'll go with thee,\nAnd find the inheritance of this poor child,\nHis little kingdom of a forced grave.\nThat blood which owed the breadth of all this isle,\nThree foot of it doth hold: bad world the while!\nThis must not be thus borne: this will break out\nTo all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt.


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They burn in indignation. I repent:\nThere is no sure foundation set on blood,\nNo certain life achieved by others' death.\n[Enter a Messenger]\nA fearful eye thou hast: where is that blood\nThat I have seen inhabit in those cheeks?\nSo foul a sky clears not without a storm:\nPour down thy weather: how goes all in France?


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From France to England. Never such a power\nFor any foreign preparation\nWas levied in the body of a land.\nThe copy of your speed is learn'd by them;\nFor when you should be told they do prepare,\nThe tidings come that they are all arrived.


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O, where hath our intelligence been drunk?\nWhere hath it slept? Where is my mother's care,\nThat such an army could be drawn in France,\nAnd she not hear of it?


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My liege, her ear\nIs stopp'd with dust; the first of April died\nYour noble mother: and, as I hear, my lord,\nThe Lady Constance in a frenzy died\nThree days before: but this from rumour's tongue\nI idly heard; if true or false I know not.


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Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!\nO, make a league with me, till I have pleased\nMy discontented peers! What! mother dead!\nHow wildly then walks my estate in France!\nUnder whose conduct came those powers of France\nThat thou for truth givest out are landed here?


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Thou hast made me giddy\nWith these ill tidings.\n[Enter the BASTARD and PETER of Pomfret]\nNow, what says the world\nTo your proceedings? do not seek to stuff\nMy head with more ill news, for it is full.


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Bear with me cousin, for I was amazed\nUnder the tide: but now I breathe again\nAloft the flood, and can give audience\nTo any tongue, speak it of what it will.


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How I have sped among the clergymen,\nThe sums I have collected shall express.\nBut as I travell'd hither through the land,\nI find the people strangely fantasied;\nPossess'd with rumours, full of idle dreams,\nNot knowing what they fear, but full of fear:\nAnd here a prophet, that I brought with me\nFrom forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found\nWith many hundreds treading on his heels;\nTo whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes,\nThat, ere the next Ascension-day at noon,\nYour highness should deliver up your crown.


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Hubert, away with him; imprison him;\nAnd on that day at noon whereon he says\nI shall yield up my crown, let him be hang'd.\nDeliver him to safety; and return,\nFor I must use thee.\n[Exeunt HUBERT with PETER]\nO my gentle cousin,\nHear'st thou the news abroad, who are arrived?


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The French, my lord; men's mouths are full of it:\nBesides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury,\nWith eyes as red as new-enkindled fire,\nAnd others more, going to seek the grave\nOf Arthur, who they say is kill'd to-night\nOn your suggestion.


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Gentle kinsman, go,\nAnd thrust thyself into their companies:\nI have a way to win their loves again;\nBring them before me.


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Nay, but make haste; the better foot before.\nO, let me have no subject enemies,\nWhen adverse foreigners affright my towns\nWith dreadful pomp of stout invasion!\nBe Mercury, set feathers to thy heels,\nAnd fly like thought from them to me again.


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Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman.\nGo after him; for he perhaps shall need\nSome messenger betwixt me and the peers;\nAnd be thou he.


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My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night;\nFour fixed, and the fifth did whirl about\nThe other four in wondrous motion.


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Old men and beldams in the streets\nDo prophesy upon it dangerously:\nYoung Arthur's death is common in their mouths:\nAnd when they talk of him, they shake their heads\nAnd whisper one another in the ear;\nAnd he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist,\nWhilst he that hears makes fearful action,\nWith wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.\nI saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,\nThe whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,\nWith open mouth swallowing a tailor's news;\nWho, with his shears and measure in his hand,\nStanding on slippers, which his nimble haste\nHad falsely thrust upon contrary feet,\nTold of a many thousand warlike French\nThat were embattailed and rank'd in Kent:\nAnother lean unwash'd artificer\nCuts off his tale and talks of Arthur's death.


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Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears?\nWhy urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death?\nThy hand hath murder'd him: I had a mighty cause\nTo wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.


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It is the curse of kings to be attended\nBy slaves that take their humours for a warrant\nTo break within the bloody house of life,\nAnd on the winking of authority\nTo understand a law, to know the meaning\nOf dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns\nMore upon humour than advised respect.


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O, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth\nIs to be made, then shall this hand and seal\nWitness against us to damnation!\nHow oft the sight of means to do ill deeds\nMake deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by,\nA fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,\nQuoted and sign'd to do a deed of shame,\nThis murder had not come into my mind:\nBut taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect,\nFinding thee fit for bloody villany,\nApt, liable to be employ'd in danger,\nI faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death;\nAnd thou, to be endeared to a king,\nMade it no conscience to destroy a prince.


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Hadst thou but shook thy head or made a pause\nWhen I spake darkly what I purposed,\nOr turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face,\nAs bid me tell my tale in express words,\nDeep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,\nAnd those thy fears might have wrought fears in me:\nBut thou didst understand me by my signs\nAnd didst in signs again parley with sin;\nYea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent,\nAnd consequently thy rude hand to act\nThe deed, which both our tongues held vile to name.\nOut of my sight, and never see me more!\nMy nobles leave me; and my state is braved,\nEven at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers:\nNay, in the body of this fleshly land,\nThis kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,\nHostility and civil tumult reigns\nBetween my conscience and my cousin's death.


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Arm you against your other enemies,\nI'll make a peace between your soul and you.\nYoung Arthur is alive: this hand of mine\nIs yet a maiden and an innocent hand,\nNot painted with the crimson spots of blood.\nWithin this bosom never enter'd yet\nThe dreadful motion of a murderous thought;\nAnd you have slander'd nature in my form,\nWhich, howsoever rude exteriorly,\nIs yet the cover of a fairer mind\nThan to be butcher of an innocent child.


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Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the peers,\nThrow this report on their incensed rage,\nAnd make them tame to their obedience!\nForgive the comment that my passion made\nUpon thy feature; for my rage was blind,\nAnd foul imaginary eyes of blood\nPresented thee more hideous than thou art.\nO, answer not, but to my closet bring\nThe angry lords with all expedient haste.\nI conjure thee but slowly; run more fast.


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The wall is high, and yet will I leap down:\nGood ground, be pitiful and hurt me not!\nThere's few or none do know me: if they did,\nThis ship-boy's semblance hath disguised me quite.\nI am afraid; and yet I'll venture it.\nIf I get down, and do not break my limbs,\nI'll find a thousand shifts to get away:\nAs good to die and go, as die and stay.\n[Leaps down]\nO me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones:\nHeaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!


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Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury:\nIt is our safety, and we must embrace\nThis gentle offer of the perilous time.


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The Count Melun, a noble lord of France,\nWhose private with me of the Dauphin's love\nIs much more general than these lines import.


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The king hath dispossess'd himself of us:\nWe will not line his thin bestained cloak\nWith our pure honours, nor attend the foot\nThat leaves the print of blood where'er it walks.\nReturn and tell him so: we know the worst.


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Sir Richard, what think you? have you beheld,\nOr have you read or heard? or could you think?\nOr do you almost think, although you see,\nThat you do see? could thought, without this object,\nForm such another? This is the very top,\nThe height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,\nOf murder's arms: this is the bloodiest shame,\nThe wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,\nThat ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage\nPresented to the tears of soft remorse.


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All murders past do stand excused in this:\nAnd this, so sole and so unmatchable,\nShall give a holiness, a purity,\nTo the yet unbegotten sin of times;\nAnd prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,\nExampled by this heinous spectacle.


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It is a damned and a bloody work;\nThe graceless action of a heavy hand,\nIf that it be the work of any hand.


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If that it be the work of any hand!\nWe had a kind of light what would ensue:\nIt is the shameful work of Hubert's hand;\nThe practise and the purpose of the king:\nFrom whose obedience I forbid my soul,\nKneeling before this ruin of sweet life,\nAnd breathing to his breathless excellence\nThe incense of a vow, a holy vow,\nNever to taste the pleasures of the world,\nNever to be infected with delight,\nNor conversant with ease and idleness,\nTill I have set a glory to this hand,\nBy giving it the worship of revenge.


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Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say;\nBy heaven, I think my sword's as sharp as yours:\nI would not have you, lord, forget yourself,\nNor tempt the danger of my true defence;\nLest I, by marking of your rage, forget\nYour worth, your greatness and nobility.


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Do not prove me so;\nYet I am none: whose tongue soe'er speaks false,\nNot truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.


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Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury:\nIf thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,\nOr teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,\nI'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime;\nOr I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron,\nThat you shall think the devil is come from hell.


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'Tis not an hour since I left him well:\nI honour'd him, I loved him, and will weep\nMy date of life out for his sweet life's loss.


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Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,\nFor villany is not without such rheum;\nAnd he, long traded in it, makes it seem\nLike rivers of remorse and innocency.\nAway with me, all you whose souls abhor\nThe uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house;\nFor I am stifled with this smell of sin.


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Here's a good world! Knew you of this fair work?\nBeyond the infinite and boundless reach\nOf mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,\nArt thou damn'd, Hubert.


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Ha! I'll tell thee what;\nThou'rt damn'd as black--nay, nothing is so black;\nThou art more deep damn'd than Prince Lucifer:\nThere is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell\nAs thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.


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If thou didst but consent\nTo this most cruel act, do but despair;\nAnd if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread\nThat ever spider twisted from her womb\nWill serve to strangle thee, a rush will be a beam\nTo hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself,\nPut but a little water in a spoon,\nAnd it shall be as all the ocean,\nEnough to stifle such a villain up.\nI do suspect thee very grievously.


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If I in act, consent, or sin of thought,\nBe guilty of the stealing that sweet breath\nWhich was embounded in this beauteous clay,\nLet hell want pains enough to torture me.\nI left him well.


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Go, bear him in thine arms.\nI am amazed, methinks, and lose my way\nAmong the thorns and dangers of this world.\nHow easy dost thou take all England up!\nFrom forth this morsel of dead royalty,\nThe life, the right and truth of all this realm\nIs fled to heaven; and England now is left\nTo tug and scamble and to part by the teeth\nThe unowed interest of proud-swelling state.\nNow for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty\nDoth dogged war bristle his angry crest\nAnd snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace:\nNow powers from home and discontents at home\nMeet in one line; and vast confusion waits,\nAs doth a raven on a sick-fall'n beast,\nThe imminent decay of wrested pomp.\nNow happy he whose cloak and cincture can\nHold out this tempest. Bear away that child\nAnd follow me with speed: I'll to the king:\nA thousand businesses are brief in hand,\nAnd heaven itself doth frown upon the land.


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Now keep your holy word: go meet the French,\nAnd from his holiness use all your power\nTo stop their marches 'fore we are inflamed.\nOur discontented counties do revolt;\nOur people quarrel with obedience,\nSwearing allegiance and the love of soul\nTo stranger blood, to foreign royalty.\nThis inundation of mistemper'd humour\nRests by you only to be qualified:\nThen pause not; for the present time's so sick,\nThat present medicine must be minister'd,\nOr overthrow incurable ensues.


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It was my breath that blew this tempest up,\nUpon your stubborn usage of the pope;\nBut since you are a gentle convertite,\nMy tongue shall hush again this storm of war\nAnd make fair weather in your blustering land.\nOn this Ascension-day, remember well,\nUpon your oath of service to the pope,\nGo I to make the French lay down their arms.


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Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet\nSay that before Ascension-day at noon\nMy crown I should give off? Even so I have:\nI did suppose it should be on constraint:\nBut, heaven be thank'd, it is but voluntary.


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All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out\nBut Dover castle: London hath received,\nLike a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers:\nYour nobles will not hear you, but are gone\nTo offer service to your enemy,\nAnd wild amazement hurries up and down\nThe little number of your doubtful friends.


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They found him dead and cast into the streets,\nAn empty casket, where the jewel of life\nBy some damn'd hand was robb'd and ta'en away.


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So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew.\nBut wherefore do you droop? why look you sad?\nBe great in act, as you have been in thought;\nLet not the world see fear and sad distrust\nGovern the motion of a kingly eye:\nBe stirring as the time; be fire with fire;\nThreaten the threatener and outface the brow\nOf bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes,\nThat borrow their behaviors from the great,\nGrow great by your example and put on\nThe dauntless spirit of resolution.\nAway, and glister like the god of war,\nWhen he intendeth to become the field:\nShow boldness and aspiring confidence.\nWhat, shall they seek the lion in his den,\nAnd fright him there? and make him tremble there?\nO, let it not be said: forage, and run\nTo meet displeasure farther from the doors,\nAnd grapple with him ere he comes so nigh.


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The legate of the pope hath been with me,\nAnd I have made a happy peace with him;\nAnd he hath promised to dismiss the powers\nLed by the Dauphin.


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O inglorious league!\nShall we, upon the footing of our land,\nSend fair-play orders and make compromise,\nInsinuation, parley and base truce\nTo arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,\nA cocker'd silken wanton, brave our fields,\nAnd flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,\nMocking the air with colours idly spread,\nAnd find no cheque? Let us, my liege, to arms:\nPerchance the cardinal cannot make your peace;\nOr if he do, let it at least be said\nThey saw we had a purpose of defence.


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My Lord Melun, let this be copied out,\nAnd keep it safe for our remembrance:\nReturn the precedent to these lords again;\nThat, having our fair order written down,\nBoth they and we, perusing o'er these notes,\nMay know wherefore we took the sacrament\nAnd keep our faiths firm and inviolable.


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Upon our sides it never shall be broken.\nAnd, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear\nA voluntary zeal and an unurged faith\nTo your proceedings; yet believe me, prince,\nI am not glad that such a sore of time\nShould seek a plaster by contemn'd revolt,\nAnd heal the inveterate canker of one wound\nBy making many. O, it grieves my soul,\nThat I must draw this metal from my side\nTo be a widow-maker! O, and there\nWhere honourable rescue and defence\nCries out upon the name of Salisbury!\nBut such is the infection of the time,\nThat, for the health and physic of our right,\nWe cannot deal but with the very hand\nOf stern injustice and confused wrong.\nAnd is't not pity, O my grieved friends,\nThat we, the sons and children of this isle,\nWere born to see so sad an hour as this;\nWherein we step after a stranger march\nUpon her gentle bosom, and fill up\nHer enemies' ranks,--I must withdraw and weep\nUpon the spot of this enforced cause,--\nTo grace the gentry of a land remote,\nAnd follow unacquainted colours here?\nWhat, here? O nation, that thou couldst remove!\nThat Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about,\nWould bear thee from the knowledge of thyself,\nAnd grapple thee unto a pagan shore;\nWhere these two Christian armies might combine\nThe blood of malice in a vein of league,\nAnd not to spend it so unneighbourly!


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A noble temper dost thou show in this;\nAnd great affections wrestling in thy bosom\nDoth make an earthquake of nobility.\nO, what a noble combat hast thou fought\nBetween compulsion and a brave respect!\nLet me wipe off this honourable dew,\nThat silverly doth progress on thy cheeks:\nMy heart hath melted at a lady's tears,\nBeing an ordinary inundation;\nBut this effusion of such manly drops,\nThis shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,\nStartles mine eyes, and makes me more amazed\nThan had I seen the vaulty top of heaven\nFigured quite o'er with burning meteors.\nLift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,\nAnd with a great heart heave away the storm:\nCommend these waters to those baby eyes\nThat never saw the giant world enraged;\nNor met with fortune other than at feasts,\nFull of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping.\nCome, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep\nInto the purse of rich prosperity\nAs Lewis himself: so, nobles, shall you all,\nThat knit your sinews to the strength of mine.\nAnd even there, methinks, an angel spake:\n[Enter CARDINAL PANDULPH]\nLook, where the holy legate comes apace,\nTo give us warrant from the hand of heaven\nAnd on our actions set the name of right\nWith holy breath.


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Hail, noble prince of France!\nThe next is this, King John hath reconciled\nHimself to Rome; his spirit is come in,\nThat so stood out against the holy church,\nThe great metropolis and see of Rome:\nTherefore thy threatening colours now wind up;\nAnd tame the savage spirit of wild war,\nThat like a lion foster'd up at hand,\nIt may lie gently at the foot of peace,\nAnd be no further harmful than in show.


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Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back:\nI am too high-born to be propertied,\nTo be a secondary at control,\nOr useful serving-man and instrument,\nTo any sovereign state throughout the world.\nYour breath first kindled the dead coal of wars\nBetween this chastised kingdom and myself,\nAnd brought in matter that should feed this fire;\nAnd now 'tis far too huge to be blown out\nWith that same weak wind which enkindled it.\nYou taught me how to know the face of right,\nAcquainted me with interest to this land,\nYea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;\nAnd come ye now to tell me John hath made\nHis peace with Rome? What is that peace to me?\nI, by the honour of my marriage-bed,\nAfter young Arthur, claim this land for mine;\nAnd, now it is half-conquer'd, must I back\nBecause that John hath made his peace with Rome?\nAm I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne,\nWhat men provided, what munition sent,\nTo underprop this action? Is't not I\nThat undergo this charge? who else but I,\nAnd such as to my claim are liable,\nSweat in this business and maintain this war?\nHave I not heard these islanders shout out\n'Vive le roi!' as I have bank'd their towns?\nHave I not here the best cards for the game,\nTo win this easy match play'd for a crown?\nAnd shall I now give o'er the yielded set?\nNo, no, on my soul, it never shall be said.


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Outside or inside, I will not return\nTill my attempt so much be glorified\nAs to my ample hope was promised\nBefore I drew this gallant head of war,\nAnd cull'd these fiery spirits from the world,\nTo outlook conquest and to win renown\nEven in the jaws of danger and of death.\n[Trumpet sounds]\nWhat lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?


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According to the fair play of the world,\nLet me have audience; I am sent to speak:\nMy holy lord of Milan, from the king\nI come, to learn how you have dealt for him;\nAnd, as you answer, I do know the scope\nAnd warrant limited unto my tongue.


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The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,\nAnd will not temporize with my entreaties;\nHe flatly says he'll not lay down his arms.


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By all the blood that ever fury breathed,\nThe youth says well. Now hear our English king;\nFor thus his royalty doth speak in me.\nHe is prepared, and reason too he should:\nThis apish and unmannerly approach,\nThis harness'd masque and unadvised revel,\nThis unhair'd sauciness and boyish troops,\nThe king doth smile at; and is well prepared\nTo whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,\nFrom out the circle of his territories.\nThat hand which had the strength, even at your door,\nTo cudgel you and make you take the hatch,\nTo dive like buckets in concealed wells,\nTo crouch in litter of your stable planks,\nTo lie like pawns lock'd up in chests and trunks,\nTo hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out\nIn vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake\nEven at the crying of your nation's crow,\nThinking his voice an armed Englishman;\nShall that victorious hand be feebled here,\nThat in your chambers gave you chastisement?\nNo: know the gallant monarch is in arms\nAnd like an eagle o'er his aery towers,\nTo souse annoyance that comes near his nest.\nAnd you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,\nYou bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb\nOf your dear mother England, blush for shame;\nFor your own ladies and pale-visaged maids\nLike Amazons come tripping after drums,\nTheir thimbles into armed gauntlets change,\nTheir needles to lances, and their gentle hearts\nTo fierce and bloody inclination.


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There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace;\nWe grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee well;\nWe hold our time too precious to be spent\nWith such a brabbler.


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We will attend to neither.\nStrike up the drums; and let the tongue of war\nPlead for our interest and our being here.


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Indeed your drums, being beaten, will cry out;\nAnd so shall you, being beaten: do but start\nAn echo with the clamour of thy drum,\nAnd even at hand a drum is ready braced\nThat shall reverberate all as loud as thine;\nSound but another, and another shall\nAs loud as thine rattle the welkin's ear\nAnd mock the deep-mouth'd thunder: for at hand,\nNot trusting to this halting legate here,\nWhom he hath used rather for sport than need\nIs warlike John; and in his forehead sits\nA bare-ribb'd death, whose office is this day\nTo feast upon whole thousands of the French.


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My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge,\nDesires your majesty to leave the field\nAnd send him word by me which way you go.


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Be of good comfort; for the great supply\nThat was expected by the Dauphin here,\nAre wreck'd three nights ago on Goodwin Sands.\nThis news was brought to Richard but even now:\nThe French fight coldly, and retire themselves.


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Ay me! this tyrant fever burns me up,\nAnd will not let me welcome this good news.\nSet on toward Swinstead: to my litter straight;\nWeakness possesseth me, and I am faint.


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Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold;\nUnthread the rude eye of rebellion\nAnd welcome home again discarded faith.\nSeek out King John and fall before his feet;\nFor if the French be lords of this loud day,\nHe means to recompense the pains you take\nBy cutting off your heads: thus hath he sworn\nAnd I with him, and many moe with me,\nUpon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury;\nEven on that altar where we swore to you\nDear amity and everlasting love.


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Have I not hideous death within my view,\nRetaining but a quantity of life,\nWhich bleeds away, even as a form of wax\nResolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire?\nWhat in the world should make me now deceive,\nSince I must lose the use of all deceit?\nWhy should I then be false, since it is true\nThat I must die here and live hence by truth?\nI say again, if Lewis do win the day,\nHe is forsworn, if e'er those eyes of yours\nBehold another day break in the east:\nBut even this night, whose black contagious breath\nAlready smokes about the burning crest\nOf the old, feeble and day-wearied sun,\nEven this ill night, your breathing shall expire,\nPaying the fine of rated treachery\nEven with a treacherous fine of all your lives,\nIf Lewis by your assistance win the day.\nCommend me to one Hubert with your king:\nThe love of him, and this respect besides,\nFor that my grandsire was an Englishman,\nAwakes my conscience to confess all this.\nIn lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence\nFrom forth the noise and rumour of the field,\nWhere I may think the remnant of my thoughts\nIn peace, and part this body and my soul\nWith contemplation and devout desires.


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We do believe thee: and beshrew my soul\nBut I do love the favour and the form\nOf this most fair occasion, by the which\nWe will untread the steps of damned flight,\nAnd like a bated and retired flood,\nLeaving our rankness and irregular course,\nStoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd\nAnd cabby run on in obedience\nEven to our ocean, to our great King John.\nMy arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence;\nFor I do see the cruel pangs of death\nRight in thine eye. Away, my friends! New flight;\nAnd happy newness, that intends old right.


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The sun of heaven methought was loath to set,\nBut stay'd and made the western welkin blush,\nWhen English measure backward their own ground\nIn faint retire. O, bravely came we off,\nWhen with a volley of our needless shot,\nAfter such bloody toil, we bid good night;\nAnd wound our tattering colours clearly up,\nLast in the field, and almost lords of it!


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The Count Melun is slain; the English lords\nBy his persuasion are again fall'n off,\nAnd your supply, which you have wish'd so long,\nAre cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands.


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Ah, foul shrewd news! beshrew thy very heart!\nI did not think to be so sad to-night\nAs this hath made me. Who was he that said\nKing John did fly an hour or two before\nThe stumbling night did part our weary powers?


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Well; keep good quarter and good care to-night:\nThe day shall not be up so soon as I,\nTo try the fair adventure of to-morrow.


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Thou hast a perfect thought:\nI will upon all hazards well believe\nThou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well.\nWho art thou?


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Who thou wilt: and if thou please,\nThou mayst befriend me so much as to think\nI come one way of the Plantagenets.


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Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless night\nHave done me shame: brave soldier, pardon me,\nThat any accent breaking from thy tongue\nShould 'scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.


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The king, I fear, is poison'd by a monk:\nI left him almost speechless; and broke out\nTo acquaint you with this evil, that you might\nThe better arm you to the sudden time,\nThan if you had at leisure known of this.


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A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,\nWhose bowels suddenly burst out: the king\nYet speaks and peradventure may recover.


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Why, know you not? the lords are all come back,\nAnd brought Prince Henry in their company;\nAt whose request the king hath pardon'd them,\nAnd they are all about his majesty.


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Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven,\nAnd tempt us not to bear above our power!\nI'll tell tree, Hubert, half my power this night,\nPassing these flats, are taken by the tide;\nThese Lincoln Washes have devoured them;\nMyself, well mounted, hardly have escaped.\nAway before: conduct me to the king;\nI doubt he will be dead or ere I come.


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It is too late: the life of all his blood\nIs touch'd corruptibly, and his pure brain,\nWhich some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house,\nDoth by the idle comments that it makes\nForetell the ending of mortality.


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His highness yet doth speak, and holds belief\nThat, being brought into the open air,\nIt would allay the burning quality\nOf that fell poison which assaileth him.


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O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes\nIn their continuance will not feel themselves.\nDeath, having prey'd upon the outward parts,\nLeaves them invisible, and his siege is now\nAgainst the mind, the which he pricks and wounds\nWith many legions of strange fantasies,\nWhich, in their throng and press to that last hold,\nConfound themselves. 'Tis strange that death\nshould sing.\nI am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,\nWho chants a doleful hymn to his own death,\nAnd from the organ-pipe of frailty sings\nHis soul and body to their lasting rest.


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Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born\nTo set a form upon that indigest\nWhich he hath left so shapeless and so rude.


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Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;\nIt would not out at windows nor at doors.\nThere is so hot a summer in my bosom,\nThat all my bowels crumble up to dust:\nI am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen\nUpon a parchment, and against this fire\nDo I shrink up.


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Poison'd,--ill fare--dead, forsook, cast off:\nAnd none of you will bid the winter come\nTo thrust his icy fingers in my maw,\nNor let my kingdom's rivers take their course\nThrough my burn'd bosom, nor entreat the north\nTo make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips\nAnd comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much,\nI beg cold comfort; and you are so strait\nAnd so ingrateful, you deny me that.


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The salt in them is hot.\nWithin me is a hell; and there the poison\nIs as a fiend confined to tyrannize\nOn unreprievable condemned blood.


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O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:\nThe tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd,\nAnd all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail\nAre turned to one thread, one little hair:\nMy heart hath one poor string to stay it by,\nWhich holds but till thy news be uttered;\nAnd then all this thou seest is but a clod\nAnd module of confounded royalty.


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The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,\nWhere heaven He knows how we shall answer him;\nFor in a night the best part of my power,\nAs I upon advantage did remove,\nWere in the Washes all unwarily\nDevoured by the unexpected flood.


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Even so must I run on, and even so stop.\nWhat surety of the world, what hope, what stay,\nWhen this was now a king, and now is clay?


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Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind\nTo do the office for thee of revenge,\nAnd then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,\nAs it on earth hath been thy servant still.\nNow, now, you stars that move in your right spheres,\nWhere be your powers? show now your mended faiths,\nAnd instantly return with me again,\nTo push destruction and perpetual shame\nOut of the weak door of our fainting land.\nStraight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought;\nThe Dauphin rages at our very heels.


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It seems you know not, then, so much as we:\nThe Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,\nWho half an hour since came from the Dauphin,\nAnd brings from him such offers of our peace\nAs we with honour and respect may take,\nWith purpose presently to leave this war.


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Nay, it is in a manner done already;\nFor many carriages he hath dispatch'd\nTo the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel\nTo the disposing of the cardinal:\nWith whom yourself, myself and other lords,\nIf you think meet, this afternoon will post\nTo consummate this business happily.


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Let it be so: and you, my noble prince,\nWith other princes that may best be spared,\nShall wait upon your father's funeral.


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Thither shall it then:\nAnd happily may your sweet self put on\nThe lineal state and glory of the land!\nTo whom with all submission, on my knee\nI do bequeath my faithful services\nAnd true subjection everlastingly.


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O, let us pay the time but needful woe,\nSince it hath been beforehand with our griefs.\nThis England never did, nor never shall,\nLie at the proud foot of a conqueror,\nBut when it first did help to wound itself.\nNow these her princes are come home again,\nCome the three corners of the world in arms,\nAnd we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,\nIf England to itself do rest but true.


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It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division of the\nkingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most, for\nequalities are so weigh'd that curiosity in neither can make\nchoice of either's moiety.


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His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge. I have so often\nblush'd to acknowledge him that now I am braz'd to't.


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Sir, this young fellow's mother could; whereupon she grew\nround-womb'd, and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she\nhad a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?


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But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year elder than\nthis, who yet is no dearer in my account. Though this knave came\nsomething saucily into the world before he was sent for, yet was\nhis mother fair, there was good sport at his making, and the\nwhoreson must be acknowledged.- Do you know this noble gentleman,\nEdmund?


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 Enter one bearing a coronet; then Lear; then the Dukes of Albany and Cornwall; next, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, with Followers.


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Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.\nGive me the map there. Know we have divided\nIn three our kingdom; and 'tis our fast intent\nTo shake all cares and business from our age,\nConferring them on younger strengths while we\nUnburthen'd crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall,\nAnd you, our no less loving son of Albany,\nWe have this hour a constant will to publish\nOur daughters' several dowers, that future strife\nMay be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy,\nGreat rivals in our youngest daughter's love,\nLong in our court have made their amorous sojourn,\nAnd here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daughters\n(Since now we will divest us both of rule,\nInterest of territory, cares of state),\nWhich of you shall we say doth love us most?\nThat we our largest bounty may extend\nWhere nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril,\nOur eldest-born, speak first.


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Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;\nDearer than eyesight, space, and liberty;\nBeyond what can be valued, rich or rare;\nNo less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;\nAs much as child e'er lov'd, or father found;\nA love that makes breath poor, and speech unable.\nBeyond all manner of so much I love you.


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Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,\nWith shadowy forests and with champains rich'd,\nWith plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,\nWe make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue\nBe this perpetual.- What says our second daughter,\nOur dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.


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Sir, I am made\nOf the selfsame metal that my sister is,\nAnd prize me at her worth. In my true heart\nI find she names my very deed of love;\nOnly she comes too short, that I profess\nMyself an enemy to all other joys\nWhich the most precious square of sense possesses,\nAnd find I am alone felicitate\nIn your dear Highness' love.


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To thee and thine hereditary ever\nRemain this ample third of our fair kingdom,\nNo less in space, validity, and pleasure\nThan that conferr'd on Goneril.- Now, our joy,\nAlthough the last, not least; to whose young love\nThe vines of France and milk of Burgundy\nStrive to be interest; what can you say to draw\nA third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.


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Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave\nMy heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty\nAccording to my bond; no more nor less.


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Good my lord,\nYou have begot me, bred me, lov'd me; I\nReturn those duties back as are right fit,\nObey you, love you, and most honour you.\nWhy have my sisters husbands, if they say\nThey love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,\nThat lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry\nHalf my love with him, half my care and duty.\nSure I shall never marry like my sisters,\nTo love my father all.


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Let it be so! thy truth then be thy dower!\nFor, by the sacred radiance of the sun,\nThe mysteries of Hecate and the night;\nBy all the operation of the orbs\nFrom whom we do exist and cease to be;\nHere I disclaim all my paternal care,\nPropinquity and property of blood,\nAnd as a stranger to my heart and me\nHold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian,\nOr he that makes his generation messes\nTo gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom\nBe as well neighbour'd, pitied, and reliev'd,\nAs thou my sometime daughter.


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Peace, Kent!\nCome not between the dragon and his wrath.\nI lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest\nOn her kind nursery.- Hence and avoid my sight!-\nSo be my grave my peace as here I give\nHer father's heart from her! Call France! Who stirs?\nCall Burgundy! Cornwall and Albany,\nWith my two daughters' dowers digest this third;\nLet pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.\nI do invest you jointly in my power,\nPreeminence, and all the large effects\nThat troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course,\nWith reservation of an hundred knights,\nBy you to be sustain'd, shall our abode\nMake with you by due turns. Only we still retain\nThe name, and all th' additions to a king. The sway,\nRevenue, execution of the rest,\nBeloved sons, be yours; which to confirm,\nThis coronet part betwixt you.


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Royal Lear,\nWhom I have ever honour'd as my king,\nLov'd as my father, as my master follow'd,\nAs my great patron thought on in my prayers-


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Let it fall rather, though the fork invade\nThe region of my heart! Be Kent unmannerly\nWhen Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man?\nThink'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak\nWhen power to flattery bows? To plainness honour's bound\nWhen majesty falls to folly. Reverse thy doom;\nAnd in thy best consideration check\nThis hideous rashness. Answer my life my judgment,\nThy youngest daughter does not love thee least,\nNor are those empty-hearted whose low sound\nReverbs no hollowness.


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My life I never held but as a pawn\nTo wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it,\nThy safety being the motive.


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Do!\nKill thy physician, and the fee bestow\nUpon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift,\nOr, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat,\nI'll tell thee thou dost evil.


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Hear me, recreant!\nOn thine allegiance, hear me!\nSince thou hast sought to make us break our vow-\nWhich we durst never yet- and with strain'd pride\nTo come between our sentence and our power,-\nWhich nor our nature nor our place can bear,-\nOur potency made good, take thy reward.\nFive days we do allot thee for provision\nTo shield thee from diseases of the world,\nAnd on the sixth to turn thy hated back\nUpon our kingdom. If, on the tenth day following,\nThy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions,\nThe moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter,\nThis shall not be revok'd.


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Fare thee well, King. Since thus thou wilt appear,\nFreedom lives hence, and banishment is here.\n[To Cordelia] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid,\nThat justly think'st and hast most rightly said!\n[To Regan and Goneril] And your large speeches may your deeds\n   approve,\nThat good effects may spring from words of love.\nThus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu;\nHe'll shape his old course in a country new. Exit.


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My Lord of Burgundy,\nWe first address toward you, who with this king\nHath rivall'd for our daughter. What in the least\nWill you require in present dower with her,\nOr cease your quest of love?


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Right noble Burgundy,\nWhen she was dear to us, we did hold her so;\nBut now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands.\nIf aught within that little seeming substance,\nOr all of it, with our displeasure piec'd,\nAnd nothing more, may fitly like your Grace,\nShe's there, and she is yours.


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Will you, with those infirmities she owes,\nUnfriended, new adopted to our hate,\nDow'r'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath,\nTake her, or leave her?


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Then leave her, sir; for, by the pow'r that made me,\nI tell you all her wealth. [To France] For you, great King,\nI would not from your love make such a stray\nTo match you where I hate; therefore beseech you\nT' avert your liking a more worthier way\nThan on a wretch whom nature is asham'd\nAlmost t' acknowledge hers.


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This is most strange,\nThat she that even but now was your best object,\nThe argument of your praise, balm of your age,\nMost best, most dearest, should in this trice of time\nCommit a thing so monstrous to dismantle\nSo many folds of favour. Sure her offence\nMust be of such unnatural degree\nThat monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection\nFall'n into taint; which to believe of her\nMust be a faith that reason without miracle\nShould never plant in me.


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I yet beseech your Majesty,\nIf for I want that glib and oily art\nTo speak and purpose not, since what I well intend,\nI'll do't before I speak- that you make known\nIt is no vicious blot, murther, or foulness,\nNo unchaste action or dishonoured step,\nThat hath depriv'd me of your grace and favour;\nBut even for want of that for which I am richer-\nA still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue\nAs I am glad I have not, though not to have it\nHath lost me in your liking.


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Is it but this- a tardiness in nature\nWhich often leaves the history unspoke\nThat it intends to do? My Lord of Burgundy,\nWhat say you to the lady? Love's not love\nWhen it is mingled with regards that stands\nAloof from th' entire point. Will you have her?\nShe is herself a dowry.


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Royal Lear,\nGive but that portion which yourself propos'd,\nAnd here I take Cordelia by the hand,\nDuchess of Burgundy.


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Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;\nMost choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd!\nThee and thy virtues here I seize upon.\nBe it lawful I take up what's cast away.\nGods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect\nMy love should kindle to inflam'd respect.\nThy dow'rless daughter, King, thrown to my chance,\nIs queen of us, of ours, and our fair France.\nNot all the dukes in wat'rish Burgundy\nCan buy this unpriz'd precious maid of me.\nBid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind.\nThou losest here, a better where to find.


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Thou hast her, France; let her be thine; for we\nHave no such daughter, nor shall ever see\nThat face of hers again. Therefore be gone\nWithout our grace, our love, our benison.\nCome, noble Burgundy.


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The jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes\nCordelia leaves you. I know you what you are;\nAnd, like a sister, am most loath to call\nYour faults as they are nam'd. Use well our father.\nTo your professed bosoms I commit him;\nBut yet, alas, stood I within his grace,\nI would prefer him to a better place!\nSo farewell to you both.


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Let your study\nBe to content your lord, who hath receiv'd you\nAt fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted,\nAnd well are worth the want that you have wanted.


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Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides.\nWho cover faults, at last shame them derides.\nWell may you prosper!


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Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly\nappertains to us both. I think our father will hence to-night.


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You see how full of changes his age is. The observation we\nhave made of it hath not been little. He always lov'd our\nsister most, and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her\noff appears too grossly.


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The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then\nmust we look to receive from his age, not alone the\nimperfections of long-ingraffed condition, but therewithal\nthe unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with\nthem.


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There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and\nhim. Pray you let's hit together. If our father carry authority\nwith such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his\nwill but offend us.


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Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law\nMy services are bound. Wherefore should I\nStand in the plague of custom, and permit\nThe curiosity of nations to deprive me,\nFor that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines\nLag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?\nWhen my dimensions are as well compact,\nMy mind as generous, and my shape as true,\nAs honest madam's issue? Why brand they us\nWith base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?\nWho, in the lusty stealth of nature, take\nMore composition and fierce quality\nThan doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,\nGo to th' creating a whole tribe of fops\nGot 'tween asleep and wake? Well then,\nLegitimate Edgar, I must have your land.\nOur father's love is to the bastard Edmund\nAs to th' legitimate. Fine word- 'legitimate'!\nWell, my legitimate, if this letter speed,\nAnd my invention thrive, Edmund the base\nShall top th' legitimate. I grow; I prosper.\nNow, gods, stand up for bastards!


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Kent banish'd thus? and France in choler parted?\nAnd the King gone to-night? subscrib'd his pow'r?\nConfin'd to exhibition? All this done\nUpon the gad? Edmund, how now? What news?


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No? What needed then that terrible dispatch of it into your\npocket? The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide\nitself. Let's see. Come, if it be nothing, I shall not need\nspectacles.


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I beseech you, sir, pardon me. It is a letter from my brother\nthat I have not all o'er-read; and for so much as I have\nperus'd, I find it not fit for your o'erlooking.


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I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The contents, as\nin part I understand them, are to blame.


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[reads] 'This policy and reverence of age makes the world\nbitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from us\ntill our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle\nand fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways,\nnot as it hath power, but as it is suffer'd. Come to me, that\nof this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I\nwak'd him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live\nthe beloved of your brother,\n                                                   'EDGAR.'\nHum! Conspiracy? 'Sleep till I wak'd him, you should enjoy half\nhis revenue.' My son Edgar! Had he a hand to write this? a heart\nand brain to breed it in? When came this to you? Who brought it?


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It was not brought me, my lord: there's the cunning of it. I\nfound it thrown in at the casement of my closet.


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If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his;\nbut in respect of that, I would fain think it were not.


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Never, my lord. But I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit\nthat, sons at perfect age, and fathers declining, the father\nshould be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue.


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O villain, villain! His very opinion in the letter! Abhorred\nvillain! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than\nbrutish! Go, sirrah, seek him. I'll apprehend him. Abominable\nvillain! Where is he?


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I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you to suspend\nyour indignation against my brother till you can derive from him\nbetter testimony of his intent, you should run a certain course;\nwhere, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his\npurpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour and shake\nin pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life\nfor him that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your\nhonour, and to no other pretence of danger.


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If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall\nhear us confer of this and by an auricular assurance have your\nsatisfaction, and that without any further delay than this very\nevening.


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To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him.\nHeaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out; wind me into him, I pray\nyou; frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate\nmyself to be in a due resolution.


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I will seek him, sir, presently; convey the business as I\nshall find means, and acquaint you withal.


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These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to\nus. Though the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet\nnature finds itself scourg'd by the sequent effects. Love cools,\nfriendship falls off, brothers divide. In cities, mutinies; in\ncountries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond crack'd\n'twixt son and father. This villain of mine comes under the\nprediction; there's son against father: the King falls from bias\nof nature; there's father against child. We have seen the best\nof our time. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all\nruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out\nthis villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing; do it\ncarefully. And the noble and true-hearted Kent banish'd! his\noffence, honesty! 'Tis strange.    Exit.


plain_text:
This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are\nsick in fortune, often the surfeit of our own behaviour, we make\nguilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if\nwe were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion;\nknaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical pre-dominance;\ndrunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforc'd obedience of\nplanetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine\nthrusting on. An admirable evasion of whore-master man, to lay\nhis goatish disposition to the charge of a star! My father\ncompounded with my mother under the Dragon's Tail, and my\nnativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows I am rough and\nlecherous. Fut! I should have been that I am, had the\nmaidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.\nEdgar-\n[Enter Edgar.]\nand pat! he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy. My\ncue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o' Bedlam.\nO, these eclipses do portend these divisions! Fa, sol, la, mi.


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I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily: as\nof unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death,\ndearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state,\nmenaces and maledictions against king and nobles; needless\ndiffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts,\nnuptial breaches, and I know not what.


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Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him; and at my\nentreaty forbear his presence until some little time hath\nqualified the heat of his displeasure, which at this instant so\nrageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would\nscarcely allay.


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That's my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till\nthe speed of his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retire with me\nto my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my\nlord speak. Pray ye, go! There's my key. If you do stir abroad,\ngo arm'd.


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Brother, I advise you to the best. Go arm'd. I am no honest man\nif there be any good meaning toward you. I have told you what I\nhave seen and heard; but faintly, nothing like the image and\nhorror of it. Pray you, away!


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I do serve you in this business.\n[Exit Edgar.]\nA credulous father! and a brother noble,\nWhose nature is so far from doing harms\nThat he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty\nMy practices ride easy! I see the business.\nLet me, if not by birth, have lands by wit;\nAll with me's meet that I can fashion fit. Exit.


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By day and night, he wrongs me! Every hour\nHe flashes into one gross crime or other\nThat sets us all at odds. I'll not endure it.\nHis knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us\nOn every trifle. When he returns from hunting,\nI will not speak with him. Say I am sick.\nIf you come slack of former services,\nYou shall do well; the fault of it I'll answer.


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Put on what weary negligence you please,\nYou and your fellows. I'd have it come to question.\nIf he distaste it, let him to our sister,\nWhose mind and mine I know in that are one,\nNot to be overrul'd. Idle old man,\nThat still would manage those authorities\nThat he hath given away! Now, by my life,\nOld fools are babes again, and must be us'd\nWith checks as flatteries, when they are seen abus'd.\nRemember what I have said.


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And let his knights have colder looks among you.\nWhat grows of it, no matter. Advise your fellows so.\nI would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,\nThat I may speak. I'll write straight to my sister\nTo hold my very course. Prepare for dinner.


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If but as well I other accents borrow,\nThat can my speech defuse, my good intent\nMay carry through itself to that full issue\nFor which I raz'd my likeness. Now, banish'd Kent,\nIf thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn'd,\nSo may it come, thy master, whom thou lov'st,\nShall find thee full of labours.\n    Horns within. Enter Lear, [Knights,] and Attendants.


plain_text:
I do profess to be no less than I seem, to serve him truly\nthat will put me in trust, to love him that is honest, to\nconverse with him that is wise and says little, to fear\njudgment, to fight when I cannot choose, and to eat no fish.


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I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in\ntelling it and deliver a plain message bluntly. That which\nordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best of me\nis diligence.


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Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor so old to\ndote on her for anything. I have years on my back forty-eight.


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Follow me; thou shalt serve me. If I like thee no worse after\ndinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner!\nWhere's my knave? my fool? Go you and call my fool hither.\n[Exit an attendant.]\n[Enter [Oswald the] Steward.]\nYou, you, sirrah, where's my daughter?


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What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back.\n[Exit a Knight.] Where's my fool, ho? I think the world's\nasleep.\n[Enter Knight]\nHow now? Where's that mongrel?


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My lord, I know not what the matter is; but to my judgment\nyour Highness is not entertain'd with that ceremonious affection\nas you were wont. There's a great abatement of kindness appears\nas well in the general dependants as in the Duke himself also\nand your daughter.


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I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for\nmy duty cannot be silent when I think your Highness wrong'd.


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Thou but rememb'rest me of mine own conception. I have\nperceived a most faint neglect of late, which I have rather\nblamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence\nand purpose of unkindness. I will look further into't. But\nwhere's my fool? I have not seen him this two days.


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No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you and tell my\ndaughter I would speak with her. [Exit Knight.] Go you, call\nhither my fool.\n[Exit an Attendant.]\n[Enter [Oswald the] Steward.]\nO, you, sir, you! Come you hither, sir. Who am I, sir?


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Come, sir, arise, away! I'll teach you differences. Away,\naway! If you will measure your lubber's length again, tarry; but\naway! Go to! Have you wisdom? So.


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Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee. There's earnest of thy\nservice.                  [Gives money.]


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Why? For taking one's part that's out of favour. Nay, an thou\ncanst not smile as the wind sits, thou'lt catch cold shortly.\nThere, take my coxcomb! Why, this fellow hath banish'd two on's\ndaughters, and did the third a blessing against his will. If\nthou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb.- How now,\nnuncle? Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters!


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If I gave them all my living, I'ld keep my coxcombs myself.\nThere's mine! beg another of thy daughters.


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Truth's a dog must to kennel; he must be whipp'd out, when\nLady the brach may stand by th' fire and stink.


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Mark it, nuncle.\n     Have more than thou showest,\n     Speak less than thou knowest,\n     Lend less than thou owest,\n     Ride more than thou goest,\n     Learn more than thou trowest,\n     Set less than thou throwest;\n     Leave thy drink and thy whore,\n     And keep in-a-door,\n     And thou shalt have more\n     Than two tens to a score.


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Then 'tis like the breath of an unfeed lawyer- you gave me\nnothing for't. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?


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That lord that counsell'd thee\n       To give away thy land,\n     Come place him here by me-\n       Do thou for him stand.\n     The sweet and bitter fool\n       Will presently appear;\n     The one in motley here,\n       The other found out there.


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No, faith; lords and great men will not let me. If I had a\nmonopoly out, they would have part on't. And ladies too, they\nwill not let me have all the fool to myself; they'll be\nsnatching. Give me an egg, nuncle, and I'll give thee two\ncrowns.


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Why, after I have cut the egg i' th' middle and eat up the\nmeat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i'\nth' middle and gav'st away both parts, thou bor'st thine ass on\nthy back o'er the dirt. Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown\nwhen thou gav'st thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in\nthis, let him be whipp'd that first finds it so.\n[Sings]    Fools had ne'er less grace in a year,\n             For wise men are grown foppish;\n           They know not how their wits to wear,\n             Their manners are so apish.


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I have us'd it, nuncle, ever since thou mad'st thy daughters\nthy mother; for when thou gav'st them the rod, and put'st down\nthine own breeches,\n[Sings]    Then they for sudden joy did weep,\n             And I for sorrow sung,\n           That such a king should play bo-peep\n             And go the fools among.\nPrithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to\nlie. I would fain learn to lie.


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I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are. They'll have me\nwhipp'd for speaking true; thou'lt have me whipp'd for lying;\nand sometimes I am whipp'd for holding my peace. I had rather be\nany kind o' thing than a fool! And yet I would not be thee,\nnuncle. Thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides and left nothing\ni' th' middle. Here comes one o' the parings.


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Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for\nher frowning. Now thou art an O without a figure. I am better\nthan thou art now: I am a fool, thou art nothing.\n[To Goneril] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So your face\nbids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum!\n       He that keeps nor crust nor crum,\n       Weary of all, shall want some.-\n[Points at Lear] That's a sheal'd peascod.


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Not only, sir, this your all-licens'd fool,\nBut other of your insolent retinue\nDo hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth\nIn rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir,\nI had thought, by making this well known unto you,\nTo have found a safe redress, but now grow fearful,\nBy what yourself, too, late have spoke and done,\nThat you protect this course, and put it on\nBy your allowance; which if you should, the fault\nWould not scape censure, nor the redresses sleep,\nWhich, in the tender of a wholesome weal,\nMight in their working do you that offence\nWhich else were shame, that then necessity\nMust call discreet proceeding.


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For you know, nuncle,\n     The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long\n     That it had it head bit off by it young.\nSo out went the candle, and we were left darkling.


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Come, sir,\nI would you would make use of that good wisdom\nWhereof I know you are fraught, and put away\nThese dispositions that of late transform you\nFrom what you rightly are.


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Doth any here know me? This is not Lear.\nDoth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes?\nEither his notion weakens, his discernings\nAre lethargied- Ha! waking? 'Tis not so!\nWho is it that can tell me who I am?


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I would learn that; for, by the marks of sovereignty,\nKnowledge, and reason, I should be false persuaded\nI had daughters.


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This admiration, sir, is much o' th' savour\nOf other your new pranks. I do beseech you\nTo understand my purposes aright.\nAs you are old and reverend, you should be wise.\nHere do you keep a hundred knights and squires;\nMen so disorder'd, so debosh'd, and bold\nThat this our court, infected with their manners,\nShows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust\nMake it more like a tavern or a brothel\nThan a grac'd palace. The shame itself doth speak\nFor instant remedy. Be then desir'd\nBy her that else will take the thing she begs\nA little to disquantity your train,\nAnd the remainder that shall still depend\nTo be such men as may besort your age,\nWhich know themselves, and you.


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Darkness and devils!\nSaddle my horses! Call my train together!\nDegenerate bastard, I'll not trouble thee;\nYet have I left a daughter.


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Woe that too late repents!- O, sir, are you come?\nIs it your will? Speak, sir!- Prepare my horses.\nIngratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend,\nMore hideous when thou show'st thee in a child\nThan the sea-monster!


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[to Goneril] Detested kite, thou liest!\nMy train are men of choice and rarest parts,\nThat all particulars of duty know\nAnd in the most exact regard support\nThe worships of their name.- O most small fault,\nHow ugly didst thou in Cordelia show!\nWhich, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature\nFrom the fix'd place; drew from my heart all love\nAnd added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!\nBeat at this gate that let thy folly in  [Strikes his head.]\nAnd thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people.


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It may be so, my lord.\nHear, Nature, hear! dear goddess, hear!\nSuspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend\nTo make this creature fruitful.\nInto her womb convey sterility;\nDry up in her the organs of increase;\nAnd from her derogate body never spring\nA babe to honour her! If she must teem,\nCreate her child of spleen, that it may live\nAnd be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her.\nLet it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth,\nWith cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks,\nTurn all her mother's pains and benefits\nTo laughter and contempt, that she may feel\nHow sharper than a serpent's tooth it is\nTo have a thankless child! Away, away!                Exit.


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Never afflict yourself to know the cause;\nBut let his disposition have that scope\nThat dotage gives it.


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I'll tell thee. [To Goneril] Life and death! I am asham'd\nThat thou hast power to shake my manhood thus;\nThat these hot tears, which break from me perforce,\nShould make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee!\nTh' untented woundings of a father's curse\nPierce every sense about thee!- Old fond eyes,\nBeweep this cause again, I'll pluck ye out,\nAnd cast you, with the waters that you lose,\nTo temper clay. Yea, is it come to this?\nLet it be so. Yet have I left a daughter,\nWho I am sure is kind and comfortable.\nWhen she shall hear this of thee, with her nails\nShe'll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find\nThat I'll resume the shape which thou dost think\nI have cast off for ever; thou shalt, I warrant thee.


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Pray you, content.- What, Oswald, ho!\n[To the Fool] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master!


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Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry! Take the fool with thee.\n     A fox when one has caught her,\n     And such a daughter,\n     Should sure to the slaughter,\n     If my cap would buy a halter.\n     So the fool follows after.    Exit.


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This man hath had good counsel! A hundred knights?\n'Tis politic and safe to let him keep\nAt point a hundred knights; yes, that on every dream,\nEach buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike,\nHe may enguard his dotage with their pow'rs\nAnd hold our lives in mercy.- Oswald, I say!


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Safer than trust too far.\nLet me still take away the harms I fear,\nNot fear still to be taken. I know his heart.\nWhat he hath utter'd I have writ my sister.\nIf she sustain him and his hundred knights,\nWhen I have show'd th' unfitness- [Enter [Oswald the] Steward.]\nHow now, Oswald?\nWhat, have you writ that letter to my sister?


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Take you some company, and away to horse!\nInform her full of my particular fear,\nAnd thereto add such reasons of your own\nAs may compact it more. Get you gone,\nAnd hasten your return. [Exit Oswald.] No, no, my lord!\nThis milky gentleness and course of yours,\nThough I condemn it not, yet, under pardon,\nYou are much more at task for want of wisdom\nThan prais'd for harmful mildness.


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Go you before to Gloucester with these letters. Acquaint my\ndaughter no further with anything you know than comes from her\ndemand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I\nshall be there afore you.


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Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly; for though\nshe's as like this as a crab's like an apple, yet I can tell\nwhat I can tell.


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She'll taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou\ncanst tell why one's nose stands i' th' middle on's face?


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Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the seven stars\nare no moe than seven is a pretty reason.


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O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven!\nKeep me in temper; I would not be mad! [Enter a Gentleman.]\nHow now? Are the horses ready?


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She that's a maid now, and laughs at my departure,\nShall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter


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And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him\nnotice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his Duchess will be\nhere with him this night.


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Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad- I mean the\nwhisper'd ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments?


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The Duke be here to-night? The better! best!\nThis weaves itself perforce into my business.\nMy father hath set guard to take my brother;\nAnd I have one thing, of a queasy question,\nWhich I must act. Briefness and fortune, work!\nBrother, a word! Descend! Brother, I say!\n[Enter Edgar.]\nMy father watches. O sir, fly this place!\nIntelligence is given where you are hid.\nYou have now the good advantage of the night.\nHave you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornwall?\nHe's coming hither; now, i' th' night, i' th' haste,\nAnd Regan with him. Have you nothing said\nUpon his party 'gainst the Duke of Albany?\nAdvise yourself.


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I hear my father coming. Pardon me!\nIn cunning I must draw my sword upon you.\nDraw, seem to defend yourself; now quit you well.-\nYield! Come before my father. Light, ho, here!\nFly, brother.- Torches, torches!- So farewell.\n[Exit Edgar.]\nSome blood drawn on me would beget opinion\nOf my more fierce endeavour. [Stabs his arm.] I have seen\n   drunkards\nDo more than this in sport.- Father, father!-\nStop, stop! No help?


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Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out,\nMumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon\nTo stand 's auspicious mistress.


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Persuade me to the murther of your lordship;\nBut that I told him the revenging gods\n'Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend;\nSpoke with how manifold and strong a bond\nThe child was bound to th' father- sir, in fine,\nSeeing how loathly opposite I stood\nTo his unnatural purpose, in fell motion\nWith his prepared sword he charges home\nMy unprovided body, lanch'd mine arm;\nBut when he saw my best alarum'd spirits,\nBold in the quarrel's right, rous'd to th' encounter,\nOr whether gasted by the noise I made,\nFull suddenly he fled.


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Let him fly far.\nNot in this land shall he remain uncaught;\nAnd found- dispatch. The noble Duke my master,\nMy worthy arch and patron, comes to-night.\nBy his authority I will proclaim it\nThat he which find, him shall deserve our thanks,\nBringing the murderous caitiff to the stake;\nHe that conceals him, death.


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When I dissuaded him from his intent\nAnd found him pight to do it, with curst speech\nI threaten'd to discover him. He replied,\n'Thou unpossessing bastard, dost thou think,\nIf I would stand against thee, would the reposal\nOf any trust, virtue, or worth in thee\nMake thy words faith'd? No. What I should deny\n(As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce\nMy very character), I'ld turn it all\nTo thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice;\nAnd thou must make a dullard of the world,\nIf they not thought the profits of my death\nWere very pregnant and potential spurs\nTo make thee seek it.'


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Strong and fast'ned villain!\nWould he deny his letter? I never got him.\n[Tucket within.]\nHark, the Duke's trumpets! I know not why he comes.\nAll ports I'll bar; the villain shall not scape;\nThe Duke must grant me that. Besides, his picture\nI will send far and near, that all the kingdom\nMay have due note of him, and of my land,\nLoyal and natural boy, I'll work the means\nTo make thee capable.


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How now, my noble friend? Since I came hither\n(Which I can call but now) I have heard strange news.


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No marvel then though he were ill affected.\n'Tis they have put him on the old man's death,\nTo have th' expense and waste of his revenues.\nI have this present evening from my sister\nBeen well inform'd of them, and with such cautions\nThat, if they come to sojourn at my house,\nI'll not be there.


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If he be taken, he shall never more\nBe fear'd of doing harm. Make your own purpose,\nHow in my strength you please. For you, Edmund,\nWhose virtue and obedience doth this instant\nSo much commend itself, you shall be ours.\nNatures of such deep trust we shall much need;\nYou we first seize on.


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Thus out of season, threading dark-ey'd night.\nOccasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise,\nWherein we must have use of your advice.\nOur father he hath writ, so hath our sister,\nOf differences, which I best thought it fit\nTo answer from our home. The several messengers\nFrom hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend,\nLay comforts to your bosom, and bestow\nYour needful counsel to our business,\nWhich craves the instant use.


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A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud,\nshallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy,\nworsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking, whoreson,\nglass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue;\none-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of\ngood service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave,\nbeggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch;\none whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deny the\nleast syllable of thy addition.


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Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one\nthat's neither known of thee nor knows thee!


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What a brazen-fac'd varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me!\nIs it two days ago since I beat thee and tripp'd up thy heels\nbefore the King? [Draws his sword.] Draw, you rogue! for, though\nit be night, yet the moon shines. I'll make a sop o' th'\nmoonshine o' you. Draw, you whoreson cullionly barbermonger!\ndraw!


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Draw, you rascal! You come with letters against the King, and\ntake Vanity the puppet's part against the royalty of her father.\nDraw, you rogue, or I'll so carbonado your shanks! Draw, you\nrascal! Come your ways!


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Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue! Stand, you neat slave!\nStrike!                                        [Beats him.]


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No marvel, you have so bestirr'd your valour. You cowardly\nrascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.


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Ay, a tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could not have\nmade him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the trade.


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Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if\nyou'll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into\nmortar and daub the walls of a jakes with him. 'Spare my grey\nbeard,' you wagtail?


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That such a slave as this should wear a sword,\nWho wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,\nLike rats, oft bite the holy cords atwain\nWhich are too intrinse t' unloose; smooth every passion\nThat in the natures of their lords rebel,\nBring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;\nRenege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks\nWith every gale and vary of their masters,\nKnowing naught (like dogs) but following.\nA plague upon your epileptic visage!\nSmile you my speeches, as I were a fool?\nGoose, an I had you upon Sarum Plain,\nI'ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot.


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Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain.\nI have seen better faces in my time\nThan stands on any shoulder that I see\nBefore me at this instant.


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This is some fellow\nWho, having been prais'd for bluntness, doth affect\nA saucy roughness, and constrains the garb\nQuite from his nature. He cannot flatter, he!\nAn honest mind and plain- he must speak truth!\nAn they will take it, so; if not, he's plain.\nThese kind of knaves I know which in this plainness\nHarbour more craft and more corrupter ends\nThan twenty silly-ducking observants\nThat stretch their duties nicely.


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Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,\nUnder th' allowance of your great aspect,\nWhose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire\nOn flickering Phoebus' front-


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To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I\nknow, sir, I am no flatterer. He that beguil'd you in a plain\naccent was a plain knave, which, for my part, I will not be,\nthough I should win your displeasure to entreat me to't.


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I never gave him any.\nIt pleas'd the King his master very late\nTo strike at me, upon his misconstruction;\nWhen he, conjunct, and flattering his displeasure,\nTripp'd me behind; being down, insulted, rail'd\nAnd put upon him such a deal of man\nThat worthied him, got praises of the King\nFor him attempting who was self-subdu'd;\nAnd, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,\nDrew on me here again.


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Sir, I am too old to learn.\nCall not your stocks for me. I serve the King;\nOn whose employment I was sent to you.\nYou shall do small respect, show too bold malice\nAgainst the grace and person of my master,\nStocking his messenger.


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Let me beseech your Grace not to do so.\nHis fault is much, and the good King his master\nWill check him for't. Your purpos'd low correction\nIs such as basest and contemn'dest wretches\nFor pilf'rings and most common trespasses\nAre punish'd with. The King must take it ill\nThat he, so slightly valued in his messenger,\nShould have him thus restrain'd.


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My sister may receive it much more worse,\nTo have her gentleman abus'd, assaulted,\nFor following her affairs. Put in his legs.-\n[Kent is put in the stocks.]\nCome, my good lord, away.


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I am sorry for thee, friend. 'Tis the Duke's pleasure,\nWhose disposition, all the world well knows,\nWill not be rubb'd nor stopp'd. I'll entreat for thee.


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Pray do not, sir. I have watch'd and travell'd hard.\nSome time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll whistle.\nA good man's fortune may grow out at heels.\nGive you good morrow!


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Good King, that must approve the common saw,\nThou out of heaven's benediction com'st\nTo the warm sun!\nApproach, thou beacon to this under globe,\nThat by thy comfortable beams I may\nPeruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles\nBut misery. I know 'tis from Cordelia,\nWho hath most fortunately been inform'd\nOf my obscured course- and [reads] 'shall find time\nFrom this enormous state, seeking to give\nLosses their remedies'- All weary and o'erwatch'd,\nTake vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold\nThis shameful lodging.\nFortune, good night; smile once more, turn thy wheel.


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I heard myself proclaim'd,\nAnd by the happy hollow of a tree\nEscap'd the hunt. No port is free, no place\nThat guard and most unusual vigilance\nDoes not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape,\nI will preserve myself; and am bethought\nTo take the basest and most poorest shape\nThat ever penury, in contempt of man,\nBrought near to beast. My face I'll grime with filth,\nBlanket my loins, elf all my hair in knots,\nAnd with presented nakedness outface\nThe winds and persecutions of the sky.\nThe country gives me proof and precedent\nOf Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices,\nStrike in their numb'd and mortified bare arms\nPins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary;\nAnd with this horrible object, from low farms,\nPoor pelting villages, sheepcotes, and mills,\nSometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers,\nEnforce their charity. 'Poor Turlygod! poor Tom!'\nThat's something yet! Edgar I nothing am. Exit.


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Ha, ha! look! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the\nhead, dogs and bears by th' neck, monkeys by th' loins, and men\nby th' legs. When a man's over-lusty at legs, then he wears\nwooden nether-stocks.


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They durst not do't;\nThey would not, could not do't. 'Tis worse than murther\nTo do upon respect such violent outrage.\nResolve me with all modest haste which way\nThou mightst deserve or they impose this usage,\nComing from us.


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My lord, when at their home\nI did commend your Highness' letters to them,\nEre I was risen from the place that show'd\nMy duty kneeling, came there a reeking post,\nStew'd in his haste, half breathless, panting forth\nFrom Goneril his mistress salutations;\nDeliver'd letters, spite of intermission,\nWhich presently they read; on whose contents,\nThey summon'd up their meiny, straight took horse,\nCommanded me to follow and attend\nThe leisure of their answer, gave me cold looks,\nAnd meeting here the other messenger,\nWhose welcome I perceiv'd had poison'd mine-\nBeing the very fellow which of late\nDisplay'd so saucily against your Highness-\nHaving more man than wit about me, drew.\nHe rais'd the house with loud and coward cries.\nYour son and daughter found this trespass worth\nThe shame which here it suffers.


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Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.\n     Fathers that wear rags\n       Do make their children blind;\n     But fathers that bear bags\n       Shall see their children kind.\n     Fortune, that arrant whore,\n     Ne'er turns the key to th' poor.\nBut for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy\ndaughters as thou canst tell in a year.


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O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!\nHysterica passio! Down, thou climbing sorrow!\nThy element's below! Where is this daughter?


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We'll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there's no\nlabouring i' th' winter. All that follow their noses are led by\ntheir eyes but blind men, and there's not a nose among twenty\nbut can smell him that's stinking. Let go thy hold when a great\nwheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following\nit; but the great one that goes upward, let him draw thee after.\nWhen a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again. I\nwould have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it.\n     That sir which serves and seeks for gain,\n       And follows but for form,\n     Will pack when it begins to rain\n       And leave thee in the storm.\n     But I will tarry; the fool will stay,\n       And let the wise man fly.\n     The knave turns fool that runs away;\n       The fool no knave, perdy.


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Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary?\nThey have travell'd all the night? Mere fetches-\nThe images of revolt and flying off!\nFetch me a better answer.


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My dear lord,\nYou know the fiery quality of the Duke,\nHow unremovable and fix'd he is\nIn his own course.


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Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!\nFiery? What quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester,\nI'ld speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.


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The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father\nWould with his daughter speak, commands her service.\nAre they inform'd of this? My breath and blood!\nFiery? the fiery Duke? Tell the hot Duke that-\nNo, but not yet! May be he is not well.\nInfirmity doth still neglect all office\nWhereto our health is bound. We are not ourselves\nWhen nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind\nTo suffer with the body. I'll forbear;\nAnd am fallen out with my more headier will,\nTo take the indispos'd and sickly fit\nFor the sound man.- Death on my state! Wherefore\nShould he sit here? This act persuades me\nThat this remotion of the Duke and her\nIs practice only. Give me my servant forth.\nGo tell the Duke and 's wife I'ld speak with them-\nNow, presently. Bid them come forth and hear me,\nOr at their chamber door I'll beat the drum\nTill it cry sleep to death.


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Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she\nput 'em i' th' paste alive. She knapp'd 'em o' th' coxcombs with\na stick and cried 'Down, wantons, down!' 'Twas her brother that,\nin pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay.


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Regan, I think you are; I know what reason\nI have to think so. If thou shouldst not be glad,\nI would divorce me from thy mother's tomb,\nSepulchring an adultress. [To Kent] O, are you free?\nSome other time for that.- Beloved Regan,\nThy sister's naught. O Regan, she hath tied\nSharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here!\n[Lays his hand on his heart.]\nI can scarce speak to thee. Thou'lt not believe\nWith how deprav'd a quality- O Regan!


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I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope\nYou less know how to value her desert\nThan she to scant her duty.


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I cannot think my sister in the least\nWould fail her obligation. If, sir, perchance\nShe have restrain'd the riots of your followers,\n'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,\nAs clears her from all blame.


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O, sir, you are old!\nNature in you stands on the very verge\nOf her confine. You should be rul'd, and led\nBy some discretion that discerns your state\nBetter than you yourself. Therefore I pray you\nThat to our sister you do make return;\nSay you have wrong'd her, sir.


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Ask her forgiveness?\nDo you but mark how this becomes the house:\n'Dear daughter, I confess that I am old. [Kneels.]\nAge is unnecessary. On my knees I beg\nThat you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.'


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[rises] Never, Regan!\nShe hath abated me of half my train;\nLook'd black upon me; struck me with her tongue,\nMost serpent-like, upon the very heart.\nAll the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall\nOn her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones,\nYou taking airs, with lameness!


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You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames\nInto her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty,\nYou fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the pow'rful sun,\nTo fall and blast her pride!


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No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse.\nThy tender-hefted nature shall not give\nThee o'er to harshness. Her eyes are fierce; but thine\nDo comfort, and not burn. 'Tis not in thee\nTo grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,\nTo bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,\nAnd, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt\nAgainst my coming in. Thou better know'st\nThe offices of nature, bond of childhood,\nEffects of courtesy, dues of gratitude.\nThy half o' th' kingdom hast thou not forgot,\nWherein I thee endow'd.


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I know't- my sister's. This approves her letter,\nThat she would soon be here.\n[Enter [Oswald the] Steward.]\nIs your lady come?


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This is a slave, whose easy-borrowed pride\nDwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.\nOut, varlet, from my sight!


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Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have good hope\nThou didst not know on't.- Who comes here? O heavens!\nIf you do love old men, if your sweet sway\nAllow obedience- if yourselves are old,\nMake it your cause! Send down, and take my part!\n[To Goneril] Art not asham'd to look upon this beard?-\nO Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?


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Why not by th' hand, sir? How have I offended?\nAll's not offence that indiscretion finds\nAnd dotage terms so.


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I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.\nIf, till the expiration of your month,\nYou will return and sojourn with my sister,\nDismissing half your train, come then to me.\nI am now from home, and out of that provision\nWhich shall be needful for your entertainment.


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Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd?\nNo, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose\nTo wage against the enmity o' th' air,\nTo be a comrade with the wolf and owl-\nNecessity's sharp pinch! Return with her?\nWhy, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took\nOur youngest born, I could as well be brought\nTo knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg\nTo keep base life afoot. Return with her?\nPersuade me rather to be slave and sumpter\nTo this detested groom. [Points at Oswald.]


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I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad.\nI will not trouble thee, my child; farewell.\nWe'll no more meet, no more see one another.\nBut yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;\nOr rather a disease that's in my flesh,\nWhich I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil,\nA plague sore, an embossed carbuncle\nIn my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee.\nLet shame come when it will, I do not call it.\nI do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoot\nNor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove.\nMend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure;\nI can be patient, I can stay with Regan,\nI and my hundred knights.


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Not altogether so.\nI look'd not for you yet, nor am provided\nFor your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister;\nFor those that mingle reason with your passion\nMust be content to think you old, and so-\nBut she knows what she does.


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I dare avouch it, sir. What, fifty followers?\nIs it not well? What should you need of more?\nYea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger\nSpeak 'gainst so great a number? How in one house\nShould many people, under two commands,\nHold amity? 'Tis hard; almost impossible.


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Why not, my lord? If then they chanc'd to slack ye,\nWe could control them. If you will come to me\n(For now I spy a danger), I entreat you\nTo bring but five-and-twenty. To no more\nWill I give place or notice.


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Made you my guardians, my depositaries;\nBut kept a reservation to be followed\nWith such a number. What, must I come to you\nWith five-and-twenty, Regan? Said you so?


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Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd\nWhen others are more wicked; not being the worst\nStands in some rank of praise. [To Goneril] I'll go with thee.\nThy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty,\nAnd thou art twice her love.


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Hear, me, my lord.\nWhat need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five,\nTo follow in a house where twice so many\nHave a command to tend you?


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O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars\nAre in the poorest thing superfluous.\nAllow not nature more than nature needs,\nMan's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady:\nIf only to go warm were gorgeous,\nWhy, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st\nWhich scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need-\nYou heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!\nYou see me here, you gods, a poor old man,\nAs full of grief as age; wretched in both.\nIf it be you that stirs these daughters' hearts\nAgainst their father, fool me not so much\nTo bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger,\nAnd let not women's weapons, water drops,\nStain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural hags!\nI will have such revenges on you both\nThat all the world shall- I will do such things-\nWhat they are yet, I know not; but they shall be\nThe terrors of the earth! You think I'll weep.\nNo, I'll not weep.\nI have full cause of weeping, but this heart\nShall break into a hundred thousand flaws\nOr ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!


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Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds\nDo sorely ruffle. For many miles about\nThere's scarce a bush.


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O, sir, to wilful men\nThe injuries that they themselves procure\nMust be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors.\nHe is attended with a desperate train,\nAnd what they may incense him to, being apt\nTo have his ear abus'd, wisdom bids fear.


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Shut up your doors, my lord: 'tis a wild night.\nMy Regan counsels well. Come out o' th' storm. [Exeunt.]


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Contending with the fretful elements;\nBids the wind blow the earth into the sea,\nOr swell the curled waters 'bove the main,\nThat things might change or cease; tears his white hair,\nWhich the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,\nCatch in their fury and make nothing of;\nStrives in his little world of man to outscorn\nThe to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.\nThis night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,\nThe lion and the belly-pinched wolf\nKeep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs,\nAnd bids what will take all.


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Sir, I do know you,\nAnd dare upon the warrant of my note\nCommend a dear thing to you. There is division\n(Although as yet the face of it be cover'd\nWith mutual cunning) 'twixt Albany and Cornwall;\nWho have (as who have not, that their great stars\nThron'd and set high?) servants, who seem no less,\nWhich are to France the spies and speculations\nIntelligent of our state. What hath been seen,\nEither in snuffs and packings of the Dukes,\nOr the hard rein which both of them have borne\nAgainst the old kind King, or something deeper,\nWhereof, perchance, these are but furnishings-\nBut, true it is, from France there comes a power\nInto this scattered kingdom, who already,\nWise in our negligence, have secret feet\nIn some of our best ports and are at point\nTo show their open banner. Now to you:\nIf on my credit you dare build so far\nTo make your speed to Dover, you shall find\nSome that will thank you, making just report\nOf how unnatural and bemadding sorrow\nThe King hath cause to plain.\nI am a gentleman of blood and breeding,\nAnd from some knowledge and assurance offer\nThis office to you.


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No, do not.\nFor confirmation that I am much more\nThan my out-wall, open this purse and take\nWhat it contains. If you shall see Cordelia\n(As fear not but you shall), show her this ring,\nAnd she will tell you who your fellow is\nThat yet you do not know. Fie on this storm!\nI will go seek the King.


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Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet:\nThat, when we have found the King (in which your pain\nThat way, I'll this), he that first lights on him\nHolla the other.


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Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!\nYou cataracts and hurricanoes, spout\nTill you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!\nYou sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,\nVaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,\nSinge my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,\nStrike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world,\nCrack Nature's moulds, all germains spill at once,\nThat makes ingrateful man!


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O nuncle, court holy water in a dry house is better than this\nrain water out o' door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters\nblessing! Here's a night pities nether wise men nor fools.


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Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!\nNor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters.\nI tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.\nI never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,\nYou owe me no subscription. Then let fall\nYour horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave,\nA poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man.\nBut yet I call you servile ministers,\nThat will with two pernicious daughters join\nYour high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head\nSo old and white as this! O! O! 'tis foul!


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He that has a house to put 's head in has a good head-piece.\n     The codpiece that will house\n       Before the head has any,\n     The head and he shall louse:\n       So beggars marry many.\n     The man that makes his toe\n       What he his heart should make\n     Shall of a corn cry woe,\n       And turn his sleep to wake.\nFor there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a\nglass.


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Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night\nLove not such nights as these. The wrathful skies\nGallow the very wanderers of the dark\nAnd make them keep their caves. Since I was man,\nSuch sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,\nSuch groans of roaring wind and rain, I never\nRemember to have heard. Man's nature cannot carry\nTh' affliction nor the fear.


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Let the great gods,\nThat keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads,\nFind out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,\nThat hast within thee undivulged crimes\nUnwhipp'd of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand;\nThou perjur'd, and thou simular man of virtue\nThat art incestuous. Caitiff, in pieces shake\nThat under covert and convenient seeming\nHast practis'd on man's life. Close pent-up guilts,\nRive your concealing continents, and cry\nThese dreadful summoners grace. I am a man\nMore sinn'd against than sinning.


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Alack, bareheaded?\nGracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;\nSome friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest.\nRepose you there, whilst I to this hard house\n(More harder than the stones whereof 'tis rais'd,\nWhich even but now, demanding after you,\nDenied me to come in) return, and force\nTheir scanted courtesy.


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My wits begin to turn.\nCome on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold?\nI am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow?\nThe art of our necessities is strange,\nThat can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel.\nPoor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart\nThat's sorry yet for thee.


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[sings]\n     He that has and a little tiny wit-\n       With hey, ho, the wind and the rain-\n     Must make content with his fortunes fit,\n        For the rain it raineth every day.


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This is a brave night to cool a courtesan. I'll speak a\nprophecy ere I go:\n     When priests are more in word than matter;\n     When brewers mar their malt with water;\n     When nobles are their tailors' tutors,\n     No heretics burn'd, but wenches' suitors;\n     When every case in law is right,\n     No squire in debt nor no poor knight;\n     When slanders do not live in tongues,\n     Nor cutpurses come not to throngs;\n     When usurers tell their gold i' th' field,\n     And bawds and whores do churches build:\n     Then shall the realm of Albion\n     Come to great confusion.\n     Then comes the time, who lives to see't,\n     That going shall be us'd with feet.\nThis prophecy Merlin shall make, for I live before his time. Exit.


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Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing! When\nI desir'd their leave that I might pity him, they took from me\nthe use of mine own house, charg'd me on pain of perpetual\ndispleasure neither to speak of him, entreat for him, nor any\nway sustain him.


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Go to; say you nothing. There is division betwixt the Dukes,\nand a worse matter than that. I have received a letter this\nnight- 'tis dangerous to be spoken- I have lock'd the letter in\nmy closet. These injuries the King now bears will be revenged\nhome; there's part of a power already footed; we must incline to\nthe King. I will seek him and privily relieve him. Go you and\nmaintain talk with the Duke, that my charity be not of him\nperceived. If he ask for me, I am ill and gone to bed. Though I\ndie for't, as no less is threat'ned me, the King my old master\nmust be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund.\nPray you be careful.               Exit.


plain_text:
This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke\nInstantly know, and of that letter too.\nThis seems a fair deserving, and must draw me\nThat which my father loses- no less than all.\nThe younger rises when the old doth fall. Exit.


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Here is the place, my lord. Good my lord, enter.\nThe tyranny of the open night 's too rough\nFor nature to endure.


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Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm\nInvades us to the skin. So 'tis to thee;\nBut where the greater malady is fix'd,\nThe lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear;\nBut if thy flight lay toward the raging sea,\nThou'dst meet the bear i' th' mouth. When the mind's free,\nThe body's delicate. The tempest in my mind\nDoth from my senses take all feeling else\nSave what beats there. Filial ingratitude!\nIs it not as this mouth should tear this hand\nFor lifting food to't? But I will punish home!\nNo, I will weep no more. In such a night\nTo shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.\nIn such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!\nYour old kind father, whose frank heart gave all!\nO, that way madness lies; let me shun that!\nNo more of that.


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Prithee go in thyself; seek thine own ease.\nThis tempest will not give me leave to ponder\nOn things would hurt me more. But I'll go in.\n[To the Fool] In, boy; go first.- You houseless poverty-\nNay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep. [Exit Fool]\nPoor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,\nThat bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,\nHow shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,\nYour loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you\nFrom seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en\nToo little care of this! Take physic, pomp;\nExpose thyself to feel what wretches feel,\nThat thou mayst shake the superflux to them\nAnd show the heavens more just.


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Away! the foul fiend follows me! Through the sharp hawthorn\nblows the cold wind. Humh! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.


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Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led\nthrough fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o'er\nbog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and\nhalters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge, made him proud\nof heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inch'd\nbridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five\nwits! Tom 's acold. O, do de, do de, do de. Bless thee from\nwhirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity,\nwhom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now- and there-\nand there again- and there!


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What, have his daughters brought him to this pass?\nCouldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give 'em all?


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Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu'd nature\nTo such a lowness but his unkind daughters.\nIs it the fashion that discarded fathers\nShould have thus little mercy on their flesh?\nJudicious punishment! 'Twas this flesh begot\nThose pelican daughters.


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Take heed o' th' foul fiend; obey thy parents: keep thy word\njustly; swear not; commit not with man's sworn spouse; set not\nthy sweet heart on proud array. Tom 's acold.


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A servingman, proud in heart and mind; that curl'd my hair,\nwore gloves in my cap; serv'd the lust of my mistress' heart and\ndid the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake\nwords, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven; one that\nslept in the contriving of lust, and wak'd to do it. Wine lov'd\nI deeply, dice dearly; and in woman out-paramour'd the Turk.\nFalse of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox\nin stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey.\nLet not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray\nthy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot out of brothel, thy hand\nout of placket, thy pen from lender's book, and defy the foul\nfiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind; says\nsuum, mun, hey, no, nonny. Dolphin my boy, my boy, sessa! let\nhim trot by.


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Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy\nuncover'd body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than\nthis? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast\nno hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! Here's three\non's are sophisticated! Thou art the thing itself;\nunaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked\nanimal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton\nhere.


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Prithee, nuncle, be contented! 'Tis a naughty night to swim\nin. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old lecher's\nheart- a small spark, all the rest on's body cold. Look, here\ncomes a walking fire.


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This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet. He begins at curfew,\nand walks till the first cock. He gives the web and the pin,\nsquints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the white wheat,\nand hurts the poor creature of earth.\n      Saint Withold footed thrice the 'old;\n      He met the nightmare, and her nine fold;\n         Bid her alight\n         And her troth plight,\n      And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!


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Poor Tom, that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the todpole,\nthe wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when\nthe foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets, swallows the\nold rat and the ditch-dog, drinks the green mantle of the\nstanding pool; who is whipp'd from tithing to tithing, and\nstock-punish'd and imprison'd; who hath had three suits to his\nback, six shirts to his body, horse to ride, and weapons to\nwear;\n     But mice and rats, and such small deer,\n     Have been Tom's food for seven long year.\nBeware my follower. Peace, Smulkin! peace, thou fiend!


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Go in with me. My duty cannot suffer\nT' obey in all your daughters' hard commands.\nThough their injunction be to bar my doors\nAnd let this tyrannous night take hold upon you,\nYet have I ventur'd to come seek you out\nAnd bring you where both fire and food is ready.


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Canst thou blame him? [Storm still.]\nHis daughters seek his death. Ah, that good Kent!\nHe said it would be thus- poor banish'd man!\nThou say'st the King grows mad: I'll tell thee, friend,\nI am almost mad myself. I had a son,\nNow outlaw'd from my blood. He sought my life\nBut lately, very late. I lov'd him, friend-\nNo father his son dearer. True to tell thee,\nThe grief hath craz'd my wits. What a night 's this!\nI do beseech your Grace-


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Child Rowland to the dark tower came;\nHis word was still\n     Fie, foh, and fum!\n     I smell the blood of a British man.


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How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to\nloyalty, something fears me to think of.


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I now perceive it was not altogether your brother's evil\ndisposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit, set\nawork by a reproveable badness in himself.


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How malicious is my fortune that I must repent to be just!\nThis is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an\nintelligent party to the advantages of France. O heavens! that\nthis treason were not- or not I the detector!


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True or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester.\nSeek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our\napprehension.


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[aside] If I find him comforting the King, it will stuff his\nsuspicion more fully.- I will persever in my course of loyalty,\nthough the conflict be sore between that and my blood.


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Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully. I will\npiece out the comfort with what addition I can. I will not be\nlong from you.


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Frateretto calls me, and tells me Nero is an angler in the\nlake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend.


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No, he's a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; for he's a\nmad yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him.


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It shall be done; I will arraign them straight.\n[To Edgar] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer.\n[To the Fool] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she-foxes!


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Look, where he stands and glares! Want'st thou eyes at trial,\nmadam?\n        Come o'er the bourn, Bessy, to me.


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The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale.\nHoppedance cries in Tom's belly for two white herring. Croak\nnot, black angel; I have no food for thee.


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I'll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence.\n[To Edgar] Thou, robed man of justice, take thy place.\n[To the Fool] And thou, his yokefellow of equity,\nBench by his side. [To Kent] You are o' th' commission,\nSit you too.


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Let us deal justly.\n     Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd?\n       Thy sheep be in the corn;\n     And for one blast of thy minikin mouth\n       Thy sheep shall take no harm.\nPurr! the cat is gray.


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Arraign her first. 'Tis Goneril. I here take my oath before\nthis honourable assembly, she kicked the poor King her father.


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And here's another, whose warp'd looks proclaim\nWhat store her heart is made on. Stop her there!\nArms, arms! sword! fire! Corruption in the place!\nFalse justicer, why hast thou let her scape?


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Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs!\n      Be thy mouth or black or white,\n      Tooth that poisons if it bite;\n      Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim,\n      Hound or spaniel, brach or lym,\n      Bobtail tyke or trundle-tail-\n      Tom will make them weep and wail;\n      For, with throwing thus my head,\n      Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled.\nDo de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market\ntowns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.


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Then let them anatomize Regan. See what breeds about her\nheart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard\nhearts? [To Edgar] You, sir- I entertain you for one of my\nhundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments. You'll\nsay they are Persian attire; but let them be chang'd.


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Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains.\nSo, so, so. We'll go to supper i' th' morning. So, so, so.


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Good friend, I prithee take him in thy arms.\nI have o'erheard a plot of death upon him.\nThere is a litter ready; lay him in't\nAnd drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet\nBoth welcome and protection. Take up thy master.\nIf thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life,\nWith thine, and all that offer to defend him,\nStand in assured loss. Take up, take up!\nAnd follow me, that will to some provision\nGive thee quick conduct.


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Oppressed nature sleeps.\nThis rest might yet have balm'd thy broken senses,\nWhich, if convenience will not allow,\nStand in hard cure. [To the Fool] Come, help to bear thy master.\nThou must not stay behind.


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When we our betters see bearing our woes,\nWe scarcely think our miseries our foes.\nWho alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind,\nLeaving free things and happy shows behind;\nBut then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip\nWhen grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.\nHow light and portable my pain seems now,\nWhen that which makes me bend makes the King bow,\nHe childed as I fathered! Tom, away!\nMark the high noises, and thyself bewray\nWhen false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles thee,\nIn thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee.\nWhat will hap more to-night, safe scape the King!\nLurk, lurk.                      [Exit.]


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[to Goneril] Post speedily to my lord your husband, show him\nthis letter. The army of France is landed.- Seek out the traitor\nGloucester.


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Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister\ncompany. The revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous\nfather are not fit for your beholding. Advise the Duke where you\nare going, to a most festinate preparation. We are bound to the\nlike. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us.\nFarewell, dear sister; farewell, my Lord of Gloucester. [Enter Oswald the Steward.]\nHow now? Where's the King?


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My Lord of Gloucester hath convey'd him hence.\nSome five or six and thirty of his knights,\nHot questrists after him, met him at gate;\nWho, with some other of the lord's dependants,\nAre gone with him towards Dover, where they boast\nTo have well-armed friends.


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Edmund, farewell. [Exeunt Goneril, Edmund, and Oswald.]\nGo seek the traitor Gloucester,\nPinion him like a thief, bring him before us. [Exeunt other Servants.]\nThough well we may not pass upon his life\nWithout the form of justice, yet our power\nShall do a court'sy to our wrath, which men\nMay blame, but not control. [Enter Gloucester, brought in by two or three.]\nWho's there? the traitor?


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Naughty lady,\nThese hairs which thou dost ravish from my chin\nWill quicken, and accuse thee. I am your host.\nWith robber's hands my hospitable favours\nYou should not ruffle thus. What will you do?


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I have a letter guessingly set down,\nWhich came from one that's of a neutral heart,\nAnd not from one oppos'd.


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Because I would not see thy cruel nails\nPluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister\nIn his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs.\nThe sea, with such a storm as his bare head\nIn hell-black night endur'd, would have buoy'd up\nAnd quench'd the steeled fires.\nYet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain.\nIf wolves had at thy gate howl'd that stern time,\nThou shouldst have said, 'Good porter, turn the key.'\nAll cruels else subscrib'd. But I shall see\nThe winged vengeance overtake such children.


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Hold your hand, my lord!\nI have serv'd you ever since I was a child;\nBut better service have I never done you\nThan now to bid you hold.


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Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus?\n                   She takes a sword and runs at him behind.


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O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left\nTo see some mischief on him. O!                     He dies.


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All dark and comfortless! Where's my son Edmund?\nEdmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature\nTo quit this horrid act.


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Out, treacherous villain!\nThou call'st on him that hates thee. It was he\nThat made the overture of thy treasons to us;\nWho is too good to pity thee.


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Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell\nHis way to Dover. [Exit one with Gloucester.]\nHow is't, my lord? How look you?


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I have receiv'd a hurt. Follow me, lady.\nTurn out that eyeless villain. Throw this slave\nUpon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace.\nUntimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm.


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Let's follow the old Earl, and get the bedlam\nTo lead him where he would. His roguish madness\nAllows itself to anything.


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Go thou. I'll fetch some flax and whites of eggs\nTo apply to his bleeding face. Now heaven help him!


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Yet better thus, and known to be contemn'd,\nThan still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be worst,\nThe lowest and most dejected thing of fortune,\nStands still in esperance, lives not in fear.\nThe lamentable change is from the best;\nThe worst returns to laughter. Welcome then,\nThou unsubstantial air that I embrace!\nThe wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst\nOwes nothing to thy blasts.\n[Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man.]\nBut who comes here?\nMy father, poorly led? World, world, O world!\nBut that thy strange mutations make us hate thee,\nLife would not yield to age.


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Away, get thee away! Good friend, be gone.\nThy comforts can do me no good at all;\nThee they may hurt.


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I have no way, and therefore want no eyes;\nI stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen\nOur means secure us, and our mere defects\nProve our commodities. Ah dear son Edgar,\nThe food of thy abused father's wrath!\nMight I but live to see thee in my touch,\nI'ld say I had eyes again!


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He has some reason, else he could not beg.\nI' th' last night's storm I such a fellow saw,\nWhich made me think a man a worm. My son\nCame then into my mind, and yet my mind\nWas then scarce friends with him. I have heard more since.\nAs flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods.\nThey kill us for their sport.


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[aside] How should this be?\nBad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow,\nAng'ring itself and others.- Bless thee, master!


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Then prithee get thee gone. If for my sake\nThou wilt o'ertake us hence a mile or twain\nI' th' way toward Dover, do it for ancient love;\nAnd bring some covering for this naked soul,\nWho I'll entreat to lead me.


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'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead the blind.\nDo as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure.\nAbove the rest, be gone.


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Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath been\nscar'd out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man's son, from\nthe foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once: of\nlust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of\nstealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and\nmowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So,\nbless thee, master!


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Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues\nHave humbled to all strokes. That I am wretched\nMakes thee the happier. Heavens, deal so still!\nLet the superfluous and lust-dieted man,\nThat slaves your ordinance, that will not see\nBecause he does not feel, feel your pow'r quickly;\nSo distribution should undo excess,\nAnd each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover?


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There is a cliff, whose high and bending head\nLooks fearfully in the confined deep.\nBring me but to the very brim of it,\nAnd I'll repair the misery thou dost bear\nWith something rich about me. From that place\nI shall no leading need.


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Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband\nNot met us on the way. [Enter Oswald the Steward.]\nNow, where's your master?


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Madam, within, but never man so chang'd.\nI told him of the army that was landed:\nHe smil'd at it. I told him you were coming:\nHis answer was, 'The worse.' Of Gloucester's treachery\nAnd of the loyal service of his son\nWhen I inform'd him, then he call'd me sot\nAnd told me I had turn'd the wrong side out.\nWhat most he should dislike seems pleasant to him;\nWhat like, offensive.


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[to Edmund] Then shall you go no further.\nIt is the cowish terror of his spirit,\nThat dares not undertake. He'll not feel wrongs\nWhich tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way\nMay prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother.\nHasten his musters and conduct his pow'rs.\nI must change arms at home and give the distaff\nInto my husband's hands. This trusty servant\nShall pass between us. Ere long you are like to hear\n(If you dare venture in your own behalf)\nA mistress's command. Wear this. [Gives a favour.]\nSpare speech.\nDecline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak,\nWould stretch thy spirits up into the air.\nConceive, and fare thee well.


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My most dear Gloucester!\nO, the difference of man and man!\nTo thee a woman's services are due;\nMy fool usurps my body.


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O Goneril,\nYou are not worth the dust which the rude wind\nBlows in your face! I fear your disposition.\nThat nature which contemns it origin\nCannot be bordered certain in itself.\nShe that herself will sliver and disbranch\nFrom her material sap, perforce must wither\nAnd come to deadly use.


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Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;\nFilths savour but themselves. What have you done?\nTigers, not daughters, what have you perform'd?\nA father, and a gracious aged man,\nWhose reverence even the head-lugg'd bear would lick,\nMost barbarous, most degenerate, have you madded.\nCould my good brother suffer you to do it?\nA man, a prince, by him so benefited!\nIf that the heavens do not their visible spirits\nSend quickly down to tame these vile offences,\nIt will come,\nHumanity must perforce prey on itself,\nLike monsters of the deep.


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Milk-liver'd man!\nThat bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;\nWho hast not in thy brows an eye discerning\nThine honour from thy suffering; that not know'st\nFools do those villains pity who are punish'd\nEre they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum?\nFrance spreads his banners in our noiseless land,\nWith plumed helm thy state begins to threat,\nWhiles thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and criest\n'Alack, why does he so?'


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Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame!\nBemonster not thy feature! Were't my fitness\nTo let these hands obey my blood,\nThey are apt enough to dislocate and tear\nThy flesh and bones. Howe'er thou art a fiend,\nA woman's shape doth shield thee.


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O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall 's dead,\nSlain by his servant, going to put out\nThe other eye of Gloucester.


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A servant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse,\nOppos'd against the act, bending his sword\nTo his great master; who, thereat enrag'd,\nFlew on him, and amongst them fell'd him dead;\nBut not without that harmful stroke which since\nHath pluck'd him after.


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This shows you are above,\nYou justicers, that these our nether crimes\nSo speedily can venge! But O poor Gloucester!\nLose he his other eye?


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[aside] One way I like this well;\nBut being widow, and my Gloucester with her,\nMay all the building in my fancy pluck\nUpon my hateful life. Another way\nThe news is not so tart.- I'll read, and answer. Exit.


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Ay, my good lord. 'Twas he inform'd against him,\nAnd quit the house on purpose, that their punishment\nMight have the freer course.


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Gloucester, I live\nTo thank thee for the love thou show'dst the King,\nAnd to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend.\nTell me what more thou know'st.


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Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his\ncoming forth is thought of, which imports to the kingdom so much\nfear and danger that his personal return was most required and\nnecessary.


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Ay, sir. She took them, read them in my presence,\nAnd now and then an ample tear trill'd down\nHer delicate cheek. It seem'd she was a queen\nOver her passion, who, most rebel-like,\nSought to be king o'er her.


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Not to a rage. Patience and sorrow strove\nWho should express her goodliest. You have seen\nSunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears\nWere like, a better way. Those happy smilets\nThat play'd on her ripe lip seem'd not to know\nWhat guests were in her eyes, which parted thence\nAs pearls from diamonds dropp'd. In brief,\nSorrow would be a rarity most belov'd,\nIf all could so become it.


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Faith, once or twice she heav'd the name of father\nPantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart;\nCried 'Sisters, sisters! Shame of ladies! Sisters!\nKent! father! sisters! What, i' th' storm? i' th' night?\nLet pity not be believ'd!' There she shook\nThe holy water from her heavenly eyes,\nAnd clamour moisten'd. Then away she started\nTo deal with grief alone.


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It is the stars,\nThe stars above us, govern our conditions;\nElse one self mate and mate could not beget\nSuch different issues. You spoke not with her since?


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Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear's i' th' town;\nWho sometime, in his better tune, remembers\nWhat we are come about, and by no means\nWill yield to see his daughter.


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A sovereign shame so elbows him; his own unkindness,\nThat stripp'd her from his benediction, turn'd her\nTo foreign casualties, gave her dear rights\nTo his dog-hearted daughters- these things sting\nHis mind so venomously that burning shame\nDetains him from Cordelia.


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Well, sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear\nAnd leave you to attend him. Some dear cause\nWill in concealment wrap me up awhile.\nWhen I am known aright, you shall not grieve\nLending me this acquaintance. I pray you go\nAlong with me.                   Exeunt.


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Alack, 'tis he! Why, he was met even now\nAs mad as the vex'd sea, singing aloud,\nCrown'd with rank fumiter and furrow weeds,\nWith harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo flow'rs,\nDarnel, and all the idle weeds that grow\nIn our sustaining corn. A century send forth.\nSearch every acre in the high-grown field\nAnd bring him to our eye. [Exit an Officer.] What can man's\n   wisdom\nIn the restoring his bereaved sense?\nHe that helps him take all my outward worth.


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There is means, madam.\nOur foster nurse of nature is repose,\nThe which he lacks. That to provoke in him\nAre many simples operative, whose power\nWill close the eye of anguish.


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All blest secrets,\nAll you unpublish'd virtues of the earth,\nSpring with my tears! be aidant and remediate\nIn the good man's distress! Seek, seek for him!\nLest his ungovern'd rage dissolve the life\nThat wants the means to lead it.


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'Tis known before. Our preparation stands\nIn expectation of them. O dear father,\nIt is thy business that I go about.\nTherefore great France\nMy mourning and important tears hath pitied.\nNo blown ambition doth our arms incite,\nBut love, dear love, and our ag'd father's right.\nSoon may I hear and see him!


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Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter.\nIt was great ignorance, Gloucester's eyes being out,\nTo let him live. Where he arrives he moves\nAll hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone,\nIn pity of his misery, to dispatch\nHis nighted life; moreover, to descry\nThe strength o' th' enemy.


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Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you\nTransport her purposes by word? Belike,\nSomething- I know not what- I'll love thee much-\nLet me unseal the letter.


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I know your lady does not love her husband;\nI am sure of that; and at her late being here\nShe gave strange eyeliads and most speaking looks\nTo noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.


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I speak in understanding. Y'are! I know't.\nTherefore I do advise you take this note.\nMy lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk'd,\nAnd more convenient is he for my hand\nThan for your lady's. You may gather more.\nIf you do find him, pray you give him this;\nAnd when your mistress hears thus much from you,\nI pray desire her call her wisdom to her.\nSo farewell.\nIf you do chance to hear of that blind traitor,\nPreferment falls on him that cuts him off.


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So may it be indeed.\nMethinks thy voice is alter'd, and thou speak'st\nIn better phrase and matter than thou didst.


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Come on, sir; here's the place. Stand still. How fearful\nAnd dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!\nThe crows and choughs that wing the midway air\nShow scarce so gross as beetles. Halfway down\nHangs one that gathers sampire- dreadful trade!\nMethinks he seems no bigger than his head.\nThe fishermen that walk upon the beach\nAppear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark,\nDiminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy\nAlmost too small for sight. The murmuring surge\nThat on th' unnumb'red idle pebble chafes\nCannot be heard so high. I'll look no more,\nLest my brain turn, and the deficient sight\nTopple down headlong.


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Give me your hand. You are now within a foot\nOf th' extreme verge. For all beneath the moon\nWould I not leap upright.


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Let go my hand.\nHere, friend, is another purse; in it a jewel\nWell worth a poor man's taking. Fairies and gods\nProsper it with thee! Go thou further off;\nBid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.


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O you mighty gods!                            He kneels.\nThis world I do renounce, and, in your sights,\nShake patiently my great affliction off.\nIf I could bear it longer and not fall\nTo quarrel with your great opposeless wills,\nMy snuff and loathed part of nature should\nBurn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him!\nNow, fellow, fare thee well.\n                             He falls [forward and swoons].


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Gone, sir, farewell.-\nAnd yet I know not how conceit may rob\nThe treasury of life when life itself\nYields to the theft. Had he been where he thought,\nBy this had thought been past.- Alive or dead?\nHo you, sir! friend! Hear you, sir? Speak!-\nThus might he pass indeed. Yet he revives.\nWhat are you, sir?


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Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air,\nSo many fadom down precipitating,\nThou'dst shiver'd like an egg; but thou dost breathe;\nHast heavy substance; bleed'st not; speak'st; art sound.\nTen masts at each make not the altitude\nWhich thou hast perpendicularly fell.\nThy life is a miracle. Speak yet again.


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From the dread summit of this chalky bourn.\nLook up a-height. The shrill-gorg'd lark so far\nCannot be seen or heard. Do but look up.


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Alack, I have no eyes!\nIs wretchedness depriv'd that benefit\nTo end itself by death? 'Twas yet some comfort\nWhen misery could beguile the tyrant's rage\nAnd frustrate his proud will.


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This is above all strangeness.\nUpon the crown o' th' cliff what thing was that\nWhich parted from you?


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As I stood here below, methought his eyes\nWere two full moons; he had a thousand noses,Horns whelk'd and wav'd like the enridged sea.\nIt was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father,\nThink that the clearest gods, who make them honours\nOf men's impossibility, have preserv'd thee.


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I do remember now. Henceforth I'll bear\nAffliction till it do cry out itself\n'Enough, enough,' and die. That thing you speak of,\nI took it for a man. Often 'twould say\n'The fiend, the fiend'- he led me to that place.


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Bear free and patient thoughts.\n    Enter Lear, mad, [fantastically dressed with weeds].\nBut who comes here?\nThe safer sense will ne'er accommodate\nHis master thus.


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Nature 's above art in that respect. There's your press\nmoney. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper. Draw me\na clothier's yard. Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace; this piece\nof toasted cheese will do't. There's my gauntlet; I'll prove it\non a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown, bird! i'\nth' clout, i' th' clout! Hewgh! Give the word.


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Ha! Goneril with a white beard? They flatter'd me like a dog,\nand told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones\nwere there. To say 'ay' and 'no' to everything I said! 'Ay' and\n'no' too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me\nonce, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would\nnot peace at my bidding; there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em\nout. Go to, they are not men o' their words! They told me I was\neverything. 'Tis a lie- I am not ague-proof.


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Ay, every inch a king!\nWhen I do stare, see how the subject quakes.\nI pardon that man's life. What was thy cause?\nAdultery?\nThou shalt not die. Die for adultery? No.\nThe wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly\nDoes lecher in my sight.\nLet copulation thrive; for Gloucester's bastard son\nWas kinder to his father than my daughters\nGot 'tween the lawful sheets.\nTo't, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers.\nBehold yond simp'ring dame,\nWhose face between her forks presageth snow,\nThat minces virtue, and does shake the head\nTo hear of pleasure's name.\nThe fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't\nWith a more riotous appetite.\nDown from the waist they are Centaurs,\nThough women all above.\nBut to the girdle do the gods inherit,\nBeneath is all the fiend's.\nThere's hell, there's darkness, there's the sulphurous pit;\nburning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie, fie! pah, pah!\nGive me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my\nimagination. There's money for thee.


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I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny at me?\nNo, do thy worst, blind Cupid! I'll not love. Read thou this\nchallenge; mark but the penning of it.


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O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no\nmoney in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse\nin a light. Yet you see how this world goes.


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What, art mad? A man may see how the world goes with no eyes.\nLook with thine ears. See how yond justice rails upon yond\nsimple thief. Hark in thine ear. Change places and, handy-dandy,\nwhich is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a\nfarmer's dog bark at a beggar?


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And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold\nthe great image of authority: a dog's obeyed in office.\nThou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!\nWhy dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back.\nThou hotly lusts to use her in that kind\nFor which thou whip'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.\nThrough tatter'd clothes small vices do appear;\nRobes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,\nAnd the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks;\nArm it in rags, a pygmy's straw does pierce it.\nNone does offend, none- I say none! I'll able 'em.\nTake that of me, my friend, who have the power\nTo seal th' accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes\nAnd, like a scurvy politician, seem\nTo see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now!\nPull off my boots. Harder, harder! So.


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If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes.\nI know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester.\nThou must be patient. We came crying hither;\nThou know'st, the first time that we smell the air\nWe wawl and cry. I will preach to thee. Mark.


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When we are born, we cry that we are come\nTo this great stage of fools. This' a good block.\nIt were a delicate stratagem to shoe\nA troop of horse with felt. I'll put't in proof,\nAnd when I have stol'n upon these sons-in-law,\nThen kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!


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No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even\nThe natural fool of fortune. Use me well;\nYou shall have ransom. Let me have a surgeon;\nI am cut to th' brains.


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No seconds? All myself?\nWhy, this would make a man a man of salt,\nTo use his eyes for garden waterpots,\nAy, and laying autumn's dust.


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I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom. What!\nI will be jovial. Come, come, I am a king;\nMy masters, know you that?


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A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,\nPast speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter\nWho redeems nature from the general curse\nWhich twain have brought her to.


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You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me;\nLet not my worser spirit tempt me again\nTo die before you please!


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A most poor man, made tame to fortune's blows,\nWho, by the art of known and feeling sorrows,\nAm pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand;\nI'll lead you to some biding.


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A proclaim'd prize! Most happy!\nThat eyeless head of thine was first fram'd flesh\nTo raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor,\nBriefly thyself remember. The sword is out\nThat must destroy thee.


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Wherefore, bold peasant,\nDar'st thou support a publish'd traitor? Hence!\nLest that th' infection of his fortune take\nLike hold on thee. Let go his arm.


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Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor voke pass. An chud\nha' bin zwagger'd out of my life, 'twould not ha' bin zo long as\n'tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th' old man. Keep out,\nche vore ye, or Ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the\nharder. Chill be plain with you.


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Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse.\nIf ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body,\nAnd give the letters which thou find'st about me\nTo Edmund Earl of Gloucester. Seek him out\nUpon the British party. O, untimely death! Death!


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I know thee well. A serviceable villain,\nAs duteous to the vices of thy mistress\nAs badness would desire.


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Sit you down, father; rest you.\nLet's see his pockets; these letters that he speaks of\nMay be my friends. He's dead. I am only sorry\nHe had no other deathsman. Let us see.\nLeave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not.\nTo know our enemies' minds, we'ld rip their hearts;\nTheir papers, is more lawful. Reads the letter.\n  'Let our reciprocal vows be rememb'red. You have many\nopportunities to cut him off. If your will want not, time and\nplace will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done, if he\nreturn the conqueror. Then am I the prisoner, and his bed my\njail; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the\nplace for your labour.\n      'Your (wife, so I would say) affectionate servant, 'Goneril.'\nO indistinguish'd space of woman's will!\nA plot upon her virtuous husband's life,\nAnd the exchange my brother! Here in the sands\nThee I'll rake up, the post unsanctified\nOf murtherous lechers; and in the mature time\nWith this ungracious paper strike the sight\nOf the death-practis'd Duke, For him 'tis well\nThat of thy death and business I can tell.


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The King is mad. How stiff is my vile sense,\nThat I stand up, and have ingenious feeling\nOf my huge sorrows! Better I were distract.\nSo should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs,\nAnd woes by wrong imaginations lose\nThe knowledge of themselves.


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Give me your hand.\nFar off methinks I hear the beaten drum.\nCome, father, I'll bestow you with a friend. Exeunt.


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O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work\nTo match thy goodness? My life will be too short\nAnd every measure fail me.


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To be acknowledg'd, madam, is o'erpaid.\nAll my reports go with the modest truth;\nNor more nor clipp'd, but so.


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Pardon, dear madam.\nYet to be known shortens my made intent.\nMy boon I make it that you know me not\nTill time and I think meet.


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O you kind gods,\nCure this great breach in his abused nature!\nTh' untun'd and jarring senses, O, wind up\nOf this child-changed father!


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O my dear father, restoration hang\nThy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss\nRepair those violent harms that my two sisters\nHave in thy reverence made!


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Had you not been their father, these white flakes\nHad challeng'd pity of them. Was this a face\nTo be oppos'd against the warring winds?\nTo stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?\nIn the most terrible and nimble stroke\nOf quick cross lightning? to watch- poor perdu!-\nWith this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog,\nThough he had bit me, should have stood that night\nAgainst my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father,\nTo hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn,\nIn short and musty straw? Alack, alack!\n'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once\nHad not concluded all.- He wakes. Speak to him.


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You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave.\nThou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound\nUpon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears\nDo scald like molten lead.


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Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight,\nI am mightily abus'd. I should e'en die with pity,\nTo see another thus. I know not what to say.\nI will not swear these are my hands. Let's see.\nI feel this pin prick. Would I were assur'd\nOf my condition!


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Pray, do not mock me.\nI am a very foolish fond old man,\nFourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;\nAnd, to deal plainly,\nI fear I am not in my perfect mind.\nMethinks I should know you, and know this man;\nYet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant\nWhat place this is; and all the skill I have\nRemembers not these garments; nor I know not\nWhere I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;\nFor (as I am a man) I think this lady\nTo be my child Cordelia.


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Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not.\nIf you have poison for me, I will drink it.\nI know you do not love me; for your sisters\nHave, as I do remember, done me wrong.\nYou have some cause, they have not.


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Be comforted, good madam. The great rage\nYou see is kill'd in him; and yet it is danger\nTo make him even o'er the time he has lost.\nDesire him to go in. Trouble him no more\nTill further settling.


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My point and period will be throughly wrought,\nOr well or ill, as this day's battle's fought. Exit.


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Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold,\nOr whether since he is advis'd by aught\nTo change the course. He's full of alteration\nAnd self-reproving. Bring his constant pleasure.


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Now, sweet lord,\nYou know the goodness I intend upon you.\nTell me- but truly- but then speak the truth-\nDo you not love my sister?


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Fear me not.\nShe and the Duke her husband!\n  Enter, with Drum and Colours, Albany, Goneril, Soldiers.


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Our very loving sister, well bemet.\nSir, this I hear: the King is come to his daughter,\nWith others whom the rigour of our state\nForc'd to cry out. Where I could not be honest,\nI never yet was valiant. For this business,\nIt toucheth us as France invades our land,\nNot bolds the King, with others whom, I fear,\nMost just and heavy causes make oppose.


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Combine together 'gainst the enemy;\nFor these domestic and particular broils\nAre not the question here.


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[aside] O, ho, I know the riddle.- I will go.\n     [As they are going out,] enter Edgar [disguised].


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Before you fight the battle, ope this letter.\nIf you have victory, let the trumpet sound\nFor him that brought it. Wretched though I seem,\nI can produce a champion that will prove\nWhat is avouched there. If you miscarry,\nYour business of the world hath so an end,\nAnd machination ceases. Fortune love you!


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The enemy 's in view; draw up your powers.\nHere is the guess of their true strength and forces\nBy diligent discovery; but your haste\nIs now urg'd on you.


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To both these sisters have I sworn my love;\nEach jealous of the other, as the stung\nAre of the adder. Which of them shall I take?\nBoth? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy'd,\nIf both remain alive. To take the widow\nExasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril;\nAnd hardly shall I carry out my side,\nHer husband being alive. Now then, we'll use\nHis countenance for the battle, which being done,\nLet her who would be rid of him devise\nHis speedy taking off. As for the mercy\nWhich he intends to Lear and to Cordelia-\nThe battle done, and they within our power,\nShall never see his pardon; for my state\nStands on me to defend, not to debate. Exit.


plain_text:
Enter, with Drum and Colours, the Powers of France over the stage, Cordelia with her Father in her hand, and exeunt. Enter Edgar and Gloucester.


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Here, father, take the shadow of this tree\nFor your good host. Pray that the right may thrive.\nIf ever I return to you again,\nI'll bring you comfort.


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Away, old man! give me thy hand! away!\nKing Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en.\nGive me thy hand! come on!


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What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure\nTheir going hence, even as their coming hither;\nRipeness is all. Come on.


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Enter, in conquest, with Drum and Colours, Edmund; Lear and Cordelia as prisoners; Soldiers, Captain.


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Some officers take them away. Good guard\nUntil their greater pleasures first be known\nThat are to censure them.


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We are not the first\nWho with best meaning have incurr'd the worst.\nFor thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;\nMyself could else outfrown false Fortune's frown.\nShall we not see these daughters and these sisters?


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No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison.\nWe two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage.\nWhen thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down\nAnd ask of thee forgiveness. So we'll live,\nAnd pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh\nAt gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues\nTalk of court news; and we'll talk with them too-\nWho loses and who wins; who's in, who's out-\nAnd take upon 's the mystery of things,\nAs if we were God's spies; and we'll wear out,\nIn a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones\nThat ebb and flow by th' moon.


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Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,\nThe gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee?\nHe that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven\nAnd fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes.\nThe goodyears shall devour 'em, flesh and fell,\nEre they shall make us weep! We'll see 'em starv'd first.\nCome. Exeunt [Lear and Cordelia, guarded].


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Come hither, Captain; hark.\nTake thou this note [gives a paper]. Go follow them to prison.\nOne step I have advanc'd thee. If thou dost\nAs this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way\nTo noble fortunes. Know thou this, that men\nAre as the time is. To be tender-minded\nDoes not become a sword. Thy great employment\nWill not bear question. Either say thou'lt do't,\nOr thrive by other means.


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About it! and write happy when th' hast done.\nMark- I say, instantly; and carry it so\nAs I have set it down.


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Sir, you have show'd to-day your valiant strain,\nAnd fortune led you well. You have the captives\nWho were the opposites of this day's strife.\nWe do require them of you, so to use them\nAs we shall find their merits and our safety\nMay equally determine.


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Sir, I thought it fit\nTo send the old and miserable King\nTo some retention and appointed guard;\nWhose age has charms in it, whose title more,\nTo pluck the common bosom on his side\nAnd turn our impress'd lances in our eyes\nWhich do command them. With him I sent the Queen,\nMy reason all the same; and they are ready\nTo-morrow, or at further space, t' appear\nWhere you shall hold your session. At this time\nWe sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend;\nAnd the best quarrels, in the heat, are curs'd\nBy those that feel their sharpness.\nThe question of Cordelia and her father\nRequires a fitter place.


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That's as we list to grace him.\nMethinks our pleasure might have been demanded\nEre you had spoke so far. He led our powers,\nBore the commission of my place and person,\nThe which immediacy may well stand up\nAnd call itself your brother.


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Lady, I am not well; else I should answer\nFrom a full-flowing stomach. General,\nTake thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony;\nDispose of them, of me; the walls are thine.\nWitness the world that I create thee here\nMy lord and master.


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Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee\nOn capital treason; and, in thine attaint,\nThis gilded serpent [points to Goneril]. For your claim, fair\n   sister,\nI bar it in the interest of my wife.\n'Tis she is subcontracted to this lord,\nAnd I, her husband, contradict your banes.\nIf you will marry, make your loves to me;\nMy lady is bespoke.


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Thou art arm'd, Gloucester. Let the trumpet sound.\nIf none appear to prove upon thy person\nThy heinous, manifest, and many treasons,\nThere is my pledge [throws down a glove]! I'll prove it on thy\n   heart,\nEre I taste bread, thou art in nothing less\nThan I have here proclaim'd thee.


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There's my exchange [throws down a glove]. What in the world\n   he is\nThat names me traitor, villain-like he lies.\nCall by thy trumpet. He that dares approach,\nOn him, on you, who not? I will maintain\nMy truth and honour firmly.


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Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers,\nAll levied in my name, have in my name\nTook their discharge.


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She is not well. Convey her to my tent.\n   [Exit Regan, led. Enter a Herald.]\nCome hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound,\nAnd read out this.


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[reads] 'If any man of quality or degree within the lists of\nthe army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester,\nthat he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third sound\nof the trumpet. He is bold in his defence.'


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Know my name is lost;\nBy treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit.\nYet am I noble as the adversary\nI come to cope.


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Draw thy sword,\nThat, if my speech offend a noble heart,\nThy arm may do thee justice. Here is mine.\nBehold, it is the privilege of mine honours,\nMy oath, and my profession. I protest-\nMaugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence,\nDespite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune,\nThy valour and thy heart- thou art a traitor;\nFalse to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father;\nConspirant 'gainst this high illustrious prince;\nAnd from th' extremest upward of thy head\nTo the descent and dust beneath thy foot,\nA most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou 'no,'\nThis sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent\nTo prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak,\nThou liest.


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In wisdom I should ask thy name;\nBut since thy outside looks so fair and warlike,\nAnd that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes,\nWhat safe and nicely I might well delay\nBy rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn.\nBack do I toss those treasons to thy head;\nWith the hell-hated lie o'erwhelm thy heart;\nWhich- for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise-\nThis sword of mine shall give them instant way\nWhere they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak!


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This is mere practice, Gloucester.\nBy th' law of arms thou wast not bound to answer\nAn unknown opposite. Thou art not vanquish'd,\nBut cozen'd and beguil'd.


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Shut your mouth, dame,\nOr with this paper shall I stop it. [Shows her her letter to\nEdmund.]- [To Edmund]. Hold, sir.\n[To Goneril] Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil.\nNo tearing, lady! I perceive you know it.


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What, you have charg'd me with, that have I done,\nAnd more, much more. The time will bring it out.\n'Tis past, and so am I.- But what art thou\nThat hast this fortune on me? If thou'rt noble,\nI do forgive thee.


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Let's exchange charity.\nI am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund;\nIf more, the more th' hast wrong'd me.\nMy name is Edgar and thy father's son.\nThe gods are just, and of our pleasant vices\nMake instruments to scourge us.\nThe dark and vicious place where thee he got\nCost him his eyes.


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Methought thy very gait did prophesy\nA royal nobleness. I must embrace thee.\nLet sorrow split my heart if ever I\nDid hate thee, or thy father!


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By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale;\nAnd when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst!\nThe bloody proclamation to escape\nThat follow'd me so near (O, our lives' sweetness!\nThat with the pain of death would hourly die\nRather than die at once!) taught me to shift\nInto a madman's rags, t' assume a semblance\nThat very dogs disdain'd; and in this habit\nMet I my father with his bleeding rings,\nTheir precious stones new lost; became his guide,\nLed him, begg'd for him, sav'd him from despair;\nNever (O fault!) reveal'd myself unto him\nUntil some half hour past, when I was arm'd,\nNot sure, though hoping of this good success,\nI ask'd his blessing, and from first to last\nTold him my pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart\n(Alack, too weak the conflict to support!)\n'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,\nBurst smilingly.


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This speech of yours hath mov'd me,\nAnd shall perchance do good; but speak you on;\nYou look as you had something more to say.


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This would have seem'd a period\nTo such as love not sorrow; but another,\nTo amplify too much, would make much more,\nAnd top extremity.\nWhilst I was big in clamour, came there a man,\nWho, having seen me in my worst estate,\nShunn'd my abhorr'd society; but then, finding\nWho 'twas that so endur'd, with his strong arms\nHe fastened on my neck, and bellowed out\nAs he'd burst heaven; threw him on my father;\nTold the most piteous tale of Lear and him\nThat ever ear receiv'd; which in recounting\nHis grief grew puissant, and the strings of life\nBegan to crack. Twice then the trumpets sounded,\nAnd there I left him tranc'd.


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Kent, sir, the banish'd Kent; who in disguise\nFollowed his enemy king and did him service\nImproper for a slave.


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Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead.\n                                   [Exit Gentleman.]\nThis judgement of the heavens, that makes us tremble\nTouches us not with pity. O, is this he?\nThe time will not allow the compliment\nThat very manners urges.


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Great thing of us forgot!\nSpeak, Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia?\n     [The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in.]\nSeest thou this object, Kent?


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I pant for life. Some good I mean to do,\nDespite of mine own nature. Quickly send\n(Be brief in't) to the castle; for my writ\nIs on the life of Lear and on Cordelia.\nNay, send in time.


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He hath commission from thy wife and me\nTo hang Cordelia in the prison and\nTo lay the blame upon her own despair\nThat she fordid herself.


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Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stone.\nHad I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so\nThat heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever!\nI know when one is dead, and when one lives.\nShe's dead as earth. Lend me a looking glass.\nIf that her breath will mist or stain the stone,\nWhy, then she lives.


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This feather stirs; she lives! If it be so,\nIt is a chance which does redeem all sorrows\nThat ever I have felt.


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A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!\nI might have sav'd her; now she's gone for ever!\nCordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha!\nWhat is't thou say'st, Her voice was ever soft,\nGentle, and low- an excellent thing in woman.\nI kill'd the slave that was a-hanging thee.


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Did I not, fellow?\nI have seen the day, with my good biting falchion\nI would have made them skip. I am old now,\nAnd these same crosses spoil me. Who are you?\nMine eyes are not o' th' best. I'll tell you straight.


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Nor no man else! All's cheerless, dark, and deadly.\nYour eldest daughters have fordone themselves,\nAnd desperately are dead.


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That's but a trifle here.\nYou lords and noble friends, know our intent.\nWhat comfort to this great decay may come\nShall be applied. For us, we will resign,\nDuring the life of this old Majesty,\nTo him our absolute power; [to Edgar and Kent] you to your\n   rights;\nWith boot, and such addition as your honours\nHave more than merited.- All friends shall taste\nThe wages of their virtue, and all foes\nThe cup of their deservings.- O, see, see!


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And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!\nWhy should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,\nAnd thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,\nNever, never, never, never, never!\nPray you undo this button. Thank you, sir.\nDo you see this? Look on her! look! her lips!\nLook there, look there!                            He dies.


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Vex not his ghost. O, let him pass! He hates him\nThat would upon the rack of this tough world\nStretch him out longer.


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Bear them from hence. Our present business\nIs general woe. [To Kent and Edgar] Friends of my soul, you\n   twain\nRule in this realm, and the gor'd state sustain.


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The weight of this sad time we must obey,\nSpeak what we feel, not what we ought to say.\nThe oldest have borne most; we that are young\nShall never see so much, nor live so long.


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From off a hill whose concave womb reworded\nA plaintful story from a sistering vale,\nMy spirits to attend this double voice accorded,\nAnd down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;\nEre long espied a fickle maid full pale,\nTearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,\nStorming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.


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Upon her head a platted hive of straw,\nWhich fortified her visage from the sun,\nWhereon the thought might think sometime it saw\nThe carcass of beauty spent and done:\nTime had not scythed all that youth begun,\nNor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,\nSome beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.


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Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,\nWhich on it had conceited characters,\nLaundering the silken figures in the brine\nThat season'd woe had pelleted in tears,\nAnd often reading what contents it bears;\nAs often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,\nIn clamours of all size, both high and low.


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Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride,\nAs they did battery to the spheres intend;\nSometime diverted their poor balls are tied\nTo the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend\nTheir view right on; anon their gazes lend\nTo every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd,\nThe mind and sight distractedly commix'd.


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Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat,\nProclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride\nFor some, untuck'd, descended her sheaved hat,\nHanging her pale and pined cheek beside;\nSome in her threaden fillet still did bide,\nAnd true to bondage would not break from thence,\nThough slackly braided in loose negligence.


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A thousand favours from a maund she drew\nOf amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,\nWhich one by one she in a river threw,\nUpon whose weeping margent she was set;\nLike usury, applying wet to wet,\nOr monarch's hands that let not bounty fall\nWhere want cries some, but where excess begs all.


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Of folded schedules had she many a one,\nWhich she perused, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood;\nCrack'd many a ring of posied gold and bone\nBidding them find their sepulchres in mud;\nFound yet moe letters sadly penn'd in blood,\nWith sleided silk feat and affectedly\nEnswathed, and seal'd to curious secrecy.


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These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes,\nAnd often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear:\nCried 'O false blood, thou register of lies,\nWhat unapproved witness dost thou bear!\nInk would have seem'd more black and damned here!'\nThis said, in top of rage the lines she rents,\nBig discontent so breaking their contents.


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A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh--\nSometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew\nOf court, of city, and had let go by\nThe swiftest hours, observed as they flew--\nTowards this afflicted fancy fastly drew,\nAnd, privileged by age, desires to know\nIn brief the grounds and motives of her woe.


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So slides he down upon his grained bat,\nAnd comely-distant sits he by her side;\nWhen he again desires her, being sat,\nHer grievance with his hearing to divide:\nIf that from him there may be aught applied\nWhich may her suffering ecstasy assuage,\n'Tis promised in the charity of age.


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'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold\nThe injury of many a blasting hour,\nLet it not tell your judgment I am old;\nNot age, but sorrow, over me hath power:\nI might as yet have been a spreading flower,\nFresh to myself, If I had self-applied\nLove to myself and to no love beside.


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'But, woe is me! too early I attended\nA youthful suit--it was to gain my grace--\nOf one by nature's outwards so commended,\nThat maidens' eyes stuck over all his face:\nLove lack'd a dwelling, and made him her place;\nAnd when in his fair parts she did abide,\nShe was new lodged and newly deified.


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'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls;\nAnd every light occasion of the wind\nUpon his lips their silken parcels hurls.\nWhat's sweet to do, to do will aptly find:\nEach eye that saw him did enchant the mind,\nFor on his visage was in little drawn\nWhat largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn.


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'Small show of man was yet upon his chin;\nHis phoenix down began but to appear\nLike unshorn velvet on that termless skin\nWhose bare out-bragg'd the web it seem'd to wear:\nYet show'd his visage by that cost more dear;\nAnd nice affections wavering stood in doubt\nIf best were as it was, or best without.


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'His qualities were beauteous as his form,\nFor maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free;\nYet, if men moved him, was he such a storm\nAs oft 'twixt May and April is to see,\nWhen winds breathe sweet, untidy though they be.\nHis rudeness so with his authorized youth\nDid livery falseness in a pride of truth.


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'Well could he ride, and often men would say\n'That horse his mettle from his rider takes:\nProud of subjection, noble by the sway,\nWhat rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop\nhe makes!'\nAnd controversy hence a question takes,\nWhether the horse by him became his deed,\nOr he his manage by the well-doing steed.


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'But quickly on this side the verdict went:\nHis real habitude gave life and grace\nTo appertainings and to ornament,\nAccomplish'd in himself, not in his case:\nAll aids, themselves made fairer by their place,\nCame for additions; yet their purposed trim\nPieced not his grace, but were all graced by him.


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'So on the tip of his subduing tongue\nAll kinds of arguments and question deep,\nAll replication prompt, and reason strong,\nFor his advantage still did wake and sleep:\nTo make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,\nHe had the dialect and different skill,\nCatching all passions in his craft of will:


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'That he did in the general bosom reign\nOf young, of old; and sexes both enchanted,\nTo dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain\nIn personal duty, following where he haunted:\nConsents bewitch'd, ere he desire, have granted;\nAnd dialogued for him what he would say,\nAsk'd their own wills, and made their wills obey.


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'Many there were that did his picture get,\nTo serve their eyes, and in it put their mind;\nLike fools that in th' imagination set\nThe goodly objects which abroad they find\nOf lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign'd;\nAnd labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them\nThan the true gouty landlord which doth owe them:


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'So many have, that never touch'd his hand,\nSweetly supposed them mistress of his heart.\nMy woeful self, that did in freedom stand,\nAnd was my own fee-simple, not in part,\nWhat with his art in youth, and youth in art,\nThrew my affections in his charmed power,\nReserved the stalk and gave him all my flower.


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'Yet did I not, as some my equals did,\nDemand of him, nor being desired yielded;\nFinding myself in honour so forbid,\nWith safest distance I mine honour shielded:\nExperience for me many bulwarks builded\nOf proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil\nOf this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.


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'But, ah, who ever shunn'd by precedent\nThe destined ill she must herself assay?\nOr forced examples, 'gainst her own content,\nTo put the by-past perils in her way?\nCounsel may stop awhile what will not stay;\nFor when we rage, advice is often seen\nBy blunting us to make our wits more keen.


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'Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood,\nThat we must curb it upon others' proof;\nTo be forbod the sweets that seem so good,\nFor fear of harms that preach in our behoof.\nO appetite, from judgment stand aloof!\nThe one a palate hath that needs will taste,\nThough Reason weep, and cry, 'It is thy last.'


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'For further I could say 'This man's untrue,'\nAnd knew the patterns of his foul beguiling;\nHeard where his plants in others' orchards grew,\nSaw how deceits were gilded in his smiling;\nKnew vows were ever brokers to defiling;\nThought characters and words merely but art,\nAnd bastards of his foul adulterate heart.


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'And long upon these terms I held my city,\nTill thus he gan besiege me: 'Gentle maid,\nHave of my suffering youth some feeling pity,\nAnd be not of my holy vows afraid:\nThat's to ye sworn to none was ever said;\nFor feasts of love I have been call'd unto,\nTill now did ne'er invite, nor never woo.


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''All my offences that abroad you see\nAre errors of the blood, none of the mind;\nLove made them not: with acture they may be,\nWhere neither party is nor true nor kind:\nThey sought their shame that so their shame did find;\nAnd so much less of shame in me remains,\nBy how much of me their reproach contains.


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''Among the many that mine eyes have seen,\nNot one whose flame my heart so much as warm'd,\nOr my affection put to the smallest teen,\nOr any of my leisures ever charm'd:\nHarm have I done to them, but ne'er was harm'd;\nKept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,\nAnd reign'd, commanding in his monarchy.


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''Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me,\nOf paled pearls and rubies red as blood;\nFiguring that they their passions likewise lent me\nOf grief and blushes, aptly understood\nIn bloodless white and the encrimson'd mood;\nEffects of terror and dear modesty,\nEncamp'd in hearts, but fighting outwardly.


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''And, lo, behold these talents of their hair,\nWith twisted metal amorously impleach'd,\nI have received from many a several fair,\nTheir kind acceptance weepingly beseech'd,\nWith the annexions of fair gems enrich'd,\nAnd deep-brain'd sonnets that did amplify\nEach stone's dear nature, worth, and quality.


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''The diamond,--why, 'twas beautiful and hard,\nWhereto his invised properties did tend;\nThe deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard\nWeak sights their sickly radiance do amend;\nThe heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend\nWith objects manifold: each several stone,\nWith wit well blazon'd, smiled or made some moan.


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''Lo, all these trophies of affections hot,\nOf pensived and subdued desires the tender,\nNature hath charged me that I hoard them not,\nBut yield them up where I myself must render,\nThat is, to you, my origin and ender;\nFor these, of force, must your oblations be,\nSince I their altar, you enpatron me.


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''O, then, advance of yours that phraseless hand,\nWhose white weighs down the airy scale of praise;\nTake all these similes to your own command,\nHallow'd with sighs that burning lungs did raise;\nWhat me your minister, for you obeys,\nWorks under you; and to your audit comes\nTheir distract parcels in combined sums.


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''Lo, this device was sent me from a nun,\nOr sister sanctified, of holiest note;\nWhich late her noble suit in court did shun,\nWhose rarest havings made the blossoms dote;\nFor she was sought by spirits of richest coat,\nBut kept cold distance, and did thence remove,\nTo spend her living in eternal love.


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''But, O my sweet, what labour is't to leave\nThe thing we have not, mastering what not strives,\nPlaying the place which did no form receive,\nPlaying patient sports in unconstrained gyves?\nShe that her fame so to herself contrives,\nThe scars of battle 'scapeth by the flight,\nAnd makes her absence valiant, not her might.


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''O, pardon me, in that my boast is true:\nThe accident which brought me to her eye\nUpon the moment did her force subdue,\nAnd now she would the caged cloister fly:\nReligious love put out Religion's eye:\nNot to be tempted, would she be immured,\nAnd now, to tempt, all liberty procured.


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''How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell!\nThe broken bosoms that to me belong\nHave emptied all their fountains in my well,\nAnd mine I pour your ocean all among:\nI strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong,\nMust for your victory us all congest,\nAs compound love to physic your cold breast.


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''My parts had power to charm a sacred nun,\nWho, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace,\nBelieved her eyes when they to assail begun,\nAll vows and consecrations giving place:\nO most potential love! vow, bond, nor space,\nIn thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine,\nFor thou art all, and all things else are thine.


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''When thou impressest, what are precepts worth\nOf stale example? When thou wilt inflame,\nHow coldly those impediments stand forth\nOf wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame!\nLove's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense,\n'gainst shame,\nAnd sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears,\nThe aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears.


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''Now all these hearts that do on mine depend,\nFeeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine;\nAnd supplicant their sighs to you extend,\nTo leave the battery that you make 'gainst mine,\nLending soft audience to my sweet design,\nAnd credent soul to that strong-bonded oath\nThat shall prefer and undertake my troth.'


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'This said, his watery eyes he did dismount,\nWhose sights till then were levell'd on my face;\nEach cheek a river running from a fount\nWith brinish current downward flow'd apace:\nO, how the channel to the stream gave grace!\nWho glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses\nThat flame through water which their hue encloses.


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'O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies\nIn the small orb of one particular tear!\nBut with the inundation of the eyes\nWhat rocky heart to water will not wear?\nWhat breast so cold that is not warmed here?\nO cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath,\nBoth fire from hence and chill extincture hath.


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'For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft,\nEven there resolved my reason into tears;\nThere my white stole of chastity I daff'd,\nShook off my sober guards and civil fears;\nAppear to him, as he to me appears,\nAll melting; though our drops this difference bore,\nHis poison'd me, and mine did him restore.


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'In him a plenitude of subtle matter,\nApplied to cautels, all strange forms receives,\nOf burning blushes, or of weeping water,\nOr swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,\nIn either's aptness, as it best deceives,\nTo blush at speeches rank to weep at woes,\nOr to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.


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'That not a heart which in his level came\nCould 'scape the hail of his all-hurting aim,\nShowing fair nature is both kind and tame;\nAnd, veil'd in them, did win whom he would maim:\nAgainst the thing he sought he would exclaim;\nWhen he most burn'd in heart-wish'd luxury,\nHe preach'd pure maid, and praised cold chastity.


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'Thus merely with the garment of a Grace\nThe naked and concealed fiend he cover'd;\nThat th' unexperient gave the tempter place,\nWhich like a cherubin above them hover'd.\nWho, young and simple, would not be so lover'd?\nAy me! I fell; and yet do question make\nWhat I should do again for such a sake.


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'O, that infected moisture of his eye,\nO, that false fire which in his cheek so glow'd,\nO, that forced thunder from his heart did fly,\nO, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd,\nO, all that borrow'd motion seeming owed,\nWould yet again betray the fore-betray'd,\nAnd new pervert a reconciled maid!'


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Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,\nLive register'd upon our brazen tombs\nAnd then grace us in the disgrace of death;\nWhen, spite of cormorant devouring Time,\nThe endeavor of this present breath may buy\nThat honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge\nAnd make us heirs of all eternity.\nTherefore, brave conquerors,--for so you are,\nThat war against your own affections\nAnd the huge army of the world's desires,--\nOur late edict shall strongly stand in force:\nNavarre shall be the wonder of the world;\nOur court shall be a little Academe,\nStill and contemplative in living art.\nYou three, Biron, Dumain, and Longaville,\nHave sworn for three years' term to live with me\nMy fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes\nThat are recorded in this schedule here:\nYour oaths are pass'd; and now subscribe your names,\nThat his own hand may strike his honour down\nThat violates the smallest branch herein:\nIf you are arm'd to do as sworn to do,\nSubscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too.


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I am resolved; 'tis but a three years' fast:\nThe mind shall banquet, though the body pine:\nFat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits\nMake rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits.


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My loving lord, Dumain is mortified:\nThe grosser manner of these world's delights\nHe throws upon the gross world's baser slaves:\nTo love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die;\nWith all these living in philosophy.


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I can but say their protestation over;\nSo much, dear liege, I have already sworn,\nThat is, to live and study here three years.\nBut there are other strict observances;\nAs, not to see a woman in that term,\nWhich I hope well is not enrolled there;\nAnd one day in a week to touch no food\nAnd but one meal on every day beside,\nThe which I hope is not enrolled there;\nAnd then, to sleep but three hours in the night,\nAnd not be seen to wink of all the day--\nWhen I was wont to think no harm all night\nAnd make a dark night too of half the day--\nWhich I hope well is not enrolled there:\nO, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep,\nNot to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep!


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Let me say no, my liege, an if you please:\nI only swore to study with your grace\nAnd stay here in your court for three years' space.


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Come on, then; I will swear to study so,\nTo know the thing I am forbid to know:\nAs thus,--to study where I well may dine,\nWhen I to feast expressly am forbid;\nOr study where to meet some mistress fine,\nWhen mistresses from common sense are hid;\nOr, having sworn too hard a keeping oath,\nStudy to break it and not break my troth.\nIf study's gain be thus and this be so,\nStudy knows that which yet it doth not know:\nSwear me to this, and I will ne'er say no.


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Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain,\nWhich with pain purchased doth inherit pain:\nAs, painfully to pore upon a book\nTo seek the light of truth; while truth the while\nDoth falsely blind the eyesight of his look:\nLight seeking light doth light of light beguile:\nSo, ere you find where light in darkness lies,\nYour light grows dark by losing of your eyes.\nStudy me how to please the eye indeed\nBy fixing it upon a fairer eye,\nWho dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed\nAnd give him light that it was blinded by.\nStudy is like the heaven's glorious sun\nThat will not be deep-search'd with saucy looks:\nSmall have continual plodders ever won\nSave base authority from others' books\nThese earthly godfathers of heaven's lights\nThat give a name to every fixed star\nHave no more profit of their shining nights\nThan those that walk and wot not what they are.\nToo much to know is to know nought but fame;\nAnd every godfather can give a name.


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Well, say I am; why should proud summer boast\nBefore the birds have any cause to sing?\nWhy should I joy in any abortive birth?\nAt Christmas I no more desire a rose\nThan wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth;\nBut like of each thing that in season grows.\nSo you, to study now it is too late,\nClimb o'er the house to unlock the little gate.


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No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you:\nAnd though I have for barbarism spoke more\nThan for that angel knowledge you can say,\nYet confident I'll keep what I have swore\nAnd bide the penance of each three years' day.\nGive me the paper; let me read the same;\nAnd to the strict'st decrees I'll write my name.


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A dangerous law against gentility!\n[Reads]\n'Item, If any man be seen to talk with a woman\nwithin the term of three years, he shall endure such\npublic shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.'\nThis article, my liege, yourself must break;\nFor well you know here comes in embassy\nThe French king's daughter with yourself to speak--\nA maid of grace and complete majesty--\nAbout surrender up of Aquitaine\nTo her decrepit, sick and bedrid father:\nTherefore this article is made in vain,\nOr vainly comes the admired princess hither.


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So study evermore is overshot:\nWhile it doth study to have what it would\nIt doth forget to do the thing it should,\nAnd when it hath the thing it hunteth most,\n'Tis won as towns with fire, so won, so lost.


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Necessity will make us all forsworn\nThree thousand times within this three years' space;\nFor every man with his affects is born,\nNot by might master'd but by special grace:\nIf I break faith, this word shall speak for me;\nI am forsworn on 'mere necessity.'\nSo to the laws at large I write my name:\n[Subscribes]\nAnd he that breaks them in the least degree\nStands in attainder of eternal shame:\nSuggestions are to other as to me;\nBut I believe, although I seem so loath,\nI am the last that will last keep his oath.\nBut is there no quick recreation granted?


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Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted\nWith a refined traveller of Spain;\nA man in all the world's new fashion planted,\nThat hath a mint of phrases in his brain;\nOne whom the music of his own vain tongue\nDoth ravish like enchanting harmony;\nA man of complements, whom right and wrong\nHave chose as umpire of their mutiny:\nThis child of fancy, that Armado hight,\nFor interim to our studies shall relate\nIn high-born words the worth of many a knight\nFrom tawny Spain lost in the world's debate.\nHow you delight, my lords, I know not, I;\nBut, I protest, I love to hear him lie\nAnd I will use him for my minstrelsy.


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I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his\ngrace's tharborough: but I would see his own person\nin flesh and blood.


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The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta.\nThe manner of it is, I was taken with the manner.


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In manner and form following, sir; all those three:\nI was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with\nher upon the form, and taken following her into the\npark; which, put together, is in manner and form\nfollowing. Now, sir, for the manner,--it is the\nmanner of a man to speak to a woman: for the form,--\nin some form.


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[Reads] 'Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent and\nsole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's god,\nand body's fostering patron.'


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[Reads] 'So it is, besieged with sable-coloured\nmelancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour\nto the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving\nair; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to\nwalk. The time when. About the sixth hour; when\nbeasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down\nto that nourishment which is called supper: so much\nfor the time when. Now for the ground which; which,\nI mean, I walked upon: it is y-cleped thy park. Then\nfor the place where; where, I mean, I did encounter\nthat obscene and preposterous event, that draweth\nfrom my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which\nhere thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest;\nbut to the place where; it standeth north-north-east\nand by east from the west corner of thy curious-\nknotted garden: there did I see that low-spirited\nswain, that base minnow of thy mirth,'--


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[Reads] 'sorted and consorted, contrary to thy\nestablished proclaimed edict and continent canon,\nwhich with,--O, with--but with this I passion to say\nwherewith,--


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[Reads] 'with a child of our grandmother Eve, a\nfemale; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a\nwoman. Him I, as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on,\nhave sent to thee, to receive the meed of\npunishment, by thy sweet grace's officer, Anthony\nDull; a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and\nestimation.'


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[Reads] 'For Jaquenetta,--so is the weaker vessel\ncalled which I apprehended with the aforesaid\nswain,--I keep her as a vessel of the law's fury;\nand shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring\nher to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted\nand heart-burning heat of duty.\nDON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.'


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And Don Armado shall be your keeper.\nMy Lord Biron, see him deliver'd o'er:\nAnd go we, lords, to put in practise that\nWhich each to other hath so strongly sworn.


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I'll lay my head to any good man's hat,\nThese oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn.\nSirrah, come on.


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I suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is, I was\ntaken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true\ngirl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of\nprosperity! Affliction may one day smile again; and\ntill then, sit thee down, sorrow!


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I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton\nappertaining to thy young days, which we may\nnominate tender.


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Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here\nis three studied, ere ye'll thrice wink: and how\neasy it is to put 'years' to the word 'three,' and\nstudy three years in two words, the dancing horse\nwill tell you.


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I will hereupon confess I am in love: and as it is\nbase for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a\nbase wench. If drawing my sword against the humour\nof affection would deliver me from the reprobate\nthought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and\nransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised\ncourtesy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should\noutswear Cupid. Comfort, me, boy: what great men\nhave been in love?


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Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name\nmore; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good\nrepute and carriage.


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Samson, master: he was a man of good carriage, great\ncarriage, for he carried the town-gates on his back\nlike a porter: and he was in love.


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O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do\nexcel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in\ncarrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson's\nlove, my dear Moth?


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Green indeed is the colour of lovers; but to have a\nlove of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason\nfor it. He surely affected her for her wit.


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If she be made of white and red,\nHer faults will ne'er be known,\nFor blushing cheeks by faults are bred\nAnd fears by pale white shown:\nThen if she fear, or be to blame,\nBy this you shall not know,\nFor still her cheeks possess the same\nWhich native she doth owe.\nA dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of\nwhite and red.


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The world was very guilty of such a ballad some\nthree ages since: but I think now 'tis not to be\nfound; or, if it were, it would neither serve for\nthe writing nor the tune.


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I will have that subject newly writ o'er, that I may\nexample my digression by some mighty precedent.\nBoy, I do love that country girl that I took in the\npark with the rational hind Costard: she deserves well.


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Sir, the duke's pleasure is, that you keep Costard\nsafe: and you must suffer him to take no delight\nnor no penance; but a' must fast three days a week.\nFor this damsel, I must keep her at the park: she\nis allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well.


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Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon.\nIt is not for prisoners to be too silent in their\nwords; and therefore I will say nothing: I thank\nGod I have as little patience as another man; and\ntherefore I can be quiet.


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I do affect the very ground, which is base, where\nher shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which\nis basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn, which\nis a great argument of falsehood, if I love. And\nhow can that be true love which is falsely\nattempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil:\nthere is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so\ntempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was\nSolomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit.\nCupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules' club;\nand therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier.\nThe first and second cause will not serve my turn;\nthe passado he respects not, the duello he regards\nnot: his disgrace is to be called boy; but his\nglory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour! rust rapier!\nbe still, drum! for your manager is in love; yea,\nhe loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of rhyme,\nfor I am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit;\nwrite, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.


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[Exit]\n[Enter the PRINCESS of France, ROSALINE, MARIA,]\nKATHARINE, BOYET, Lords, and other Attendants]


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Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits:\nConsider who the king your father sends,\nTo whom he sends, and what's his embassy:\nYourself, held precious in the world's esteem,\nTo parley with the sole inheritor\nOf all perfections that a man may owe,\nMatchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight\nThan Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen.\nBe now as prodigal of all dear grace\nAs Nature was in making graces dear\nWhen she did starve the general world beside\nAnd prodigally gave them all to you.


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Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,\nNeeds not the painted flourish of your praise:\nBeauty is bought by judgement of the eye,\nNot utter'd by base sale of chapmen's tongues:\nI am less proud to hear you tell my worth\nThan you much willing to be counted wise\nIn spending your wit in the praise of mine.\nBut now to task the tasker: good Boyet,\nYou are not ignorant, all-telling fame\nDoth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow,\nTill painful study shall outwear three years,\nNo woman may approach his silent court:\nTherefore to's seemeth it a needful course,\nBefore we enter his forbidden gates,\nTo know his pleasure; and in that behalf,\nBold of your worthiness, we single you\nAs our best-moving fair solicitor.\nTell him, the daughter of the King of France,\nOn serious business, craving quick dispatch,\nImportunes personal conference with his grace:\nHaste, signify so much; while we attend,\nLike humble-visaged suitors, his high will.


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All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.\n[Exit BOYET]\nWho are the votaries, my loving lords,\nThat are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?


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I know him, madam: at a marriage-feast,\nBetween Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir\nOf Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized\nIn Normandy, saw I this Longaville:\nA man of sovereign parts he is esteem'd;\nWell fitted in arts, glorious in arms:\nNothing becomes him ill that he would well.\nThe only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,\nIf virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,\nIs a sharp wit matched with too blunt a will;\nWhose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills\nIt should none spare that come within his power.


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The young Dumain, a well-accomplished youth,\nOf all that virtue love for virtue loved:\nMost power to do most harm, least knowing ill;\nFor he hath wit to make an ill shape good,\nAnd shape to win grace though he had no wit.\nI saw him at the Duke Alencon's once;\nAnd much too little of that good I saw\nIs my report to his great worthiness.


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Another of these students at that time\nWas there with him, if I have heard a truth.\nBiron they call him; but a merrier man,\nWithin the limit of becoming mirth,\nI never spent an hour's talk withal:\nHis eye begets occasion for his wit;\nFor every object that the one doth catch\nThe other turns to a mirth-moving jest,\nWhich his fair tongue, conceit's expositor,\nDelivers in such apt and gracious words\nThat aged ears play truant at his tales\nAnd younger hearings are quite ravished;\nSo sweet and voluble is his discourse.


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God bless my ladies! are they all in love,\nThat every one her own hath garnished\nWith such bedecking ornaments of praise?


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Navarre had notice of your fair approach;\nAnd he and his competitors in oath\nWere all address'd to meet you, gentle lady,\nBefore I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt:\nHe rather means to lodge you in the field,\nLike one that comes here to besiege his court,\nThan seek a dispensation for his oath,\nTo let you enter his unpeopled house.\nHere comes Navarre.\n[Enter FERDINAND, LONGAVILLE, DUMAIN, BIRON, and]\nAttendants]


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'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have\nnot yet: the roof of this court is too high to be\nyours; and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine.


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Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise,\nWhere now his knowledge must prove ignorance.\nI hear your grace hath sworn out house-keeping:\nTis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord,\nAnd sin to break it.\nBut pardon me. I am too sudden-bold:\nTo teach a teacher ill beseemeth me.\nVouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming,\nAnd suddenly resolve me in my suit.


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Madam, your father here doth intimate\nThe payment of a hundred thousand crowns;\nBeing but the one half of an entire sum\nDisbursed by my father in his wars.\nBut say that he or we, as neither have,\nReceived that sum, yet there remains unpaid\nA hundred thousand more; in surety of the which,\nOne part of Aquitaine is bound to us,\nAlthough not valued to the money's worth.\nIf then the king your father will restore\nBut that one half which is unsatisfied,\nWe will give up our right in Aquitaine,\nAnd hold fair friendship with his majesty.\nBut that, it seems, he little purposeth,\nFor here he doth demand to have repaid\nA hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,\nOn payment of a hundred thousand crowns,\nTo have his title live in Aquitaine;\nWhich we much rather had depart withal\nAnd have the money by our father lent\nThan Aquitaine so gelded as it is.\nDear Princess, were not his requests so far\nFrom reason's yielding, your fair self should make\nA yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast\nAnd go well satisfied to France again.


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You do the king my father too much wrong\nAnd wrong the reputation of your name,\nIn so unseeming to confess receipt\nOf that which hath so faithfully been paid.


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We arrest your word.\nBoyet, you can produce acquittances\nFor such a sum from special officers\nOf Charles his father.


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So please your grace, the packet is not come\nWhere that and other specialties are bound:\nTo-morrow you shall have a sight of them.


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It shall suffice me: at which interview\nAll liberal reason I will yield unto.\nMeantime receive such welcome at my hand\nAs honour without breach of honour may\nMake tender of to thy true worthiness:\nYou may not come, fair princess, in my gates;\nBut here without you shall be so received\nAs you shall deem yourself lodged in my heart,\nThough so denied fair harbour in my house.\nYour own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell:\nTo-morrow shall we visit you again.


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Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree:\nThis civil war of wits were much better used\nOn Navarre and his book-men; for here 'tis abused.


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If my observation, which very seldom lies,\nBy the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes,\nDeceive me not now, Navarre is infected.


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Why, all his behaviors did make their retire\nTo the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire:\nHis heart, like an agate, with your print impress'd,\nProud with his form, in his eye pride express'd:\nHis tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,\nDid stumble with haste in his eyesight to be;\nAll senses to that sense did make their repair,\nTo feel only looking on fairest of fair:\nMethought all his senses were lock'd in his eye,\nAs jewels in crystal for some prince to buy;\nWho, tendering their own worth from where they were glass'd,\nDid point you to buy them, along as you pass'd:\nHis face's own margent did quote such amazes\nThat all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes.\nI'll give you Aquitaine and all that is his,\nAn you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.


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But to speak that in words which his eye hath\ndisclosed.\nI only have made a mouth of his eye,\nBy adding a tongue which I know will not lie.


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Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key,\ngive enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately\nhither: I must employ him in a letter to my love.


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No, my complete master: but to jig off a tune at\nthe tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour\nit with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and\nsing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you\nswallowed love with singing love, sometime through\nthe nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling\nlove; with your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop of\nyour eyes; with your arms crossed on your thin-belly\ndoublet like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in\nyour pocket like a man after the old painting; and\nkeep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away.\nThese are complements, these are humours; these\nbetray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without\nthese; and make them men of note--do you note\nme?--that most are affected to these.


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No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your\nlove perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love?


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A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon\nthe instant: by heart you love her, because your\nheart cannot come by her; in heart you love her,\nbecause your heart is in love with her; and out of\nheart you love her, being out of heart that you\ncannot enjoy her.


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Sweet smoke of rhetoric!\nHe reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he:\nI shoot thee at the swain.


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A most acute juvenal; voluble and free of grace!\nBy thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face:\nMost rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.\nMy herald is return'd.


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No enigma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the\nmail, sir: O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain! no\nl'envoy, no l'envoy; no salve, sir, but a plantain!


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By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly\nthought my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes\nme to ridiculous smiling. O, pardon me, my stars!\nDoth the inconsiderate take salve for l'envoy, and\nthe word l'envoy for a salve?


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No, page: it is an epilogue or discourse, to make plain\nSome obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.\nI will example it:\nThe fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,\nWere still at odds, being but three.\nThere's the moral. Now the l'envoy.


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Until the goose came out of door,\nAnd stay'd the odds by adding four.\nNow will I begin your moral, and do you follow with\nmy l'envoy.\nThe fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,\nWere still at odds, being but three.


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The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's flat.\nSir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat.\nTo sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose:\nLet me see; a fat l'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose.


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True, and I for a plantain: thus came your\nargument in;\nThen the boy's fat l'envoy, the goose that you bought;\nAnd he ended the market.


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Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I will speak that l'envoy:\nI Costard, running out, that was safely within,\nFell over the threshold and broke my shin.


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By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty,\nenfreedoming thy person; thou wert immured,\nrestrained, captivated, bound.


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I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and,\nin lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this:\nbear this significant\n[Giving a letter]\nto the country maid Jaquenetta:\nthere is remuneration; for the best ward of mine\nhonour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow.


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My sweet ounce of man's flesh! my incony Jew!\n[Exit MOTH]\nNow will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration!\nO, that's the Latin word for three farthings: three\nfarthings--remuneration.--'What's the price of this\ninkle?'--'One penny.'--'No, I'll give you a\nremuneration:' why, it carries it. Remuneration!\nwhy, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will\nnever buy and sell out of this word.


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Stay, slave; I must employ thee:\nAs thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,\nDo one thing for me that I shall entreat.


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It must be done this afternoon.\nHark, slave, it is but this:\nThe princess comes to hunt here in the park,\nAnd in her train there is a gentle lady;\nWhen tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,\nAnd Rosaline they call her: ask for her;\nAnd to her white hand see thou do commend\nThis seal'd-up counsel. There's thy guerdon; go.


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Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration,\na'leven-pence farthing better: most sweet gardon! I\nwill do it sir, in print. Gardon! Remuneration!


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And I, forsooth, in love! I, that have been love's whip;\nA very beadle to a humorous sigh;\nA critic, nay, a night-watch constable;\nA domineering pedant o'er the boy;\nThan whom no mortal so magnificent!\nThis whimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy;\nThis senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;\nRegent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,\nThe anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,\nLiege of all loiterers and malcontents,\nDread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,\nSole imperator and great general\nOf trotting 'paritors:--O my little heart:--\nAnd I to be a corporal of his field,\nAnd wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!\nWhat, I! I love! I sue! I seek a wife!\nA woman, that is like a German clock,\nStill a-repairing, ever out of frame,\nAnd never going aright, being a watch,\nBut being watch'd that it may still go right!\nNay, to be perjured, which is worst of all;\nAnd, among three, to love the worst of all;\nA wightly wanton with a velvet brow,\nWith two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes;\nAy, and by heaven, one that will do the deed\nThough Argus were her eunuch and her guard:\nAnd I to sigh for her! to watch for her!\nTo pray for her! Go to; it is a plague\nThat Cupid will impose for my neglect\nOf his almighty dreadful little might.\nWell, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue and groan:\nSome men must love my lady and some Joan.


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Whoe'er a' was, a' show'd a mounting mind.\nWell, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch:\nOn Saturday we will return to France.\nThen, forester, my friend, where is the bush\nThat we must stand and play the murderer in?


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Nay, never paint me now:\nWhere fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.\nHere, good my glass, take this for telling true:\nFair payment for foul words is more than due.


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See see, my beauty will be saved by merit!\nO heresy in fair, fit for these days!\nA giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.\nBut come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill,\nAnd shooting well is then accounted ill.\nThus will I save my credit in the shoot:\nNot wounding, pity would not let me do't;\nIf wounding, then it was to show my skill,\nThat more for praise than purpose meant to kill.\nAnd out of question so it is sometimes,\nGlory grows guilty of detested crimes,\nWhen, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part,\nWe bend to that the working of the heart;\nAs I for praise alone now seek to spill\nThe poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill.


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Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty\nOnly for praise sake, when they strive to be\nLords o'er their lords?


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The thickest and the tallest! it is so; truth is truth.\nAn your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,\nOne o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit.\nAre not you the chief woman? you are the thickest here.


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O, thy letter, thy letter! he's a good friend of mine:\nStand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve;\nBreak up this capon.


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'By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible;\ntrue, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that\nthou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful\nthan beauteous, truer than truth itself, have\ncommiseration on thy heroical vassal! The\nmagnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set\neye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar\nZenelophon; and he it was that might rightly say,\nVeni, vidi, vici; which to annothanize in the\nvulgar,--O base and obscure vulgar!--videlicet, He\ncame, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw two;\novercame, three. Who came? the king: why did he\ncome? to see: why did he see? to overcome: to\nwhom came he? to the beggar: what saw he? the\nbeggar: who overcame he? the beggar. The\nconclusion is victory: on whose side? the king's.\nThe captive is enriched: on whose side? the\nbeggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose\nside? the king's: no, on both in one, or one in\nboth. I am the king; for so stands the comparison:\nthou the beggar; for so witnesseth thy lowliness.\nShall I command thy love? I may: shall I enforce\nthy love? I could: shall I entreat thy love? I\nwill. What shalt thou exchange for rags? robes;\nfor tittles? titles; for thyself? me. Thus,\nexpecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot,\nmy eyes on thy picture. and my heart on thy every\npart. Thine, in the dearest design of industry,\nDON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.'\nThus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar\n'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey.\nSubmissive fall his princely feet before,\nAnd he from forage will incline to play:\nBut if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then?\nFood for his rage, repasture for his den.


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What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?\nWhat vane? what weathercock? did you ever hear better?


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This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court;\nA phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport\nTo the prince and his bookmates.


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Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.\n[To ROSALINE]\nHere, sweet, put up this: 'twill be thine another day.


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My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry,\nHang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.\nFinely put on!


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Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was\na man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as\ntouching the hit it?


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So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a\nwoman when Queen Guinover of Britain was a little\nwench, as touching the hit it.


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A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady!\nLet the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be.


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By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown!\nLord, Lord, how the ladies and I have put him down!\nO' my troth, most sweet jests! most incony\nvulgar wit!\nWhen it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it\nwere, so fit.\nArmado o' th' one side,--O, a most dainty man!\nTo see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan!\nTo see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a'\nwill swear!\nAnd his page o' t' other side, that handful of wit!\nAh, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit!\nSola, sola!


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The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe\nas the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in\nthe ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven;\nand anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra,\nthe soil, the land, the earth.


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Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly\nvaried, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I\nassure ye, it was a buck of the first head.


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Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of\ninsinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of\nexplication; facere, as it were, replication, or\nrather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his\ninclination, after his undressed, unpolished,\nuneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather,\nunlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, to\ninsert again my haud credo for a deer.


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Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred\nin a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he\nhath not drunk ink: his intellect is not\nreplenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in\nthe duller parts:\nAnd such barren plants are set before us, that we\nthankful should be,\nWhich we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that\ndo fructify in us more than he.\nFor as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool,\nSo were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school:\nBut omne bene, say I; being of an old father's mind,\nMany can brook the weather that love not the wind.


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You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit\nWhat was a month old at Cain's birth, that's not five\nweeks old as yet?


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The moon was a month old when Adam was no more,\nAnd raught not to five weeks when he came to\nfive-score.\nThe allusion holds in the exchange.


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And I say, the pollusion holds in the exchange; for\nthe moon is never but a month old: and I say beside\nthat, 'twas a pricket that the princess killed.


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Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph\non the death of the deer? And, to humour the\nignorant, call I the deer the princess killed a pricket.


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I will something affect the letter, for it argues facility.\nThe preyful princess pierced and prick'd a pretty\npleasing pricket;\nSome say a sore; but not a sore, till now made\nsore with shooting.\nThe dogs did yell: put L to sore, then sorel jumps\nfrom thicket;\nOr pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting.\nIf sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores\none sorel.\nOf one sore I an hundred make by adding but one more L.


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This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a\nfoolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures,\nshapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions,\nrevolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of\nmemory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and\ndelivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the\ngift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am\nthankful for it.


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Sir, I praise the Lord for you; and so may my\nparishioners; for their sons are well tutored by\nyou, and their daughters profit very greatly under\nyou: you are a good member of the commonwealth.


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Mehercle, if their sons be ingenuous, they shall\nwant no instruction; if their daughters be capable,\nI will put it to them: but vir sapit qui pauca\nloquitur; a soul feminine saluteth us.


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Piercing a hogshead! a good lustre of conceit in a\ntuft of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough\nfor a swine: 'tis pretty; it is well.


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Good master Parson, be so good as read me this\nletter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me\nfrom Don Armado: I beseech you, read it.


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Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra\nRuminat,--and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan! I\nmay speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice;\nVenetia, Venetia,\nChi non ti vede non ti pretia.\nOld Mantuan, old Mantuan! who understandeth thee\nnot, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa.\nUnder pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather,\nas Horace says in his--What, my soul, verses?


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[Reads]\nIf love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?\nAh, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd!\nThough to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove:\nThose thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like\nosiers bow'd.\nStudy his bias leaves and makes his book thine eyes,\nWhere all those pleasures live that art would\ncomprehend:\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:\nThy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder,\nWhich not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.\nCelestial as thou art, O, pardon, love, this wrong,\nThat sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.


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You find not the apostraphas, and so miss the\naccent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are\nonly numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy,\nfacility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret.\nOvidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso,\nbut for smelling out the odouriferous flowers of\nfancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing:\nso doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper,\nthe tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin,\nwas this directed to you?


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I will overglance the superscript: 'To the\nsnow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady\nRosaline.' I will look again on the intellect of\nthe letter, for the nomination of the party writing\nto the person written unto: 'Your ladyship's in all\ndesired employment, BIRON.' Sir Nathaniel, this\nBiron is one of the votaries with the king; and here\nhe hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger\nqueen's, which accidentally, or by the way of\nprogression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my\nsweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the\nking: it may concern much. Stay not thy\ncompliment; I forgive thy duty; adieu.


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Sir tell me not of the father; I do fear colourable\ncolours. But to return to the verses: did they\nplease you, Sir Nathaniel?


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I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil\nof mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please\nyou to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my\nprivilege I have with the parents of the foresaid\nchild or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I\nwill prove those verses to be very unlearned,\nneither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention: I\nbeseech your society.


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And, certes, the text most infallibly concludes it.\n[To DULL]\nSir, I do invite you too; you shall not\nsay me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at\ntheir game, and we will to our recreation.


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The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing\nmyself: they have pitched a toil; I am toiling in\na pitch,--pitch that defiles: defile! a foul\nword. Well, set thee down, sorrow! for so they say\nthe fool said, and so say I, and I the fool: well\nproved, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as\nAjax: it kills sheep; it kills me, I a sheep:\nwell proved again o' my side! I will not love: if\nI do, hang me; i' faith, I will not. O, but her\neye,--by this light, but for her eye, I would not\nlove her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing\nin the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By\nheaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme\nand to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme,\nand here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my\nsonnets already: the clown bore it, the fool sent\nit, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter\nfool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care\na pin, if the other three were in. Here comes one\nwith a paper: God give him grace to groan!


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[Aside] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid:\nthou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the\nleft pap. In faith, secrets!


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[Reads]\nSo sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not\nTo those fresh morning drops upon the rose,\nAs thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote\nThe night of dew that on my cheeks down flows:\nNor shines the silver moon one half so bright\nThrough the transparent bosom of the deep,\nAs doth thy face through tears of mine give light;\nThou shinest in every tear that I do weep:\nNo drop but as a coach doth carry thee;\nSo ridest thou triumphing in my woe.\nDo but behold the tears that swell in me,\nAnd they thy glory through my grief will show:\nBut do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep\nMy tears for glasses, and still make me weep.\nO queen of queens! how far dost thou excel,\nNo thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell.\nHow shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper:\nSweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here?\n[Steps aside]\nWhat, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear.


