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Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.\nI have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,\nThat almost freezes up the heat of life:\nI'll call them back again to comfort me:\nNurse! What should she do here?\nMy dismal scene I needs must act alone.\nCome, vial.\nWhat if this mixture do not work at all?\nShall I be married then to-morrow morning?\nNo, no: this shall forbid it: lie thou there.\n[Laying down her dagger]\nWhat if it be a poison, which the friar\nSubtly hath minister'd to have me dead,\nLest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd,\nBecause he married me before to Romeo?\nI fear it is: and yet, methinks, it should not,\nFor he hath still been tried a holy man.\nHow if, when I am laid into the tomb,\nI wake before the time that Romeo\nCome to redeem me? there's a fearful point!\nShall I not, then, be stifled in the vault,\nTo whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,\nAnd there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?\nOr, if I live, is it not very like,\nThe horrible conceit of death and night,\nTogether with the terror of the place,--\nAs in a vault, an ancient receptacle,\nWhere, for these many hundred years, the bones\nOf all my buried ancestors are packed:\nWhere bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,\nLies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,\nAt some hours in the night spirits resort;--\nAlack, alack, is it not like that I,\nSo early waking, what with loathsome smells,\nAnd shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth,\nThat living mortals, hearing them, run mad:--\nO, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,\nEnvironed with all these hideous fears?\nAnd madly play with my forefather's joints?\nAnd pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?\nAnd, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,\nAs with a club, dash out my desperate brains?\nO, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost\nSeeking out Romeo, that did spit his body\nUpon a rapier's point: stay, Tybalt, stay!\nRomeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.


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Come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock hath crow'd,\nThe curfew-bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock:\nLook to the baked meats, good Angelica:\nSpare not for the cost.


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Make haste, make haste.\n[Exit First Servant]\nSirrah, fetch drier logs:\nCall Peter, he will show thee where they are.


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Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha!\nThou shalt be logger-head. Good faith, 'tis day:\nThe county will be here with music straight,\nFor so he said he would: I hear him near.\n[Music within]\nNurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say!\n[Re-enter Nurse]\nGo waken Juliet, go and trim her up;\nI'll go and chat with Paris: hie, make haste,\nMake haste; the bridegroom he is come already:\nMake haste, I say.


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Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I warrant her, she:\nWhy, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed!\nWhy, love, I say! madam! sweet-heart! why, bride!\nWhat, not a word? you take your pennyworths now;\nSleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,\nThe County Paris hath set up his rest,\nThat you shall rest but little. God forgive me,\nMarry, and amen, how sound is she asleep!\nI must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam!\nAy, let the county take you in your bed;\nHe'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be?\n[Undraws the curtains]\nWhat, dress'd! and in your clothes! and down again!\nI must needs wake you; Lady! lady! lady!\nAlas, alas! Help, help! my lady's dead!\nO, well-a-day, that ever I was born!\nSome aqua vitae, ho! My lord! my lady!


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O me, O me! My child, my only life,\nRevive, look up, or I will die with thee!\nHelp, help! Call help.


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Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she's cold:\nHer blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;\nLife and these lips have long been separated:\nDeath lies on her like an untimely frost\nUpon the sweetest flower of all the field.


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Ready to go, but never to return.\nO son! the night before thy wedding-day\nHath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies,\nFlower as she was, deflowered by him.\nDeath is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;\nMy daughter he hath wedded: I will die,\nAnd leave him all; life, living, all is Death's.


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Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!\nMost miserable hour that e'er time saw\nIn lasting labour of his pilgrimage!\nBut one, poor one, one poor and loving child,\nBut one thing to rejoice and solace in,\nAnd cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight!


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O woe! O woful, woful, woful day!\nMost lamentable day, most woful day,\nThat ever, ever, I did yet behold!\nO day! O day! O day! O hateful day!\nNever was seen so black a day as this:\nO woful day, O woful day!


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Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!\nMost detestable death, by thee beguil'd,\nBy cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!\nO love! O life! not life, but love in death!


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Despised, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!\nUncomfortable time, why camest thou now\nTo murder, murder our solemnity?\nO child! O child! my soul, and not my child!\nDead art thou! Alack! my child is dead;\nAnd with my child my joys are buried.


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Peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives not\nIn these confusions. Heaven and yourself\nHad part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,\nAnd all the better is it for the maid:\nYour part in her you could not keep from death,\nBut heaven keeps his part in eternal life.\nThe most you sought was her promotion;\nFor 'twas your heaven she should be advanced:\nAnd weep ye now, seeing she is advanced\nAbove the clouds, as high as heaven itself?\nO, in this love, you love your child so ill,\nThat you run mad, seeing that she is well:\nShe's not well married that lives married long;\nBut she's best married that dies married young.\nDry up your tears, and stick your rosemary\nOn this fair corse; and, as the custom is,\nIn all her best array bear her to church:\nFor though fond nature bids us an lament,\nYet nature's tears are reason's merriment.


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All things that we ordained festival,\nTurn from their office to black funeral;\nOur instruments to melancholy bells,\nOur wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,\nOur solemn hymns to sullen dirges change,\nOur bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,\nAnd all things change them to the contrary.


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Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;\nAnd go, Sir Paris; every one prepare\nTo follow this fair corse unto her grave:\nThe heavens do lour upon you for some ill;\nMove them no more by crossing their high will.


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Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease, Heart's\nease:' O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'


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O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My\nheart is full of woe:' O, play me some merry dump,\nto comfort me.


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Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on\nyour pate. I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you,\nI'll fa you; do you note me?


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Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you\nwith an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer\nme like men:\n'When griping grief the heart doth wound,\nAnd doleful dumps the mind oppress,\nThen music with her silver sound'--\nwhy 'silver sound'? why 'music with her silver\nsound'? What say you, Simon Catling?


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O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say\nfor you. It is 'music with her silver sound,'\nbecause musicians have no gold for sounding:\n'Then music with her silver sound\nWith speedy help doth lend redress.'


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If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand:\nMy bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom'd spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead--\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave\nto think!--\nAnd breathed such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I revived, and was an emperor.\nAh me! how sweet is love itself possess'd,\nWhen but love's shadows are so rich in joy!\n[Enter BALTHASAR, booted]\nNews from Verona!--How now, Balthasar!\nDost thou not bring me letters from the friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? that I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill, if she be well.


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Then she is well, and nothing can be ill:\nHer body sleeps in Capel's monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred's vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you:\nO, pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.


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Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!\nThou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.


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I do beseech you, sir, have patience:\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.


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Tush, thou art deceived:\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the friar?


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No matter: get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight.\n[Exit BALTHASAR]\nWell, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.\nLet's see for means: O mischief, thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men!\nI do remember an apothecary,--\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,--which late I noted\nIn tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples; meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones:\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff'd, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread and old cakes of roses,\nWere thinly scatter'd, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said\n'An if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.'\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need;\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! apothecary!


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Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor:\nHold, there is forty ducats: let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead\nAnd that the trunk may be discharged of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fired\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.


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Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back;\nThe world is not thy friend nor the world's law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it, and take this.


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Put this in any liquid thing you will,\nAnd drink it off; and, if you had the strength\nOf twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.


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There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,\nDoing more murders in this loathsome world,\nThan these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.\nI sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.\nFarewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh.\nCome, cordial and not poison, go with me\nTo Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.


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This same should be the voice of Friar John.\nWelcome from Mantua: what says Romeo?\nOr, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.


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Going to find a bare-foot brother out\nOne of our order, to associate me,\nHere in this city visiting the sick,\nAnd finding him, the searchers of the town,\nSuspecting that we both were in a house\nWhere the infectious pestilence did reign,\nSeal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth;\nSo that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd.


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I could not send it,--here it is again,--\nNor get a messenger to bring it thee,\nSo fearful were they of infection.


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Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood,\nThe letter was not nice but full of charge\nOf dear import, and the neglecting it\nMay do much danger. Friar John, go hence;\nGet me an iron crow, and bring it straight\nUnto my cell.


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Now must I to the monument alone;\nWithin three hours will fair Juliet wake:\nShe will beshrew me much that Romeo\nHath had no notice of these accidents;\nBut I will write again to Mantua,\nAnd keep her at my cell till Romeo come;\nPoor living corse, closed in a dead man's tomb!


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Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand aloof:\nYet put it out, for I would not be seen.\nUnder yond yew-trees lay thee all along,\nHolding thine ear close to the hollow ground;\nSo shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,\nBeing loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,\nBut thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me,\nAs signal that thou hear'st something approach.\nGive me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.


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Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew,--\nO woe! thy canopy is dust and stones;--\nWhich with sweet water nightly I will dew,\nOr, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans:\nThe obsequies that I for thee will keep\nNightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.\n[The Page whistles]\nThe boy gives warning something doth approach.\nWhat cursed foot wanders this way to-night,\nTo cross my obsequies and true love's rite?\nWhat with a torch! muffle me, night, awhile.


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Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron.\nHold, take this letter; early in the morning\nSee thou deliver it to my lord and father.\nGive me the light: upon thy life, I charge thee,\nWhate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloof,\nAnd do not interrupt me in my course.\nWhy I descend into this bed of death,\nIs partly to behold my lady's face;\nBut chiefly to take thence from her dead finger\nA precious ring, a ring that I must use\nIn dear employment: therefore hence, be gone:\nBut if thou, jealous, dost return to pry\nIn what I further shall intend to do,\nBy heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint\nAnd strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs:\nThe time and my intents are savage-wild,\nMore fierce and more inexorable far\nThan empty tigers or the roaring sea.


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So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that:\nLive, and be prosperous: and farewell, good fellow.


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Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,\nGorged with the dearest morsel of the earth,\nThus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,\nAnd, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food!


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This is that banish'd haughty Montague,\nThat murder'd my love's cousin, with which grief,\nIt is supposed, the fair creature died;\nAnd here is come to do some villanous shame\nTo the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.\n[Comes forward]\nStop thy unhallow'd toil, vile Montague!\nCan vengeance be pursued further than death?\nCondemned villain, I do apprehend thee:\nObey, and go with me; for thou must die.


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I must indeed; and therefore came I hither.\nGood gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;\nFly hence, and leave me: think upon these gone;\nLet them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,\nPut not another sin upon my head,\nBy urging me to fury: O, be gone!\nBy heaven, I love thee better than myself;\nFor I come hither arm'd against myself:\nStay not, be gone; live, and hereafter say,\nA madman's mercy bade thee run away.


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In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.\nMercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris!\nWhat said my man, when my betossed soul\nDid not attend him as we rode? I think\nHe told me Paris should have married Juliet:\nSaid he not so? or did I dream it so?\nOr am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,\nTo think it was so? O, give me thy hand,\nOne writ with me in sour misfortune's book!\nI'll bury thee in a triumphant grave;\nA grave? O no! a lantern, slaughter'd youth,\nFor here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes\nThis vault a feasting presence full of light.\nDeath, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd.\n[Laying PARIS in the tomb]\nHow oft when men are at the point of death\nHave they been merry! which their keepers call\nA lightning before death: O, how may I\nCall this a lightning? O my love! my wife!\nDeath, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,\nHath had no power yet upon thy beauty:\nThou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet\nIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,\nAnd death's pale flag is not advanced there.\nTybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?\nO, what more favour can I do to thee,\nThan with that hand that cut thy youth in twain\nTo sunder his that was thine enemy?\nForgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet,\nWhy art thou yet so fair? shall I believe\nThat unsubstantial death is amorous,\nAnd that the lean abhorred monster keeps\nThee here in dark to be his paramour?\nFor fear of that, I still will stay with thee;\nAnd never from this palace of dim night\nDepart again: here, here will I remain\nWith worms that are thy chamber-maids; O, here\nWill I set up my everlasting rest,\nAnd shake the yoke of inauspicious stars\nFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!\nArms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you\nThe doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss\nA dateless bargain to engrossing death!\nCome, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!\nThou desperate pilot, now at once run on\nThe dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!\nHere's to my love!\n[Drinks]\nO true apothecary!\nThy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.\n[Dies]\n[Enter, at the other end of the churchyard, FRIAR]\nLAURENCE, with a lantern, crow, and spade]


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Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,\nWhat torch is yond, that vainly lends his light\nTo grubs and eyeless skulls? as I discern,\nIt burneth in the Capel's monument.


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I dare not, sir\nMy master knows not but I am gone hence;\nAnd fearfully did menace me with death,\nIf I did stay to look on his intents.


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As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,\nI dreamt my master and another fought,\nAnd that my master slew him.


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Romeo!\n[Advances]\nAlack, alack, what blood is this, which stains\nThe stony entrance of this sepulchre?\nWhat mean these masterless and gory swords\nTo lie discolour'd by this place of peace?\n[Enters the tomb]\nRomeo! O, pale! Who else? what, Paris too?\nAnd steep'd in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour\nIs guilty of this lamentable chance!\nThe lady stirs.


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O comfortable friar! where is my lord?\nI do remember well where I should be,\nAnd there I am. Where is my Romeo?


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I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest\nOf death, contagion, and unnatural sleep:\nA greater power than we can contradict\nHath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.\nThy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;\nAnd Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee\nAmong a sisterhood of holy nuns:\nStay not to question, for the watch is coming;\nCome, go, good Juliet,\n[Noise again]\nI dare no longer stay.


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Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.\n[Exit FRIAR LAURENCE]\nWhat's here? a cup, closed in my true love's hand?\nPoison, I see, hath been his timeless end:\nO churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop\nTo help me after? I will kiss thy lips;\nHaply some poison yet doth hang on them,\nTo make die with a restorative.\n[Kisses him]\nThy lips are warm.


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Yea, noise? then I'll be brief. O happy dagger!\n[Snatching ROMEO's dagger]\nThis is thy sheath;\n[Stabs herself]\nthere rust, and let me die.


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The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard:\nGo, some of you, whoe'er you find attach.\nPitiful sight! here lies the county slain,\nAnd Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,\nWho here hath lain these two days buried.\nGo, tell the prince: run to the Capulets:\nRaise up the Montagues: some others search:\nWe see the ground whereon these woes do lie;\nBut the true ground of all these piteous woes\nWe cannot without circumstance descry.


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Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs and weeps:\nWe took this mattock and this spade from him,\nAs he was coming from this churchyard side.


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The people in the street cry Romeo,\nSome Juliet, and some Paris; and all run,\nWith open outcry toward our monument.


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Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;\nAnd Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,\nWarm and new kill'd.


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Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man;\nWith instruments upon them, fit to open\nThese dead men's tombs.


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O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!\nThis dagger hath mista'en--for, lo, his house\nIs empty on the back of Montague,--\nAnd it mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom!


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Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night;\nGrief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath:\nWhat further woe conspires against mine age?


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Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,\nTill we can clear these ambiguities,\nAnd know their spring, their head, their\ntrue descent;\nAnd then will I be general of your woes,\nAnd lead you even to death: meantime forbear,\nAnd let mischance be slave to patience.\nBring forth the parties of suspicion.


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I am the greatest, able to do least,\nYet most suspected, as the time and place\nDoth make against me of this direful murder;\nAnd here I stand, both to impeach and purge\nMyself condemned and myself excused.


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I will be brief, for my short date of breath\nIs not so long as is a tedious tale.\nRomeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet;\nAnd she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife:\nI married them; and their stol'n marriage-day\nWas Tybalt's dooms-day, whose untimely death\nBanish'd the new-made bridegroom from the city,\nFor whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined.\nYou, to remove that siege of grief from her,\nBetroth'd and would have married her perforce\nTo County Paris: then comes she to me,\nAnd, with wild looks, bid me devise some mean\nTo rid her from this second marriage,\nOr in my cell there would she kill herself.\nThen gave I her, so tutor'd by my art,\nA sleeping potion; which so took effect\nAs I intended, for it wrought on her\nThe form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo,\nThat he should hither come as this dire night,\nTo help to take her from her borrow'd grave,\nBeing the time the potion's force should cease.\nBut he which bore my letter, Friar John,\nWas stay'd by accident, and yesternight\nReturn'd my letter back. Then all alone\nAt the prefixed hour of her waking,\nCame I to take her from her kindred's vault;\nMeaning to keep her closely at my cell,\nTill I conveniently could send to Romeo:\nBut when I came, some minute ere the time\nOf her awaking, here untimely lay\nThe noble Paris and true Romeo dead.\nShe wakes; and I entreated her come forth,\nAnd bear this work of heaven with patience:\nBut then a noise did scare me from the tomb;\nAnd she, too desperate, would not go with me,\nBut, as it seems, did violence on herself.\nAll this I know; and to the marriage\nHer nurse is privy: and, if aught in this\nMiscarried by my fault, let my old life\nBe sacrificed, some hour before his time,\nUnto the rigour of severest law.


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I brought my master news of Juliet's death;\nAnd then in post he came from Mantua\nTo this same place, to this same monument.\nThis letter he early bid me give his father,\nAnd threatened me with death, going in the vault,\nI departed not and left him there.


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Give me the letter; I will look on it.\nWhere is the county's page, that raised the watch?\nSirrah, what made your master in this place?


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He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave;\nAnd bid me stand aloof, and so I did:\nAnon comes one with light to ope the tomb;\nAnd by and by my master drew on him;\nAnd then I ran away to call the watch.


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This letter doth make good the friar's words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death:\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet! Montague!\nSee, what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.\nAnd I for winking at your discords too\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd.


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But I can give thee more:\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold;\nThat while Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.


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A glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things;\nSome shall be pardon'd, and some punished:\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.


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From fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\n  Pity the world, or else this glutton be,\n  To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.


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When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nWere an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\n  This were to be new made when thou art old,\n  And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.


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Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nCalls back the lovely April of her prime:\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\n  But if thou live, remember'd not to be,\n  Die single, and thine image dies with thee.


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Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\n  Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\n  Which, used, lives th' executor to be.


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Those hours, that with gentle work did frame\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel:\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nSap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\n  But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\n  Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.


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Then let not winter's ragged hand deface\nIn thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nThat use is not forbidden usury,\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nOr ten times happier, be it ten for one;\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nThen what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\n  Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\n  To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.


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Lo! in the orient when the gracious light\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nAnd having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,\nResembling strong youth in his middle age,\nyet mortal looks adore his beauty still,\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nLike feeble age, he reeleth from the day,\nThe eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\n  So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,\n  Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.


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Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\n  Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\n  Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'


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Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nThe world will be thy widow and still weep\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\n  No love toward others in that bosom sits\n  That on himself such murderous shame commits.


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For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nWho for thyself art so unprovident.\nGrant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,\nBut that thou none lovest is most evident;\nFor thou art so possess'd with murderous hate\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nO, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\nOr to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:\n  Make thee another self, for love of me,\n  That beauty still may live in thine or thee.


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As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;\nAnd that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nAnd threescore year would make the world away.\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nLook, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;\nWhich bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:\n  She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\n  Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.


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When I do count the clock that tells the time,\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard,\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nSince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\n  And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\n  Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.


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O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nFind no determination: then you were\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nWho lets so fair a house fall to decay,\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\n  O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\n  You had a father: let your son say so.


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Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nBut not to tell of good or evil luck,\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nAs truth and beauty shall together thrive,\nIf from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;\n  Or else of thee this I prognosticate:\n  Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.


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When I consider every thing that grows\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\nWhen I perceive that men as plants increase,\nCheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nThen the conceit of this inconstant stay\nSets you most rich in youth before my sight,\nWhere wasteful Time debateth with Decay,\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\n  And all in war with Time for love of you,\n  As he takes from you, I engraft you new.


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But wherefore do not you a mightier way\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nSo should the lines of life that life repair,\nWhich this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,\nNeither in inward worth nor outward fair,\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\n  To give away yourself keeps yourself still,\n  And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.


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Who will believe my verse in time to come,\nIf it were fill'd with your most high deserts?\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nIf I could write the beauty of your eyes\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nThe age to come would say 'This poet lies:\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\nAnd stretched metre of an antique song:\n  But were some child of yours alive that time,\n  You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.


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Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nSometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nWhen in eternal lines to time thou growest:\n  So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,\n  So long lives this and this gives life to thee.


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Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nAnd burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;\nMake glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nTo the wide world and all her fading sweets;\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nHim in thy course untainted do allow\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\n  Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\n  My love shall in my verse ever live young.


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A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nA woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted\nWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;\nAn eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,\nGilding the object whereupon it gazeth;\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\n  But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\n  Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.


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So is it not with me as with that Muse\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nAnd then believe me, my love is as fair\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\n  Let them say more than like of hearsay well;\n  I will not praise that purpose not to sell.


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My glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nSo long as youth and thou are of one date;\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nHow can I then be elder than thou art?\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;\nBearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\n  Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;\n  Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.


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As an unperfect actor on the stage\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nOr some fierce thing replete with too much rage,\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\n  O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:\n  To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.


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Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nThy beauty's form in table of my heart;\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nFor through the painter must you see his skill,\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nNow see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\n  Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\n  They draw but what they see, know not the heart.


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Let those who are in favour with their stars\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nWhilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nGreat princes' favourites their fair leaves spread\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nThe painful warrior famoused for fight,\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nIs from the book of honour razed quite,\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\n  Then happy I, that love and am beloved\n  Where I may not remove nor be removed.


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Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nTo thee I send this written embassage,\nTo witness duty, not to show my wit:\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nBut that I hope some good conceit of thine\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nTill whatsoever star that guides my moving\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nAnd puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\n  Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\n  Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.


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Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nBut then begins a journey in my head,\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nIntend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,\nAnd keep my drooping eyelids open wide,\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nSave that my soul's imaginary sight\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nMakes black night beauteous and her old face new.\n  Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\n  For thee and for myself no quiet find.


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How can I then return in happy plight,\nThat am debarr'd the benefit of rest?\nWhen day's oppression is not eased by night,\nBut day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?\nAnd each, though enemies to either's reign,\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\n  But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer\n  And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.


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When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nAnd trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries\nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\n  For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\n  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.


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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nI summon up remembrance of things past,\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nFor precious friends hid in death's dateless night,\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\n  But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\n  All losses are restored and sorrows end.


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Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nAnd there reigns love and all love's loving parts,\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\nThou art the grave where buried love doth live,\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nWho all their parts of me to thee did give;\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\n  Their images I loved I view in thee,\n  And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.


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If thou survive my well-contented day,\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nAnd though they be outstripp'd by every pen,\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nExceeded by the height of happier men.\nO, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nA dearer birth than this his love had brought,\nTo march in ranks of better equipage:\n  But since he died and poets better prove,\n  Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'


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Full many a glorious morning have I seen\nFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nWith ugly rack on his celestial face,\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nStealing unseen to west with this disgrace:\nEven so my sun one early morn did shine\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\n  Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\n  Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.


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Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nThat heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nThe offender's sorrow lends but weak relief\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\n  Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,\n  And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.


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No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nAnd loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nAll men make faults, and even I in this,\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nExcusing thy sins more than thy sins are;\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\n  That I an accessary needs must be\n  To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.


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Let me confess that we two must be twain,\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nThough in our lives a separable spite,\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nLest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nUnless thou take that honour from thy name:\n  But do not so; I love thee in such sort\n  As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.


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As a decrepit father takes delight\nTo see his active child do deeds of youth,\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nTake all my comfort of thy worth and truth.\nFor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nSo then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\n  Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:\n  This wish I have; then ten times happy me!


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How can my Muse want subject to invent,\nWhile thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse\nThine own sweet argument, too excellent\nFor every vulgar paper to rehearse?\nO, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me\nWorthy perusal stand against thy sight;\nFor who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,\nWhen thou thyself dost give invention light?\nBe thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth\nThan those old nine which rhymers invocate;\nAnd he that calls on thee, let him bring forth\nEternal numbers to outlive long date.\n  If my slight Muse do please these curious days,\n  The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.


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O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,\nWhen thou art all the better part of me?\nWhat can mine own praise to mine own self bring?\nAnd what is 't but mine own when I praise thee?\nEven for this let us divided live,\nAnd our dear love lose name of single one,\nThat by this separation I may give\nThat due to thee which thou deservest alone.\nO absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove,\nWere it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave\nTo entertain the time with thoughts of love,\nWhich time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,\n  And that thou teachest how to make one twain,\n  By praising him here who doth hence remain!


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Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;\nWhat hast thou then more than thou hadst before?\nNo love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;\nAll mine was thine before thou hadst this more.\nThen if for my love thou my love receivest,\nI cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;\nBut yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest\nBy wilful taste of what thyself refusest.\nI do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,\nAlthough thou steal thee all my poverty;\nAnd yet, love knows, it is a greater grief\nTo bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.\n  Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,\n  Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.


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Those petty wrongs that liberty commits,\nWhen I am sometime absent from thy heart,\nThy beauty and thy years full well befits,\nFor still temptation follows where thou art.\nGentle thou art and therefore to be won,\nBeauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed;\nAnd when a woman woos, what woman's son\nWill sourly leave her till she have prevailed?\nAy me! but yet thou mightest my seat forbear,\nAnd chide try beauty and thy straying youth,\nWho lead thee in their riot even there\nWhere thou art forced to break a twofold truth,\n  Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,\n  Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.


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That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,\nAnd yet it may be said I loved her dearly;\nThat she hath thee, is of my wailing chief,\nA loss in love that touches me more nearly.\nLoving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:\nThou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her;\nAnd for my sake even so doth she abuse me,\nSuffering my friend for my sake to approve her.\nIf I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,\nAnd losing her, my friend hath found that loss;\nBoth find each other, and I lose both twain,\nAnd both for my sake lay on me this cross:\n  But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;\n  Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.


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When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,\nFor all the day they view things unrespected;\nBut when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,\nAnd darkly bright are bright in dark directed.\nThen thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,\nHow would thy shadow's form form happy show\nTo the clear day with thy much clearer light,\nWhen to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!\nHow would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made\nBy looking on thee in the living day,\nWhen in dead night thy fair imperfect shade\nThrough heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!\n  All days are nights to see till I see thee,\n  And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.


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If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,\nInjurious distance should not stop my way;\nFor then despite of space I would be brought,\nFrom limits far remote where thou dost stay.\nNo matter then although my foot did stand\nUpon the farthest earth removed from thee;\nFor nimble thought can jump both sea and land\nAs soon as think the place where he would be.\nBut ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,\nTo leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,\nBut that so much of earth and water wrought\nI must attend time's leisure with my moan,\n  Receiving nought by elements so slow\n  But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.


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The other two, slight air and purging fire,\nAre both with thee, wherever I abide;\nThe first my thought, the other my desire,\nThese present-absent with swift motion slide.\nFor when these quicker elements are gone\nIn tender embassy of love to thee,\nMy life, being made of four, with two alone\nSinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;\nUntil life's composition be recured\nBy those swift messengers return'd from thee,\nWho even but now come back again, assured\nOf thy fair health, recounting it to me:\n  This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,\n  I send them back again and straight grow sad.


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Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war\nHow to divide the conquest of thy sight;\nMine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,\nMy heart mine eye the freedom of that right.\nMy heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie--\nA closet never pierced with crystal eyes--\nBut the defendant doth that plea deny\nAnd says in him thy fair appearance lies.\nTo 'cide this title is impanneled\nA quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart,\nAnd by their verdict is determined\nThe clear eye's moiety and the dear heart's part:\n  As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,\n  And my heart's right thy inward love of heart.


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Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,\nAnd each doth good turns now unto the other:\nWhen that mine eye is famish'd for a look,\nOr heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,\nWith my love's picture then my eye doth feast\nAnd to the painted banquet bids my heart;\nAnother time mine eye is my heart's guest\nAnd in his thoughts of love doth share a part:\nSo, either by thy picture or my love,\nThyself away art resent still with me;\nFor thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,\nAnd I am still with them and they with thee;\n  Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight\n  Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.


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How careful was I, when I took my way,\nEach trifle under truest bars to thrust,\nThat to my use it might unused stay\nFrom hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!\nBut thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,\nMost worthy of comfort, now my greatest grief,\nThou, best of dearest and mine only care,\nArt left the prey of every vulgar thief.\nThee have I not lock'd up in any chest,\nSave where thou art not, though I feel thou art,\nWithin the gentle closure of my breast,\nFrom whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;\n  And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,\n  For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.


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Against that time, if ever that time come,\nWhen I shall see thee frown on my defects,\nWhen as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,\nCall'd to that audit by advised respects;\nAgainst that time when thou shalt strangely pass\nAnd scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye,\nWhen love, converted from the thing it was,\nShall reasons find of settled gravity,--\nAgainst that time do I ensconce me here\nWithin the knowledge of mine own desert,\nAnd this my hand against myself uprear,\nTo guard the lawful reasons on thy part:\n  To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,\n  Since why to love I can allege no cause.


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How heavy do I journey on the way,\nWhen what I seek, my weary travel's end,\nDoth teach that ease and that repose to say\n'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'\nThe beast that bears me, tired with my woe,\nPlods dully on, to bear that weight in me,\nAs if by some instinct the wretch did know\nHis rider loved not speed, being made from thee:\nThe bloody spur cannot provoke him on\nThat sometimes anger thrusts into his hide;\nWhich heavily he answers with a groan,\nMore sharp to me than spurring to his side;\n  For that same groan doth put this in my mind;\n  My grief lies onward and my joy behind.


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Thus can my love excuse the slow offence\nOf my dull bearer when from thee I speed:\nFrom where thou art why should I haste me thence?\nTill I return, of posting is no need.\nO, what excuse will my poor beast then find,\nWhen swift extremity can seem but slow?\nThen should I spur, though mounted on the wind;\nIn winged speed no motion shall I know:\nThen can no horse with my desire keep pace;\nTherefore desire of perfect'st love being made,\nShall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race;\nBut love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade;\n  Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,\n  Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.


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So am I as the rich, whose blessed key\nCan bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,\nThe which he will not every hour survey,\nFor blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.\nTherefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,\nSince, seldom coming, in the long year set,\nLike stones of worth they thinly placed are,\nOr captain jewels in the carcanet.\nSo is the time that keeps you as my chest,\nOr as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,\nTo make some special instant special blest,\nBy new unfolding his imprison'd pride.\n  Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,\n  Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.


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What is your substance, whereof are you made,\nThat millions of strange shadows on you tend?\nSince every one hath, every one, one shade,\nAnd you, but one, can every shadow lend.\nDescribe Adonis, and the counterfeit\nIs poorly imitated after you;\nOn Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,\nAnd you in Grecian tires are painted new:\nSpeak of the spring and foison of the year;\nThe one doth shadow of your beauty show,\nThe other as your bounty doth appear;\nAnd you in every blessed shape we know.\n  In all external grace you have some part,\n  But you like none, none you, for constant heart.


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O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem\nBy that sweet ornament which truth doth give!\nThe rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem\nFor that sweet odour which doth in it live.\nThe canker-blooms have full as deep a dye\nAs the perfumed tincture of the roses,\nHang on such thorns and play as wantonly\nWhen summer's breath their masked buds discloses:\nBut, for their virtue only is their show,\nThey live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,\nDie to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;\nOf their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:\n  And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,\n  When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.


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Not marble, nor the gilded monuments\nOf princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;\nBut you shall shine more bright in these contents\nThan unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.\nWhen wasteful war shall statues overturn,\nAnd broils root out the work of masonry,\nNor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn\nThe living record of your memory.\n'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity\nShall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room\nEven in the eyes of all posterity\nThat wear this world out to the ending doom.\n  So, till the judgment that yourself arise,\n  You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes.


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Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said\nThy edge should blunter be than appetite,\nWhich but to-day by feeding is allay'd,\nTo-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:\nSo, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill\nThy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,\nTo-morrow see again, and do not kill\nThe spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.\nLet this sad interim like the ocean be\nWhich parts the shore, where two contracted new\nCome daily to the banks, that, when they see\nReturn of love, more blest may be the view;\n  Else call it winter, which being full of care\n  Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.


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Being your slave, what should I do but tend\nUpon the hours and times of your desire?\nI have no precious time at all to spend,\nNor services to do, till you require.\nNor dare I chide the world-without-end hour\nWhilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,\nNor think the bitterness of absence sour\nWhen you have bid your servant once adieu;\nNor dare I question with my jealous thought\nWhere you may be, or your affairs suppose,\nBut, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought\nSave, where you are how happy you make those.\n  So true a fool is love that in your will,\n  Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.


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That god forbid that made me first your slave,\nI should in thought control your times of pleasure,\nOr at your hand the account of hours to crave,\nBeing your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!\nO, let me suffer, being at your beck,\nThe imprison'd absence of your liberty;\nAnd patience, tame to sufferance, bide each cheque,\nWithout accusing you of injury.\nBe where you list, your charter is so strong\nThat you yourself may privilege your time\nTo what you will; to you it doth belong\nYourself to pardon of self-doing crime.\n  I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;\n  Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.


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If there be nothing new, but that which is\nHath been before, how are our brains beguiled,\nWhich, labouring for invention, bear amiss\nThe second burden of a former child!\nO, that record could with a backward look,\nEven of five hundred courses of the sun,\nShow me your image in some antique book,\nSince mind at first in character was done!\nThat I might see what the old world could say\nTo this composed wonder of your frame;\nWhether we are mended, or whether better they,\nOr whether revolution be the same.\n  O, sure I am, the wits of former days\n  To subjects worse have given admiring praise.


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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,\nSo do our minutes hasten to their end;\nEach changing place with that which goes before,\nIn sequent toil all forwards do contend.\nNativity, once in the main of light,\nCrawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,\nCrooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,\nAnd Time that gave doth now his gift confound.\nTime doth transfix the flourish set on youth\nAnd delves the parallels in beauty's brow,\nFeeds on the rarities of nature's truth,\nAnd nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:\n  And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,\n  Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.


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Is it thy will thy image should keep open\nMy heavy eyelids to the weary night?\nDost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,\nWhile shadows like to thee do mock my sight?\nIs it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee\nSo far from home into my deeds to pry,\nTo find out shames and idle hours in me,\nThe scope and tenor of thy jealousy?\nO, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:\nIt is my love that keeps mine eye awake;\nMine own true love that doth my rest defeat,\nTo play the watchman ever for thy sake:\n  For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,\n  From me far off, with others all too near.


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Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye\nAnd all my soul and all my every part;\nAnd for this sin there is no remedy,\nIt is so grounded inward in my heart.\nMethinks no face so gracious is as mine,\nNo shape so true, no truth of such account;\nAnd for myself mine own worth do define,\nAs I all other in all worths surmount.\nBut when my glass shows me myself indeed,\nBeated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,\nMine own self-love quite contrary I read;\nSelf so self-loving were iniquity.\n  'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,\n  Painting my age with beauty of thy days.


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Against my love shall be, as I am now,\nWith Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;\nWhen hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow\nWith lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn\nHath travell'd on to age's steepy night,\nAnd all those beauties whereof now he's king\nAre vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,\nStealing away the treasure of his spring;\nFor such a time do I now fortify\nAgainst confounding age's cruel knife,\nThat he shall never cut from memory\nMy sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:\n  His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,\n  And they shall live, and he in them still green.


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When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced\nThe rich proud cost of outworn buried age;\nWhen sometime lofty towers I see down-razed\nAnd brass eternal slave to mortal rage;\nWhen I have seen the hungry ocean gain\nAdvantage on the kingdom of the shore,\nAnd the firm soil win of the watery main,\nIncreasing store with loss and loss with store;\nWhen I have seen such interchange of state,\nOr state itself confounded to decay;\nRuin hath taught me thus to ruminate,\nThat Time will come and take my love away.\n  This thought is as a death, which cannot choose\n  But weep to have that which it fears to lose.


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Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,\nBut sad mortality o'er-sways their power,\nHow with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,\nWhose action is no stronger than a flower?\nO, how shall summer's honey breath hold out\nAgainst the wreckful siege of battering days,\nWhen rocks impregnable are not so stout,\nNor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?\nO fearful meditation! where, alack,\nShall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?\nOr what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?\nOr who his spoil of beauty can forbid?\n  O, none, unless this miracle have might,\n  That in black ink my love may still shine bright.


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Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,\nAs, to behold desert a beggar born,\nAnd needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,\nAnd purest faith unhappily forsworn,\nAnd guilded honour shamefully misplaced,\nAnd maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,\nAnd right perfection wrongfully disgraced,\nAnd strength by limping sway disabled,\nAnd art made tongue-tied by authority,\nAnd folly doctor-like controlling skill,\nAnd simple truth miscall'd simplicity,\nAnd captive good attending captain ill:\n  Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,\n  Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.


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Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,\nAnd with his presence grace impiety,\nThat sin by him advantage should achieve\nAnd lace itself with his society?\nWhy should false painting imitate his cheek\nAnd steal dead seeing of his living hue?\nWhy should poor beauty indirectly seek\nRoses of shadow, since his rose is true?\nWhy should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,\nBeggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?\nFor she hath no exchequer now but his,\nAnd, proud of many, lives upon his gains.\n  O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had\n  In days long since, before these last so bad.


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Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,\nWhen beauty lived and died as flowers do now,\nBefore the bastard signs of fair were born,\nOr durst inhabit on a living brow;\nBefore the golden tresses of the dead,\nThe right of sepulchres, were shorn away,\nTo live a second life on second head;\nEre beauty's dead fleece made another gay:\nIn him those holy antique hours are seen,\nWithout all ornament, itself and true,\nMaking no summer of another's green,\nRobbing no old to dress his beauty new;\n  And him as for a map doth Nature store,\n  To show false Art what beauty was of yore.


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Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view\nWant nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;\nAll tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,\nUttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.\nThy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;\nBut those same tongues that give thee so thine own\nIn other accents do this praise confound\nBy seeing farther than the eye hath shown.\nThey look into the beauty of thy mind,\nAnd that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;\nThen, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,\nTo thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:\n  But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,\n  The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.


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That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,\nFor slander's mark was ever yet the fair;\nThe ornament of beauty is suspect,\nA crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.\nSo thou be good, slander doth but approve\nThy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;\nFor canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,\nAnd thou present'st a pure unstained prime.\nThou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,\nEither not assail'd or victor being charged;\nYet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,\nTo tie up envy evermore enlarged:\n  If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,\n  Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.


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No longer mourn for me when I am dead\nThen you shall hear the surly sullen bell\nGive warning to the world that I am fled\nFrom this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:\nNay, if you read this line, remember not\nThe hand that writ it; for I love you so\nThat I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot\nIf thinking on me then should make you woe.\nO, if, I say, you look upon this verse\nWhen I perhaps compounded am with clay,\nDo not so much as my poor name rehearse.\nBut let your love even with my life decay,\n  Lest the wise world should look into your moan\n  And mock you with me after I am gone.


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O, lest the world should task you to recite\nWhat merit lived in me, that you should love\nAfter my death, dear love, forget me quite,\nFor you in me can nothing worthy prove;\nUnless you would devise some virtuous lie,\nTo do more for me than mine own desert,\nAnd hang more praise upon deceased I\nThan niggard truth would willingly impart:\nO, lest your true love may seem false in this,\nThat you for love speak well of me untrue,\nMy name be buried where my body is,\nAnd live no more to shame nor me nor you.\n  For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,\n  And so should you, to love things nothing worth.


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That time of year thou mayst in me behold\nWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang\nUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,\nBare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.\nIn me thou seest the twilight of such day\nAs after sunset fadeth in the west,\nWhich by and by black night doth take away,\nDeath's second self, that seals up all in rest.\nIn me thou see'st the glowing of such fire\nThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,\nAs the death-bed whereon it must expire\nConsumed with that which it was nourish'd by.\n  This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,\n  To love that well which thou must leave ere long.


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But be contented: when that fell arrest\nWithout all bail shall carry me away,\nMy life hath in this line some interest,\nWhich for memorial still with thee shall stay.\nWhen thou reviewest this, thou dost review\nThe very part was consecrate to thee:\nThe earth can have but earth, which is his due;\nMy spirit is thine, the better part of me:\nSo then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,\nThe prey of worms, my body being dead,\nThe coward conquest of a wretch's knife,\nToo base of thee to be remembered.\n  The worth of that is that which it contains,\n  And that is this, and this with thee remains.


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So are you to my thoughts as food to life,\nOr as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;\nAnd for the peace of you I hold such strife\nAs 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;\nNow proud as an enjoyer and anon\nDoubting the filching age will steal his treasure,\nNow counting best to be with you alone,\nThen better'd that the world may see my pleasure;\nSometime all full with feasting on your sight\nAnd by and by clean starved for a look;\nPossessing or pursuing no delight,\nSave what is had or must from you be took.\n  Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,\n  Or gluttoning on all, or all away.


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Why is my verse so barren of new pride,\nSo far from variation or quick change?\nWhy with the time do I not glance aside\nTo new-found methods and to compounds strange?\nWhy write I still all one, ever the same,\nAnd keep invention in a noted weed,\nThat every word doth almost tell my name,\nShowing their birth and where they did proceed?\nO, know, sweet love, I always write of you,\nAnd you and love are still my argument;\nSo all my best is dressing old words new,\nSpending again what is already spent:\n  For as the sun is daily new and old,\n  So is my love still telling what is told.


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Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,\nThy dial how thy precious minutes waste;\nThe vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,\nAnd of this book this learning mayst thou taste.\nThe wrinkles which thy glass will truly show\nOf mouthed graves will give thee memory;\nThou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know\nTime's thievish progress to eternity.\nLook, what thy memory can not contain\nCommit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find\nThose children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,\nTo take a new acquaintance of thy mind.\n  These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,\n  Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.


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So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse\nAnd found such fair assistance in my verse\nAs every alien pen hath got my use\nAnd under thee their poesy disperse.\nThine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing\nAnd heavy ignorance aloft to fly\nHave added feathers to the learned's wing\nAnd given grace a double majesty.\nYet be most proud of that which I compile,\nWhose influence is thine and born of thee:\nIn others' works thou dost but mend the style,\nAnd arts with thy sweet graces graced be;\n  But thou art all my art and dost advance\n  As high as learning my rude ignorance.


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Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,\nMy verse alone had all thy gentle grace,\nBut now my gracious numbers are decay'd\nAnd my sick Muse doth give another place.\nI grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument\nDeserves the travail of a worthier pen,\nYet what of thee thy poet doth invent\nHe robs thee of and pays it thee again.\nHe lends thee virtue and he stole that word\nFrom thy behavior; beauty doth he give\nAnd found it in thy cheek; he can afford\nNo praise to thee but what in thee doth live.\n  Then thank him not for that which he doth say,\n  Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.


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O, how I faint when I of you do write,\nKnowing a better spirit doth use your name,\nAnd in the praise thereof spends all his might,\nTo make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!\nBut since your worth, wide as the ocean is,\nThe humble as the proudest sail doth bear,\nMy saucy bark inferior far to his\nOn your broad main doth wilfully appear.\nYour shallowest help will hold me up afloat,\nWhilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;\nOr being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,\nHe of tall building and of goodly pride:\n  Then if he thrive and I be cast away,\n  The worst was this; my love was my decay.


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Or I shall live your epitaph to make,\nOr you survive when I in earth am rotten;\nFrom hence your memory death cannot take,\nAlthough in me each part will be forgotten.\nYour name from hence immortal life shall have,\nThough I, once gone, to all the world must die:\nThe earth can yield me but a common grave,\nWhen you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.\nYour monument shall be my gentle verse,\nWhich eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,\nAnd tongues to be your being shall rehearse\nWhen all the breathers of this world are dead;\n  You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--\n  Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.


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I grant thou wert not married to my Muse\nAnd therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook\nThe dedicated words which writers use\nOf their fair subject, blessing every book\nThou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,\nFinding thy worth a limit past my praise,\nAnd therefore art enforced to seek anew\nSome fresher stamp of the time-bettering days\nAnd do so, love; yet when they have devised\nWhat strained touches rhetoric can lend,\nThou truly fair wert truly sympathized\nIn true plain words by thy true-telling friend;\n  And their gross painting might be better used\n  Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.


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I never saw that you did painting need\nAnd therefore to your fair no painting set;\nI found, or thought I found, you did exceed\nThe barren tender of a poet's debt;\nAnd therefore have I slept in your report,\nThat you yourself being extant well might show\nHow far a modern quill doth come too short,\nSpeaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.\nThis silence for my sin you did impute,\nWhich shall be most my glory, being dumb;\nFor I impair not beauty being mute,\nWhen others would give life and bring a tomb.\n  There lives more life in one of your fair eyes\n  Than both your poets can in praise devise.


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Who is it that says most? which can say more\nThan this rich praise, that you alone are you?\nIn whose confine immured is the store\nWhich should example where your equal grew.\nLean penury within that pen doth dwell\nThat to his subject lends not some small glory;\nBut he that writes of you, if he can tell\nThat you are you, so dignifies his story,\nLet him but copy what in you is writ,\nNot making worse what nature made so clear,\nAnd such a counterpart shall fame his wit,\nMaking his style admired every where.\n  You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,\n  Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.


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My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,\nWhile comments of your praise, richly compiled,\nReserve their character with golden quill\nAnd precious phrase by all the Muses filed.\nI think good thoughts whilst other write good words,\nAnd like unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen'\nTo every hymn that able spirit affords\nIn polish'd form of well-refined pen.\nHearing you praised, I say ''Tis so, 'tis true,'\nAnd to the most of praise add something more;\nBut that is in my thought, whose love to you,\nThough words come hindmost, holds his rank before.\n  Then others for the breath of words respect,\n  Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.


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Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,\nBound for the prize of all too precious you,\nThat did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,\nMaking their tomb the womb wherein they grew?\nWas it his spirit, by spirits taught to write\nAbove a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?\nNo, neither he, nor his compeers by night\nGiving him aid, my verse astonished.\nHe, nor that affable familiar ghost\nWhich nightly gulls him with intelligence\nAs victors of my silence cannot boast;\nI was not sick of any fear from thence:\n  But when your countenance fill'd up his line,\n  Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.


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Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,\nAnd like enough thou know'st thy estimate:\nThe charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;\nMy bonds in thee are all determinate.\nFor how do I hold thee but by thy granting?\nAnd for that riches where is my deserving?\nThe cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,\nAnd so my patent back again is swerving.\nThyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,\nOr me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;\nSo thy great gift, upon misprision growing,\nComes home again, on better judgment making.\n  Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,\n  In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.


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When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,\nAnd place my merit in the eye of scorn,\nUpon thy side against myself I'll fight,\nAnd prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.\nWith mine own weakness being best acquainted,\nUpon thy part I can set down a story\nOf faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted,\nThat thou in losing me shalt win much glory:\nAnd I by this will be a gainer too;\nFor bending all my loving thoughts on thee,\nThe injuries that to myself I do,\nDoing thee vantage, double-vantage me.\n  Such is my love, to thee I so belong,\n  That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.


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Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,\nAnd I will comment upon that offence;\nSpeak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,\nAgainst thy reasons making no defence.\nThou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,\nTo set a form upon desired change,\nAs I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,\nI will acquaintance strangle and look strange,\nBe absent from thy walks, and in my tongue\nThy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,\nLest I, too much profane, should do it wrong\nAnd haply of our old acquaintance tell.\n  For thee against myself I'll vow debate,\n  For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.


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Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;\nNow, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,\nJoin with the spite of fortune, make me bow,\nAnd do not drop in for an after-loss:\nAh, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,\nCome in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;\nGive not a windy night a rainy morrow,\nTo linger out a purposed overthrow.\nIf thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,\nWhen other petty griefs have done their spite\nBut in the onset come; so shall I taste\nAt first the very worst of fortune's might,\n  And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,\n  Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.


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Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,\nSome in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,\nSome in their garments, though new-fangled ill,\nSome in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;\nAnd every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,\nWherein it finds a joy above the rest:\nBut these particulars are not my measure;\nAll these I better in one general best.\nThy love is better than high birth to me,\nRicher than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,\nOf more delight than hawks or horses be;\nAnd having thee, of all men's pride I boast:\n  Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take\n  All this away and me most wretched make.


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But do thy worst to steal thyself away,\nFor term of life thou art assured mine,\nAnd life no longer than thy love will stay,\nFor it depends upon that love of thine.\nThen need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,\nWhen in the least of them my life hath end.\nI see a better state to me belongs\nThan that which on thy humour doth depend;\nThou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,\nSince that my life on thy revolt doth lie.\nO, what a happy title do I find,\nHappy to have thy love, happy to die!\n  But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?\n  Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.


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So shall I live, supposing thou art true,\nLike a deceived husband; so love's face\nMay still seem love to me, though alter'd new;\nThy looks with me, thy heart in other place:\nFor there can live no hatred in thine eye,\nTherefore in that I cannot know thy change.\nIn many's looks the false heart's history\nIs writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,\nBut heaven in thy creation did decree\nThat in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;\nWhate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,\nThy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.\n  How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,\n  if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!


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They that have power to hurt and will do none,\nThat do not do the thing they most do show,\nWho, moving others, are themselves as stone,\nUnmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,\nThey rightly do inherit heaven's graces\nAnd husband nature's riches from expense;\nThey are the lords and owners of their faces,\nOthers but stewards of their excellence.\nThe summer's flower is to the summer sweet,\nThough to itself it only live and die,\nBut if that flower with base infection meet,\nThe basest weed outbraves his dignity:\n  For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;\n  Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.


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How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame\nWhich, like a canker in the fragrant rose,\nDoth spot the beauty of thy budding name!\nO, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!\nThat tongue that tells the story of thy days,\nMaking lascivious comments on thy sport,\nCannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;\nNaming thy name blesses an ill report.\nO, what a mansion have those vices got\nWhich for their habitation chose out thee,\nWhere beauty's veil doth cover every blot,\nAnd all things turn to fair that eyes can see!\n  Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;\n  The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.


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Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;\nSome say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;\nBoth grace and faults are loved of more and less;\nThou makest faults graces that to thee resort.\nAs on the finger of a throned queen\nThe basest jewel will be well esteem'd,\nSo are those errors that in thee are seen\nTo truths translated and for true things deem'd.\nHow many lambs might the stem wolf betray,\nIf like a lamb he could his looks translate!\nHow many gazers mightst thou lead away,\nIf thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!\n  But do not so; I love thee in such sort\n  As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.


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How like a winter hath my absence been\nFrom thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!\nWhat freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!\nWhat old December's bareness every where!\nAnd yet this time removed was summer's time,\nThe teeming autumn, big with rich increase,\nBearing the wanton burden of the prime,\nLike widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:\nYet this abundant issue seem'd to me\nBut hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;\nFor summer and his pleasures wait on thee,\nAnd, thou away, the very birds are mute;\n  Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer\n  That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.


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From you have I been absent in the spring,\nWhen proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim\nHath put a spirit of youth in every thing,\nThat heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.\nYet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell\nOf different flowers in odour and in hue\nCould make me any summer's story tell,\nOr from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;\nNor did I wonder at the lily's white,\nNor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;\nThey were but sweet, but figures of delight,\nDrawn after you, you pattern of all those.\n  Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,\n  As with your shadow I with these did play:


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The forward violet thus did I chide:\nSweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,\nIf not from my love's breath? The purple pride\nWhich on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells\nIn my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.\nThe lily I condemned for thy hand,\nAnd buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:\nThe roses fearfully on thorns did stand,\nOne blushing shame, another white despair;\nA third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both\nAnd to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;\nBut, for his theft, in pride of all his growth\nA vengeful canker eat him up to death.\n  More flowers I noted, yet I none could see\n  But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.


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Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long\nTo speak of that which gives thee all thy might?\nSpend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,\nDarkening thy power to lend base subjects light?\nReturn, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem\nIn gentle numbers time so idly spent;\nSing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem\nAnd gives thy pen both skill and argument.\nRise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,\nIf Time have any wrinkle graven there;\nIf any, be a satire to decay,\nAnd make Time's spoils despised every where.\n  Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;\n  So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.


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O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends\nFor thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?\nBoth truth and beauty on my love depends;\nSo dost thou too, and therein dignified.\nMake answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say\n'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;\nBeauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;\nBut best is best, if never intermix'd?'\nBecause he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?\nExcuse not silence so; for't lies in thee\nTo make him much outlive a gilded tomb,\nAnd to be praised of ages yet to be.\n  Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how\n  To make him seem long hence as he shows now.


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My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;\nI love not less, though less the show appear:\nThat love is merchandized whose rich esteeming\nThe owner's tongue doth publish every where.\nOur love was new and then but in the spring\nWhen I was wont to greet it with my lays,\nAs Philomel in summer's front doth sing\nAnd stops her pipe in growth of riper days:\nNot that the summer is less pleasant now\nThan when her mournful hymns did hush the night,\nBut that wild music burthens every bough\nAnd sweets grown common lose their dear delight.\n  Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,\n  Because I would not dull you with my song.


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Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,\nThat having such a scope to show her pride,\nThe argument all bare is of more worth\nThan when it hath my added praise beside!\nO, blame me not, if I no more can write!\nLook in your glass, and there appears a face\nThat over-goes my blunt invention quite,\nDulling my lines and doing me disgrace.\nWere it not sinful then, striving to mend,\nTo mar the subject that before was well?\nFor to no other pass my verses tend\nThan of your graces and your gifts to tell;\n  And more, much more, than in my verse can sit\n  Your own glass shows you when you look in it.


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To me, fair friend, you never can be old,\nFor as you were when first your eye I eyed,\nSuch seems your beauty still. Three winters cold\nHave from the forests shook three summers' pride,\nThree beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd\nIn process of the seasons have I seen,\nThree April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,\nSince first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.\nAh! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,\nSteal from his figure and no pace perceived;\nSo your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,\nHath motion and mine eye may be deceived:\n  For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;\n  Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.


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Let not my love be call'd idolatry,\nNor my beloved as an idol show,\nSince all alike my songs and praises be\nTo one, of one, still such, and ever so.\nKind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,\nStill constant in a wondrous excellence;\nTherefore my verse to constancy confined,\nOne thing expressing, leaves out difference.\n'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument,\n'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words;\nAnd in this change is my invention spent,\nThree themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.\n  'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,\n  Which three till now never kept seat in one.


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When in the chronicle of wasted time\nI see descriptions of the fairest wights,\nAnd beauty making beautiful old rhyme\nIn praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,\nThen, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,\nOf hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,\nI see their antique pen would have express'd\nEven such a beauty as you master now.\nSo all their praises are but prophecies\nOf this our time, all you prefiguring;\nAnd, for they look'd but with divining eyes,\nThey had not skill enough your worth to sing:\n  For we, which now behold these present days,\n  Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.


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Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul\nOf the wide world dreaming on things to come,\nCan yet the lease of my true love control,\nSupposed as forfeit to a confined doom.\nThe mortal moon hath her eclipse endured\nAnd the sad augurs mock their own presage;\nIncertainties now crown themselves assured\nAnd peace proclaims olives of endless age.\nNow with the drops of this most balmy time\nMy love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,\nSince, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,\nWhile he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:\n  And thou in this shalt find thy monument,\n  When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.


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What's in the brain that ink may character\nWhich hath not figured to thee my true spirit?\nWhat's new to speak, what new to register,\nThat may express my love or thy dear merit?\nNothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,\nI must, each day say o'er the very same,\nCounting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,\nEven as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.\nSo that eternal love in love's fresh case\nWeighs not the dust and injury of age,\nNor gives to necessary wrinkles place,\nBut makes antiquity for aye his page,\n  Finding the first conceit of love there bred\n  Where time and outward form would show it dead.


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O, never say that I was false of heart,\nThough absence seem'd my flame to qualify.\nAs easy might I from myself depart\nAs from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:\nThat is my home of love: if I have ranged,\nLike him that travels I return again,\nJust to the time, not with the time exchanged,\nSo that myself bring water for my stain.\nNever believe, though in my nature reign'd\nAll frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,\nThat it could so preposterously be stain'd,\nTo leave for nothing all thy sum of good;\n  For nothing this wide universe I call,\n  Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.


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Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there\nAnd made myself a motley to the view,\nGored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,\nMade old offences of affections new;\nMost true it is that I have look'd on truth\nAskance and strangely: but, by all above,\nThese blenches gave my heart another youth,\nAnd worse essays proved thee my best of love.\nNow all is done, have what shall have no end:\nMine appetite I never more will grind\nOn newer proof, to try an older friend,\nA god in love, to whom I am confined.\n  Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,\n  Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.


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O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,\nThe guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,\nThat did not better for my life provide\nThan public means which public manners breeds.\nThence comes it that my name receives a brand,\nAnd almost thence my nature is subdued\nTo what it works in, like the dyer's hand:\nPity me then and wish I were renew'd;\nWhilst, like a willing patient, I will drink\nPotions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection\nNo bitterness that I will bitter think,\nNor double penance, to correct correction.\n  Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye\n  Even that your pity is enough to cure me.


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Your love and pity doth the impression fill\nWhich vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;\nFor what care I who calls me well or ill,\nSo you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?\nYou are my all the world, and I must strive\nTo know my shames and praises from your tongue:\nNone else to me, nor I to none alive,\nThat my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong.\nIn so profound abysm I throw all care\nOf others' voices, that my adder's sense\nTo critic and to flatterer stopped are.\nMark how with my neglect I do dispense:\n  You are so strongly in my purpose bred\n  That all the world besides methinks are dead.


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Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;\nAnd that which governs me to go about\nDoth part his function and is partly blind,\nSeems seeing, but effectually is out;\nFor it no form delivers to the heart\nOf bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:\nOf his quick objects hath the mind no part,\nNor his own vision holds what it doth catch:\nFor if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,\nThe most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,\nThe mountain or the sea, the day or night,\nThe crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:\n  Incapable of more, replete with you,\n  My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.


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Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,\nDrink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?\nOr whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,\nAnd that your love taught it this alchemy,\nTo make of monsters and things indigest\nSuch cherubins as your sweet self resemble,\nCreating every bad a perfect best,\nAs fast as objects to his beams assemble?\nO,'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing,\nAnd my great mind most kingly drinks it up:\nMine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,\nAnd to his palate doth prepare the cup:\n  If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin\n  That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.


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Those lines that I before have writ do lie,\nEven those that said I could not love you dearer:\nYet then my judgment knew no reason why\nMy most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.\nBut reckoning time, whose million'd accidents\nCreep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings,\nTan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,\nDivert strong minds to the course of altering things;\nAlas, why, fearing of time's tyranny,\nMight I not then say 'Now I love you best,'\nWhen I was certain o'er incertainty,\nCrowning the present, doubting of the rest?\n  Love is a babe; then might I not say so,\n  To give full growth to that which still doth grow?


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Let me not to the marriage of true minds\nAdmit impediments. Love is not love\nWhich alters when it alteration finds,\nOr bends with the remover to remove:\nO no! it is an ever-fixed mark\nThat looks on tempests and is never shaken;\nIt is the star to every wandering bark,\nWhose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.\nLove's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks\nWithin his bending sickle's compass come:\nLove alters not with his brief hours and weeks,\nBut bears it out even to the edge of doom.\n  If this be error and upon me proved,\n  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


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Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all\nWherein I should your great deserts repay,\nForgot upon your dearest love to call,\nWhereto all bonds do tie me day by day;\nThat I have frequent been with unknown minds\nAnd given to time your own dear-purchased right\nThat I have hoisted sail to all the winds\nWhich should transport me farthest from your sight.\nBook both my wilfulness and errors down\nAnd on just proof surmise accumulate;\nBring me within the level of your frown,\nBut shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;\n  Since my appeal says I did strive to prove\n  The constancy and virtue of your love.


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Like as, to make our appetites more keen,\nWith eager compounds we our palate urge,\nAs, to prevent our maladies unseen,\nWe sicken to shun sickness when we purge,\nEven so, being tuff of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,\nTo bitter sauces did I frame my feeding\nAnd, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness\nTo be diseased ere that there was true needing.\nThus policy in love, to anticipate\nThe ills that were not, grew to faults assured\nAnd brought to medicine a healthful state\nWhich, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured:\n  But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,\n  Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.


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What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,\nDistill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,\nApplying fears to hopes and hopes to fears,\nStill losing when I saw myself to win!\nWhat wretched errors hath my heart committed,\nWhilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!\nHow have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted\nIn the distraction of this madding fever!\nO benefit of ill! now I find true\nThat better is by evil still made better;\nAnd ruin'd love, when it is built anew,\nGrows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.\n  So I return rebuked to my content\n  And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.


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That you were once unkind befriends me now,\nAnd for that sorrow which I then did feel\nNeeds must I under my transgression bow,\nUnless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel.\nFor if you were by my unkindness shaken\nAs I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time,\nAnd I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken\nTo weigh how once I suffered in your crime.\nO, that our night of woe might have remember'd\nMy deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,\nAnd soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd\nThe humble slave which wounded bosoms fits!\n  But that your trespass now becomes a fee;\n  Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.


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'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,\nWhen not to be receives reproach of being,\nAnd the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd\nNot by our feeling but by others' seeing:\nFor why should others false adulterate eyes\nGive salutation to my sportive blood?\nOr on my frailties why are frailer spies,\nWhich in their wills count bad what I think good?\nNo, I am that I am, and they that level\nAt my abuses reckon up their own:\nI may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;\nBy their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;\n  Unless this general evil they maintain,\n  All men are bad, and in their badness reign.


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Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain\nFull character'd with lasting memory,\nWhich shall above that idle rank remain\nBeyond all date, even to eternity;\nOr at the least, so long as brain and heart\nHave faculty by nature to subsist;\nTill each to razed oblivion yield his part\nOf thee, thy record never can be miss'd.\nThat poor retention could not so much hold,\nNor need I tallies thy dear love to score;\nTherefore to give them from me was I bold,\nTo trust those tables that receive thee more:\n  To keep an adjunct to remember thee\n  Were to import forgetfulness in me.


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No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:\nThy pyramids built up with newer might\nTo me are nothing novel, nothing strange;\nThey are but dressings of a former sight.\nOur dates are brief, and therefore we admire\nWhat thou dost foist upon us that is old,\nAnd rather make them born to our desire\nThan think that we before have heard them told.\nThy registers and thee I both defy,\nNot wondering at the present nor the past,\nFor thy records and what we see doth lie,\nMade more or less by thy continual haste.\n  This I do vow and this shall ever be;\n  I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.


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If my dear love were but the child of state,\nIt might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd'\nAs subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,\nWeeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.\nNo, it was builded far from accident;\nIt suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls\nUnder the blow of thralled discontent,\nWhereto the inviting time our fashion calls:\nIt fears not policy, that heretic,\nWhich works on leases of short-number'd hours,\nBut all alone stands hugely politic,\nThat it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers.\n  To this I witness call the fools of time,\n  Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.


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Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,\nWith my extern the outward honouring,\nOr laid great bases for eternity,\nWhich prove more short than waste or ruining?\nHave I not seen dwellers on form and favour\nLose all, and more, by paying too much rent,\nFor compound sweet forgoing simple savour,\nPitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?\nNo, let me be obsequious in thy heart,\nAnd take thou my oblation, poor but free,\nWhich is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,\nBut mutual render, only me for thee.\n  Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul\n  When most impeach'd stands least in thy control.


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O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power\nDost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;\nWho hast by waning grown, and therein show'st\nThy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;\nIf Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,\nAs thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,\nShe keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill\nMay time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.\nYet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!\nShe may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:\nHer audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,\nAnd her quietus is to render thee.\n  (  )\n  (  )


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In the old age black was not counted fair,\nOr if it were, it bore not beauty's name;\nBut now is black beauty's successive heir,\nAnd beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:\nFor since each hand hath put on nature's power,\nFairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,\nSweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,\nBut is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.\nTherefore my mistress' brows are raven black,\nHer eyes so suited, and they mourners seem\nAt such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,\nSlandering creation with a false esteem:\n  Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,\n  That every tongue says beauty should look so.


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How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,\nUpon that blessed wood whose motion sounds\nWith thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st\nThe wiry concord that mine ear confounds,\nDo I envy those jacks that nimble leap\nTo kiss the tender inward of thy hand,\nWhilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,\nAt the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!\nTo be so tickled, they would change their state\nAnd situation with those dancing chips,\nO'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,\nMaking dead wood more blest than living lips.\n  Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,\n  Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.


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The expense of spirit in a waste of shame\nIs lust in action; and till action, lust\nIs perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,\nSavage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,\nEnjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,\nPast reason hunted, and no sooner had\nPast reason hated, as a swallow'd bait\nOn purpose laid to make the taker mad;\nMad in pursuit and in possession so;\nHad, having, and in quest to have, extreme;\nA bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;\nBefore, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.\n  All this the world well knows; yet none knows well\n  To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.


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My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;\nCoral is far more red than her lips' red;\nIf snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;\nIf hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.\nI have seen roses damask'd, red and white,\nBut no such roses see I in her cheeks;\nAnd in some perfumes is there more delight\nThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.\nI love to hear her speak, yet well I know\nThat music hath a far more pleasing sound;\nI grant I never saw a goddess go;\nMy mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:\n  And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare\n  As any she belied with false compare.


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Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,\nAs those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;\nFor well thou know'st to my dear doting heart\nThou art the fairest and most precious jewel.\nYet, in good faith, some say that thee behold\nThy face hath not the power to make love groan:\nTo say they err I dare not be so bold,\nAlthough I swear it to myself alone.\nAnd, to be sure that is not false I swear,\nA thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,\nOne on another's neck, do witness bear\nThy black is fairest in my judgment's place.\n  In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,\n  And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.


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Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,\nKnowing thy heart torments me with disdain,\nHave put on black and loving mourners be,\nLooking with pretty ruth upon my pain.\nAnd truly not the morning sun of heaven\nBetter becomes the grey cheeks of the east,\nNor that full star that ushers in the even\nDoth half that glory to the sober west,\nAs those two mourning eyes become thy face:\nO, let it then as well beseem thy heart\nTo mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,\nAnd suit thy pity like in every part.\n  Then will I swear beauty herself is black\n  And all they foul that thy complexion lack.


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Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan\nFor that deep wound it gives my friend and me!\nIs't not enough to torture me alone,\nBut slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?\nMe from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,\nAnd my next self thou harder hast engross'd:\nOf him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;\nA torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd.\nPrison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,\nBut then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;\nWhoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;\nThou canst not then use rigor in my gaol:\n  And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,\n  Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.


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So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,\nAnd I myself am mortgaged to thy will,\nMyself I'll forfeit, so that other mine\nThou wilt restore, to be my comfort still:\nBut thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,\nFor thou art covetous and he is kind;\nHe learn'd but surety-like to write for me\nUnder that bond that him as fast doth bind.\nThe statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,\nThou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,\nAnd sue a friend came debtor for my sake;\nSo him I lose through my unkind abuse.\n  Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:\n  He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.


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Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'\nAnd 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus;\nMore than enough am I that vex thee still,\nTo thy sweet will making addition thus.\nWilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,\nNot once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?\nShall will in others seem right gracious,\nAnd in my will no fair acceptance shine?\nThe sea all water, yet receives rain still\nAnd in abundance addeth to his store;\nSo thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will'\nOne will of mine, to make thy large 'Will' more.\n  Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;\n  Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.'


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If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near,\nSwear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,'\nAnd will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;\nThus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.\n'Will' will fulfil the treasure of thy love,\nAy, fill it full with wills, and my will one.\nIn things of great receipt with ease we prove\nAmong a number one is reckon'd none:\nThen in the number let me pass untold,\nThough in thy stores' account I one must be;\nFor nothing hold me, so it please thee hold\nThat nothing me, a something sweet to thee:\n  Make but my name thy love, and love that still,\n  And then thou lovest me, for my name is 'Will.'


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Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,\nThat they behold, and see not what they see?\nThey know what beauty is, see where it lies,\nYet what the best is take the worst to be.\nIf eyes corrupt by over-partial looks\nBe anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,\nWhy of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,\nWhereto the judgment of my heart is tied?\nWhy should my heart think that a several plot\nWhich my heart knows the wide world's common place?\nOr mine eyes seeing this, say this is not,\nTo put fair truth upon so foul a face?\n  In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,\n  And to this false plague are they now transferr'd.


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When my love swears that she is made of truth\nI do believe her, though I know she lies,\nThat she might think me some untutor'd youth,\nUnlearned in the world's false subtleties.\nThus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,\nAlthough she knows my days are past the best,\nSimply I credit her false speaking tongue:\nOn both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.\nBut wherefore says she not she is unjust?\nAnd wherefore say not I that I am old?\nO, love's best habit is in seeming trust,\nAnd age in love loves not to have years told:\n  Therefore I lie with her and she with me,\n  And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.


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O, call not me to justify the wrong\nThat thy unkindness lays upon my heart;\nWound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;\nUse power with power and slay me not by art.\nTell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight,\nDear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:\nWhat need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might\nIs more than my o'er-press'd defense can bide?\nLet me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows\nHer pretty looks have been mine enemies,\nAnd therefore from my face she turns my foes,\nThat they elsewhere might dart their injuries:\n  Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,\n  Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.


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Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press\nMy tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;\nLest sorrow lend me words and words express\nThe manner of my pity-wanting pain.\nIf I might teach thee wit, better it were,\nThough not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;\nAs testy sick men, when their deaths be near,\nNo news but health from their physicians know;\nFor if I should despair, I should grow mad,\nAnd in my madness might speak ill of thee:\nNow this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,\nMad slanderers by mad ears believed be,\n  That I may not be so, nor thou belied,\n  Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.


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In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,\nFor they in thee a thousand errors note;\nBut 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,\nWho in despite of view is pleased to dote;\nNor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,\nNor tender feeling, to base touches prone,\nNor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited\nTo any sensual feast with thee alone:\nBut my five wits nor my five senses can\nDissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,\nWho leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,\nThy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be:\n  Only my plague thus far I count my gain,\n  That she that makes me sin awards me pain.


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Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,\nHate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:\nO, but with mine compare thou thine own state,\nAnd thou shalt find it merits not reproving;\nOr, if it do, not from those lips of thine,\nThat have profaned their scarlet ornaments\nAnd seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,\nRobb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.\nBe it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those\nWhom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:\nRoot pity in thy heart, that when it grows\nThy pity may deserve to pitied be.\n  If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,\n  By self-example mayst thou be denied!


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Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch\nOne of her feather'd creatures broke away,\nSets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch\nIn pursuit of the thing she would have stay,\nWhilst her neglected child holds her in chase,\nCries to catch her whose busy care is bent\nTo follow that which flies before her face,\nNot prizing her poor infant's discontent;\nSo runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,\nWhilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;\nBut if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,\nAnd play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:\n  So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'\n  If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.


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Two loves I have of comfort and despair,\nWhich like two spirits do suggest me still:\nThe better angel is a man right fair,\nThe worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.\nTo win me soon to hell, my female evil\nTempteth my better angel from my side,\nAnd would corrupt my saint to be a devil,\nWooing his purity with her foul pride.\nAnd whether that my angel be turn'd fiend\nSuspect I may, but not directly tell;\nBut being both from me, both to each friend,\nI guess one angel in another's hell:\n  Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,\n  Till my bad angel fire my good one out.


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Those lips that Love's own hand did make\nBreathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'\nTo me that languish'd for her sake;\nBut when she saw my woeful state,\nStraight in her heart did mercy come,\nChiding that tongue that ever sweet\nWas used in giving gentle doom,\nAnd taught it thus anew to greet:\n'I hate' she alter'd with an end,\nThat follow'd it as gentle day\nDoth follow night, who like a fiend\nFrom heaven to hell is flown away;\n  'I hate' from hate away she threw,\n  And saved my life, saying 'not you.'


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Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,\n[         ] these rebel powers that thee array;\nWhy dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,\nPainting thy outward walls so costly gay?\nWhy so large cost, having so short a lease,\nDost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?\nShall worms, inheritors of this excess,\nEat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?\nThen soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,\nAnd let that pine to aggravate thy store;\nBuy terms divine in selling hours of dross;\nWithin be fed, without be rich no more:\n  So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,\n  And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.


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My love is as a fever, longing still\nFor that which longer nurseth the disease,\nFeeding on that which doth preserve the ill,\nThe uncertain sickly appetite to please.\nMy reason, the physician to my love,\nAngry that his prescriptions are not kept,\nHath left me, and I desperate now approve\nDesire is death, which physic did except.\nPast cure I am, now reason is past care,\nAnd frantic-mad with evermore unrest;\nMy thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,\nAt random from the truth vainly express'd;\n  For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,\n  Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.


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O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,\nWhich have no correspondence with true sight!\nOr, if they have, where is my judgment fled,\nThat censures falsely what they see aright?\nIf that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,\nWhat means the world to say it is not so?\nIf it be not, then love doth well denote\nLove's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.'\nHow can it? O, how can Love's eye be true,\nThat is so vex'd with watching and with tears?\nNo marvel then, though I mistake my view;\nThe sun itself sees not till heaven clears.\n  O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,\n  Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.


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Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,\nWhen I against myself with thee partake?\nDo I not think on thee, when I forgot\nAm of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?\nWho hateth thee that I do call my friend?\nOn whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?\nNay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend\nRevenge upon myself with present moan?\nWhat merit do I in myself respect,\nThat is so proud thy service to despise,\nWhen all my best doth worship thy defect,\nCommanded by the motion of thine eyes?\n  But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;\n  Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.


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O, from what power hast thou this powerful might\nWith insufficiency my heart to sway?\nTo make me give the lie to my true sight,\nAnd swear that brightness doth not grace the day?\nWhence hast thou this becoming of things ill,\nThat in the very refuse of thy deeds\nThere is such strength and warrantize of skill\nThat, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?\nWho taught thee how to make me love thee more\nThe more I hear and see just cause of hate?\nO, though I love what others do abhor,\nWith others thou shouldst not abhor my state:\n  If thy unworthiness raised love in me,\n  More worthy I to be beloved of thee.


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Love is too young to know what conscience is;\nYet who knows not conscience is born of love?\nThen, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,\nLest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:\nFor, thou betraying me, I do betray\nMy nobler part to my gross body's treason;\nMy soul doth tell my body that he may\nTriumph in love; flesh stays no father reason;\nBut, rising at thy name, doth point out thee\nAs his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,\nHe is contented thy poor drudge to be,\nTo stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.\n  No want of conscience hold it that I call\n  Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall.


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In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,\nBut thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing,\nIn act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,\nIn vowing new hate after new love bearing.\nBut why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,\nWhen I break twenty? I am perjured most;\nFor all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee\nAnd all my honest faith in thee is lost,\nFor I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,\nOaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,\nAnd, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,\nOr made them swear against the thing they see;\n  For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured I,\n  To swear against the truth so foul a lie!


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Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:\nA maid of Dian's this advantage found,\nAnd his love-kindling fire did quickly steep\nIn a cold valley-fountain of that ground;\nWhich borrow'd from this holy fire of Love\nA dateless lively heat, still to endure,\nAnd grew a seething bath, which yet men prove\nAgainst strange maladies a sovereign cure.\nBut at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,\nThe boy for trial needs would touch my breast;\nI, sick withal, the help of bath desired,\nAnd thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,\n  But found no cure: the bath for my help lies\n  Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes.


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The little Love-god lying once asleep\nLaid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,\nWhilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep\nCame tripping by; but in her maiden hand\nThe fairest votary took up that fire\nWhich many legions of true hearts had warm'd;\nAnd so the general of hot desire\nWas sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.\nThis brand she quenched in a cool well by,\nWhich from Love's fire took heat perpetual,\nGrowing a bath and healthful remedy\nFor men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,\n  Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,\n  Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.


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Y'are a baggage; the Slys are no rogues. Look in the\nchronicles: we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucas\npallabris; let the world slide. Sessa!


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Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him by law.\nI'll not budge an inch, boy; let him come, and kindly.\n[Falls asleep]\n   Wind horns. Enter a LORD from hunting, with his train


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Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds;\nBrach Merriman, the poor cur, is emboss'd;\nAnd couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach.\nSaw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good\nAt the hedge corner, in the coldest fault?\nI would not lose the dog for twenty pound.


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Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord;\nHe cried upon it at the merest loss,\nAnd twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent;\nTrust me, I take him for the better dog.


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Thou art a fool; if Echo were as fleet,\nI would esteem him worth a dozen such.\nBut sup them well, and look unto them all;\nTo-morrow I intend to hunt again.


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O monstrous beast, how like a swine he lies!\nGrim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!\nSirs, I will practise on this drunken man.\nWhat think you, if he were convey'd to bed,\nWrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,\nA most delicious banquet by his bed,\nAnd brave attendants near him when he wakes,\nWould not the beggar then forget himself?


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Even as a flatt'ring dream or worthless fancy.\nThen take him up, and manage well the jest:\nCarry him gently to my fairest chamber,\nAnd hang it round with all my wanton pictures;\nBalm his foul head in warm distilled waters,\nAnd burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet;\nProcure me music ready when he wakes,\nTo make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;\nAnd if he chance to speak, be ready straight,\nAnd with a low submissive reverence\nSay 'What is it your honour will command?'\nLet one attend him with a silver basin\nFull of rose-water and bestrew'd with flowers;\nAnother bear the ewer, the third a diaper,\nAnd say 'Will't please your lordship cool your hands?'\nSome one be ready with a costly suit,\nAnd ask him what apparel he will wear;\nAnother tell him of his hounds and horse,\nAnd that his lady mourns at his disease;\nPersuade him that he hath been lunatic,\nAnd, when he says he is, say that he dreams,\nFor he is nothing but a mighty lord.\nThis do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs;\nIt will be pastime passing excellent,\nIf it be husbanded with modesty.


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My lord, I warrant you we will play our part\nAs he shall think by our true diligence\nHe is no less than what we say he is.


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Take him up gently, and to bed with him;\nAnd each one to his office when he wakes.\n[SLY is carried out. A trumpet sounds]\nSirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds-\n[Exit SERVANT]\nBelike some noble gentleman that means,\nTravelling some journey, to repose him here.\n[Re-enter a SERVINGMAN]\nHow now! who is it?


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With all my heart. This fellow I remember\nSince once he play'd a farmer's eldest son;\n'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well.\nI have forgot your name; but, sure, that part\nWas aptly fitted and naturally perform'd.


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'Tis very true; thou didst it excellent.\nWell, you are come to me in happy time,\nThe rather for I have some sport in hand\nWherein your cunning can assist me much.\nThere is a lord will hear you play to-night;\nBut I am doubtful of your modesties,\nLest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,\nFor yet his honour never heard a play,\nYou break into some merry passion\nAnd so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,\nIf you should smile, he grows impatient.


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Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,\nAnd give them friendly welcome every one;\nLet them want nothing that my house affords.\n[Exit one with the PLAYERS]\nSirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page,\nAnd see him dress'd in all suits like a lady;\nThat done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber,\nAnd call him 'madam,' do him obeisance.\nTell him from me- as he will win my love-\nHe bear himself with honourable action,\nSuch as he hath observ'd in noble ladies\nUnto their lords, by them accomplished;\nSuch duty to the drunkard let him do,\nWith soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,\nAnd say 'What is't your honour will command,\nWherein your lady and your humble wife\nMay show her duty and make known her love?'\nAnd then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,\nAnd with declining head into his bosom,\nBid him shed tears, as being overjoyed\nTo see her noble lord restor'd to health,\nWho for this seven years hath esteemed him\nNo better than a poor and loathsome beggar.\nAnd if the boy have not a woman's gift\nTo rain a shower of commanded tears,\nAn onion will do well for such a shift,\nWhich, in a napkin being close convey'd,\nShall in despite enforce a watery eye.\nSee this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst;\nAnon I'll give thee more instructions. Exit a SERVINGMAN\nI know the boy will well usurp the grace,\nVoice, gait, and action, of a gentlewoman;\nI long to hear him call the drunkard 'husband';\nAnd how my men will stay themselves from laughter\nWhen they do homage to this simple peasant.\nI'll in to counsel them; haply my presence\nMay well abate the over-merry spleen,\nWhich otherwise would grow into extremes.        Exeunt


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Enter aloft SLY, with ATTENDANTS; some with apparel, basin and ewer, and other appurtenances; and LORD


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I am Christophero Sly; call not me 'honour' nor 'lordship.' I\nne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves,\ngive me conserves of beef. Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear,\nfor I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than\nlegs, nor no more shoes than feet- nay, sometime more feet than\nshoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.


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Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour!\nO, that a mighty man of such descent,\nOf such possessions, and so high esteem,\nShould be infused with so foul a spirit!


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What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old\nSly's son of Burton Heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a\ncardmaker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present\nprofession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of\nWincot, if she know me not; if she say I am not fourteen pence on\nthe score for sheer ale, score me up for the lying'st knave in\nChristendom. What! I am not bestraught. [Taking a pot of ale]\nHere's-


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Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,\nAs beaten hence by your strange lunacy.\nO noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth!\nCall home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,\nAnd banish hence these abject lowly dreams.\nLook how thy servants do attend on thee,\nEach in his office ready at thy beck.\nWilt thou have music? Hark! Apollo plays,            [Music]\nAnd twenty caged nightingales do sing.\nOr wilt thou sleep? We'll have thee to a couch\nSofter and sweeter than the lustful bed\nOn purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.\nSay thou wilt walk: we will bestrew the ground.\nOr wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapp'd,\nTheir harness studded all with gold and pearl.\nDost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar\nAbove the morning lark. Or wilt thou hunt?\nThy hounds shall make the welkin answer them\nAnd fetch shall echoes from the hollow earth.


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Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee\n  straight\nAdonis painted by a running brook,\nAnd Cytherea all in sedges hid,\nWhich seem to move and wanton with her breath\nEven as the waving sedges play wi' th' wind.


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We'll show thee Io as she was a maid\nAnd how she was beguiled and surpris'd,\nAs lively painted as the deed was done.


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Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,\nScratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds\nAnd at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,\nSo workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.


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Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord.\nThou hast a lady far more beautiful\nThan any woman in this waning age.


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And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee\nLike envious floods o'er-run her lovely face,\nShe was the fairest creature in the world;\nAnd yet she is inferior to none.


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Am I a lord and have I such a lady?\nOr do I dream? Or have I dream'd till now?\nI do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak;\nI smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things.\nUpon my life, I am a lord indeed,\nAnd not a tinker, nor Christopher Sly.\nWell, bring our lady hither to our sight;\nAnd once again, a pot o' th' smallest ale.


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Will't please your Mightiness to wash your hands?\nO, how we joy to see your wit restor'd!\nO, that once more you knew but what you are!\nThese fifteen years you have been in a dream;\nOr, when you wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept.


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O, yes, my lord, but very idle words;\nFor though you lay here in this goodly chamber,\nYet would you say ye were beaten out of door;\nAnd rail upon the hostess of the house,\nAnd say you would present her at the leet,\nBecause she brought stone jugs and no seal'd quarts.\nSometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.


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Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid,\nNor no such men as you have reckon'd up,\nAs Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,\nAnd Peter Turph, and Henry Pimpernell;\nAnd twenty more such names and men as these,\nWhich never were, nor no man ever saw.


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'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone.\n[Exeunt SERVANTS]\nMadam, undress you, and come now to bed.


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Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you\nTo pardon me yet for a night or two;\nOr, if not so, until the sun be set.\nFor your physicians have expressly charg'd,\nIn peril to incur your former malady,\nThat I should yet absent me from your bed.\nI hope this reason stands for my excuse.


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Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long. But I would be\nloath to fall into my dreams again. I will therefore tarry in\ndespite of the flesh and the blood.


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Your honour's players, hearing your amendment,\nAre come to play a pleasant comedy;\nFor so your doctors hold it very meet,\nSeeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood,\nAnd melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.\nTherefore they thought it good you hear a play\nAnd frame your mind to mirth and merriment,\nWhich bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.


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Well, we'll see't. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and let\nthe world slip;-we shall ne'er be younger.


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Tranio, since for the great desire I had\nTo see fair Padua, nursery of arts,\nI am arriv'd for fruitful Lombardy,\nThe pleasant garden of great Italy,\nAnd by my father's love and leave am arm'd\nWith his good will and thy good company,\nMy trusty servant well approv'd in all,\nHere let us breathe, and haply institute\nA course of learning and ingenious studies.\nPisa, renowned for grave citizens,\nGave me my being and my father first,\nA merchant of great traffic through the world,\nVincentio, come of the Bentivolii;\nVincentio's son, brought up in Florence,\nIt shall become to serve all hopes conceiv'd,\nTo deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds.\nAnd therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,\nVirtue and that part of philosophy\nWill I apply that treats of happiness\nBy virtue specially to be achiev'd.\nTell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left\nAnd am to Padua come as he that leaves\nA shallow plash to plunge him in the deep,\nAnd with satiety seeks to quench his thirst.


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Mi perdonato, gentle master mine;\nI am in all affected as yourself;\nGlad that you thus continue your resolve\nTo suck the sweets of sweet philosophy.\nOnly, good master, while we do admire\nThis virtue and this moral discipline,\nLet's be no Stoics nor no stocks, I pray,\nOr so devote to Aristotle's checks\nAs Ovid be an outcast quite abjur'd.\nBalk logic with acquaintance that you have,\nAnd practise rhetoric in your common talk;\nMusic and poesy use to quicken you;\nThe mathematics and the metaphysics,\nFall to them as you find your stomach serves you.\nNo profit grows where is no pleasure ta'en;\nIn brief, sir, study what you most affect.


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Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.\nIf, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,\nWe could at once put us in readiness,\nAnd take a lodging fit to entertain\nSuch friends as time in Padua shall beget.\n  Enter BAPTISTA with his two daughters, KATHERINA\n    and BIANCA; GREMIO, a pantaloon; HORTENSIO,\n    suitor to BIANCA. LUCENTIO and TRANIO stand by\nBut stay awhile; what company is this?


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Gentlemen, importune me no farther,\nFor how I firmly am resolv'd you know;\nThat is, not to bestow my youngest daughter\nBefore I have a husband for the elder.\nIf either of you both love Katherina,\nBecause I know you well and love you well,\nLeave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.


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I' faith, sir, you shall never need to fear;\nIwis it is not halfway to her heart;\nBut if it were, doubt not her care should be\nTo comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool,\nAnd paint your face, and use you like a fool.


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Gentlemen, that I may soon make good\nWhat I have said- Bianca, get you in;\nAnd let it not displease thee, good Bianca,\nFor I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl.


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Sister, content you in my discontent.\nSir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe;\nMy books and instruments shall be my company,\nOn them to look, and practise by myself.


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Why will you mew her up,\nSignior Baptista, for this fiend of hell,\nAnd make her bear the penance of her tongue?


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Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv'd.\nGo in, Bianca.                              Exit BIANCA\nAnd for I know she taketh most delight\nIn music, instruments, and poetry,\nSchoolmasters will I keep within my house\nFit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,\nOr, Signior Gremio, you, know any such,\nPrefer them hither; for to cunning men\nI will be very kind, and liberal\nTo mine own children in good bringing-up;\nAnd so, farewell. Katherina, you may stay;\nFor I have more to commune with Bianca.            Exit


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Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not?\nWhat! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike,\nI knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha!          Exit


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You may go to the devil's dam; your gifts are so good\nhere's none will hold you. There! Love is not so great,\nHortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly\nout; our cake's dough on both sides. Farewell; yet, for the love\nI bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man\nto teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her\nfather.


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So Will I, Signior Gremio; but a word, I pray. Though\nthe nature of our quarrel yet never brook'd parle, know now, upon\nadvice, it toucheth us both- that we may yet again have access to\nour fair mistress, and be happy rivals in Bianca's love- to\nlabour and effect one thing specially.


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I say a devil. Think'st thou, Hortensio, though her father\nbe very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell?


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Tush, Gremio! Though it pass your patience and mine to\nendure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the\nworld, an a man could light on them, would take her with all\nfaults, and money enough.


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I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this\ncondition: to be whipp'd at the high cross every morning.


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Faith, as you say, there's small choice in rotten\napples. But, come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it\nshall be so far forth friendly maintain'd till by helping\nBaptista's eldest daughter to a husband we set his youngest free\nfor a husband, and then have to't afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man\nbe his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you,\nSignior Gremio?


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I am agreed; and would I had given him the best horse in\nPadua to begin his wooing that would thoroughly woo her, wed her,\nand bed her, and rid the house of her! Come on.


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O Tranio, till I found it to be true,\nI never thought it possible or likely.\nBut see! while idly I stood looking on,\nI found the effect of love in idleness;\nAnd now in plainness do confess to thee,\nThat art to me as secret and as dear\nAs Anna to the Queen of Carthage was-\nTranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio,\nIf I achieve not this young modest girl.\nCounsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst;\nAssist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.


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Master, it is no time to chide you now;\nAffection is not rated from the heart;\nIf love have touch'd you, nought remains but so:\n'Redime te captum quam queas minimo.'


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O, yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,\nSuch as the daughter of Agenor had,\nThat made great Jove to humble him to her hand,\nWhen with his knees he kiss'd the Cretan strand.


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Saw you no more? Mark'd you not how her sister\nBegan to scold and raise up such a storm\nThat mortal ears might hardly endure the din?


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Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,\nAnd with her breath she did perfume the air;\nSacred and sweet was all I saw in her.


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Nay, then 'tis time to stir him from his trance.\nI pray, awake, sir. If you love the maid,\nBend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands:\nHer elder sister is so curst and shrewd\nThat, till the father rid his hands of her,\nMaster, your love must live a maid at home;\nAnd therefore has he closely mew'd her up,\nBecause she will not be annoy'd with suitors.


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Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father's he!\nBut art thou not advis'd he took some care\nTo get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?


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Not possible; for who shall bear your part\nAnd be in Padua here Vincentio's son;\nKeep house and ply his book, welcome his friends,\nVisit his countrymen, and banquet them?


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Basta, content thee, for I have it full.\nWe have not yet been seen in any house,\nNor can we be distinguish'd by our faces\nFor man or master. Then it follows thus:\nThou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead,\nKeep house and port and servants, as I should;\nI will some other be- some Florentine,\nSome Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa.\n'Tis hatch'd, and shall be so. Tranio, at once\nUncase thee; take my colour'd hat and cloak.\nWhen Biondello comes, he waits on thee;\nBut I will charm him first to keep his tongue.


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So had you need.           [They exchange habits]\nIn brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is,\nAnd I am tied to be obedient-\nFor so your father charg'd me at our parting:\n'Be serviceable to my son' quoth he,\nAlthough I think 'twas in another sense-\nI am content to be Lucentio,\nBecause so well I love Lucentio.


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Tranio, be so because Lucentio loves;\nAnd let me be a slave t' achieve that maid\nWhose sudden sight hath thrall'd my wounded eye.\n[Enter BIONDELLO.]\nHere comes the rogue. Sirrah, where have you been?


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Where have I been! Nay, how now! where are you?\nMaster, has my fellow Tranio stol'n your clothes?\nOr you stol'n his? or both? Pray, what's the news?


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Sirrah, come hither; 'tis no time to jest,\nAnd therefore frame your manners to the time.\nYour fellow Tranio here, to save my life,\nPuts my apparel and my count'nance on,\nAnd I for my escape have put on his;\nFor in a quarrel since I came ashore\nI kill'd a man, and fear I was descried.\nWait you on him, I charge you, as becomes,\nWhile I make way from hence to save my life.\nYou understand me?


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So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after,\nThat Lucentio indeed had Baptista's youngest daughter.\nBut, sirrah, not for my sake but your master's, I advise\nYou use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies.\nWhen I am alone, why, then I am Tranio;\nBut in all places else your master Lucentio.


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Tranio, let's go.\nOne thing more rests, that thyself execute-\nTo make one among these wooers. If thou ask me why-\nSufficeth, my reasons are both good and weighty. Exeunt.


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'Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady\nWould 'twere done!                        [They sit and mark]


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Verona, for a while I take my leave,\nTo see my friends in Padua; but of all\nMy best beloved and approved friend,\nHortensio; and I trow this is his house.\nHere, sirrah Grumio, knock, I say.


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My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first,\nAnd then I know after who comes by the worst.


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Will it not be?\nFaith, sirrah, an you'll not knock I'll ring it;\nI'll try how you can sol-fa, and sing it.


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How now! what's the matter? My old friend Grumio and my\ngood friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona?


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Alla nostra casa ben venuto,\nMolto honorato signor mio Petruchio.\nRise, Grumio, rise; we will compound this quarrel.


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Nay, 'tis no matter, sir, what he 'leges in Latin. If this\nbe not a lawful cause for me to leave his service- look you, sir:\nhe bid me knock him and rap him soundly, sir. Well, was it fit\nfor a servant to use his master so; being, perhaps, for aught I\nsee, two and thirty, a pip out?\nWhom would to God I had well knock'd at first,\nThen had not Grumio come by the worst.


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A senseless villain! Good Hortensio,\nI bade the rascal knock upon your gate,\nAnd could not get him for my heart to do it.


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Knock at the gate? O heavens! Spake you not these words\nplain: 'Sirrah knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and\nknock me soundly'? And come you now with 'knocking at the gate'?


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Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio's pledge;\nWhy, this's a heavy chance 'twixt him and you,\nYour ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio.\nAnd tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale\nBlows you to Padua here from old Verona?


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Such wind as scatters young men through the world\nTo seek their fortunes farther than at home,\nWhere small experience grows. But in a few,\nSignior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:\nAntonio, my father, is deceas'd,\nAnd I have thrust myself into this maze,\nHaply to wive and thrive as best I may;\nCrowns in my purse I have, and goods at home,\nAnd so am come abroad to see the world.


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Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee\nAnd wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour'd wife?\nThou'dst thank me but a little for my counsel,\nAnd yet I'll promise thee she shall be rich,\nAnd very rich; but th'art too much my friend,\nAnd I'll not wish thee to her.


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Signior Hortensio, 'twixt such friends as we\nFew words suffice; and therefore, if thou know\nOne rich enough to be Petruchio's wife,\nAs wealth is burden of my wooing dance,\nBe she as foul as was Florentius' love,\nAs old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd\nAs Socrates' Xanthippe or a worse-\nShe moves me not, or not removes, at least,\nAffection's edge in me, were she as rough\nAs are the swelling Adriatic seas.\nI come to wive it wealthily in Padua;\nIf wealthily, then happily in Padua.


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Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is.\nWhy, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an\naglet-baby, or an old trot with ne'er a tooth in her head, though\nshe has as many diseases as two and fifty horses. Why, nothing\ncomes amiss, so money comes withal.


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Petruchio, since we are stepp'd thus far in,\nI will continue that I broach'd in jest.\nI can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife\nWith wealth enough, and young and beauteous;\nBrought up as best becomes a gentlewoman;\nHer only fault, and that is faults enough,\nIs- that she is intolerable curst,\nAnd shrewd and froward so beyond all measure\nThat, were my state far worser than it is,\nI would not wed her for a mine of gold.


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Hortensio, peace! thou know'st not gold's effect.\nTell me her father's name, and 'tis enough;\nFor I will board her though she chide as loud\nAs thunder when the clouds in autumn crack.


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Her father is Baptista Minola,\nAn affable and courteous gentleman;\nHer name is Katherina Minola,\nRenown'd in Padua for her scolding tongue.


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I know her father, though I know not her;\nAnd he knew my deceased father well.\nI will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her;\nAnd therefore let me be thus bold with you\nTo give you over at this first encounter,\nUnless you will accompany me thither.


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I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O' my\nword, and she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding\nwould do little good upon him. She may perhaps call him half a\nscore knaves or so. Why, that's nothing; and he begin once, he'll\nrail in his rope-tricks. I'll tell you what, sir: an she stand\nhim but a little, he will throw a figure in her face, and so\ndisfigure her with it that she shall have no more eyes to see\nwithal than a cat. You know him not, sir.


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Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee,\nFor in Baptista's keep my treasure is.\nHe hath the jewel of my life in hold,\nHis youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca;\nAnd her withholds from me, and other more,\nSuitors to her and rivals in my love;\nSupposing it a thing impossible-\nFor those defects I have before rehears'd-\nThat ever Katherina will be woo'd.\nTherefore this order hath Baptista ta'en,\nThat none shall have access unto Bianca\nTill Katherine the curst have got a husband.


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Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,\nAnd offer me disguis'd in sober robes\nTo old Baptista as a schoolmaster\nWell seen in music, to instruct Bianca;\nThat so I may by this device at least\nHave leave and leisure to make love to her,\nAnd unsuspected court her by herself.\n    Enter GREMIO with LUCENTIO disguised as CAMBIO


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Here's no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the\nyoung folks lay their heads together! Master, master, look about\nyou. Who goes there, ha?


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O, very well; I have perus'd the note.\nHark you, sir; I'll have them very fairly bound-\nAll books of love, see that at any hand;\nAnd see you read no other lectures to her.\nYou understand me- over and beside\nSignior Baptista's liberality,\nI'll mend it with a largess. Take your paper too,\nAnd let me have them very well perfum'd;\nFor she is sweeter than perfume itself\nTo whom they go to. What will you read to her?


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Whate'er I read to her, I'll plead for you\nAs for my patron, stand you so assur'd,\nAs firmly as yourself were still in place;\nYea, and perhaps with more successful words\nThan you, unless you were a scholar, sir.


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And you are well met, Signior Hortensio.\nTrow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola.\nI promis'd to enquire carefully\nAbout a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca;\nAnd by good fortune I have lighted well\nOn this young man; for learning and behaviour\nFit for her turn, well read in poetry\nAnd other books- good ones, I warrant ye.


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'Tis well; and I have met a gentleman\nHath promis'd me to help me to another,\nA fine musician to instruct our mistress;\nSo shall I no whit be behind in duty\nTo fair Bianca, so beloved of me.


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Gremio, 'tis now no time to vent our love.\nListen to me, and if you speak me fair\nI'll tell you news indifferent good for either.\nHere is a gentleman whom by chance I met,\nUpon agreement from us to his liking,\nWill undertake to woo curst Katherine;\nYea, and to marry her, if her dowry please.


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Born in Verona, old Antonio's son.\nMy father dead, my fortune lives for me;\nAnd I do hope good days and long to see.


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O Sir, such a life with such a wife were strange!\nBut if you have a stomach, to't a God's name;\nYou shall have me assisting you in all.\nBut will you woo this wild-cat?


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Why came I hither but to that intent?\nThink you a little din can daunt mine ears?\nHave I not in my time heard lions roar?\nHave I not heard the sea, puff'd up with winds,\nRage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?\nHave I not heard great ordnance in the field,\nAnd heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?\nHave I not in a pitched battle heard\nLoud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang?\nAnd do you tell me of a woman's tongue,\nThat gives not half so great a blow to hear\nAs will a chestnut in a farmer's fire?\nTush! tush! fear boys with bugs.


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I would I were as sure of a good dinner.\nEnter TRANIO, bravely apparelled as LUCENTIO, and BIONDELLO


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Gentlemen, God save you! If I may be bold,\nTell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way\nTo the house of Signior Baptista Minola?


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Softly, my masters! If you be gentlemen,\nDo me this right- hear me with patience.\nBaptista is a noble gentleman,\nTo whom my father is not all unknown,\nAnd, were his daughter fairer than she is,\nShe may more suitors have, and me for one.\nFair Leda's daughter had a thousand wooers;\nThen well one more may fair Bianca have;\nAnd so she shall: Lucentio shall make one,\nThough Paris came in hope to speed alone.


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No, sir, but hear I do that he hath two:\nThe one as famous for a scolding tongue\nAs is the other for beauteous modesty.


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Sir, understand you this of me, in sooth:\nThe youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,\nHer father keeps from all access of suitors,\nAnd will not promise her to any man\nUntil the elder sister first be wed.\nThe younger then is free, and not before.


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If it be so, sir, that you are the man\nMust stead us all, and me amongst the rest;\nAnd if you break the ice, and do this feat,\nAchieve the elder, set the younger free\nFor our access- whose hap shall be to have her\nWill not so graceless be to be ingrate.


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Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive;\nAnd since you do profess to be a suitor,\nYou must, as we do, gratify this gentleman,\nTo whom we all rest generally beholding.


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Sir, I shall not be slack; in sign whereof,\nPlease ye we may contrive this afternoon,\nAnd quaff carouses to our mistress' health;\nAnd do as adversaries do in law-\nStrive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.


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Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,\nTo make a bondmaid and a slave of me-\nThat I disdain; but for these other gawds,\nUnbind my hands, I'll pull them off myself,\nYea, all my raiment, to my petticoat;\nOr what you will command me will I do,\nSo well I know my duty to my elders.


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Believe me, sister, of all the men alive\nI never yet beheld that special face\nWhich I could fancy more than any other.


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Is it for him you do envy me so?\nNay, then you jest; and now I well perceive\nYou have but jested with me all this while.\nI prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.


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Why, how now, dame! Whence grows this insolence?\nBianca, stand aside- poor girl! she weeps.\n[He unbinds her]\nGo ply thy needle; meddle not with her.\nFor shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit,\nWhy dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong thee?\nWhen did she cross thee with a bitter word?


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What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see\nShe is your treasure, she must have a husband;\nI must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day,\nAnd for your love to her lead apes in hell.\nTalk not to me; I will go sit and weep,\nTill I can find occasion of revenge.     Exit KATHERINA


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    Enter GREMIO, with LUCENTIO in the habit of a mean man; PETRUCHIO, with HORTENSIO as a musician; and TRANIO, as LUCENTIO, with his boy, BIONDELLO, bearing a lute and books


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You wrong me, Signior Gremio; give me leave.\nI am a gentleman of Verona, sir,\nThat, hearing of her beauty and her wit,\nHer affability and bashful modesty,\nHer wondrous qualities and mild behaviour,\nAm bold to show myself a forward guest\nWithin your house, to make mine eye the witness\nOf that report which I so oft have heard.\nAnd, for an entrance to my entertainment,\nI do present you with a man of mine,\n[Presenting HORTENSIO]\nCunning in music and the mathematics,\nTo instruct her fully in those sciences,\nWhereof I know she is not ignorant.\nAccept of him, or else you do me wrong-\nHis name is Licio, born in Mantua.


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Y'are welcome, sir, and he for your good sake;\nBut for my daughter Katherine, this I know,\nShe is not for your turn, the more my grief.


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Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,\nLet us that are poor petitioners speak too.\nBacare! you are marvellous forward.


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I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your wooing.\nNeighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To\nexpress the like kindness, myself, that have been more kindly\nbeholding to you than any, freely give unto you this young\nscholar  [Presenting LUCENTIO]  that hath been long studying at\nRheims; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the\nother in music and mathematics. His name is Cambio. Pray accept\nhis service.


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A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio. Welcome, good Cambio.\n[To TRANIO]  But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger.\nMay I be so bold to know the cause of your coming?


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Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own\nThat, being a stranger in this city here,\nDo make myself a suitor to your daughter,\nUnto Bianca, fair and virtuous.\nNor is your firm resolve unknown to me\nIn the preferment of the eldest sister.\nThis liberty is all that I request-\nThat, upon knowledge of my parentage,\nI may have welcome 'mongst the rest that woo,\nAnd free access and favour as the rest.\nAnd toward the education of your daughters\nI here bestow a simple instrument,\nAnd this small packet of Greek and Latin books.\nIf you accept them, then their worth is great.


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A mighty man of Pisa. By report\nI know him well. You are very welcome, sir.\nTake you the lute, and you the set of books;\nYou shall go see your pupils presently.\nHolla, within!\n[Enter a SERVANT]\nSirrah, lead these gentlemen\nTo my daughters; and tell them both\nThese are their tutors. Bid them use them well.\n[Exit SERVANT leading HORTENSIO carrying the lute and LUCENTIO with the books]\nWe will go walk a little in the orchard,\nAnd then to dinner. You are passing welcome,\nAnd so I pray you all to think yourselves.


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Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,\nAnd every day I cannot come to woo.\nYou knew my father well, and in him me,\nLeft solely heir to all his lands and goods,\nWhich I have bettered rather than decreas'd.\nThen tell me, if I get your daughter's love,\nWhat dowry shall I have with her to wife?


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And for that dowry, I'll assure her of\nHer widowhood, be it that she survive me,\nIn all my lands and leases whatsoever.\nLet specialities be therefore drawn between us,\nThat covenants may be kept on either hand.


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Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father,\nI am as peremptory as she proud-minded;\nAnd where two raging fires meet together,\nThey do consume the thing that feeds their fury.\nThough little fire grows great with little wind,\nYet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all.\nSo I to her, and so she yields to me;\nFor I am rough, and woo not like a babe.


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Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.\nI did but tell her she mistook her frets,\nAnd bow'd her hand to teach her fingering,\nWhen, with a most impatient devilish spirit,\n'Frets, call you these?' quoth she 'I'll fume with them.'\nAnd with that word she struck me on the head,\nAnd through the instrument my pate made way;\nAnd there I stood amazed for a while,\nAs on a pillory, looking through the lute,\nWhile she did call me rascal fiddler\nAnd twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms,\nAs she had studied to misuse me so.


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Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench;\nI love her ten times more than e'er I did.\nO, how I long to have some chat with her!


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Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited;\nProceed in practice with my younger daughter;\nShe's apt to learn, and thankful for good turns.\nSignior Petruchio, will you go with us,\nOr shall I send my daughter Kate to you?


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I pray you do.        Exeunt all but PETRUCHIO\nI'll attend her here,\nAnd woo her with some spirit when she comes.\nSay that she rail; why, then I'll tell her plain\nShe sings as sweetly as a nightingale.\nSay that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear\nAs morning roses newly wash'd with dew.\nSay she be mute, and will not speak a word;\nThen I'll commend her volubility,\nAnd say she uttereth piercing eloquence.\nIf she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks,\nAs though she bid me stay by her a week;\nIf she deny to wed, I'll crave the day\nWhen I shall ask the banns, and when be married.\nBut here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak.\n[Enter KATHERINA]\nGood morrow, Kate- for that's your name, I hear.


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You lie, in faith, for you are call'd plain Kate,\nAnd bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;\nBut, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,\nKate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,\nFor dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate,\nTake this of me, Kate of my consolation-\nHearing thy mildness prais'd in every town,\nThy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,\nYet not so deeply as to thee belongs,\nMyself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife.


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Mov'd! in good time! Let him that mov'd you hither\nRemove you hence. I knew you at the first\nYou were a moveable.


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So may you lose your arms.\nIf you strike me, you are no gentleman;\nAnd if no gentleman, why then no arms.


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No, not a whit; I find you passing gentle.\n'Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen,\nAnd now I find report a very liar;\nFor thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,\nBut slow in speech, yet sweet as springtime flowers.\nThou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,\nNor bite the lip, as angry wenches will,\nNor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk;\nBut thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers;\nWith gentle conference, soft and affable.\nWhy does the world report that Kate doth limp?\nO sland'rous world! Kate like the hazel-twig\nIs straight and slender, and as brown in hue\nAs hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.\nO, let me see thee walk. Thou dost not halt.


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Did ever Dian so become a grove\nAs Kate this chamber with her princely gait?\nO, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate;\nAnd then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful!


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Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed.\nAnd therefore, setting all this chat aside,\nThus in plain terms: your father hath consented\nThat you shall be my wife your dowry greed on;\nAnd will you, nill you, I will marry you.\nNow, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;\nFor, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,\nThy beauty that doth make me like thee well,\nThou must be married to no man but me;\nFor I am he am born to tame you, Kate,\nAnd bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate\nConformable as other household Kates.\n[Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO]\nHere comes your father. Never make denial;\nI must and will have Katherine to my wife.


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Call you me daughter? Now I promise you\nYou have show'd a tender fatherly regard\nTo wish me wed to one half lunatic,\nA mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack,\nThat thinks with oaths to face the matter out.


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Father, 'tis thus: yourself and all the world\nThat talk'd of her have talk'd amiss of her.\nIf she be curst, it is for policy,\nFor,she's not froward, but modest as the dove;\nShe is not hot, but temperate as the morn;\nFor patience she will prove a second Grissel,\nAnd Roman Lucrece for her chastity.\nAnd, to conclude, we have 'greed so well together\nThat upon Sunday is the wedding-day.


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Be patient, gentlemen. I choose her for myself;\nIf she and I be pleas'd, what's that to you?\n'Tis bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone,\nThat she shall still be curst in company.\nI tell you 'tis incredible to believe.\nHow much she loves me- O, the kindest Kate!\nShe hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss\nShe vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,\nThat in a twink she won me to her love.\nO, you are novices! 'Tis a world to see,\nHow tame, when men and women are alone,\nA meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.\nGive me thy hand, Kate; I will unto Venice,\nTo buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day.\nProvide the feast, father, and bid the guests;\nI will be sure my Katherine shall be fine.


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Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.\nI will to Venice; Sunday comes apace;\nWe will have rings and things, and fine array;\nAnd kiss me, Kate; we will be married a Sunday.


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No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.\nBut now, Baptista, to your younger daughter:\nNow is the day we long have looked for;\nI am your neighbour, and was suitor first.


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Content you, gentlemen; I will compound this strife.\n'Tis deeds must win the prize, and he of both\nThat can assure my daughter greatest dower\nShall have my Bianca's love.\nSay, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her?


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First, as you know, my house within the city\nIs richly furnished with plate and gold,\nBasins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;\nMy hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;\nIn ivory coffers I have stuff'd my crowns;\nIn cypress chests my arras counterpoints,\nCostly apparel, tents, and canopies,\nFine linen, Turkey cushions boss'd with pearl,\nValance of Venice gold in needle-work;\nPewter and brass, and all things that belongs\nTo house or housekeeping. Then at my farm\nI have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,\nSix score fat oxen standing in my stalls,\nAnd all things answerable to this portion.\nMyself am struck in years, I must confess;\nAnd if I die to-morrow this is hers,\nIf whilst I live she will be only mine.


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That 'only' came well in. Sir, list to me:\nI am my father's heir and only son;\nIf I may have your daughter to my wife,\nI'll leave her houses three or four as good\nWithin rich Pisa's walls as any one\nOld Signior Gremio has in Padua;\nBesides two thousand ducats by the year\nOf fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure.\nWhat, have I pinch'd you, Signior Gremio?


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Two thousand ducats by the year of land!\n[Aside]  My land amounts not to so much in all.-\nThat she shall have, besides an argosy\nThat now is lying in Marseilles road.\nWhat, have I chok'd you with an argosy?


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Gremio, 'tis known my father hath no less\nThan three great argosies, besides two galliasses,\nAnd twelve tight galleys. These I will assure her,\nAnd twice as much whate'er thou off'rest next.


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Nay, I have off'red all; I have no more;\nAnd she can have no more than all I have;\nIf you like me, she shall have me and mine.


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I must confess your offer is the best;\nAnd let your father make her the assurance,\nShe is your own. Else, you must pardon me;\nIf you should die before him, where's her dower?


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Well, gentlemen,\nI am thus resolv'd: on Sunday next you know\nMy daughter Katherine is to be married;\nNow, on the Sunday following shall Bianca\nBe bride to you, if you make this assurance;\nIf not, to Signior Gremio.\nAnd so I take my leave, and thank you both.


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Adieu, good neighbour.              Exit BAPTISTA\nNow, I fear thee not.\nSirrah young gamester, your father were a fool\nTo give thee all, and in his waning age\nSet foot under thy table. Tut, a toy!\nAn old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.         Exit


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A vengeance on your crafty withered hide!\nYet I have fac'd it with a card of ten.\n'Tis in my head to do my master good:\nI see no reason but suppos'd Lucentio\nMust get a father, call'd suppos'd Vincentio;\nAnd that's a wonder- fathers commonly\nDo get their children; but in this case of wooing\nA child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.


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Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir.\nHave you so soon forgot the entertainment\nHer sister Katherine welcome'd you withal?


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But, wrangling pedant, this is\nThe patroness of heavenly harmony.\nThen give me leave to have prerogative;\nAnd when in music we have spent an hour,\nYour lecture shall have leisure for as much.


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Preposterous ass, that never read so far\nTo know the cause why music was ordain'd!\nWas it not to refresh the mind of man\nAfter his studies or his usual pain?\nThen give me leave to read philosophy,\nAnd while I pause serve in your harmony.


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Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong\nTo strive for that which resteth in my choice.\nI am no breeching scholar in the schools,\nI'll not be tied to hours nor 'pointed times,\nBut learn my lessons as I please myself.\nAnd to cut off all strife: here sit we down;\nTake you your instrument, play you the whiles!\nHis lecture will be done ere you have tun'd.


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'Hic ibat' as I told you before- 'Simois' I am Lucentio-\n'hic est' son unto Vincentio of Pisa- 'Sigeia tellus' disguised\nthus to get your love- 'Hic steterat' and that Lucentio that\ncomes a-wooing- 'Priami' is my man Tranio- 'regia' bearing my\nport- 'celsa senis' that we might beguile the old pantaloon.


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Now let me see if I can construe it: 'Hic ibat Simois' I\nknow you not- 'hic est Sigeia tellus' I trust you not- 'Hic\nsteterat Priami' take heed he hear us not- 'regia' presume not-\n'celsa senis' despair not.


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The bass is right; 'tis the base knave that jars.\n[Aside]  How fiery and forward our pedant is!\nNow, for my life, the knave doth court my love.\nPedascule, I'll watch you better yet.


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I must believe my master; else, I promise you,\nI should be arguing still upon that doubt;\nBut let it rest. Now, Licio, to you.\nGood master, take it not unkindly, pray,\nThat I have been thus pleasant with you both.


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[To LUCENTIO]  You may go walk and give me leave\n  awhile;\nMy lessons make no music in three Parts.


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Are you so formal, sir? Well, I must wait,\n[Aside]  And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv'd,\nOur fine musician groweth amorous.


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Madam, before you touch the instrument\nTo learn the order of my fingering,\nI must begin with rudiments of art,\nTo teach you gamut in a briefer sort,\nMore pleasant, pithy, and effectual,\nThan hath been taught by any of my trade;\nAnd there it is in writing fairly drawn.


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[Reads]\n     '"Gamut" I am, the ground of all accord-\n     "A re" to plead Hortensio's passion-\n     "B mi" Bianca, take him for thy lord-\n     "C fa ut" that loves with all affection-\n     "D sol re" one clef, two notes have I-\n     "E la mi" show pity or I die.'\nCall you this gamut? Tut, I like it not!\nOld fashions please me best; I am not so nice\nTo change true rules for odd inventions.


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Mistress, your father prays you leave your books\nAnd help to dress your sister's chamber up.\nYou know to-morrow is the wedding-day.


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But I have cause to pry into this pedant;\nMethinks he looks as though he were in love.\nYet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble\nTo cast thy wand'ring eyes on every stale-\nSeize thee that list. If once I find thee ranging,\nHortensio will be quit with thee by changing.        Exit


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[To TRANIO]  Signior Lucentio, this is the 'pointed day\nThat Katherine and Petruchio should be married,\nAnd yet we hear not of our son-in-law.\nWhat will be said? What mockery will it be\nTo want the bridegroom when the priest attends\nTo speak the ceremonial rites of marriage!\nWhat says Lucentio to this shame of ours?


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No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forc'd\nTo give my hand, oppos'd against my heart,\nUnto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen,\nWho woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure.\nI told you, I, he was a frantic fool,\nHiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour;\nAnd, to be noted for a merry man,\nHe'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage,\nMake friends invited, and proclaim the banns;\nYet never means to wed where he hath woo'd.\nNow must the world point at poor Katherine,\nAnd say 'Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife,\nIf it would please him come and marry her!'


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Patience, good Katherine, and Baptista too.\nUpon my life, Petruchio means but well,\nWhatever fortune stays him from his word.\nThough he be blunt, I know him passing wise;\nThough he be merry, yet withal he's honest.


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Go, girl, I cannot blame thee now to weep,\nFor such an injury would vex a very saint;\nMuch more a shrew of thy impatient humour.\n[Enter BIONDELLO]\nMaster, master! News, and such old news as you never heard of!


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Why, Petruchio is coming- in a new hat and an old\njerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turn'd; a pair of boots\nthat have been candle-cases, one buckled, another lac'd; an old\nrusty sword ta'en out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt,\nand chapeless; with two broken points; his horse hipp'd, with an\nold motley saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possess'd\nwith the glanders and like to mose in the chine, troubled with\nthe lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped\nwith spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives,\nstark spoil'd with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, sway'd in\nthe back and shoulder-shotten, near-legg'd before, and with a\nhalf-cheek'd bit, and a head-stall of sheep's leather which,\nbeing restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often\nburst, and now repaired with knots; one girth six times piec'd,\nand a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her\nname fairly set down in studs, and here and there piec'd with\npack-thread.


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O, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparison'd like\nthe horse- with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose\non the other, gart'red with a red and blue list; an old hat, and\nthe humour of forty fancies prick'd in't for a feather; a\nmonster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian\nfootboy or a gentleman's lackey.


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Nay, by Saint Jamy,\n         I hold you a penny,\n         A horse and a man\n         Is more than one,\n         And yet not many.


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Were it better, I should rush in thus.\nBut where is Kate? Where is my lovely bride?\nHow does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown;\nAnd wherefore gaze this goodly company\nAs if they saw some wondrous monument,\nSome comet or unusual prodigy?


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Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day.\nFirst were we sad, fearing you would not come;\nNow sadder, that you come so unprovided.\nFie, doff this habit, shame to your estate,\nAn eye-sore to our solemn festival!


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And tell us what occasion of import\nHath all so long detain'd you from your wife,\nAnd sent you hither so unlike yourself?


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Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear;\nSufficeth I am come to keep my word,\nThough in some part enforced to digress,\nWhich at more leisure I will so excuse\nAs you shall well be satisfied withal.\nBut where is Kate? I stay too long from her;\nThe morning wears, 'tis time we were at church.


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Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha' done with words;\nTo me she's married, not unto my clothes.\nCould I repair what she will wear in me\nAs I can change these poor accoutrements,\n'Twere well for Kate and better for myself.\nBut what a fool am I to chat with you,\nWhen I should bid good-morrow to my bride\nAnd seal the title with a lovely kiss!


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He hath some meaning in his mad attire.\nWe will persuade him, be it possible,\nTo put on better ere he go to church.


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But to her love concerneth us to add\nHer father's liking; which to bring to pass,\nAs I before imparted to your worship,\nI am to get a man- whate'er he be\nIt skills not much; we'll fit him to our turn-\nAnd he shall be Vincentio of Pisa,\nAnd make assurance here in Padua\nOf greater sums than I have promised.\nSo shall you quietly enjoy your hope\nAnd marry sweet Bianca with consent.


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Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster\nDoth watch Bianca's steps so narrowly,\n'Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage;\nWhich once perform'd, let all the world say no,\nI'll keep mine own despite of all the world.


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That by degrees we mean to look into\nAnd watch our vantage in this business;\nWe'll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio,\nThe narrow-prying father, Minola,\nThe quaint musician, amorous Licio-\nAll for my master's sake, Lucentio.\n[Re-enter GREMIO]\nSignior Gremio, came you from the church?


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Tut, she's a lamb, a dove, a fool, to him!\nI'll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest\nShould ask if Katherine should be his wife,\n'Ay, by gogs-wouns' quoth he, and swore so loud\nThat, all amaz'd, the priest let fall the book;\nAnd as he stoop'd again to take it up,\nThis mad-brain'd bridegroom took him such a cuff\nThat down fell priest and book, and book and priest.\n'Now take them up,' quoth he 'if any list.'


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Trembled and shook, for why he stamp'd and swore\nAs if the vicar meant to cozen him.\nBut after many ceremonies done\nHe calls for wine: 'A health!' quoth he, as if\nHe had been abroad, carousing to his mates\nAfter a storm; quaff'd off the muscadel,\nAnd threw the sops all in the sexton's face,\nHaving no other reason\nBut that his beard grew thin and hungerly\nAnd seem'd to ask him sops as he was drinking.\nThis done, he took the bride about the neck,\nAnd kiss'd her lips with such a clamorous smack\nThat at the parting all the church did echo.\nAnd I, seeing this, came thence for very shame;\nAnd after me, I know, the rout is coming.\nSuch a mad marriage never was before.\nHark, hark! I hear the minstrels play.    [Music plays]\n   Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, BIANCA, BAPTISTA, HORTENSIO, GRUMIO, and train


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Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains.\nI know you think to dine with me to-day,\nAnd have prepar'd great store of wedding cheer\nBut so it is- my haste doth call me hence,\nAnd therefore here I mean to take my leave.


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I must away to-day before night come.\nMake it no wonder; if you knew my business,\nYou would entreat me rather go than stay.\nAnd, honest company, I thank you all\nThat have beheld me give away myself\nTo this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife.\nDine with my father, drink a health to me.\nFor I must hence; and farewell to you all.


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Nay, then,\nDo what thou canst, I will not go to-day;\nNo, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself.\nThe door is open, sir; there lies your way;\nYou may be jogging whiles your boots are green;\nFor me, I'll not be gone till I please myself.\n'Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom\nThat take it on you at the first so roundly.


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Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner.\nI see a woman may be made a fool\nIf she had not a spirit to resist.


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They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.\nObey the bride, you that attend on her;\nGo to the feast, revel and domineer,\nCarouse full measure to her maidenhead;\nBe mad and merry, or go hang yourselves.\nBut for my bonny Kate, she must with me.\nNay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret;\nI will be master of what is mine own-\nShe is my goods, my chattels, she is my house,\nMy household stuff, my field, my barn,\nMy horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing,\nAnd here she stands; touch her whoever dare;\nI'll bring mine action on the proudest he\nThat stops my way in Padua. Grumio,\nDraw forth thy weapon; we are beset with thieves;\nRescue thy mistress, if thou be a man.\nFear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee, Kate;\nI'll buckler thee against a million.


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Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants\nFor to supply the places at the table,\nYou know there wants no junkets at the feast.\nLucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom's place;\nAnd let Bianca take her sister's room.


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Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all\nfoul ways! Was ever man so beaten? Was ever man so ray'd? Was\never man so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, and they are\ncoming after to warm them. Now were not I a little pot and soon\nhot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof\nof my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to\nthaw me. But I with blowing the fire shall warm myself; for,\nconsidering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold.\nHolla, ho! Curtis!


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A piece of ice. If thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from my\nshoulder to my heel with no greater a run but my head and my\nneck. A fire, good Curtis.


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She was, good Curtis, before this frost; but thou know'st\nwinter tames man, woman, and beast; for it hath tam'd my old\nmaster, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis.


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Am I but three inches? Why, thy horn is a foot, and so long\nam I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain\non thee to our mistress, whose hand- she being now at hand- thou\nshalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot\noffice?


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A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and\ntherefore fire. Do thy duty, and have thy duty, for my master and\nmistress are almost frozen to death.


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Why, therefore, fire; for I have caught extreme cold.\nWhere's the cook? Is supper ready, the house trimm'd, rushes\nstrew'd, cobwebs swept, the serving-men in their new fustian,\ntheir white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on?\nBe the jacks fair within, the jills fair without, the carpets\nlaid, and everything in order?


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And therefore 'tis call'd a sensible tale; and this cuff\nwas but to knock at your car and beseech list'ning. Now I begin:\nImprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my\nmistress-


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Tell thou the tale. But hadst thou not cross'd me, thou\nshouldst have heard how her horse fell and she under her horse;\nthou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was\nbemoil'd, how he left her with the horse upon her, how he beat me\nbecause her horse stumbled, how she waded through the dirt to\npluck him off me, how he swore, how she pray'd that never pray'd\nbefore, how I cried, how the horses ran away, how her bridle was\nburst, how I lost my crupper- with many things of worthy memory,\nwhich now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienc'd to\nthy grave.


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Ay, and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find\nwhen he comes home. But what talk I of this? Call forth\nNathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop, and the\nrest; let their heads be sleekly comb'd, their blue coats brush'd\nand their garters of an indifferent knit; let them curtsy with\ntheir left legs, and not presume to touch a hair of my mastcr's\nhorse-tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready?


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Welcome, you!- how now, you!- what, you!- fellow, you!- and\nthus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all ready,\nand all things neat?


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Where be these knaves? What, no man at door\nTo hold my stirrup nor to take my horse!\nWhere is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?


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Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir!\nYou logger-headed and unpolish'd grooms!\nWhat, no attendance? no regard? no duty?\nWhere is the foolish knave I sent before?


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YOU peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge!\nDid I not bid thee meet me in the park\nAnd bring along these rascal knaves with thee?


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Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made,\nAnd Gabriel's pumps were all unpink'd i' th' heel;\nThere was no link to colour Peter's hat,\nAnd Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing;\nThere were none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory;\nThe rest were ragged, old, and beggarly;\nYet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.


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Go, rascals, go and fetch my supper in.\n[Exeunt some of the SERVINGMEN]\n[Sings]  Where is the life that late I led?\n         Where are those-\nSit down, Kate, and welcome. Soud, soud, soud, soud!\n[Re-enter SERVANTS with supper]\nWhy, when, I say? Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.\nOff with my boots, you rogues! you villains, when?\n[Sings]  It was the friar of orders grey,\n         As he forth walked on his way-\nOut, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry;\nTake that, and mend the plucking off the other.\n[Strikes him]\nBe merry, Kate. Some water, here, what, ho!\n[Enter one with water]\nWhere's my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence,\nAnd bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:\n[Exit SERVINGMAN]\nOne, Kate, that you must kiss and be acquainted with.\nWhere are my slippers? Shall I have some water?\nCome, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.\nYou whoreson villain! will you let it fall?    [Strikes him]


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A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear'd knave!\nCome, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach.\nWill you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I?\nWhat's this? Mutton?


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'Tis burnt; and so is all the meat.\nWhat dogs are these? Where is the rascal cook?\nHow durst you villains bring it from the dresser\nAnd serve it thus to me that love it not?\nThere, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all;\n[Throws the meat, etc., at them]\nYou heedless joltheads and unmanner'd slaves!\nWhat, do you grumble? I'll be with you straight.


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I tell thee, Kate, 'twas burnt and dried away,\nAnd I expressly am forbid to touch it;\nFor it engenders choler, planteth anger;\nAnd better 'twere that both of us did fast,\nSince, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric,\nThan feed it with such over-roasted flesh.\nBe patient; to-morrow 't shall be mended.\nAnd for this night we'll fast for company.\nCome, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.   Exeunt


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In her chamber. Making a sermon of continency to her,\nAnd rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,\nKnows not which way to stand, to look, to speak.\nAnd sits as one new risen from a dream.\nAway, away! for he is coming hither.             Exeunt


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Thus have I politicly begun my reign,\nAnd 'tis my hope to end successfully.\nMy falcon now is sharp and passing empty.\nAnd till she stoop she must not be full-gorg'd,\nFor then she never looks upon her lure.\nAnother way I have to man my haggard,\nTo make her come, and know her keeper's call,\nThat is, to watch her, as we watch these kites\nThat bate and beat, and will not be obedient.\nShe eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat;\nLast night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not;\nAs with the meat, some undeserved fault\nI'll find about the making of the bed;\nAnd here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster,\nThis way the coverlet, another way the sheets;\nAy, and amid this hurly I intend\nThat all is done in reverend care of her-\nAnd, in conclusion, she shall watch all night;\nAnd if she chance to nod I'll rail and brawl\nAnd with the clamour keep her still awake.\nThis is a way to kill a wife with kindness,\nAnd thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong humour.\nHe that knows better how to tame a shrew,\nNow let him speak; 'tis charity to show.           Exit


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Is 't possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca\nDoth fancy any other but Lucentio?\nI tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.


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Quick proceeders, marry! Now tell me, I pray,\nYou that durst swear that your Mistress Bianca\nLov'd none in the world so well as Lucentio.


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Mistake no more; I am not Licio.\nNor a musician as I seem to be;\nBut one that scorn to live in this disguise\nFor such a one as leaves a gentleman\nAnd makes a god of such a cullion.\nKnow, sir, that I am call'd Hortensio.


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Signior Hortensio, I have often heard\nOf your entire affection to Bianca;\nAnd since mine eyes are witness of her lightness,\nI will with you, if you be so contented,\nForswear Bianca and her love for ever.


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See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio,\nHere is my hand, and here I firmly vow\nNever to woo her more, but do forswear her,\nAs one unworthy all the former favours\nThat I have fondly flatter'd her withal.


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And here I take the like unfeigned oath,\nNever to marry with her though she would entreat;\nFie on her! See how beastly she doth court him!


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Would all the world but he had quite forsworn!\nFor me, that I may surely keep mine oath,\nI will be married to a wealtlly widow\nEre three days pass, which hath as long lov'd me\nAs I have lov'd this proud disdainful haggard.\nAnd so farewell, Signior Lucentio.\nKindness in women, not their beauteous looks,\nShall win my love; and so I take my leave,\nIn resolution as I swore before.                   Exit


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Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace\nAs 'longeth to a lover's blessed case!\nNay, I have ta'en you napping, gentle love,\nAnd have forsworn you with Hortensio.


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Ay, mistress; and Petruchio is the master,\nThat teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,\nTo tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue.


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O master, master I have watch'd so long\nThat I am dog-weary; but at last I spied\nAn ancient angel coming down the hill\nWill serve the turn.


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Master, a mercatante or a pedant,\nI know not what; but formal in apparel,\nIn gait and countenance surely like a father.


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If he be credulous and trust my tale,\nI'll make him glad to seem Vincentio,\nAnd give assurance to Baptista Minola\nAs if he were the right Vincentio.\nTake in your love, and then let me alone.


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Sir, at the farthest for a week or two;\nBut then up farther, and as far as Rome;\nAnd so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.


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'Tis death for any one in Mantua\nTo come to Padua. Know you not the cause?\nYour ships are stay'd at Venice; and the Duke,\nFor private quarrel 'twixt your Duke and him,\nHath publish'd and proclaim'd it openly.\n'Tis marvel- but that you are but newly come,\nYou might have heard it else proclaim'd about.


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Alas, sir, it is worse for me than so!\nFor I have bills for money by exchange\nFrom Florence, and must here deliver them.


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Well, sir, to do you courtesy,\nThis will I do, and this I will advise you-\nFirst, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?


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To save your life in this extremity,\nThis favour will I do you for his sake;\nAnd think it not the worst of all your fortunes\nThat you are like to Sir Vincentio.\nHis name and credit shall you undertake,\nAnd in my house you shall be friendly lodg'd;\nLook that you take upon you as you should.\nYou understand me, sir. So shall you stay\nTill you have done your business in the city.\nIf this be court'sy, sir, accept of it.


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Then go with me to make the matter good.\nThis, by the way, I let you understand:\nMy father is here look'd for every day\nTo pass assurance of a dow'r in marriage\n'Twixt me and one Baptista's daughter here.\nIn all these circumstances I'll instruct you.\nGo with me to clothe you as becomes you.         Exeunt


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The more my wrong, the more his spite appears.\nWhat, did he marry me to famish me?\nBeggars that come unto my father's door\nUpon entreaty have a present alms;\nIf not, elsewhere they meet with charity;\nBut I, who never knew how to entreat,\nNor never needed that I should entreat,\nAm starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;\nWith oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed;\nAnd that which spites me more than all these wants-\nHe does it under name of perfect love;\nAs who should say, if I should sleep or eat,\n'Twere deadly sickness or else present death.\nI prithee go and get me some repast;\nI care not what, so it be wholesome food.


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Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,\n[Beats him]\nThat feed'st me with the very name of meat.\nSorrow on thee and all the pack of you\nThat triumph thus upon my misery!\nGo, get thee gone, I say.


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Pluck up thy spirits, look cheerfully upon me.\nHere, love, thou seest how diligent I am,\nTo dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee.\nI am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.\nWhat, not a word? Nay, then thou lov'st it not,\nAnd all my pains is sorted to no proof.\nHere, take away this dish.


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[Aside]  Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me.-\nMuch good do it unto thy gentle heart!\nKate, eat apace. And now, my honey love,\nWill we return unto thy father's house\nAnd revel it as bravely as the best,\nWith silken coats and caps, and golden rings,\nWith ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things,\nWith scarfs and fans and double change of brav'ry.\nWith amber bracelets, beads, and all this knav'ry.\nWhat, hast thou din'd? The tailor stays thy leisure,\nTo deck thy body with his ruffling treasure.\n[Enter TAILOR]\nCome, tailor, let us see these ornaments;\nLay forth the gown.\n[Enter HABERDASHER]\nWhat news with you, sir?


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Why, this was moulded on a porringer;\nA velvet dish. Fie, fie! 'tis lewd and filthy;\nWhy, 'tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,\nA knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap.\nAway with it. Come, let me have a bigger.


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Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak;\nAnd speak I will. I am no child, no babe.\nYour betters have endur'd me say my mind,\nAnd if you cannot, best you stop your ears.\nMy tongue will tell the anger of my heart,\nOr else my heart, concealing it, will break;\nAnd rather than it shall, I will be free\nEven to the uttermost, as I please, in words.


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Why, thou say'st true; it is a paltry cap,\nA custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie;\nI love thee well in that thou lik'st it not.


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Thy gown? Why, ay. Come, tailor, let us see't.\nO mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here?\nWhat's this? A sleeve? 'Tis like a demi-cannon.\nWhat, up and down, carv'd like an appletart?\nHere's snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,\nLike to a censer in a barber's shop.\nWhy, what a devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?


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Marry, and did; but if you be rememb'red,\nI did not bid you mar it to the time.\nGo, hop me over every kennel home,\nFor you shall hop without my custom, sir.\nI'll none of it; hence! make your best of it.


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I never saw a better fashion'd gown,\nMore quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable;\nBelike you mean to make a puppet of me.


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O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread, thou\n  thimble,\nThou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail,\nThou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou-\nBrav'd in mine own house with a skein of thread!\nAway, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant;\nOr I shall so bemete thee with thy yard\nAs thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv'st!\nI tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown.


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Your worship is deceiv'd; the gown is made\nJust as my master had direction.\nGrumio gave order how it should be done.


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Face not me. Thou hast brav'd many men; brave not me. I\nwill neither be fac'd nor brav'd. I say unto thee, I bid thy\nmaster cut out the gown; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces.\nErgo, thou liest.


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Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the\nskirts of it and beat me to death with a bottom of brown bread; I\nsaid a gown.


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Error i' th' bill, sir; error i' th' bill! I commanded the\nsleeves should be cut out, and sew'd up again; and that I'll\nprove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble.


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O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for.\nTake up my mistress' gown to his master's use!\nO fie, fie, fie!


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[Aside]  Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid.-\nGo take it hence; be gone, and say no more.


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Tailor, I'll pay thee for thy gown to-morrow;\nTake no unkindness of his hasty words.\nAway, I say; commend me to thy master.      Exit TAILOR


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Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father's\nEven in these honest mean habiliments;\nOur purses shall be proud, our garments poor;\nFor 'tis the mind that makes the body rich;\nAnd as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,\nSo honour peereth in the meanest habit.\nWhat, is the jay more precious than the lark\nBecause his feathers are more beautiful?\nOr is the adder better than the eel\nBecause his painted skin contents the eye?\nO no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse\nFor this poor furniture and mean array.\nIf thou account'st it shame, lay it on me;\nAnd therefore frolic; we will hence forthwith\nTo feast and sport us at thy father's house.\nGo call my men, and let us straight to him;\nAnd bring our horses unto Long-lane end;\nThere will we mount, and thither walk on foot.\nLet's see; I think 'tis now some seven o'clock,\nAnd well we may come there by dinner-time.


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It shall be seven ere I go to horse.\nLook what I speak, or do, or think to do,\nYou are still crossing it. Sirs, let 't alone;\nI will not go to-day; and ere I do,\nIt shall be what o'clock I say it is.


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Ay, what else? And, but I be deceived,\nSignior Baptista may remember me\nNear twenty years ago in Genoa,\nWhere we were lodgers at the Pegasus.


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Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,\nNow do your duty throughly, I advise you.\nImagine 'twere the right Vincentio.


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Th'art a tall fellow; hold thee that to drink.\nHere comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir.\n[Enter BAPTISTA, and LUCENTIO as CAMBIO]\nSignior Baptista, you are happily met.\n[To To the PEDANT] Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of;\nI pray you stand good father to me now;\nGive me Bianca for my patrimony.


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Soft, son!\nSir, by your leave: having come to Padua\nTo gather in some debts, my son Lucentio\nMade me acquainted with a weighty cause\nOf love between your daughter and himself;\nAnd- for the good report I hear of you,\nAnd for the love he beareth to your daughter,\nAnd she to him- to stay him not too long,\nI am content, in a good father's care,\nTo have him match'd; and, if you please to like\nNo worse than I, upon some agreement\nMe shall you find ready and willing\nWith one consent to have her so bestow'd;\nFor curious I cannot be with you,\nSignior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.


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Sir, pardon me in what I have to say.\nYour plainness and your shortness please me well.\nRight true it is your son Lucentio here\nDoth love my daughter, and she loveth him,\nOr both dissemble deeply their affections;\nAnd therefore, if you say no more than this,\nThat like a father you will deal with him,\nAnd pass my daughter a sufficient dower,\nThe match is made, and all is done-\nYour son shall have my daughter with consent.


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I thank you, sir. Where then do you know best\nWe be affied, and such assurance ta'en\nAs shall with either part's agreement stand?


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Not in my house, Lucentio, for you know\nPitchers have ears, and I have many servants;\nBesides, old Gremio is heark'ning still,\nAnd happily we might be interrupted.


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Then at my lodging, an it like you.\nThere doth my father lie; and there this night\nWe'll pass the business privately and well.\nSend for your daughter by your servant here;\nMy boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.\nThe worst is this, that at so slender warning\nYou are like to have a thin and slender pittance.


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It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home,\nAnd bid Bianca make her ready straight;\nAnd, if you will, tell what hath happened-\nLucentio's father is arriv'd in Padua,\nAnd how she's like to be Lucentio's wife. Exit LUCENTIO


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Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.\n[Exit BIONDELLO]\nSignior Baptista, shall I lead the way?\nWelcome! One mess is like to be your cheer;\nCome, sir; we will better it in Pisa.


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Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind to expound\nthe meaning or moral of his signs and tokens.


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I cannot tell, except they are busied about a\ncounterfeit assurance. Take your assurance of her, cum privilegio\nad imprimendum solum; to th' church take the priest, clerk, and\nsome sufficient honest witnesses.\nIf this be not that you look for, I have more to say,\nBut bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.


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I cannot tarry. I knew a wench married in an afternoon\nas she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so\nmay you, sir; and so adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to\ngo to Saint Luke's to bid the priest be ready to come against you\ncome with your appendix.


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I may and will, if she be so contented.\nShe will be pleas'd; then wherefore should I doubt?\nHap what hap may, I'll roundly go about her;\nIt shall go hard if Cambio go without her.         Exit


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Come on, a God's name; once more toward our father's.\nGood Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!


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Now by my mother's son, and that's myself,\nIt shall be moon, or star, or what I list,\nOr ere I journey to your father's house.\nGo on and fetch our horses back again.\nEvermore cross'd and cross'd; nothing but cross'd!


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Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,\nAnd be it moon, or sun, or what you please;\nAnd if you please to call it a rush-candle,\nHenceforth I vow it shall be so for me.


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Then, God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun;\nBut sun it is not, when you say it is not;\nAnd the moon changes even as your mind.\nWhat you will have it nam'd, even that it is,\nAnd so it shall be so for Katherine.


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Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run,\nAnd not unluckily against the bias.\nBut, soft! Company is coming here.\n[Enter VINCENTIO]\n[To VINCENTIO]  Good-morrow, gentle mistress; where away?-\nTell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,\nHast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?\nSuch war of white and red within her cheeks!\nWhat stars do spangle heaven with such beauty\nAs those two eyes become that heavenly face?\nFair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.\nSweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake.


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Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,\nWhither away, or where is thy abode?\nHappy the parents of so fair a child;\nHappier the man whom favourable stars\nAllots thee for his lovely bed-fellow.


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Why, how now, Kate, I hope thou art not mad!\nThis is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, withered,\nAnd not a maiden, as thou sayst he is.


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Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes,\nThat have been so bedazzled with the sun\nThat everything I look on seemeth green;\nNow I perceive thou art a reverend father.\nPardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.


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Do, good old grandsire, and withal make known\nWhich way thou travellest- if along with us,\nWe shall be joyful of thy company.


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Fair sir, and you my merry mistress,\nThat with your strange encounter much amaz'd me,\nMy name is call'd Vincentio, my dwelling Pisa,\nAnd bound I am to Padua, there to visit\nA son of mine, which long I have not seen.


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Happily met; the happier for thy son.\nAnd now by law, as well as reverend age,\nI may entitle thee my loving father:\nThe sister to my wife, this gentlewoman,\nThy son by this hath married. Wonder not,\nNor be not grieved- she is of good esteem,\nHer dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth;\nBeside, so qualified as may beseem\nThe spouse of any noble gentleman.\nLet me embrace with old Vincentio;\nAnd wander we to see thy honest son,\nWho will of thy arrival be full joyous.


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But is this true; or is it else your pleasure,\nLike pleasant travellers, to break a jest\nUpon the company you overtake?


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Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart.\nHave to my widow; and if she be froward,\nThen hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward.    Exit


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Sir, here's the door; this is Lucentio's house;\nMy father's bears more toward the market-place;\nThither must I, and here I leave you, sir.


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You shall not choose but drink before you go;\nI think I shall command your welcome here,\nAnd by all likelihood some cheer is toward.    [Knocks]


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Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do\nyou hear, sir? To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you tell\nSignior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa, and is here\nat the door to speak with him.


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[To VINCENTIO]  Why, how now, gentleman!\nWhy, this is flat knavery to take upon you another man's name.


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I have seen them in the church together. God send 'em\ngood shipping! But who is here? Mine old master, Vincentio! Now we\nare undone and brought to nothing.


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Prithee, Kate, let's stand aside and see the end of this\ncontroversy.                         [They stand aside]\n   Re-enter PEDANT below; BAPTISTA, TRANIO, and SERVANTS


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What am I, sir? Nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods!\nO fine villain! A silken doublet, a velvet hose, a scarlet cloak,\nand a copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! While I play the\ngood husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the\nuniversity.


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Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but\nyour words show you a madman. Why, sir, what 'cerns it you if I\nwear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to\nmaintain it.


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His name! As if I knew not his name! I have brought him\nup ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio.


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Away, away, mad ass! His name is Lucentio; and he is mine\nonly son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vicentio.


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Lucentio! O, he hath murd'red his master! Lay hold on\nhim, I charge you, in the Duke's name. O, my son, my son! Tell\nme, thou villain, where is my son, Lucentio?


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Call forth an officer.\n[Enter one with an OFFICER]\nCarry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge you\nsee that he be forthcoming.


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Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catch'd in\nthis business; I dare swear this is the right Vincentio.


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Here's Lucentio,\nRight son to the right Vincentio,\nThat have by marriage made thy daughter mine,\nWhile counterfeit supposes blear'd thine eyne.


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Love wrought these miracles. Bianca's love\nMade me exchange my state with Tranio,\nWhile he did bear my countenance in the town;\nAnd happily I have arrived at the last\nUnto the wished haven of my bliss.\nWhat Tranio did, myself enforc'd him to;\nThen pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.


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Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to; but I\nwill in to be revenged for this villainy.          Exit


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My cake is dough, but I'll in among the rest;\nOut of hope of all but my share of the feast.      Exit


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Enter BAPTISTA, VINCENTIO, GREMIO, the PEDANT, LUCENTIO, BIANCA, PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, HORTENSIO, and WIDOW. The SERVINGMEN with TRANIO, BIONDELLO, and GRUMIO, bringing in a banquet


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At last, though long, our jarring notes agree;\nAnd time it is when raging war is done\nTo smile at scapes and perils overblown.\nMy fair Bianca, bid my father welcome,\nWhile I with self-same kindness welcome thine.\nBrother Petruchio, sister Katherina,\nAnd thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow,\nFeast with the best, and welcome to my house.\nMy banquet is to close our stomachs up\nAfter our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down;\nFor now we sit to chat as well as eat.       [They sit]


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Your husband, being troubled with a shrew,\nMeasures my husband's sorrow by his woe;\nAnd now you know my meaning.


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Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush,\nAnd then pursue me as you draw your bow.\nYou are welcome all.


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She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio,\nThis bird you aim'd at, though you hit her not;\nTherefore a health to all that shot and miss'd.


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'A has a little gall'd me, I confess;\nAnd, as the jest did glance away from me,\n'Tis ten to one it maim'd you two outright.


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Well, I say no; and therefore, for assurance,\nLet's each one send unto his wife,\nAnd he whose wife is most obedient,\nTo come at first when he doth send for her,\nShall win the wager which we will propose.


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I am afraid, sir,\nDo what you can, yours will not be entreated.\n[Re-enter BIONDELLO]\nNow, where's my wife?


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Worse and worse; she will not come! O vile,\nIntolerable, not to be endur'd!\nSirrah Grumio, go to your mistress;\nSay I command her come to me.               Exit GRUMIO


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Go, fetch them hither; if they deny to come.\nSwinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands.\nAway, I say, and bring them hither straight.


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Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life,\nAn awful rule, and right supremacy;\nAnd, to be short, what not that's sweet and happy.


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Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio!\nThe wager thou hast won; and I will add\nUnto their losses twenty thousand crowns;\nAnother dowry to another daughter,\nFor she is chang'd, as she had never been.


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Nay, I will win my wager better yet,\nAnd show more sign of her obedience,\nHer new-built virtue and obedience.\n[Re-enter KATHERINA with BIANCA and WIDOW]\nSee where she comes, and brings your froward wives\nAs prisoners to her womanly persuasion.\nKatherine, that cap of yours becomes you not:\nOff with that bauble, throw it underfoot.


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I would your duty were as foolish too;\nThe wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,\nHath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time!


plain_text:
Katherine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women\nWhat duty they do owe their lords and husbands.


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Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,\nAnd dart not scornful glances from those eyes\nTo wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor.\nIt blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,\nConfounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,\nAnd in no sense is meet or amiable.\nA woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled-\nMuddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;\nAnd while it is so, none so dry or thirsty\nWill deign to sip or touch one drop of it.\nThy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,\nThy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,\nAnd for thy maintenance commits his body\nTo painful labour both by sea and land,\nTo watch the night in storms, the day in cold,\nWhilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;\nAnd craves no other tribute at thy hands\nBut love, fair looks, and true obedience-\nToo little payment for so great a debt.\nSuch duty as the subject owes the prince,\nEven such a woman oweth to her husband;\nAnd when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,\nAnd not obedient to his honest will,\nWhat is she but a foul contending rebel\nAnd graceless traitor to her loving lord?\nI am asham'd that women are so simple\nTo offer war where they should kneel for peace;\nOr seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,\nWhen they are bound to serve, love, and obey.\nWhy are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,\nUnapt to toil and trouble in the world,\nBut that our soft conditions and our hearts\nShould well agree with our external parts?\nCome, come, you forward and unable worms!\nMy mind hath been as big as one of yours,\nMy heart as great, my reason haply more,\nTo bandy word for word and frown for frown;\nBut now I see our lances are but straws,\nOur strength as weak, our weakness past compare,\nThat seeming to be most which we indeed least are.\nThen vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,\nAnd place your hands below your husband's foot;\nIn token of which duty, if he please,\nMy hand is ready, may it do him ease.


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Come, Kate, we'll to bed.\nWe three are married, but you two are sped.\n[To LUCENTIO]  'Twas I won the wager, though you hit the white;\nAnd being a winner, God give you good night!


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Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts!\nyare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the\nmaster's whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind,\nif room enough!\n[Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND,]\nGONZALO, and others]


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When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers\nfor the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble us not.


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None that I more love than myself. You are a\ncounsellor; if you can command these elements to\nsilence, and work the peace of the present, we will\nnot hand a rope more; use your authority: if you\ncannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make\nyourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of\nthe hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good hearts! Out\nof our way, I say.


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I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks he\nhath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is\nperfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his\nhanging: make the rope of his destiny our cable,\nfor our own doth little advantage. If he be not\nborn to be hanged, our case is miserable.


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Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring\nher to try with main-course.\n[A cry within]\nA plague upon this howling! they are louder than\nthe weather or our office.\n[Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO]\nYet again! what do you here? Shall we give o'er\nand drown? Have you a mind to sink?


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Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker!\nWe are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.


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I'll warrant him for drowning; though the ship were\nno stronger than a nutshell and as leaky as an\nunstanched wench.


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We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards:\nThis wide-chapp'd rascal--would thou mightst lie drowning\nThe washing of ten tides!


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He'll be hang'd yet,\nThough every drop of water swear against it\nAnd gape at widest to glut him.\n[A confused noise within: 'Mercy on us!'--]\n'We split, we split!'--'Farewell, my wife and\nchildren!'--\n'Farewell, brother!'--'We split, we split, we split!']


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Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an\nacre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any\nthing. The wills above be done! but I would fain\ndie a dry death.


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If by your art, my dearest father, you have\nPut the wild waters in this roar, allay them.\nThe sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,\nBut that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,\nDashes the fire out. O, I have suffered\nWith those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,\nWho had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,\nDash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock\nAgainst my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.\nHad I been any god of power, I would\nHave sunk the sea within the earth or ere\nIt should the good ship so have swallow'd and\nThe fraughting souls within her.


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No harm.\nI have done nothing but in care of thee,\nOf thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who\nArt ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing\nOf whence I am, nor that I am more better\nThan Prospero, master of a full poor cell,\nAnd thy no greater father.


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'Tis time\nI should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,\nAnd pluck my magic garment from me. So:\n[Lays down his mantle]\nLie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.\nThe direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd\nThe very virtue of compassion in thee,\nI have with such provision in mine art\nSo safely ordered that there is no soul--\nNo, not so much perdition as an hair\nBetid to any creature in the vessel\nWhich thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down;\nFor thou must now know farther.


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You have often\nBegun to tell me what I am, but stopp'd\nAnd left me to a bootless inquisition,\nConcluding 'Stay: not yet.'


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The hour's now come;\nThe very minute bids thee ope thine ear;\nObey and be attentive. Canst thou remember\nA time before we came unto this cell?\nI do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not\nOut three years old.


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By what? by any other house or person?\nOf any thing the image tell me that\nHath kept with thy remembrance.


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'Tis far off\nAnd rather like a dream than an assurance\nThat my remembrance warrants. Had I not\nFour or five women once that tended me?


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Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it\nThat this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else\nIn the dark backward and abysm of time?\nIf thou remember'st aught ere thou camest here,\nHow thou camest here thou mayst.


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Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,\nThy father was the Duke of Milan and\nA prince of power.


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Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and\nShe said thou wast my daughter; and thy father\nWas Duke of Milan; and thou his only heir\nAnd princess no worse issued.


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Both, both, my girl:\nBy foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence,\nBut blessedly holp hither.


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O, my heart bleeds\nTo think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to,\nWhich is from my remembrance! Please you, farther.


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My brother and thy uncle, call'd Antonio--\nI pray thee, mark me--that a brother should\nBe so perfidious!--he whom next thyself\nOf all the world I loved and to him put\nThe manage of my state; as at that time\nThrough all the signories it was the first\nAnd Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed\nIn dignity, and for the liberal arts\nWithout a parallel; those being all my study,\nThe government I cast upon my brother\nAnd to my state grew stranger, being transported\nAnd rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle--\nDost thou attend me?


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Being once perfected how to grant suits,\nHow to deny them, who to advance and who\nTo trash for over-topping, new created\nThe creatures that were mine, I say, or changed 'em,\nOr else new form'd 'em; having both the key\nOf officer and office, set all hearts i' the state\nTo what tune pleased his ear; that now he was\nThe ivy which had hid my princely trunk,\nAnd suck'd my verdure out on't. Thou attend'st not.


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I pray thee, mark me.\nI, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated\nTo closeness and the bettering of my mind\nWith that which, but by being so retired,\nO'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother\nAwaked an evil nature; and my trust,\nLike a good parent, did beget of him\nA falsehood in its contrary as great\nAs my trust was; which had indeed no limit,\nA confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,\nNot only with what my revenue yielded,\nBut what my power might else exact, like one\nWho having into truth, by telling of it,\nMade such a sinner of his memory,\nTo credit his own lie, he did believe\nHe was indeed the duke; out o' the substitution\nAnd executing the outward face of royalty,\nWith all prerogative: hence his ambition growing--\nDost thou hear?


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To have no screen between this part he play'd\nAnd him he play'd it for, he needs will be\nAbsolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library\nWas dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties\nHe thinks me now incapable; confederates--\nSo dry he was for sway--wi' the King of Naples\nTo give him annual tribute, do him homage,\nSubject his coronet to his crown and bend\nThe dukedom yet unbow'd--alas, poor Milan!--\nTo most ignoble stooping.


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Now the condition.\nThe King of Naples, being an enemy\nTo me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit;\nWhich was, that he, in lieu o' the premises\nOf homage and I know not how much tribute,\nShould presently extirpate me and mine\nOut of the dukedom and confer fair Milan\nWith all the honours on my brother: whereon,\nA treacherous army levied, one midnight\nFated to the purpose did Antonio open\nThe gates of Milan, and, i' the dead of darkness,\nThe ministers for the purpose hurried thence\nMe and thy crying self.


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Alack, for pity!\nI, not remembering how I cried out then,\nWill cry it o'er again: it is a hint\nThat wrings mine eyes to't.


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Hear a little further\nAnd then I'll bring thee to the present business\nWhich now's upon's; without the which this story\nWere most impertinent.


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Well demanded, wench:\nMy tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,\nSo dear the love my people bore me, nor set\nA mark so bloody on the business, but\nWith colours fairer painted their foul ends.\nIn few, they hurried us aboard a bark,\nBore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared\nA rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd,\nNor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats\nInstinctively had quit it: there they hoist us,\nTo cry to the sea that roar'd to us, to sigh\nTo the winds whose pity, sighing back again,\nDid us but loving wrong.


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O, a cherubim\nThou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile.\nInfused with a fortitude from heaven,\nWhen I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt,\nUnder my burthen groan'd; which raised in me\nAn undergoing stomach, to bear up\nAgainst what should ensue.


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By Providence divine.\nSome food we had and some fresh water that\nA noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,\nOut of his charity, being then appointed\nMaster of this design, did give us, with\nRich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries,\nWhich since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness,\nKnowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me\nFrom mine own library with volumes that\nI prize above my dukedom.


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Now I arise:\n[Resumes his mantle]\nSit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.\nHere in this island we arrived; and here\nHave I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit\nThan other princesses can that have more time\nFor vainer hours and tutors not so careful.


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Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you, sir,\nFor still 'tis beating in my mind, your reason\nFor raising this sea-storm?


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Know thus far forth.\nBy accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,\nNow my dear lady, hath mine enemies\nBrought to this shore; and by my prescience\nI find my zenith doth depend upon\nA most auspicious star, whose influence\nIf now I court not but omit, my fortunes\nWill ever after droop. Here cease more questions:\nThou art inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dulness,\nAnd give it way: I know thou canst not choose.\n[MIRANDA sleeps]\nCome away, servant, come. I am ready now.\nApproach, my Ariel, come.


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All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come\nTo answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly,\nTo swim, to dive into the fire, to ride\nOn the curl'd clouds, to thy strong bidding task\nAriel and all his quality.


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To every article.\nI boarded the king's ship; now on the beak,\nNow in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,\nI flamed amazement: sometime I'ld divide,\nAnd burn in many places; on the topmast,\nThe yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,\nThen meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors\nO' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary\nAnd sight-outrunning were not; the fire and cracks\nOf sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune\nSeem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble,\nYea, his dread trident shake.


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Not a soul\nBut felt a fever of the mad and play'd\nSome tricks of desperation. All but mariners\nPlunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel,\nThen all afire with me: the king's son, Ferdinand,\nWith hair up-staring,--then like reeds, not hair,--\nWas the first man that leap'd; cried, 'Hell is empty\nAnd all the devils are here.'


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Not a hair perish'd;\nOn their sustaining garments not a blemish,\nBut fresher than before: and, as thou badest me,\nIn troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle.\nThe king's son have I landed by himself;\nWhom I left cooling of the air with sighs\nIn an odd angle of the isle and sitting,\nHis arms in this sad knot.


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Safely in harbour\nIs the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once\nThou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew\nFrom the still-vex'd Bermoothes, there she's hid:\nThe mariners all under hatches stow'd;\nWho, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour,\nI have left asleep; and for the rest o' the fleet\nWhich I dispersed, they all have met again\nAnd are upon the Mediterranean flote,\nBound sadly home for Naples,\nSupposing that they saw the king's ship wreck'd\nAnd his great person perish.


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Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains,\nLet me remember thee what thou hast promised,\nWhich is not yet perform'd me.


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I prithee,\nRemember I have done thee worthy service;\nTold thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served\nWithout or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise\nTo bate me a full year.


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Thou dost, and think'st it much to tread the ooze\nOf the salt deep,\nTo run upon the sharp wind of the north,\nTo do me business in the veins o' the earth\nWhen it is baked with frost.


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Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot\nThe foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy\nWas grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?


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O, was she so? I must\nOnce in a month recount what thou hast been,\nWhich thou forget'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax,\nFor mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible\nTo enter human hearing, from Argier,\nThou know'st, was banish'd: for one thing she did\nThey would not take her life. Is not this true?


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This blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child\nAnd here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave,\nAs thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant;\nAnd, for thou wast a spirit too delicate\nTo act her earthy and abhorr'd commands,\nRefusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,\nBy help of her more potent ministers\nAnd in her most unmitigable rage,\nInto a cloven pine; within which rift\nImprison'd thou didst painfully remain\nA dozen years; within which space she died\nAnd left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans\nAs fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island--\nSave for the son that she did litter here,\nA freckled whelp hag-born--not honour'd with\nA human shape.


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Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban\nWhom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st\nWhat torment I did find thee in; thy groans\nDid make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts\nOf ever angry bears: it was a torment\nTo lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax\nCould not again undo: it was mine art,\nWhen I arrived and heard thee, that made gape\nThe pine and let thee out.


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If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak\nAnd peg thee in his knotty entrails till\nThou hast howl'd away twelve winters.


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Go make thyself like a nymph o' the sea: be subject\nTo no sight but thine and mine, invisible\nTo every eyeball else. Go take this shape\nAnd hither come in't: go, hence with diligence!\n[Exit ARIEL]\nAwake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake!


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But, as 'tis,\nWe cannot miss him: he does make our fire,\nFetch in our wood and serves in offices\nThat profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban!\nThou earth, thou! speak.


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Come forth, I say! there's other business for thee:\nCome, thou tortoise! when?\n[Re-enter ARIEL like a water-nymph]\nFine apparition! My quaint Ariel,\nHark in thine ear.


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As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd\nWith raven's feather from unwholesome fen\nDrop on you both! a south-west blow on ye\nAnd blister you all o'er!


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For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps,\nSide-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins\nShall, for that vast of night that they may work,\nAll exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch'd\nAs thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging\nThan bees that made 'em.


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I must eat my dinner.\nThis island's mine, by Sycorax my mother,\nWhich thou takest from me. When thou camest first,\nThou strokedst me and madest much of me, wouldst give me\nWater with berries in't, and teach me how\nTo name the bigger light, and how the less,\nThat burn by day and night: and then I loved thee\nAnd show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle,\nThe fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile:\nCursed be I that did so! All the charms\nOf Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!\nFor I am all the subjects that you have,\nWhich first was mine own king: and here you sty me\nIn this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me\nThe rest o' the island.


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Thou most lying slave,\nWhom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee,\nFilth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee\nIn mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate\nThe honour of my child.


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O ho, O ho! would't had been done!\nThou didst prevent me; I had peopled else\nThis isle with Calibans.


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Abhorred slave,\nWhich any print of goodness wilt not take,\nBeing capable of all ill! I pitied thee,\nTook pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour\nOne thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,\nKnow thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like\nA thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes\nWith words that made them known. But thy vile race,\nThough thou didst learn, had that in't which\ngood natures\nCould not abide to be with; therefore wast thou\nDeservedly confined into this rock,\nWho hadst deserved more than a prison.


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You taught me language; and my profit on't\nIs, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you\nFor learning me your language!


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Hag-seed, hence!\nFetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou'rt best,\nTo answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice?\nIf thou neglect'st or dost unwillingly\nWhat I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps,\nFill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar\nThat beasts shall tremble at thy din.


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No, pray thee.\n[Aside]\nI must obey: his art is of such power,\nIt would control my dam's god, Setebos,\nand make a vassal of him.


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So, slave; hence!\n[Exit CALIBAN]\n[Re-enter ARIEL, invisible, playing and singing;]\nFERDINAND following]\nARIEL'S song.\nCome unto these yellow sands,\nAnd then take hands:\nCourtsied when you have and kiss'd\nThe wild waves whist,\nFoot it featly here and there;\nAnd, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.\nHark, hark!\n[Burthen [dispersedly, within] Bow-wow]\nThe watch-dogs bark!\n[Burthen Bow-wow]\nHark, hark! I hear\nThe strain of strutting chanticleer\nCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.


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Where should this music be? i' the air or the earth?\nIt sounds no more: and sure, it waits upon\nSome god o' the island. Sitting on a bank,\nWeeping again the king my father's wreck,\nThis music crept by me upon the waters,\nAllaying both their fury and my passion\nWith its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it,\nOr it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone.\nNo, it begins again.\n[ARIEL sings]\nFull fathom five thy father lies;\nOf his bones are coral made;\nThose are pearls that were his eyes:\nNothing of him that doth fade\nBut doth suffer a sea-change\nInto something rich and strange.\nSea-nymphs hourly ring his knell\n[Burthen Ding-dong]\nHark! now I hear them,--Ding-dong, bell.


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The ditty does remember my drown'd father.\nThis is no mortal business, nor no sound\nThat the earth owes. I hear it now above me.


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What is't? a spirit?\nLord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,\nIt carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit.


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No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses\nAs we have, such. This gallant which thou seest\nWas in the wreck; and, but he's something stain'd\nWith grief that's beauty's canker, thou mightst call him\nA goodly person: he hath lost his fellows\nAnd strays about to find 'em.


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[Aside] It goes on, I see,\nAs my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I'll free thee\nWithin two days for this.


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Most sure, the goddess\nOn whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayer\nMay know if you remain upon this island;\nAnd that you will some good instruction give\nHow I may bear me here: my prime request,\nWhich I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder!\nIf you be maid or no?


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A single thing, as I am now, that wonders\nTo hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me;\nAnd that he does I weep: myself am Naples,\nWho with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld\nThe king my father wreck'd.


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[Aside]. The Duke of Milan\nAnd his more braver daughter could control thee,\nIf now 'twere fit to do't. At the first sight\nThey have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel,\nI'll set thee free for this.\n[To FERDINAND]\nA word, good sir;\nI fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.


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Why speaks my father so ungently? This\nIs the third man that e'er I saw, the first\nThat e'er I sigh'd for: pity move my father\nTo be inclined my way!


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Soft, sir! one word more.\n[Aside]\nThey are both in either's powers; but this swift business\nI must uneasy make, lest too light winning\nMake the prize light.\n[To FERDINAND]\nOne word more; I charge thee\nThat thou attend me: thou dost here usurp\nThe name thou owest not; and hast put thyself\nUpon this island as a spy, to win it\nFrom me, the lord on't.


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There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:\nIf the ill spirit have so fair a house,\nGood things will strive to dwell with't.


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Follow me.\nSpeak not you for him; he's a traitor. Come;\nI'll manacle thy neck and feet together:\nSea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be\nThe fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots and husks\nWherein the acorn cradled. Follow.


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What? I say,\nMy foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;\nWho makest a show but darest not strike, thy conscience\nIs so possess'd with guilt: come from thy ward,\nFor I can here disarm thee with this stick\nAnd make thy weapon drop.


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Silence! one word more\nShall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!\nAn advocate for an imposter! hush!\nThou think'st there is no more such shapes as he,\nHaving seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!\nTo the most of men this is a Caliban\nAnd they to him are angels.


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So they are;\nMy spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.\nMy father's loss, the weakness which I feel,\nThe wreck of all my friends, nor this man's threats,\nTo whom I am subdued, are but light to me,\nMight I but through my prison once a day\nBehold this maid: all corners else o' the earth\nLet liberty make use of; space enough\nHave I in such a prison.


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[Aside] It works.\n[To FERDINAND]\nCome on.\nThou hast done well, fine Ariel!\n[To FERDINAND]\nFollow me.\n[To ARIEL]\nHark what thou else shalt do me.


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Be of comfort;\nMy father's of a better nature, sir,\nThan he appears by speech: this is unwonted\nWhich now came from him.


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Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause,\nSo have we all, of joy; for our escape\nIs much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe\nIs common; every day some sailor's wife,\nThe masters of some merchant and the merchant\nHave just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,\nI mean our preservation, few in millions\nCan speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh\nOur sorrow with our comfort.


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That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in\nthe sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and\nglosses, being rather new-dyed than stained with\nsalt water.


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Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we\nput them on first in Afric, at the marriage of\nthe king's fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis.


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Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now\nas fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage\nof your daughter, who is now queen.


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You cram these words into mine ears against\nThe stomach of my sense. Would I had never\nMarried my daughter there! for, coming thence,\nMy son is lost and, in my rate, she too,\nWho is so far from Italy removed\nI ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir\nOf Naples and of Milan, what strange fish\nHath made his meal on thee?


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Sir, he may live:\nI saw him beat the surges under him,\nAnd ride upon their backs; he trod the water,\nWhose enmity he flung aside, and breasted\nThe surge most swoln that met him; his bold head\n'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd\nHimself with his good arms in lusty stroke\nTo the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd,\nAs stooping to relieve him: I not doubt\nHe came alive to land.


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Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,\nThat would not bless our Europe with your daughter,\nBut rather lose her to an African;\nWhere she at least is banish'd from your eye,\nWho hath cause to wet the grief on't.


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You were kneel'd to and importuned otherwise\nBy all of us, and the fair soul herself\nWeigh'd between loathness and obedience, at\nWhich end o' the beam should bow. We have lost your\nson,\nI fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have\nMore widows in them of this business' making\nThan we bring men to comfort them:\nThe fault's your own.


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My lord Sebastian,\nThe truth you speak doth lack some gentleness\nAnd time to speak it in: you rub the sore,\nWhen you should bring the plaster.


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I' the commonwealth I would by contraries\nExecute all things; for no kind of traffic\nWould I admit; no name of magistrate;\nLetters should not be known; riches, poverty,\nAnd use of service, none; contract, succession,\nBourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;\nNo use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil;\nNo occupation; all men idle, all;\nAnd women too, but innocent and pure;\nNo sovereignty;--


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All things in common nature should produce\nWithout sweat or endeavour: treason, felony,\nSword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,\nWould I not have; but nature should bring forth,\nOf its own kind, all foison, all abundance,\nTo feed my innocent people.


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I do well believe your highness; and\ndid it to minister occasion to these gentlemen,\nwho are of such sensible and nimble lungs that\nthey always use to laugh at nothing.


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Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing\nto you: so you may continue and laugh at\nnothing still.


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You are gentlemen of brave metal; you would lift\nthe moon out of her sphere, if she would continue\nin it five weeks without changing.


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No, I warrant you; I will not adventure\nmy discretion so weakly. Will you laugh\nme asleep, for I am very heavy?


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What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes\nWould, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find\nThey are inclined to do so.


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Please you, sir,\nDo not omit the heavy offer of it:\nIt seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,\nIt is a comforter.


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Nor I; my spirits are nimble.\nThey fell together all, as by consent;\nThey dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might,\nWorthy Sebastian? O, what might?--No more:--\nAnd yet me thinks I see it in thy face,\nWhat thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee, and\nMy strong imagination sees a crown\nDropping upon thy head.


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I do; and surely\nIt is a sleepy language and thou speak'st\nOut of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say?\nThis is a strange repose, to be asleep\nWith eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,\nAnd yet so fast asleep.


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O,\nIf you but knew how you the purpose cherish\nWhiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,\nYou more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,\nMost often do so near the bottom run\nBy their own fear or sloth.


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Prithee, say on:\nThe setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim\nA matter from thee, and a birth indeed\nWhich throes thee much to yield.


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Thus, sir:\nAlthough this lord of weak remembrance, this,\nWho shall be of as little memory\nWhen he is earth'd, hath here almost persuade,--\nFor he's a spirit of persuasion, only\nProfesses to persuade,--the king his son's alive,\n'Tis as impossible that he's undrown'd\nAnd he that sleeps here swims.


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O, out of that 'no hope'\nWhat great hope have you! no hope that way is\nAnother way so high a hope that even\nAmbition cannot pierce a wink beyond,\nBut doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me\nThat Ferdinand is drown'd?


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She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwells\nTen leagues beyond man's life; she that from Naples\nCan have no note, unless the sun were post--\nThe man i' the moon's too slow--till new-born chins\nBe rough and razorable; she that--from whom?\nWe all were sea-swallow'd, though some cast again,\nAnd by that destiny to perform an act\nWhereof what's past is prologue, what to come\nIn yours and my discharge.


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What stuff is this! how say you?\n'Tis true, my brother's daughter's queen of Tunis;\nSo is she heir of Naples; 'twixt which regions\nThere is some space.


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A space whose every cubit\nSeems to cry out, 'How shall that Claribel\nMeasure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,\nAnd let Sebastian wake.' Say, this were death\nThat now hath seized them; why, they were no worse\nThan now they are. There be that can rule Naples\nAs well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate\nAs amply and unnecessarily\nAs this Gonzalo; I myself could make\nA chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore\nThe mind that I do! what a sleep were this\nFor your advancement! Do you understand me?


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True:\nAnd look how well my garments sit upon me;\nMuch feater than before: my brother's servants\nWere then my fellows; now they are my men.


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Ay, sir; where lies that? if 'twere a kibe,\n'Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not\nThis deity in my bosom: twenty consciences,\nThat stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be they\nAnd melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother,\nNo better than the earth he lies upon,\nIf he were that which now he's like, that's dead;\nWhom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it,\nCan lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,\nTo the perpetual wink for aye might put\nThis ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who\nShould not upbraid our course. For all the rest,\nThey'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk;\nThey'll tell the clock to any business that\nWe say befits the hour.


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Thy case, dear friend,\nShall be my precedent; as thou got'st Milan,\nI'll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke\nShall free thee from the tribute which thou payest;\nAnd I the king shall love thee.


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My master through his art foresees the danger\nThat you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth--\nFor else his project dies--to keep them living.\n[Sings in GONZALO's ear]\nWhile you here do snoring lie,\nOpen-eyed conspiracy\nHis time doth take.\nIf of life you keep a care,\nShake off slumber, and beware:\nAwake, awake!


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Whiles we stood here securing your repose,\nEven now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing\nLike bulls, or rather lions: did't not wake you?\nIt struck mine ear most terribly.


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O, 'twas a din to fright a monster's ear,\nTo make an earthquake! sure, it was the roar\nOf a whole herd of lions.


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Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,\nAnd that a strange one too, which did awake me:\nI shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine eyes open'd,\nI saw their weapons drawn: there was a noise,\nThat's verily. 'Tis best we stand upon our guard,\nOr that we quit this place; let's draw our weapons.


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All the infections that the sun sucks up\nFrom bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him\nBy inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me\nAnd yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch,\nFright me with urchin--shows, pitch me i' the mire,\nNor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark\nOut of my way, unless he bid 'em; but\nFor every trifle are they set upon me;\nSometime like apes that mow and chatter at me\nAnd after bite me, then like hedgehogs which\nLie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount\nTheir pricks at my footfall; sometime am I\nAll wound with adders who with cloven tongues\nDo hiss me into madness.\n[Enter TRINCULO]\nLo, now, lo!\nHere comes a spirit of his, and to torment me\nFor bringing wood in slowly. I'll fall flat;\nPerchance he will not mind me.


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Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off\nany weather at all, and another storm brewing;\nI hear it sing i' the wind: yond same black\ncloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul\nbombard that would shed his liquor. If it\nshould thunder as it did before, I know not\nwhere to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot\nchoose but fall by pailfuls. What have we\nhere? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish:\nhe smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-\nlike smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-\nJohn. A strange fish! Were I in England now,\nas once I was, and had but this fish painted,\nnot a holiday fool there but would give a piece\nof silver: there would this monster make a\nman; any strange beast there makes a man:\nwhen they will not give a doit to relieve a lame\nbeggar, they will lazy out ten to see a dead\nIndian. Legged like a man and his fins like\narms! Warm o' my troth! I do now let loose\nmy opinion; hold it no longer: this is no fish,\nbut an islander, that hath lately suffered by a\nthunderbolt.\n[Thunder]\nAlas, the storm is come again! my best way is to\ncreep under his gaberdine; there is no other\nshelter hereabouts: misery acquaints a man with\nstrange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the\ndregs of the storm be past.


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I shall no more to sea, to sea,\nHere shall I die ashore--\nThis is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's\nfuneral: well, here's my comfort. [Drinks]\n[Sings]\nThe master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,\nThe gunner and his mate\nLoved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery,\nBut none of us cared for Kate;\nFor she had a tongue with a tang,\nWould cry to a sailor, Go hang!\nShe loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch,\nYet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch:\nThen to sea, boys, and let her go hang!\nThis is a scurvy tune too: but here's my comfort.


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What's the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put\ntricks upon's with savages and men of Ind, ha? I\nhave not scaped drowning to be afeard now of your\nfour legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as\never went on four legs cannot make him give ground;\nand it shall be said so again while Stephano\nbreathes at's nostrils.


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This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who\nhath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil\nshould he learn our language? I will give him some\nrelief, if it be but for that. if I can recover him\nand keep him tame and get to Naples with him, he's a\npresent for any emperor that ever trod on neat's leather.


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He's in his fit now and does not talk after the\nwisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have\nnever drunk wine afore will go near to remove his\nfit. If I can recover him and keep him tame, I will\nnot take too much for him; he shall pay for him that\nhath him, and that soundly.


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Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I\nknow it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee.


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Come on your ways; open your mouth; here is that\nwhich will give language to you, cat: open your\nmouth; this will shake your shaking, I can tell you,\nand that soundly: you cannot tell who's your friend:\nopen your chaps again.


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Four legs and two voices: a most delicate monster!\nHis forward voice now is to speak well of his\nfriend; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches\nand to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will\nrecover him, I will help his ague. Come. Amen! I\nwill pour some in thy other mouth.


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Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy, mercy! This is\na devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have no\nlong spoon.


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Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me and\nspeak to me: for I am Trinculo--be not afeard--thy\ngood friend Trinculo.


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If thou beest Trinculo, come forth: I'll pull thee\nby the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo's legs,\nthese are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How\ncamest thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? can\nhe vent Trinculos?


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I took him to be killed with a thunder-stroke. But\nart thou not drowned, Stephano? I hope now thou art\nnot drowned. Is the storm overblown? I hid me\nunder the dead moon-calf's gaberdine for fear of\nthe storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O\nStephano, two Neapolitans 'scaped!


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[Aside] These be fine things, an if they be\nnot sprites.\nThat's a brave god and bears celestial liquor.\nI will kneel to him.


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How didst thou 'scape? How camest thou hither?\nswear by this bottle how thou camest hither. I\nescaped upon a butt of sack which the sailors\nheaved o'erboard, by this bottle; which I made of\nthe bark of a tree with mine own hands since I was\ncast ashore.


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The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by the\nsea-side where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf!\nhow does thine ague?


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By this good light, this is a very shallow monster!\nI afeard of him! A very weak monster! The man i'\nthe moon! A most poor credulous monster! Well\ndrawn, monster, in good sooth!


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I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed\nmonster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my\nheart to beat him,--


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I'll show thee the best springs; I'll pluck thee berries;\nI'll fish for thee and get thee wood enough.\nA plague upon the tyrant that I serve!\nI'll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee,\nThou wondrous man.


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I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow;\nAnd I with my long nails will dig thee pignuts;\nShow thee a jay's nest and instruct thee how\nTo snare the nimble marmoset; I'll bring thee\nTo clustering filberts and sometimes I'll get thee\nYoung scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?


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I prithee now, lead the way without any more\ntalking. Trinculo, the king and all our company\nelse being drowned, we will inherit here: here;\nbear my bottle: fellow Trinculo, we'll fill him by\nand by again.


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No more dams I'll make for fish\nNor fetch in firing\nAt requiring;\nNor scrape trencher, nor wash dish\n'Ban, 'Ban, Cacaliban\nHas a new master: get a new man.\nFreedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! freedom,\nhey-day, freedom!


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There be some sports are painful, and their labour\nDelight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness\nAre nobly undergone and most poor matters\nPoint to rich ends. This my mean task\nWould be as heavy to me as odious, but\nThe mistress which I serve quickens what's dead\nAnd makes my labours pleasures: O, she is\nTen times more gentle than her father's crabbed,\nAnd he's composed of harshness. I must remove\nSome thousands of these logs and pile them up,\nUpon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress\nWeeps when she sees me work, and says, such baseness\nHad never like executor. I forget:\nBut these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,\nMost busy lest, when I do it.


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Alas, now, pray you,\nWork not so hard: I would the lightning had\nBurnt up those logs that you are enjoin'd to pile!\nPray, set it down and rest you: when this burns,\n'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father\nIs hard at study; pray now, rest yourself;\nHe's safe for these three hours.


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No, precious creature;\nI had rather crack my sinews, break my back,\nThan you should such dishonour undergo,\nWhile I sit lazy by.


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It would become me\nAs well as it does you: and I should do it\nWith much more ease; for my good will is to it,\nAnd yours it is against.


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No, noble mistress;'tis fresh morning with me\nWhen you are by at night. I do beseech you--\nChiefly that I might set it in my prayers--\nWhat is your name?


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Admired Miranda!\nIndeed the top of admiration! worth\nWhat's dearest to the world! Full many a lady\nI have eyed with best regard and many a time\nThe harmony of their tongues hath into bondage\nBrought my too diligent ear: for several virtues\nHave I liked several women; never any\nWith so fun soul, but some defect in her\nDid quarrel with the noblest grace she owed\nAnd put it to the foil: but you, O you,\nSo perfect and so peerless, are created\nOf every creature's best!


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I do not know\nOne of my sex; no woman's face remember,\nSave, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen\nMore that I may call men than you, good friend,\nAnd my dear father: how features are abroad,\nI am skilless of; but, by my modesty,\nThe jewel in my dower, I would not wish\nAny companion in the world but you,\nNor can imagination form a shape,\nBesides yourself, to like of. But I prattle\nSomething too wildly and my father's precepts\nI therein do forget.


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I am in my condition\nA prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;\nI would, not so!--and would no more endure\nThis wooden slavery than to suffer\nThe flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:\nThe very instant that I saw you, did\nMy heart fly to your service; there resides,\nTo make me slave to it; and for your sake\nAm I this patient log--man.


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O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound\nAnd crown what I profess with kind event\nIf I speak true! if hollowly, invert\nWhat best is boded me to mischief! I\nBeyond all limit of what else i' the world\nDo love, prize, honour you.


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At mine unworthiness that dare not offer\nWhat I desire to give, and much less take\nWhat I shall die to want. But this is trifling;\nAnd all the more it seeks to hide itself,\nThe bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!\nAnd prompt me, plain and holy innocence!\nI am your wife, it you will marry me;\nIf not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow\nYou may deny me; but I'll be your servant,\nWhether you will or no.


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So glad of this as they I cannot be,\nWho are surprised withal; but my rejoicing\nAt nothing can be more. I'll to my book,\nFor yet ere supper-time must I perform\nMuch business appertaining.


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Tell not me; when the butt is out, we will drink\nwater; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and\nboard 'em. Servant-monster, drink to me.


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Servant-monster! the folly of this island! They\nsay there's but five upon this isle: we are three\nof them; if th' other two be brained like us, the\nstate totters.


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My man-monster hath drown'd his tongue in sack:\nfor my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I\ncould recover the shore, five and thirty leagues off\nand on. By this light, thou shalt be my lieutenant,\nmonster, or my standard.


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Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to\njustle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish thou,\nwas there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much\nsack as I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie,\nbeing but half a fish and half a monster?


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Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you\nprove a mutineer,--the next tree! The poor monster's\nmy subject and he shall not suffer indignity.


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As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a\nsorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island.


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I say, by sorcery he got this isle;\nFrom me he got it. if thy greatness will\nRevenge it on him,--for I know thou darest,\nBut this thing dare not,--


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What a pied ninny's this! Thou scurvy patch!\nI do beseech thy greatness, give him blows\nAnd take his bottle from him: when that's gone\nHe shall drink nought but brine; for I'll not show him\nWhere the quick freshes are.


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Trinculo, run into no further danger:\ninterrupt the monster one word further, and,\nby this hand, I'll turn my mercy out o' doors\nand make a stock-fish of thee.


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I did not give the lie. Out o' your\nwits and bearing too? A pox o' your bottle!\nthis can sack and drinking do. A murrain on\nyour monster, and the devil take your fingers!


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Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him,\nI' th' afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him,\nHaving first seized his books, or with a log\nBatter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,\nOr cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember\nFirst to possess his books; for without them\nHe's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not\nOne spirit to command: they all do hate him\nAs rootedly as I. Burn but his books.\nHe has brave utensils,--for so he calls them--\nWhich when he has a house, he'll deck withal\nAnd that most deeply to consider is\nThe beauty of his daughter; he himself\nCalls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman,\nBut only Sycorax my dam and she;\nBut she as far surpasseth Sycorax\nAs great'st does least.


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Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter and I\nwill be king and queen--save our graces!--and\nTrinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou\nlike the plot, Trinculo?


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Thou makest me merry; I am full of pleasure:\nLet us be jocund: will you troll the catch\nYou taught me but while-ere?


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At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any\nreason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing.\n[Sings]\nFlout 'em and scout 'em\nAnd scout 'em and flout 'em\nThought is free.


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Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,\nSounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.\nSometimes a thousand twangling instruments\nWill hum about mine ears, and sometime voices\nThat, if I then had waked after long sleep,\nWill make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,\nThe clouds methought would open and show riches\nReady to drop upon me that, when I waked,\nI cried to dream again.


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By'r lakin, I can go no further, sir;\nMy old bones ache: here's a maze trod indeed\nThrough forth-rights and meanders! By your patience,\nI needs must rest me.


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Old lord, I cannot blame thee,\nWho am myself attach'd with weariness,\nTo the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.\nEven here I will put off my hope and keep it\nNo longer for my flatterer: he is drown'd\nWhom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks\nOur frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.


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[Aside to SEBASTIAN] I am right glad that he's so\nout of hope.\nDo not, for one repulse, forego the purpose\nThat you resolved to effect.


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[Aside to SEBASTIAN] Let it be to-night;\nFor, now they are oppress'd with travel, they\nWill not, nor cannot, use such vigilance\nAs when they are fresh.


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Marvellous sweet music!\n[Enter PROSPERO above, invisible. Enter several]\nstrange Shapes, bringing in a banquet;\nthey dance about it with gentle actions of\nsalutation; and, inviting the King, &c. to\neat, they depart]


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A living drollery. Now I will believe\nThat there are unicorns, that in Arabia\nThere is one tree, the phoenix' throne, one phoenix\nAt this hour reigning there.


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I'll believe both;\nAnd what does else want credit, come to me,\nAnd I'll be sworn 'tis true: travellers ne'er did\nlie,\nThough fools at home condemn 'em.


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If in Naples\nI should report this now, would they believe me?\nIf I should say, I saw such islanders--\nFor, certes, these are people of the island--\nWho, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,\nTheir manners are more gentle-kind than of\nOur human generation you shall find\nMany, nay, almost any.


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I cannot too much muse\nSuch shapes, such gesture and such sound, expressing,\nAlthough they want the use of tongue, a kind\nOf excellent dumb discourse.


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No matter, since\nThey have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.\nWill't please you taste of what is here?


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Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys,\nWho would believe that there were mountaineers\nDew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at 'em\nWallets of flesh? or that there were such men\nWhose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find\nEach putter-out of five for one will bring us\nGood warrant of.


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I will stand to and feed,\nAlthough my last: no matter, since I feel\nThe best is past. Brother, my lord the duke,\nStand to and do as we.\n[Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL, like a]\nharpy; claps his wings upon the table; and,\nwith a quaint device, the banquet vanishes]


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You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,\nThat hath to instrument this lower world\nAnd what is in't, the never-surfeited sea\nHath caused to belch up you; and on this island\nWhere man doth not inhabit; you 'mongst men\nBeing most unfit to live. I have made you mad;\nAnd even with such-like valour men hang and drown\nTheir proper selves.\n[ALONSO, SEBASTIAN &c. draw their swords]\nYou fools! I and my fellows\nAre ministers of Fate: the elements,\nOf whom your swords are temper'd, may as well\nWound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs\nKill the still-closing waters, as diminish\nOne dowle that's in my plume: my fellow-ministers\nAre like invulnerable. If you could hurt,\nYour swords are now too massy for your strengths\nAnd will not be uplifted. But remember--\nFor that's my business to you--that you three\nFrom Milan did supplant good Prospero;\nExposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,\nHim and his innocent child: for which foul deed\nThe powers, delaying, not forgetting, have\nIncensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,\nAgainst your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,\nThey have bereft; and do pronounce by me:\nLingering perdition, worse than any death\nCan be at once, shall step by step attend\nYou and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from--\nWhich here, in this most desolate isle, else falls\nUpon your heads--is nothing but heart-sorrow\nAnd a clear life ensuing.\n[He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music]\nenter the Shapes again, and dance, with\nmocks and mows, and carrying out the table]


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Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou\nPerform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:\nOf my instruction hast thou nothing bated\nIn what thou hadst to say: so, with good life\nAnd observation strange, my meaner ministers\nTheir several kinds have done. My high charms work\nAnd these mine enemies are all knit up\nIn their distractions; they now are in my power;\nAnd in these fits I leave them, while I visit\nYoung Ferdinand, whom they suppose is drown'd,\nAnd his and mine loved darling.


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O, it is monstrous, monstrous:\nMethought the billows spoke and told me of it;\nThe winds did sing it to me, and the thunder,\nThat deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced\nThe name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.\nTherefore my son i' the ooze is bedded, and\nI'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded\nAnd with him there lie mudded.


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All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,\nLike poison given to work a great time after,\nNow 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you\nThat are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly\nAnd hinder them from what this ecstasy\nMay now provoke them to.


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If I have too austerely punish'd you,\nYour compensation makes amends, for I\nHave given you here a third of mine own life,\nOr that for which I live; who once again\nI tender to thy hand: all thy vexations\nWere but my trials of thy love and thou\nHast strangely stood the test here, afore Heaven,\nI ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand,\nDo not smile at me that I boast her off,\nFor thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise\nAnd make it halt behind her.


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Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition\nWorthily purchased take my daughter: but\nIf thou dost break her virgin-knot before\nAll sanctimonious ceremonies may\nWith full and holy rite be minister'd,\nNo sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall\nTo make this contract grow: but barren hate,\nSour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew\nThe union of your bed with weeds so loathly\nThat you shall hate it both: therefore take heed,\nAs Hymen's lamps shall light you.


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As I hope\nFor quiet days, fair issue and long life,\nWith such love as 'tis now, the murkiest den,\nThe most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion.\nOur worser genius can, shall never melt\nMine honour into lust, to take away\nThe edge of that day's celebration\nWhen I shall think: or Phoebus' steeds are founder'd,\nOr Night kept chain'd below.


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Fairly spoke.\nSit then and talk with her; she is thine own.\nWhat, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel!


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Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service\nDid worthily perform; and I must use you\nIn such another trick. Go bring the rabble,\nO'er whom I give thee power, here to this place:\nIncite them to quick motion; for I must\nBestow upon the eyes of this young couple\nSome vanity of mine art: it is my promise,\nAnd they expect it from me.


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Before you can say 'come' and 'go,'\nAnd breathe twice and cry 'so, so,'\nEach one, tripping on his toe,\nWill be here with mop and mow.\nDo you love me, master? no?


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Look thou be true; do not give dalliance\nToo much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw\nTo the fire i' the blood: be more abstemious,\nOr else, good night your vow!


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Well.\nNow come, my Ariel! bring a corollary,\nRather than want a spirit: appear and pertly!\nNo tongue! all eyes! be silent.


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Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas\nOf wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats and pease;\nThy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,\nAnd flat meads thatch'd with stover, them to keep;\nThy banks with pioned and twilled brims,\nWhich spongy April at thy hest betrims,\nTo make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom -groves,\nWhose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,\nBeing lass-lorn: thy pole-clipt vineyard;\nAnd thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,\nWhere thou thyself dost air;--the queen o' the sky,\nWhose watery arch and messenger am I,\nBids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace,\nHere on this grass-plot, in this very place,\nTo come and sport: her peacocks fly amain:\nApproach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.


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Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that ne'er\nDost disobey the wife of Jupiter;\nWho with thy saffron wings upon my flowers\nDiffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers,\nAnd with each end of thy blue bow dost crown\nMy bosky acres and my unshrubb'd down,\nRich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen\nSummon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd green?


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Tell me, heavenly bow,\nIf Venus or her son, as thou dost know,\nDo now attend the queen? Since they did plot\nThe means that dusky Dis my daughter got,\nHer and her blind boy's scandal'd company\nI have forsworn.


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Of her society\nBe not afraid: I met her deity\nCutting the clouds towards Paphos and her son\nDove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done\nSome wanton charm upon this man and maid,\nWhose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid\nTill Hymen's torch be lighted: but vain;\nMars's hot minion is returned again;\nHer waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,\nSwears he will shoot no more but play with sparrows\nAnd be a boy right out.


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How does my bounteous sister? Go with me\nTo bless this twain, that they may prosperous be\nAnd honour'd in their issue.


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Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,\nLong continuance, and increasing,\nHourly joys be still upon you!\nJuno sings her blessings upon you.


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Earth's increase, foison plenty,\nBarns and garners never empty,\nVines and clustering bunches growing,\nPlants with goodly burthen bowing;\nSpring come to you at the farthest\nIn the very end of harvest!\nScarcity and want shall shun you;\nCeres' blessing so is on you.


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This is a most majestic vision, and\nHarmoniously charmingly. May I be bold\nTo think these spirits?


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Let me live here ever;\nSo rare a wonder'd father and a wife\nMakes this place Paradise.\n[Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on]\nemployment]


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Sweet, now, silence!\nJuno and Ceres whisper seriously;\nThere's something else to do: hush, and be mute,\nOr else our spell is marr'd.


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You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring brooks,\nWith your sedged crowns and ever-harmless looks,\nLeave your crisp channels and on this green land\nAnswer your summons; Juno does command:\nCome, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate\nA contract of true love; be not too late.\n[Enter certain Nymphs]\nYou sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary,\nCome hither from the furrow and be merry:\nMake holiday; your rye-straw hats put on\nAnd these fresh nymphs encounter every one\nIn country footing.\n[Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they]\njoin with the Nymphs in a graceful dance;\ntowards the end whereof PROSPERO starts\nsuddenly, and speaks; after which, to a\nstrange, hollow, and confused noise, they\nheavily vanish]


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[Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy\nOf the beast Caliban and his confederates\nAgainst my life: the minute of their plot\nIs almost come.\n[To the Spirits]\nWell done! avoid; no more!


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You do look, my son, in a moved sort,\nAs if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir.\nOur revels now are ended. These our actors,\nAs I foretold you, were all spirits and\nAre melted into air, into thin air:\nAnd, like the baseless fabric of this vision,\nThe cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,\nThe solemn temples, the great globe itself,\nYe all which it inherit, shall dissolve\nAnd, like this insubstantial pageant faded,\nLeave not a rack behind. We are such stuff\nAs dreams are made on, and our little life\nIs rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd;\nBear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled:\nBe not disturb'd with my infirmity:\nIf you be pleased, retire into my cell\nAnd there repose: a turn or two I'll walk,\nTo still my beating mind.


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Ay, my commander: when I presented Ceres,\nI thought to have told thee of it, but I fear'd\nLest I might anger thee.


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I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking;\nSo fun of valour that they smote the air\nFor breathing in their faces; beat the ground\nFor kissing of their feet; yet always bending\nTowards their project. Then I beat my tabour;\nAt which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd\ntheir ears,\nAdvanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses\nAs they smelt music: so I charm'd their ears\nThat calf-like they my lowing follow'd through\nTooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss and thorns,\nWhich entered their frail shins: at last I left them\nI' the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,\nThere dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake\nO'erstunk their feet.


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This was well done, my bird.\nThy shape invisible retain thou still:\nThe trumpery in my house, go bring it hither,\nFor stale to catch these thieves.


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A devil, a born devil, on whose nature\nNurture can never stick; on whom my pains,\nHumanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost;\nAnd as with age his body uglier grows,\nSo his mind cankers. I will plague them all,\nEven to roaring.\n[Re-enter ARIEL, loaden with glistering apparel, &c]\nCome, hang them on this line.\n[PROSPERO and ARIEL remain invisible. Enter]\nCALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, all wet]


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Monster, your fairy, which you say is\na harmless fairy, has done little better than\nplayed the Jack with us.


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Good my lord, give me thy favour still.\nBe patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to\nShall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly.\nAll's hush'd as midnight yet.


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Prithee, my king, be quiet. Seest thou here,\nThis is the mouth o' the cell: no noise, and enter.\nDo that good mischief which may make this island\nThine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,\nFor aye thy foot-licker.


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The dropsy drown this fool I what do you mean\nTo dote thus on such luggage? Let's alone\nAnd do the murder first: if he awake,\nFrom toe to crown he'll fill our skins with pinches,\nMake us strange stuff.


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Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line,\nis not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under\nthe line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your\nhair and prove a bald jerkin.


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I thank thee for that jest; here's a garment for't:\nwit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this\ncountry. 'Steal by line and level' is an excellent\npass of pate; there's another garment for't.


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I will have none on't: we shall lose our time,\nAnd all be turn'd to barnacles, or to apes\nWith foreheads villanous low.


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Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this\naway where my hogshead of wine is, or I'll turn you\nout of my kingdom: go to, carry this.


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Ay, and this.\n[A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits,]\nin shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about,\nPROSPERO and ARIEL setting them on]


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Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark! hark!\n[CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, are]\ndriven out]\nGo charge my goblins that they grind their joints\nWith dry convulsions, shorten up their sinews\nWith aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them\nThan pard or cat o' mountain.


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Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour\nLie at my mercy all mine enemies:\nShortly shall all my labours end, and thou\nShalt have the air at freedom: for a little\nFollow, and do me service.


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Now does my project gather to a head:\nMy charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time\nGoes upright with his carriage. How's the day?


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I did say so,\nWhen first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit,\nHow fares the king and's followers?


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Confined together\nIn the same fashion as you gave in charge,\nJust as you left them; all prisoners, sir,\nIn the line-grove which weather-fends your cell;\nThey cannot budge till your release. The king,\nHis brother and yours, abide all three distracted\nAnd the remainder mourning over them,\nBrimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly\nHim that you term'd, sir, 'The good old lord Gonzalo;'\nHis tears run down his beard, like winter's drops\nFrom eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works 'em\nThat if you now beheld them, your affections\nWould become tender.


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And mine shall.\nHast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling\nOf their afflictions, and shall not myself,\nOne of their kind, that relish all as sharply,\nPassion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?\nThough with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,\nYet with my nobler reason 'gaitist my fury\nDo I take part: the rarer action is\nIn virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,\nThe sole drift of my purpose doth extend\nNot a frown further. Go release them, Ariel:\nMy charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore,\nAnd they shall be themselves.


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Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,\nAnd ye that on the sands with printless foot\nDo chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him\nWhen he comes back; you demi-puppets that\nBy moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,\nWhereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime\nIs to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice\nTo hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,\nWeak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd\nThe noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,\nAnd 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault\nSet roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder\nHave I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak\nWith his own bolt; the strong-based promontory\nHave I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up\nThe pine and cedar: graves at my command\nHave waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth\nBy my so potent art. But this rough magic\nI here abjure, and, when I have required\nSome heavenly music, which even now I do,\nTo work mine end upon their senses that\nThis airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,\nBury it certain fathoms in the earth,\nAnd deeper than did ever plummet sound\nI'll drown my book.\n[Solemn music]\n[Re-enter ARIEL before: then ALONSO, with a]\nfrantic gesture, attended by GONZALO;\nSEBASTIAN and ANTONIO in like manner,\nattended by ADRIAN and FRANCISCO they all\nenter the circle which PROSPERO had made,\nand there stand charmed; which PROSPERO\nobserving, speaks:]\nA solemn air and the best comforter\nTo an unsettled fancy cure thy brains,\nNow useless, boil'd within thy skull! There stand,\nFor you are spell-stopp'd.\nHoly Gonzalo, honourable man,\nMine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,\nFall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace,\nAnd as the morning steals upon the night,\nMelting the darkness, so their rising senses\nBegin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle\nTheir clearer reason. O good Gonzalo,\nMy true preserver, and a loyal sir\nTo him you follow'st! I will pay thy graces\nHome both in word and deed. Most cruelly\nDidst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter:\nThy brother was a furtherer in the act.\nThou art pinch'd fort now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood,\nYou, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition,\nExpell'd remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian,\nWhose inward pinches therefore are most strong,\nWould here have kill'd your king; I do forgive thee,\nUnnatural though thou art. Their understanding\nBegins to swell, and the approaching tide\nWill shortly fill the reasonable shore\nThat now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them\nThat yet looks on me, or would know me Ariel,\nFetch me the hat and rapier in my cell:\nI will discase me, and myself present\nAs I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit;\nThou shalt ere long be free.\n[ARIEL sings and helps to attire him]\nWhere the bee sucks. there suck I:\nIn a cowslip's bell I lie;\nThere I couch when owls do cry.\nOn the bat's back I do fly\nAfter summer merrily.\nMerrily, merrily shall I live now\nUnder the blossom that hangs on the bough.


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Why, that's my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee:\nBut yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so.\nTo the king's ship, invisible as thou art:\nThere shalt thou find the mariners asleep\nUnder the hatches; the master and the boatswain\nBeing awake, enforce them to this place,\nAnd presently, I prithee.


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All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement\nInhabits here: some heavenly power guide us\nOut of this fearful country!


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Behold, sir king,\nThe wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero:\nFor more assurance that a living prince\nDoes now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;\nAnd to thee and thy company I bid\nA hearty welcome.


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Whether thou best he or no,\nOr some enchanted trifle to abuse me,\nAs late I have been, I not know: thy pulse\nBeats as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee,\nThe affliction of my mind amends, with which,\nI fear, a madness held me: this must crave,\nAn if this be at all, a most strange story.\nThy dukedom I resign and do entreat\nThou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Prospero\nBe living and be here?


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You do yet taste\nSome subtilties o' the isle, that will not let you\nBelieve things certain. Welcome, my friends all!\n[Aside to SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO]\nBut you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,\nI here could pluck his highness' frown upon you\nAnd justify you traitors: at this time\nI will tell no tales.


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No.\nFor you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother\nWould even infect my mouth, I do forgive\nThy rankest fault; all of them; and require\nMy dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know,\nThou must restore.


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If thou be'st Prospero,\nGive us particulars of thy preservation;\nHow thou hast met us here, who three hours since\nWere wreck'd upon this shore; where I have lost--\nHow sharp the point of this remembrance is!--\nMy dear son Ferdinand.


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I rather think\nYou have not sought her help, of whose soft grace\nFor the like loss I have her sovereign aid\nAnd rest myself content.


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As great to me as late; and, supportable\nTo make the dear loss, have I means much weaker\nThan you may call to comfort you, for I\nHave lost my daughter.


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A daughter?\nO heavens, that they were living both in Naples,\nThe king and queen there! that they were, I wish\nMyself were mudded in that oozy bed\nWhere my son lies. When did you lose your daughter?


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In this last tempest. I perceive these lords\nAt this encounter do so much admire\nThat they devour their reason and scarce think\nTheir eyes do offices of truth, their words\nAre natural breath: but, howsoe'er you have\nBeen justled from your senses, know for certain\nThat I am Prospero and that very duke\nWhich was thrust forth of Milan, who most strangely\nUpon this shore, where you were wreck'd, was landed,\nTo be the lord on't. No more yet of this;\nFor 'tis a chronicle of day by day,\nNot a relation for a breakfast nor\nBefitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;\nThis cell's my court: here have I few attendants\nAnd subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.\nMy dukedom since you have given me again,\nI will requite you with as good a thing;\nAt least bring forth a wonder, to content ye\nAs much as me my dukedom.\n[Here PROSPERO discovers FERDINAND and MIRANDA]\nplaying at chess]


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O, wonder!\nHow many goodly creatures are there here!\nHow beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,\nThat has such people in't!


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What is this maid with whom thou wast at play?\nYour eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours:\nIs she the goddess that hath sever'd us,\nAnd brought us thus together?


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Sir, she is mortal;\nBut by immortal Providence she's mine:\nI chose her when I could not ask my father\nFor his advice, nor thought I had one. She\nIs daughter to this famous Duke of Milan,\nOf whom so often I have heard renown,\nBut never saw before; of whom I have\nReceived a second life; and second father\nThis lady makes him to me.


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I have inly wept,\nOr should have spoke ere this. Look down, you god,\nAnd on this couple drop a blessed crown!\nFor it is you that have chalk'd forth the way\nWhich brought us hither.


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Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue\nShould become kings of Naples? O, rejoice\nBeyond a common joy, and set it down\nWith gold on lasting pillars: In one voyage\nDid Claribel her husband find at Tunis,\nAnd Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife\nWhere he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom\nIn a poor isle and all of us ourselves\nWhen no man was his own.


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[To FERDINAND and MIRANDA] Give me your hands:\nLet grief and sorrow still embrace his heart\nThat doth not wish you joy!


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Be it so! Amen!\n[Re-enter ARIEL, with the Master and Boatswain]\namazedly following]\nO, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us:\nI prophesied, if a gallows were on land,\nThis fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy,\nThat swear'st grace o'erboard, not an oath on shore?\nHast thou no mouth by land? What is the news?


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The best news is, that we have safely found\nOur king and company; the next, our ship--\nWhich, but three glasses since, we gave out split--\nIs tight and yare and bravely rigg'd as when\nWe first put out to sea.


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If I did think, sir, I were well awake,\nI'ld strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep,\nAnd--how we know not--all clapp'd under hatches;\nWhere but even now with strange and several noises\nOf roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,\nAnd more diversity of sounds, all horrible,\nWe were awaked; straightway, at liberty;\nWhere we, in all her trim, freshly beheld\nOur royal, good and gallant ship, our master\nCapering to eye her: on a trice, so please you,\nEven in a dream, were we divided from them\nAnd were brought moping hither.


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This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod\nAnd there is in this business more than nature\nWas ever conduct of: some oracle\nMust rectify our knowledge.


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Sir, my liege,\nDo not infest your mind with beating on\nThe strangeness of this business; at pick'd leisure\nWhich shall be shortly, single I'll resolve you,\nWhich to you shall seem probable, of every\nThese happen'd accidents; till when, be cheerful\nAnd think of each thing well.\n[Aside to ARIEL]\nCome hither, spirit:\nSet Caliban and his companions free;\nUntie the spell.\n[Exit ARIEL]\nHow fares my gracious sir?\nThere are yet missing of your company\nSome few odd lads that you remember not.\n[Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STEPHANO]\nand TRINCULO, in their stolen apparel]


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Every man shift for all the rest, and\nlet no man take care for himself; for all is\nbut fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!


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Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,\nThen say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave,\nHis mother was a witch, and one so strong\nThat could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,\nAnd deal in her command without her power.\nThese three have robb'd me; and this demi-devil--\nFor he's a bastard one--had plotted with them\nTo take my life. Two of these fellows you\nMust know and own; this thing of darkness!\nAcknowledge mine.


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And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should they\nFind this grand liquor that hath gilded 'em?\nHow camest thou in this pickle?


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I have been in such a pickle since I\nsaw you last that, I fear me, will never out of\nmy bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing.


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He is as disproportion'd in his manners\nAs in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;\nTake with you your companions; as you look\nTo have my pardon, trim it handsomely.


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Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafter\nAnd seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass\nWas I, to take this drunkard for a god\nAnd worship this dull fool!


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Sir, I invite your highness and your train\nTo my poor cell, where you shall take your rest\nFor this one night; which, part of it, I'll waste\nWith such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it\nGo quick away; the story of my life\nAnd the particular accidents gone by\nSince I came to this isle: and in the morn\nI'll bring you to your ship and so to Naples,\nWhere I have hope to see the nuptial\nOf these our dear-beloved solemnized;\nAnd thence retire me to my Milan, where\nEvery third thought shall be my grave.


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I'll deliver all;\nAnd promise you calm seas, auspicious gales\nAnd sail so expeditious that shall catch\nYour royal fleet far off.\n[Aside to ARIEL]\nMy Ariel, chick,\nThat is thy charge: then to the elements\nBe free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.\n[Exeunt]\nEPILOGUE


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Now my charms are all o'erthrown,\nAnd what strength I have's mine own,\nWhich is most faint: now, 'tis true,\nI must be here confined by you,\nOr sent to Naples. Let me not,\nSince I have my dukedom got\nAnd pardon'd the deceiver, dwell\nIn this bare island by your spell;\nBut release me from my bands\nWith the help of your good hands:\nGentle breath of yours my sails\nMust fill, or else my project fails,\nWhich was to please. Now I want\nSpirits to enforce, art to enchant,\nAnd my ending is despair,\nUnless I be relieved by prayer,\nWhich pierces so that it assaults\nMercy itself and frees all faults.\nAs you from crimes would pardon'd be,\nLet your indulgence set me free.


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Ay, that's well known:\nBut what particular rarity? what strange,\nWhich manifold record not matches? See,\nMagic of bounty! all these spirits thy power\nHath conjured to attend. I know the merchant.


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A most incomparable man, breathed, as it were,\nTo an untirable and continuate goodness:\nHe passes.


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[Reciting to himself] 'When we for recompense have\npraised the vile,\nIt stains the glory in that happy verse\nWhich aptly sings the good.'


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A thing slipp'd idly from me.\nOur poesy is as a gum, which oozes\nFrom whence 'tis nourish'd: the fire i' the flint\nShows not till it be struck; our gentle flame\nProvokes itself and like the current flies\nEach bound it chafes. What have you there?


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Admirable: how this grace\nSpeaks his own standing! what a mental power\nThis eye shoots forth! how big imagination\nMoves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture\nOne might interpret.


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You see this confluence, this great flood\nof visitors.\nI have, in this rough work, shaped out a man,\nWhom this beneath world doth embrace and hug\nWith amplest entertainment: my free drift\nHalts not particularly, but moves itself\nIn a wide sea of wax: no levell'd malice\nInfects one comma in the course I hold;\nBut flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on,\nLeaving no tract behind.


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I will unbolt to you.\nYou see how all conditions, how all minds,\nAs well of glib and slippery creatures as\nOf grave and austere quality, tender down\nTheir services to Lord Timon: his large fortune\nUpon his good and gracious nature hanging\nSubdues and properties to his love and tendance\nAll sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-faced flatterer\nTo Apemantus, that few things loves better\nThan to abhor himself: even he drops down\nThe knee before him, and returns in peace\nMost rich in Timon's nod.


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Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill\nFeign'd Fortune to be throned: the base o' the mount\nIs rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures,\nThat labour on the bosom of this sphere\nTo propagate their states: amongst them all,\nWhose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix'd,\nOne do I personate of Lord Timon's frame,\nWhom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her;\nWhose present grace to present slaves and servants\nTranslates his rivals.


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'Tis conceived to scope.\nThis throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,\nWith one man beckon'd from the rest below,\nBowing his head against the sleepy mount\nTo climb his happiness, would be well express'd\nIn our condition.


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Nay, sir, but hear me on.\nAll those which were his fellows but of late,\nSome better than his value, on the moment\nFollow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance,\nRain sacrificial whisperings in his ear,\nMake sacred even his stirrup, and through him\nDrink the free air.


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When Fortune in her shift and change of mood\nSpurns down her late beloved, all his dependants\nWhich labour'd after him to the mountain's top\nEven on their knees and hands, let him slip down,\nNot one accompanying his declining foot.


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'Tis common:\nA thousand moral paintings I can show\nThat shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune's\nMore pregnantly than words. Yet you do well\nTo show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen\nThe foot above the head.\n[Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON, addressing himself]\ncourteously to every suitor; a Messenger from\nVENTIDIUS talking with him; LUCILIUS and other\nservants following]


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Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt,\nHis means most short, his creditors most strait:\nYour honourable letter he desires\nTo those have shut him up; which failing,\nPeriods his comfort.


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Noble Ventidius! Well;\nI am not of that feather to shake off\nMy friend when he must need me. I do know him\nA gentleman that well deserves a help:\nWhich he shall have: I'll pay the debt,\nand free him.


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Commend me to him: I will send his ransom;\nAnd being enfranchised, bid him come to me.\n'Tis not enough to help the feeble up,\nBut to support him after. Fare you well.


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This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature,\nBy night frequents my house. I am a man\nThat from my first have been inclined to thrift;\nAnd my estate deserves an heir more raised\nThan one which holds a trencher.


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One only daughter have I, no kin else,\nOn whom I may confer what I have got:\nThe maid is fair, o' the youngest for a bride,\nAnd I have bred her at my dearest cost\nIn qualities of the best. This man of thine\nAttempts her love: I prithee, noble lord,\nJoin with me to forbid him her resort;\nMyself have spoke in vain.


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If in her marriage my consent be missing,\nI call the gods to witness, I will choose\nMine heir from forth the beggars of the world,\nAnd dispossess her all.


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This gentleman of mine hath served me long:\nTo build his fortune I will strain a little,\nFor 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter:\nWhat you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise,\nAnd make him weigh with her.


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Humbly I thank your lordship: never may\nThe state or fortune fall into my keeping,\nWhich is not owed to you!


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Painting is welcome.\nThe painting is almost the natural man;\nor since dishonour traffics with man's nature,\nHe is but outside: these pencill'd figures are\nEven such as they give out. I like your work;\nAnd you shall find I like it: wait attendance\nTill you hear further from me.


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Well fare you, gentleman: give me your hand;\nWe must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel\nHath suffer'd under praise.


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A more satiety of commendations.\nIf I should pay you for't as 'tis extoll'd,\nIt would unclew me quite.


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My lord, 'tis rated\nAs those which sell would give: but you well know,\nThings of like value differing in the owners\nAre prized by their masters: believe't, dear lord,\nYou mend the jewel by the wearing it.


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Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow;\nWhen thou art Timon's dog, and these knaves honest.


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Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee for thy\nlabour: he that loves to be flattered is worthy o'\nthe flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord!


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Pray, entertain them; give them guide to us.\n[Exeunt some Attendants]\nYou must needs dine with me: go not you hence\nTill I have thank'd you: when dinner's done,\nShow me this piece. I am joyful of your sights.\n[Enter ALCIBIADES, with the rest]\nMost welcome, sir!


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So, so, there!\nAches contract and starve your supple joints!\nThat there should be small love 'mongst these\nsweet knaves,\nAnd all this courtesy! The strain of man's bred out\nInto baboon and monkey.


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Right welcome, sir!\nEre we depart, we'll share a bounteous time\nIn different pleasures. Pray you, let us in.


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He's opposite to humanity. Come, shall we in,\nAnd taste Lord Timon's bounty? he outgoes\nThe very heart of kindness.


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He pours it out; Plutus, the god of gold,\nIs but his steward: no meed, but he repays\nSevenfold above itself; no gift to him,\nBut breeds the giver a return exceeding\nAll use of quittance.


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[Exeunt]\n[Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet]\nserved in; FLAVIUS and others attending; then enter\nTIMON, ALCIBIADES, Lords, Senators, and VENTIDIUS.\nThen comes, dropping, after all, APEMANTUS,\ndiscontentedly, like himself]


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Most honour'd Timon,\nIt hath pleased the gods to remember my father's age,\nAnd call him to long peace.\nHe is gone happy, and has left me rich:\nThen, as in grateful virtue I am bound\nTo your free heart, I do return those talents,\nDoubled with thanks and service, from whose help\nI derived liberty.


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O, by no means,\nHonest Ventidius; you mistake my love:\nI gave it freely ever; and there's none\nCan truly say he gives, if he receives:\nIf our betters play at that game, we must not dare\nTo imitate them; faults that are rich are fair.


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Nay, my lords,\n[They all stand ceremoniously looking on TIMON]\nCeremony was but devised at first\nTo set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes,\nRecanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown;\nBut where there is true friendship, there needs none.\nPray, sit; more welcome are ye to my fortunes\nThan my fortunes to me.


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Fie, thou'rt a churl; ye've got a humour there\nDoes not become a man: 'tis much to blame.\nThey say, my lords, 'ira furor brevis est;' but yond\nman is ever angry. Go, let him have a table by\nhimself, for he does neither affect company, nor is\nhe fit for't, indeed.


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I take no heed of thee; thou'rt an Athenian,\ntherefore welcome: I myself would have no power;\nprithee, let my meat make thee silent.


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I scorn thy meat; 'twould choke me, for I should\nne'er flatter thee. O you gods, what a number of\nmen eat Timon, and he sees 'em not! It grieves me\nto see so many dip their meat in one man's blood;\nand all the madness is, he cheers them up too.\nI wonder men dare trust themselves with men:\nMethinks they should invite them without knives;\nGood for their meat, and safer for their lives.\nThere's much example for't; the fellow that sits\nnext him now, parts bread with him, pledges the\nbreath of him in a divided draught, is the readiest\nman to kill him: 't has been proved. If I were a\nhuge man, I should fear to drink at meals;\nLest they should spy my windpipe's dangerous notes:\nGreat men should drink with harness on their throats.


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Flow this way! A brave fellow! he keeps his tides\nwell. Those healths will make thee and thy state\nlook ill, Timon. Here's that which is too weak to\nbe a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire:\nThis and my food are equals; there's no odds:\nFeasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods.\nApemantus' grace.\nImmortal gods, I crave no pelf;\nI pray for no man but myself:\nGrant I may never prove so fond,\nTo trust man on his oath or bond;\nOr a harlot, for her weeping;\nOr a dog, that seems a-sleeping:\nOr a keeper with my freedom;\nOr my friends, if I should need 'em.\nAmen. So fall to't:\nRich men sin, and I eat root.\n[Eats and drinks]\nMuch good dich thy good heart, Apemantus!


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So the were bleeding-new, my lord, there's no meat\nlike 'em: I could wish my best friend at such a feast.


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Would all those fatterers were thine enemies then,\nthat then thou mightst kill 'em and bid me to 'em!


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Might we but have that happiness, my lord, that you\nwould once use our hearts, whereby we might express\nsome part of our zeals, we should think ourselves\nfor ever perfect.


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O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods\nthemselves have provided that I shall have much help\nfrom you: how had you been my friends else? why\nhave you that charitable title from thousands, did\nnot you chiefly belong to my heart? I have told\nmore of you to myself than you can with modesty\nspeak in your own behalf; and thus far I confirm\nyou. O you gods, think I, what need we have any\nfriends, if we should ne'er have need of 'em? they\nwere the most needless creatures living, should we\nne'er have use for 'em, and would most resemble\nsweet instruments hung up in cases that keep their\nsounds to themselves. Why, I have often wished\nmyself poorer, that I might come nearer to you. We\nare born to do benefits: and what better or\nproperer can we can our own than the riches of our\nfriends? O, what a precious comfort 'tis, to have\nso many, like brothers, commanding one another's\nfortunes! O joy, e'en made away ere 't can be born!\nMine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks: to\nforget their faults, I drink to you.


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Hail to thee, worthy Timon, and to all\nThat of his bounties taste! The five best senses\nAcknowledge thee their patron; and come freely\nTo gratulate thy plenteous bosom: th' ear,\nTaste, touch and smell, pleased from thy tale rise;\nThey only now come but to feast thine eyes.


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You see, my lord, how ample you're beloved.\n[Music. Re-enter Cupid with a mask of Ladies]\nas Amazons, with lutes in their hands,\ndancing and playing]


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Hoy-day, what a sweep of vanity comes this way!\nThey dance! they are mad women.\nLike madness is the glory of this life.\nAs this pomp shows to a little oil and root.\nWe make ourselves fools, to disport ourselves;\nAnd spend our flatteries, to drink those men\nUpon whose age we void it up again,\nWith poisonous spite and envy.\nWho lives that's not depraved or depraves?\nWho dies, that bears not one spurn to their graves\nOf their friends' gift?\nI should fear those that dance before me now\nWould one day stamp upon me: 't has been done;\nMen shut their doors against a setting sun.\n[The Lords rise from table, with much adoring of]\nTIMON; and to show their loves, each singles out an\nAmazon, and all dance, men with women, a lofty\nstrain or two to the hautboys, and cease]


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You have done our pleasures much grace, fair ladies,\nSet a fair fashion on our entertainment,\nWhich was not half so beautiful and kind;\nYou have added worth unto 't and lustre,\nAnd entertain'd me with mine own device;\nI am to thank you for 't.


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Yes, my lord. More jewels yet!\nThere is no crossing him in 's humour;\n[Aside]\nElse I should tell him,--well, i' faith I should,\nWhen all's spent, he 'ld be cross'd then, an he could.\n'Tis pity bounty had not eyes behind,\nThat man might ne'er be wretched for his mind.


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O my friends,\nI have one word to say to you: look you, my good lord,\nI must entreat you, honour me so much\nAs to advance this jewel; accept it and wear it,\nKind my lord.


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Near! why then, another time I'll hear thee:\nI prithee, let's be provided to show them\nentertainment.


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May it please your honour, Lord Lucius,\nOut of his free love, hath presented to you\nFour milk-white horses, trapp'd in silver.


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I shall accept them fairly; let the presents\nBe worthily entertain'd.\n[Enter a third Servant]\nHow now! what news?


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Please you, my lord, that honourable\ngentleman, Lord Lucullus, entreats your company\nto-morrow to hunt with him, and has sent your honour\ntwo brace of greyhounds.


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[Aside] What will this come to?\nHe commands us to provide, and give great gifts,\nAnd all out of an empty coffer:\nNor will he know his purse, or yield me this,\nTo show him what a beggar his heart is,\nBeing of no power to make his wishes good:\nHis promises fly so beyond his state\nThat what he speaks is all in debt; he owes\nFor every word: he is so kind that he now\nPays interest for 't; his land's put to their books.\nWell, would I were gently put out of office\nBefore I were forced out!\nHappier is he that has no friend to feed\nThan such that do e'en enemies exceed.\nI bleed inwardly for my lord.


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You do yourselves\nMuch wrong, you bate too much of your own merits:\nHere, my lord, a trifle of our love.


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And now I remember, my lord, you gave\nGood words the other day of a bay courser\nI rode on: it is yours, because you liked it.


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You may take my word, my lord; I know, no man\nCan justly praise but what he does affect:\nI weigh my friend's affection with mine own;\nI'll tell you true. I'll call to you.


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I take all and your several visitations\nSo kind to heart, 'tis not enough to give;\nMethinks, I could deal kingdoms to my friends,\nAnd ne'er be weary. Alcibiades,\nThou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich;\nIt comes in charity to thee: for all thy living\nIs 'mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast\nLie in a pitch'd field.


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What a coil's here!\nServing of becks and jutting-out of bums!\nI doubt whether their legs be worth the sums\nThat are given for 'em. Friendship's full of dregs:\nMethinks, false hearts should never have sound legs,\nThus honest fools lay out their wealth on court'sies.


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No, I'll nothing: for if I should be bribed too,\nthere would be none left to rail upon thee, and then\nthou wouldst sin the faster. Thou givest so long,\nTimon, I fear me thou wilt give away thyself in\npaper shortly: what need these feasts, pomps and\nvain-glories?


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Nay, an you begin to rail on society once, I am\nsworn not to give regard to you. Farewell; and come\nwith better music.


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So:\nThou wilt not hear me now; thou shalt not then:\nI'll lock thy heaven from thee.\nO, that men's ears should be\nTo counsel deaf, but not to flattery!


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And late, five thousand: to Varro and to Isidore\nHe owes nine thousand; besides my former sum,\nWhich makes it five and twenty. Still in motion\nOf raging waste? It cannot hold; it will not.\nIf I want gold, steal but a beggar's dog,\nAnd give it Timon, why, the dog coins gold.\nIf I would sell my horse, and buy twenty more\nBetter than he, why, give my horse to Timon,\nAsk nothing, give it him, it foals me, straight,\nAnd able horses. No porter at his gate,\nBut rather one that smiles and still invites\nAll that pass by. It cannot hold: no reason\nCan found his state in safety. Caphis, ho!\nCaphis, I say!


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Get on your cloak, and haste you to Lord Timon;\nImportune him for my moneys; be not ceased\nWith slight denial, nor then silenced when--\n'Commend me to your master'--and the cap\nPlays in the right hand, thus: but tell him,\nMy uses cry to me, I must serve my turn\nOut of mine own; his days and times are past\nAnd my reliances on his fracted dates\nHave smit my credit: I love and honour him,\nBut must not break my back to heal his finger;\nImmediate are my needs, and my relief\nMust not be toss'd and turn'd to me in words,\nBut find supply immediate. Get you gone:\nPut on a most importunate aspect,\nA visage of demand; for, I do fear,\nWhen every feather sticks in his own wing,\nLord Timon will be left a naked gull,\nWhich flashes now a phoenix. Get you gone.


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No care, no stop! so senseless of expense,\nThat he will neither know how to maintain it,\nNor cease his flow of riot: takes no account\nHow things go from him, nor resumes no care\nOf what is to continue: never mind\nWas to be so unwise, to be so kind.\nWhat shall be done? he will not hear, till feel:\nI must be round with him, now he comes from hunting.\nFie, fie, fie, fie!


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Please it your lordship, he hath put me off\nTo the succession of new days this month:\nMy master is awaked by great occasion\nTo call upon his own, and humbly prays you\nThat with your other noble parts you'll suit\nIn giving him his right.


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Give me breath.\nI do beseech you, good my lords, keep on;\nI'll wait upon you instantly.\n[Exeunt ALCIBIADES and Lords]\n[To FLAVIUS]\nCome hither: pray you,\nHow goes the world, that I am thus encounter'd\nWith clamourous demands of date-broke bonds,\nAnd the detention of long-since-due debts,\nAgainst my honour?


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Please you, gentlemen,\nThe time is unagreeable to this business:\nYour importunacy cease till after dinner,\nThat I may make his lordship understand\nWherefore you are not paid.


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There will little learning die then, that day thou\nart hanged. This is to Lord Timon; this to\nAlcibiades. Go; thou wast born a bastard, and thou't\ndie a bawd.


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I think no usurer but has a fool to his servant: my\nmistress is one, and I am her fool. When men come\nto borrow of your masters, they approach sadly, and\ngo away merry; but they enter my mistress' house\nmerrily, and go away sadly: the reason of this?


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Do it then, that we may account thee a whoremaster\nand a knave; which not-withstanding, thou shalt be\nno less esteemed.


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A fool in good clothes, and something like thee.\n'Tis a spirit: sometime't appears like a lord;\nsometime like a lawyer; sometime like a philosopher,\nwith two stones moe than's artificial one: he is\nvery often like a knight; and, generally, in all\nshapes that man goes up and down in from fourscore\nto thirteen, this spirit walks in.


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You make me marvel: wherefore ere this time\nHad you not fully laid my state before me,\nThat I might so have rated my expense,\nAs I had leave of means?


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Go to:\nPerchance some single vantages you took.\nWhen my indisposition put you back:\nAnd that unaptness made your minister,\nThus to excuse yourself.


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O my good lord,\nAt many times I brought in my accounts,\nLaid them before you; you would throw them off,\nAnd say, you found them in mine honesty.\nWhen, for some trifling present, you have bid me\nReturn so much, I have shook my head and wept;\nYea, 'gainst the authority of manners, pray'd you\nTo hold your hand more close: I did endure\nNot seldom, nor no slight cheques, when I have\nPrompted you in the ebb of your estate\nAnd your great flow of debts. My loved lord,\nThough you hear now, too late--yet now's a time--\nThe greatest of your having lacks a half\nTo pay your present debts.


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'Tis all engaged, some forfeited and gone;\nAnd what remains will hardly stop the mouth\nOf present dues: the future comes apace:\nWhat shall defend the interim? and at length\nHow goes our reckoning?


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O my good lord, the world is but a word:\nWere it all yours to give it in a breath,\nHow quickly were it gone!


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If you suspect my husbandry or falsehood,\nCall me before the exactest auditors\nAnd set me on the proof. So the gods bless me,\nWhen all our offices have been oppress'd\nWith riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept\nWith drunken spilth of wine, when every room\nHath blazed with lights and bray'd with minstrelsy,\nI have retired me to a wasteful cock,\nAnd set mine eyes at flow.


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Heavens, have I said, the bounty of this lord!\nHow many prodigal bits have slaves and peasants\nThis night englutted! Who is not Timon's?\nWhat heart, head, sword, force, means, but is\nLord Timon's?\nGreat Timon, noble, worthy, royal Timon!\nAh, when the means are gone that buy this praise,\nThe breath is gone whereof this praise is made:\nFeast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter showers,\nThese flies are couch'd.


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Come, sermon me no further:\nNo villanous bounty yet hath pass'd my heart;\nUnwisely, not ignobly, have I given.\nWhy dost thou weep? Canst thou the conscience lack,\nTo think I shall lack friends? Secure thy heart;\nIf I would broach the vessels of my love,\nAnd try the argument of hearts by borrowing,\nMen and men's fortunes could I frankly use\nAs I can bid thee speak.


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And, in some sort, these wants of mine are crown'd,\nThat I account them blessings; for by these\nShall I try friends: you shall perceive how you\nMistake my fortunes; I am wealthy in my friends.\nWithin there! Flaminius! Servilius!


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I will dispatch you severally; you to Lord Lucius;\nto Lord Lucullus you: I hunted with his honour\nto-day: you, to Sempronius: commend me to their\nloves, and, I am proud, say, that my occasions have\nfound time to use 'em toward a supply of money: let\nthe request be fifty talents.


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Go you, sir, to the senators--\nOf whom, even to the state's best health, I have\nDeserved this hearing--bid 'em send o' the instant\nA thousand talents to me.


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I have been bold--\nFor that I knew it the most general way--\nTo them to use your signet and your name;\nBut they do shake their heads, and I am here\nNo richer in return.


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They answer, in a joint and corporate voice,\nThat now they are at fall, want treasure, cannot\nDo what they would; are sorry--you are honourable,--\nBut yet they could have wish'd--they know not--\nSomething hath been amiss--a noble nature\nMay catch a wrench--would all were well--'tis pity;--\nAnd so, intending other serious matters,\nAfter distasteful looks and these hard fractions,\nWith certain half-caps and cold-moving nods\nThey froze me into silence.


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You gods, reward them!\nPrithee, man, look cheerly. These old fellows\nHave their ingratitude in them hereditary:\nTheir blood is caked, 'tis cold, it seldom flows;\n'Tis lack of kindly warmth they are not kind;\nAnd nature, as it grows again toward earth,\nIs fashion'd for the journey, dull and heavy.\n[To a Servant]\nGo to Ventidius.\n[To FLAVIUS]\nPrithee, be not sad,\nThou art true and honest; ingeniously I speak.\nNo blame belongs to thee.\n[To Servant]\nVentidius lately\nBuried his father; by whose death he's stepp'd\nInto a great estate: when he was poor,\nImprison'd and in scarcity of friends,\nI clear'd him with five talents: greet him from me;\nBid him suppose some good necessity\nTouches his friend, which craves to be remember'd\nWith those five talents.\n[Exit Servant]\n[To FLAVIUS]\nThat had, give't these fellows\nTo whom 'tis instant due. Ne'er speak, or think,\nThat Timon's fortunes 'mong his friends can sink.


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I would I could not think it: that thought is\nbounty's foe;\nBeing free itself, it thinks all others so.


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[Aside] One of Lord Timon's men? a gift, I\nwarrant. Why, this hits right; I dreamt of a silver\nbasin and ewer to-night. Flaminius, honest\nFlaminius; you are very respectively welcome, sir.\nFill me some wine.\n[Exit Servants]\nAnd how does that honourable, complete, free-hearted\ngentleman of Athens, thy very bountiful good lord\nand master?


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I am right glad that his health is well, sir: and\nwhat hast thou there under thy cloak, pretty Flaminius?


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'Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir; which, in my\nlord's behalf, I come to entreat your honour to\nsupply; who, having great and instant occasion to\nuse fifty talents, hath sent to your lordship to\nfurnish him, nothing doubting your present\nassistance therein.


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La, la, la, la! 'nothing doubting,' says he? Alas,\ngood lord! a noble gentleman 'tis, if he would not\nkeep so good a house. Many a time and often I ha'\ndined with him, and told him on't, and come again to\nsupper to him, of purpose to have him spend less,\nand yet he would embrace no counsel, take no warning\nby my coming. Every man has his fault, and honesty\nis his: I ha' told him on't, but I could ne'er get\nhim from't.


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I have observed thee always for a towardly prompt\nspirit--give thee thy due--and one that knows what\nbelongs to reason; and canst use the time well, if\nthe time use thee well: good parts in thee.\n[To Servant]\nGet you gone, sirrah.\n[Exit Servant]\nDraw nearer, honest Flaminius. Thy lord's a\nbountiful gentleman: but thou art wise; and thou\nknowest well enough, although thou comest to me,\nthat this is no time to lend money, especially upon\nbare friendship, without security. Here's three\nsolidares for thee: good boy, wink at me, and say\nthou sawest me not. Fare thee well.


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Is't possible the world should so much differ,\nAnd we alive that lived? Fly, damned baseness,\nTo him that worships thee!


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May these add to the number that may scald thee!\nLet moulten coin be thy damnation,\nThou disease of a friend, and not himself!\nHas friendship such a faint and milky heart,\nIt turns in less than two nights? O you gods,\nI feel master's passion! this slave,\nUnto his honour, has my lord's meat in him:\nWhy should it thrive and turn to nutriment,\nWhen he is turn'd to poison?\nO, may diseases only work upon't!\nAnd, when he's sick to death, let not that part of nature\nWhich my lord paid for, be of any power\nTo expel sickness, but prolong his hour!


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We know him for no less, though we are but strangers\nto him. But I can tell you one thing, my lord, and\nwhich I hear from common rumours: now Lord Timon's\nhappy hours are done and past, and his estate\nshrinks from him.


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But believe you this, my lord, that, not long ago,\none of his men was with the Lord Lucullus to borrow\nso many talents, nay, urged extremely for't and\nshowed what necessity belonged to't, and yet was denied.


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What a strange case was that! now, before the gods,\nI am ashamed on't. Denied that honourable man!\nthere was very little honour showed in't. For my own\npart, I must needs confess, I have received some\nsmall kindnesses from him, as money, plate, jewels\nand such-like trifles, nothing comparing to his;\nyet, had he mistook him and sent to me, I should\nne'er have denied his occasion so many talents.


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Servilius! you are kindly met, sir. Fare thee well:\ncommend me to thy honourable virtuous lord, my very\nexquisite friend.


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Ha! what has he sent? I am so much endeared to\nthat lord; he's ever sending: how shall I thank\nhim, thinkest thou? And what has he sent now?


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Has only sent his present occasion now, my lord;\nrequesting your lordship to supply his instant use\nwith so many talents.


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But in the mean time he wants less, my lord.\nIf his occasion were not virtuous,\nI should not urge it half so faithfully.


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What a wicked beast was I to disfurnish myself\nagainst such a good time, when I might ha' shown\nmyself honourable! how unluckily it happened, that I\nshould purchase the day before for a little part,\nand undo a great deal of honoured! Servilius, now,\nbefore the gods, I am not able to do,--the more\nbeast, I say:--I was sending to use Lord Timon\nmyself, these gentlemen can witness! but I would\nnot, for the wealth of Athens, I had done't now.\nCommend me bountifully to his good lordship; and I\nhope his honour will conceive the fairest of me,\nbecause I have no power to be kind: and tell him\nthis from me, I count it one of my greatest\nafflictions, say, that I cannot pleasure such an\nhonourable gentleman. Good Servilius, will you\nbefriend me so far, as to use mine own words to him?


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I'll look you out a good turn, Servilius.\n[Exit SERVILIUS]\nTrue as you said, Timon is shrunk indeed;\nAnd he that's once denied will hardly speed.


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Why, this is the world's soul; and just of the\nsame piece\nIs every flatterer's spirit. Who can call him\nHis friend that dips in the same dish? for, in\nMy knowing, Timon has been this lord's father,\nAnd kept his credit with his purse,\nSupported his estate; nay, Timon's money\nHas paid his men their wages: he ne'er drinks,\nBut Timon's silver treads upon his lip;\nAnd yet--O, see the monstrousness of man\nWhen he looks out in an ungrateful shape!--\nHe does deny him, in respect of his,\nWhat charitable men afford to beggars.


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For mine own part,\nI never tasted Timon in my life,\nNor came any of his bounties over me,\nTo mark me for his friend; yet, I protest,\nFor his right noble mind, illustrious virtue\nAnd honourable carriage,\nHad his necessity made use of me,\nI would have put my wealth into donation,\nAnd the best half should have return'd to him,\nSo much I love his heart: but, I perceive,\nMen must learn now with pity to dispense;\nFor policy sits above conscience.


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Must he needs trouble me in 't,--hum!--'bove\nall others?\nHe might have tried Lord Lucius or Lucullus;\nAnd now Ventidius is wealthy too,\nWhom he redeem'd from prison: all these\nOwe their estates unto him.


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How! have they denied him?\nHas Ventidius and Lucullus denied him?\nAnd does he send to me? Three? hum!\nIt shows but little love or judgment in him:\nMust I be his last refuge! His friends, like\nphysicians,\nThrive, give him over: must I take the cure upon me?\nHas much disgraced me in't; I'm angry at him,\nThat might have known my place: I see no sense for't,\nBut his occasion might have woo'd me first;\nFor, in my conscience, I was the first man\nThat e'er received gift from him:\nAnd does he think so backwardly of me now,\nThat I'll requite its last? No:\nSo it may prove an argument of laughter\nTo the rest, and 'mongst lords I be thought a fool.\nI'ld rather than the worth of thrice the sum,\nHad sent to me first, but for my mind's sake;\nI'd such a courage to do him good. But now return,\nAnd with their faint reply this answer join;\nWho bates mine honour shall not know my coin.


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Excellent! Your lordship's a goodly villain. The\ndevil knew not what he did when he made man\npolitic; he crossed himself by 't: and I cannot\nthink but, in the end, the villainies of man will\nset him clear. How fairly this lord strives to\nappear foul! takes virtuous copies to be wicked,\nlike those that under hot ardent zeal would set\nwhole realms on fire: Of such a nature is his\npolitic love.\nThis was my lord's best hope; now all are fled,\nSave only the gods: now his friends are dead,\nDoors, that were ne'er acquainted with their wards\nMany a bounteous year must be employ'd\nNow to guard sure their master.\nAnd this is all a liberal course allows;\nWho cannot keep his wealth must keep his house.


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[Exit]\n[Enter two Servants of Varro, and the Servant of]\nLUCIUS, meeting TITUS, HORTENSIUS, and other\nServants of TIMON's creditors, waiting his coming out]


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I wonder on't; he was wont to shine at seven.\nYou must consider that a prodigal course\nIs like the sun's; but not, like his, recoverable.\nI fear 'tis deepest winter in Lord Timon's purse;\nThat is one may reach deep enough, and yet\nFind little.


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It is against my heart.\nTimon in this should pay more than he owes:\nAnd e'en as if your lord should wear rich jewels,\nAnd send for money for 'em.


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I'm weary of this charge, the gods can witness:\nI know my lord hath spent of Timon's wealth,\nAnd now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth.


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'Tis much deep: and it should seem by the sun,\nYour master's confidence was above mine;\nElse, surely, his had equall'd.\nEnter Flaminius.


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Ay,\nIf money were as certain as your waiting,\n'Twere sure enough.\nWhy then preferr'd you not your sums and bills,\nWhen your false masters eat of my lord's meat?\nThen they could smile and fawn upon his debts\nAnd take down the interest into their\ngluttonous maws.\nYou do yourselves but wrong to stir me up;\nLet me pass quietly:\nBelieve 't, my lord and I have made an end;\nI have no more to reckon, he to spend.


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No matter what; he's poor, and that's revenge\nenough. Who can speak broader than he that has no\nhouse to put his head in? such may rail against\ngreat buildings.


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If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some\nother hour, I should derive much from't; for,\ntake't of my soul, my lord leans wondrously to\ndiscontent: his comfortable temper has forsook him;\nhe's much out of health, and keeps his chamber.\nAnd, if it be so far beyond his health,\nMethinks he should the sooner pay his debts,\nAnd make a clear way to the gods.


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What, are my doors opposed against my passage?\nHave I been ever free, and must my house\nBe my retentive enemy, my gaol?\nThe place which I have feasted, does it now,\nLike all mankind, show me an iron heart?


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'Faith, I perceive our masters may throw their caps\nat their money: these debts may well be called\ndesperate ones, for a madman owes 'em.


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So fitly? Go, bid all my friends again,\nLucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius:\nAll, sirrah, all:\nI'll once more feast the rascals.


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O my lord,\nYou only speak from your distracted soul;\nThere is not so much left, to furnish out\nA moderate table.


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Be't not in thy care; go,\nI charge thee, invite them all: let in the tide\nOf knaves once more; my cook and I'll provide.


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My lord, you have my voice to it; the fault's\nBloody; 'tis necessary he should die:\nNothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.


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I am an humble suitor to your virtues;\nFor pity is the virtue of the law,\nAnd none but tyrants use it cruelly.\nIt pleases time and fortune to lie heavy\nUpon a friend of mine, who, in hot blood,\nHath stepp'd into the law, which is past depth\nTo those that, without heed, do plunge into 't.\nHe is a man, setting his fate aside,\nOf comely virtues:\nNor did he soil the fact with cowardice--\nAn honour in him which buys out his fault--\nBut with a noble fury and fair spirit,\nSeeing his reputation touch'd to death,\nHe did oppose his foe:\nAnd with such sober and unnoted passion\nHe did behave his anger, ere 'twas spent,\nAs if he had but proved an argument.


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You undergo too strict a paradox,\nStriving to make an ugly deed look fair:\nYour words have took such pains as if they labour'd\nTo bring manslaughter into form and set quarrelling\nUpon the head of valour; which indeed\nIs valour misbegot and came into the world\nWhen sects and factions were newly born:\nHe's truly valiant that can wisely suffer\nThe worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs\nHis outsides, to wear them like his raiment,\ncarelessly,\nAnd ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart,\nTo bring it into danger.\nIf wrongs be evils and enforce us kill,\nWhat folly 'tis to hazard life for ill!


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My lords, then, under favour, pardon me,\nIf I speak like a captain.\nWhy do fond men expose themselves to battle,\nAnd not endure all threats? sleep upon't,\nAnd let the foes quietly cut their throats,\nWithout repugnancy? If there be\nSuch valour in the bearing, what make we\nAbroad? why then, women are more valiant\nThat stay at home, if bearing carry it,\nAnd the ass more captain than the lion, the felon\nLoaden with irons wiser than the judge,\nIf wisdom be in suffering. O my lords,\nAs you are great, be pitifully good:\nWho cannot condemn rashness in cold blood?\nTo kill, I grant, is sin's extremest gust;\nBut, in defence, by mercy, 'tis most just.\nTo be in anger is impiety;\nBut who is man that is not angry?\nWeigh but the crime with this.


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I say, my lords, he has done fair service,\nAnd slain in fight many of your enemies:\nHow full of valour did he bear himself\nIn the last conflict, and made plenteous wounds!


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He has made too much plenty with 'em;\nHe's a sworn rioter: he has a sin that often\nDrowns him, and takes his valour prisoner:\nIf there were no foes, that were enough\nTo overcome him: in that beastly fury\nHe has been known to commit outrages,\nAnd cherish factions: 'tis inferr'd to us,\nHis days are foul and his drink dangerous.


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Hard fate! he might have died in war.\nMy lords, if not for any parts in him--\nThough his right arm might purchase his own time\nAnd be in debt to none--yet, more to move you,\nTake my deserts to his, and join 'em both:\nAnd, for I know your reverend ages love\nSecurity, I'll pawn my victories, all\nMy honours to you, upon his good returns.\nIf by this crime he owes the law his life,\nWhy, let the war receive 't in valiant gore\nFor law is strict, and war is nothing more.


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We are for law: he dies; urge it no more,\nOn height of our displeasure: friend or brother,\nHe forfeits his own blood that spills another.


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I cannot think but your age has forgot me;\nIt could not else be, I should prove so base,\nTo sue, and be denied such common grace:\nMy wounds ache at you.


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If, after two days' shine, Athens contain thee,\nAttend our weightier judgment. And, not to swell\nour spirit,\nHe shall be executed presently.


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Now the gods keep you old enough; that you may live\nOnly in bone, that none may look on you!\nI'm worse than mad: I have kept back their foes,\nWhile they have told their money and let out\nTheir coin upon large interest, I myself\nRich only in large hurts. All those for this?\nIs this the balsam that the usuring senate\nPours into captains' wounds? Banishment!\nIt comes not ill; I hate not to be banish'd;\nIt is a cause worthy my spleen and fury,\nThat I may strike at Athens. I'll cheer up\nMy discontented troops, and lay for hearts.\n'Tis honour with most lands to be at odds;\nSoldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods.


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[Exit]\n[Music. Tables set out: Servants attending.]\nEnter divers Lords, Senators and others, at\nseveral doors]


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Upon that were my thoughts tiring, when we\nencountered: I hope it is not so low with him as\nhe made it seem in the trial of his several friends.


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I should think so: he hath sent me an earnest\ninviting, which many my near occasions did urge me\nto put off; but he hath conjured me beyond them, and\nI must needs appear.


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In like manner was I in debt to my importunate\nbusiness, but he would not hear my excuse. I am\nsorry, when he sent to borrow of me, that my\nprovision was out.


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[Aside] Nor more willingly leaves winter; such\nsummer-birds are men. Gentlemen, our dinner will not\nrecompense this long stay: feast your ears with the\nmusic awhile, if they will fare so harshly o' the\ntrumpet's sound; we shall to 't presently.


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My most honourable lord, I am e'en sick of shame,\nthat, when your lordship this other day sent to me,\nI was so unfortunate a beggar.


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Each man to his stool, with that spur as he would to\nthe lip of his mistress: your diet shall be in all\nplaces alike. Make not a city feast of it, to let\nthe meat cool ere we can agree upon the first place:\nsit, sit. The gods require our thanks.\nYou great benefactors, sprinkle our society with\nthankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves\npraised: but reserve still to give, lest your\ndeities be despised. Lend to each man enough, that\none need not lend to another; for, were your\ngodheads to borrow of men, men would forsake the\ngods. Make the meat be beloved more than the man\nthat gives it. Let no assembly of twenty be without\na score of villains: if there sit twelve women at\nthe table, let a dozen of them be--as they are. The\nrest of your fees, O gods--the senators of Athens,\ntogether with the common lag of people--what is\namiss in them, you gods, make suitable for\ndestruction. For these my present friends, as they\nare to me nothing, so in nothing bless them, and to\nnothing are they welcome.\nUncover, dogs, and lap.\n[The dishes are uncovered and seen to be full of]\nwarm water]


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May you a better feast never behold,\nYou knot of mouth-friends I smoke and lukewarm water\nIs your perfection. This is Timon's last;\nWho, stuck and spangled with your flatteries,\nWashes it off, and sprinkles in your faces\nYour reeking villany.\n[Throwing the water in their faces]\nLive loathed and long,\nMost smiling, smooth, detested parasites,\nCourteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears,\nYou fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time's flies,\nCap and knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks!\nOf man and beast the infinite malady\nCrust you quite o'er! What, dost thou go?\nSoft! take thy physic first--thou too--and thou;--\nStay, I will lend thee money, borrow none.\n[Throws the dishes at them, and drives them out]\nWhat, all in motion? Henceforth be no feast,\nWhereat a villain's not a welcome guest.\nBurn, house! sink, Athens! henceforth hated be\nOf Timon man and all humanity!


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He's but a mad lord, and nought but humour sways him.\nHe gave me a jewel th' other day, and now he has\nbeat it out of my hat: did you see my jewel?


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Let me look back upon thee. O thou wall,\nThat girdlest in those wolves, dive in the earth,\nAnd fence not Athens! Matrons, turn incontinent!\nObedience fail in children! slaves and fools,\nPluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench,\nAnd minister in their steads! to general filths\nConvert o' the instant, green virginity,\nDo 't in your parents' eyes! bankrupts, hold fast;\nRather than render back, out with your knives,\nAnd cut your trusters' throats! bound servants, steal!\nLarge-handed robbers your grave masters are,\nAnd pill by law. Maid, to thy master's bed;\nThy mistress is o' the brothel! Son of sixteen,\npluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire,\nWith it beat out his brains! Piety, and fear,\nReligion to the gods, peace, justice, truth,\nDomestic awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood,\nInstruction, manners, mysteries, and trades,\nDegrees, observances, customs, and laws,\nDecline to your confounding contraries,\nAnd let confusion live! Plagues, incident to men,\nYour potent and infectious fevers heap\nOn Athens, ripe for stroke! Thou cold sciatica,\nCripple our senators, that their limbs may halt\nAs lamely as their manners. Lust and liberty\nCreep in the minds and marrows of our youth,\nThat 'gainst the stream of virtue they may strive,\nAnd drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains,\nSow all the Athenian bosoms; and their crop\nBe general leprosy! Breath infect breath,\nat their society, as their friendship, may\nmerely poison! Nothing I'll bear from thee,\nBut nakedness, thou detestable town!\nTake thou that too, with multiplying bans!\nTimon will to the woods; where he shall find\nThe unkindest beast more kinder than mankind.\nThe gods confound--hear me, you good gods all--\nThe Athenians both within and out that wall!\nAnd grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow\nTo the whole race of mankind, high and low! Amen.


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Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you?\nLet me be recorded by the righteous gods,\nI am as poor as you.


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Such a house broke!\nSo noble a master fall'n! All gone! and not\nOne friend to take his fortune by the arm,\nAnd go along with him!


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As we do turn our backs\nFrom our companion thrown into his grave,\nSo his familiars to his buried fortunes\nSlink all away, leave their false vows with him,\nLike empty purses pick'd; and his poor self,\nA dedicated beggar to the air,\nWith his disease of all-shunn'd poverty,\nWalks, like contempt, alone. More of our fellows.


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Yet do our hearts wear Timon's livery;\nThat see I by our faces; we are fellows still,\nServing alike in sorrow: leak'd is our bark,\nAnd we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck,\nHearing the surges threat: we must all part\nInto this sea of air.


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Good fellows all,\nThe latest of my wealth I'll share amongst you.\nWherever we shall meet, for Timon's sake,\nLet's yet be fellows; let's shake our heads, and say,\nAs 'twere a knell unto our master's fortunes,\n'We have seen better days.' Let each take some;\nNay, put out all your hands. Not one word more:\nThus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor.\n[Servants embrace, and part several ways]\nO, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us!\nWho would not wish to be from wealth exempt,\nSince riches point to misery and contempt?\nWho would be so mock'd with glory? or to live\nBut in a dream of friendship?\nTo have his pomp and all what state compounds\nBut only painted, like his varnish'd friends?\nPoor honest lord, brought low by his own heart,\nUndone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood,\nWhen man's worst sin is, he does too much good!\nWho, then, dares to be half so kind again?\nFor bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men.\nMy dearest lord, bless'd, to be most accursed,\nRich, only to be wretched, thy great fortunes\nAre made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord!\nHe's flung in rage from this ingrateful seat\nOf monstrous friends, nor has he with him to\nSupply his life, or that which can command it.\nI'll follow and inquire him out:\nI'll ever serve his mind with my best will;\nWhilst I have gold, I'll be his steward still.


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O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth\nRotten humidity; below thy sister's orb\nInfect the air! Twinn'd brothers of one womb,\nWhose procreation, residence, and birth,\nScarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes;\nThe greater scorns the lesser: not nature,\nTo whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune,\nBut by contempt of nature.\nRaise me this beggar, and deny 't that lord;\nThe senator shall bear contempt hereditary,\nThe beggar native honour.\nIt is the pasture lards the rother's sides,\nThe want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares,\nIn purity of manhood stand upright,\nAnd say 'This man's a flatterer?' if one be,\nSo are they all; for every grise of fortune\nIs smooth'd by that below: the learned pate\nDucks to the golden fool: all is oblique;\nThere's nothing level in our cursed natures,\nBut direct villany. Therefore, be abhorr'd\nAll feasts, societies, and throngs of men!\nHis semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains:\nDestruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots!\n[Digging]\nWho seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate\nWith thy most operant poison! What is here?\nGold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods,\nI am no idle votarist: roots, you clear heavens!\nThus much of this will make black white, foul fair,\nWrong right, base noble, old young, coward valiant.\nHa, you gods! why this? what this, you gods? Why, this\nWill lug your priests and servants from your sides,\nPluck stout men's pillows from below their heads:\nThis yellow slave\nWill knit and break religions, bless the accursed,\nMake the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves\nAnd give them title, knee and approbation\nWith senators on the bench: this is it\nThat makes the wappen'd widow wed again;\nShe, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores\nWould cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices\nTo the April day again. Come, damned earth,\nThou common whore of mankind, that put'st odds\nAmong the route of nations, I will make thee\nDo thy right nature.\n[March afar off]\nHa! a drum? Thou'rt quick,\nBut yet I'll bury thee: thou'lt go, strong thief,\nWhen gouty keepers of thee cannot stand.\nNay, stay thou out for earnest.\n[Keeping some gold]\n[Enter ALCIBIADES, with drum and fife, in]\nwarlike manner; PHRYNIA and TIMANDRA]


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I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.\nFor thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,\nThat I might love thee something.


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I know thee too; and more than that I know thee,\nI not desire to know. Follow thy drum;\nWith man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules:\nReligious canons, civil laws are cruel;\nThen what should war be? This fell whore of thine\nHath in her more destruction than thy sword,\nFor all her cherubim look.


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As the moon does, by wanting light to give:\nBut then renew I could not, like the moon;\nThere were no suns to borrow of.


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Promise me friendship, but perform none: if thou\nwilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for thou art\na man! if thou dost perform, confound thee, for\nthou art a man!


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Be a whore still: they love thee not that use thee;\nGive them diseases, leaving with thee their lust.\nMake use of thy salt hours: season the slaves\nFor tubs and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth\nTo the tub-fast and the diet.


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Pardon him, sweet Timandra; for his wits\nAre drown'd and lost in his calamities.\nI have but little gold of late, brave Timon,\nThe want whereof doth daily make revolt\nIn my penurious band: I have heard, and grieved,\nHow cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth,\nForgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states,\nBut for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them,--


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That, by killing of villains,\nThou wast born to conquer my country.\nPut up thy gold: go on,--here's gold,--go on;\nBe as a planetary plague, when Jove\nWill o'er some high-viced city hang his poison\nIn the sick air: let not thy sword skip one:\nPity not honour'd age for his white beard;\nHe is an usurer: strike me the counterfeit matron;\nIt is her habit only that is honest,\nHerself's a bawd: let not the virgin's cheek\nMake soft thy trenchant sword; for those milk-paps,\nThat through the window-bars bore at men's eyes,\nAre not within the leaf of pity writ,\nBut set them down horrible traitors: spare not the babe,\nWhose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;\nThink it a bastard, whom the oracle\nHath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,\nAnd mince it sans remorse: swear against objects;\nPut armour on thine ears and on thine eyes;\nWhose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,\nNor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,\nShall pierce a jot. There's gold to pay soldiers:\nMake large confusion; and, thy fury spent,\nConfounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone.


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Enough to make a whore forswear her trade,\nAnd to make whores, a bawd. Hold up, you sluts,\nYour aprons mountant: you are not oathable,\nAlthough, I know, you 'll swear, terribly swear\nInto strong shudders and to heavenly agues\nThe immortal gods that hear you,--spare your oaths,\nI'll trust to your conditions: be whores still;\nAnd he whose pious breath seeks to convert you,\nBe strong in whore, allure him, burn him up;\nLet your close fire predominate his smoke,\nAnd be no turncoats: yet may your pains, six months,\nBe quite contrary: and thatch your poor thin roofs\nWith burthens of the dead;--some that were hang'd,\nNo matter:--wear them, betray with them: whore still;\nPaint till a horse may mire upon your face,\nA pox of wrinkles!


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Consumptions sow\nIn hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins,\nAnd mar men's spurring. Crack the lawyer's voice,\nThat he may never more false title plead,\nNor sound his quillets shrilly: hoar the flamen,\nThat scolds against the quality of flesh,\nAnd not believes himself: down with the nose,\nDown with it flat; take the bridge quite away\nOf him that, his particular to foresee,\nSmells from the general weal: make curl'd-pate\nruffians bald;\nAnd let the unscarr'd braggarts of the war\nDerive some pain from you: plague all;\nThat your activity may defeat and quell\nThe source of all erection. There's more gold:\nDo you damn others, and let this damn you,\nAnd ditches grave you all!


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That nature, being sick of man's unkindness,\nShould yet be hungry! Common mother, thou,\n[Digging]\nWhose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,\nTeems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,\nWhereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff'd,\nEngenders the black toad and adder blue,\nThe gilded newt and eyeless venom'd worm,\nWith all the abhorred births below crisp heaven\nWhereon Hyperion's quickening fire doth shine;\nYield him, who all thy human sons doth hate,\nFrom forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root!\nEnsear thy fertile and conceptious womb,\nLet it no more bring out ingrateful man!\nGo great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears;\nTeem with new monsters, whom thy upward face\nHath to the marbled mansion all above\nNever presented!--O, a root,--dear thanks!--\nDry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn leas;\nWhereof ungrateful man, with liquorish draughts\nAnd morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind,\nThat from it all consideration slips!\n[Enter APEMANTUS]\nMore man? plague, plague!


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This is in thee a nature but infected;\nA poor unmanly melancholy sprung\nFrom change of fortune. Why this spade? this place?\nThis slave-like habit? and these looks of care?\nThy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft;\nHug their diseased perfumes, and have forgot\nThat ever Timon was. Shame not these woods,\nBy putting on the cunning of a carper.\nBe thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive\nBy that which has undone thee: hinge thy knee,\nAnd let his very breath, whom thou'lt observe,\nBlow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain,\nAnd call it excellent: thou wast told thus;\nThou gavest thine ears like tapsters that bid welcome\nTo knaves and all approachers: 'tis most just\nThat thou turn rascal; hadst thou wealth again,\nRascals should have 't. Do not assume my likeness.


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Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself;\nA madman so long, now a fool. What, think'st\nThat the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,\nWill put thy shirt on warm? will these moss'd trees,\nThat have outlived the eagle, page thy heels,\nAnd skip where thou point'st out? will the\ncold brook,\nCandied with ice, caudle thy morning taste,\nTo cure thy o'er-night's surfeit? Call the creatures\nWhose naked natures live in an the spite\nOf wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks,\nTo the conflicting elements exposed,\nAnswer mere nature; bid them flatter thee;\nO, thou shalt find--


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If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on\nTo castigate thy pride, 'twere well: but thou\nDost it enforcedly; thou'ldst courtier be again,\nWert thou not beggar. Willing misery\nOutlives encertain pomp, is crown'd before:\nThe one is filling still, never complete;\nThe other, at high wish: best state, contentless,\nHath a distracted and most wretched being,\nWorse than the worst, content.\nThou shouldst desire to die, being miserable.


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Not by his breath that is more miserable.\nThou art a slave, whom Fortune's tender arm\nWith favour never clasp'd; but bred a dog.\nHadst thou, like us from our first swath, proceeded\nThe sweet degrees that this brief world affords\nTo such as may the passive drugs of it\nFreely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself\nIn general riot; melted down thy youth\nIn different beds of lust; and never learn'd\nThe icy precepts of respect, but follow'd\nThe sugar'd game before thee. But myself,\nWho had the world as my confectionary,\nThe mouths, the tongues, the eyes and hearts of men\nAt duty, more than I could frame employment,\nThat numberless upon me stuck as leaves\nDo on the oak, hive with one winter's brush\nFell from their boughs and left me open, bare\nFor every storm that blows: I, to bear this,\nThat never knew but better, is some burden:\nThy nature did commence in sufferance, time\nHath made thee hard in't. Why shouldst thou hate men?\nThey never flatter'd thee: what hast thou given?\nIf thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag,\nMust be thy subject, who in spite put stuff\nTo some she beggar and compounded thee\nPoor rogue hereditary. Hence, be gone!\nIf thou hadst not been born the worst of men,\nThou hadst been a knave and flatterer.


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I, that I am one now:\nWere all the wealth I have shut up in thee,\nI'ld give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone.\nThat the whole life of Athens were in this!\nThus would I eat it.


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The middle of humanity thou never knewest, but the\nextremity of both ends: when thou wast in thy gilt\nand thy perfume, they mocked thee for too much\ncuriosity; in thy rags thou knowest none, but art\ndespised for the contrary. There's a medlar for\nthee, eat it.


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An thou hadst hated meddlers sooner, thou shouldst\nhave loved thyself better now. What man didst thou\never know unthrift that was beloved after his means?


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Women nearest; but men, men are the things\nthemselves. What wouldst thou do with the world,\nApemantus, if it lay in thy power?


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A beastly ambition, which the gods grant thee t'\nattain to! If thou wert the lion, the fox would\nbeguile thee; if thou wert the lamb, the fox would\neat three: if thou wert the fox, the lion would\nsuspect thee, when peradventure thou wert accused by\nthe ass: if thou wert the ass, thy dulness would\ntorment thee, and still thou livedst but as a\nbreakfast to the wolf: if thou wert the wolf, thy\ngreediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst\nhazard thy life for thy dinner: wert thou the\nunicorn, pride and wrath would confound thee and\nmake thine own self the conquest of thy fury: wert\nthou a bear, thou wouldst be killed by the horse:\nwert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by the\nleopard: wert thou a leopard, thou wert german to\nthe lion and the spots of thy kindred were jurors on\nthy life: all thy safety were remotion and thy\ndefence absence. What beast couldst thou be, that\nwere not subject to a beast? and what a beast art\nthou already, that seest not thy loss in\ntransformation!


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If thou couldst please me with speaking to me, thou\nmightst have hit upon it here: the commonwealth of\nAthens is become a forest of beasts.


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Yonder comes a poet and a painter: the plague of\ncompany light upon thee! I will fear to catch it\nand give way: when I know not what else to do, I'll\nsee thee again.


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When there is nothing living but thee, thou shalt be\nwelcome. I had rather be a beggar's dog than Apemantus.


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Rogue, rogue, rogue!\nI am sick of this false world, and will love nought\nBut even the mere necessities upon 't.\nThen, Timon, presently prepare thy grave;\nLie where the light foam the sea may beat\nThy grave-stone daily: make thine epitaph,\nThat death in me at others' lives may laugh.\n[To the gold]\nO thou sweet king-killer, and dear divorce\n'Twixt natural son and sire! thou bright defiler\nOf Hymen's purest bed! thou valiant Mars!\nThou ever young, fresh, loved and delicate wooer,\nWhose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow\nThat lies on Dian's lap! thou visible god,\nThat solder'st close impossibilities,\nAnd makest them kiss! that speak'st with\nevery tongue,\nTo every purpose! O thou touch of hearts!\nThink, thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue\nSet them into confounding odds, that beasts\nMay have the world in empire!


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Long live so, and so die.\n[Exit APEMANTUS]\nI am quit.\nMoe things like men! Eat, Timon, and abhor them.


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Where should he have this gold? It is some poor\nfragment, some slender sort of his remainder: the\nmere want of gold, and the falling-from of his\nfriends, drove him into this melancholy.


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Let us make the assay upon him: if he care not\nfor't, he will supply us easily; if he covetously\nreserve it, how shall's get it?


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Your greatest want is, you want much of meat.\nWhy should you want? Behold, the earth hath roots;\nWithin this mile break forth a hundred springs;\nThe oaks bear mast, the briers scarlet hips;\nThe bounteous housewife, nature, on each bush\nLays her full mess before you. Want! why want?


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Nor on the beasts themselves, the birds, and fishes;\nYou must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con\nThat you are thieves profess'd, that you work not\nIn holier shapes: for there is boundless theft\nIn limited professions. Rascal thieves,\nHere's gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o' the grape,\nTill the high fever seethe your blood to froth,\nAnd so 'scape hanging: trust not the physician;\nHis antidotes are poison, and he slays\nMoe than you rob: take wealth and lives together;\nDo villany, do, since you protest to do't,\nLike workmen. I'll example you with thievery.\nThe sun's a thief, and with his great attraction\nRobs the vast sea: the moon's an arrant thief,\nAnd her pale fire she snatches from the sun:\nThe sea's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves\nThe moon into salt tears: the earth's a thief,\nThat feeds and breeds by a composture stolen\nFrom general excrement: each thing's a thief:\nThe laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power\nHave uncheque'd theft. Love not yourselves: away,\nRob one another. There's more gold. Cut throats:\nAll that you meet are thieves: to Athens go,\nBreak open shops; nothing can you steal,\nBut thieves do lose it: steal no less for this\nI give you; and gold confound you howsoe'er! Amen.


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O you gods!\nIs yond despised and ruinous man my lord?\nFull of decay and failing? O monument\nAnd wonder of good deeds evilly bestow'd!\nWhat an alteration of honour\nHas desperate want made!\nWhat viler thing upon the earth than friends\nWho can bring noblest minds to basest ends!\nHow rarely does it meet with this time's guise,\nWhen man was wish'd to love his enemies!\nGrant I may ever love, and rather woo\nThose that would mischief me than those that do!\nHas caught me in his eye: I will present\nMy honest grief unto him; and, as my lord,\nStill serve him with my life. My dearest master!


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Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men;\nThen, if thou grant'st thou'rt a man, I have forgot thee.


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Then I know thee not:\nI never had honest man about me, I; all\nI kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains.


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The gods are witness,\nNe'er did poor steward wear a truer grief\nFor his undone lord than mine eyes for you.


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What, dost thou weep? Come nearer. Then I\nlove thee,\nBecause thou art a woman, and disclaim'st\nFlinty mankind; whose eyes do never give\nBut thorough lust and laughter. Pity's sleeping:\nStrange times, that weep with laughing, not with weeping!


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I beg of you to know me, good my lord,\nTo accept my grief and whilst this poor wealth lasts\nTo entertain me as your steward still.


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Had I a steward\nSo true, so just, and now so comfortable?\nIt almost turns my dangerous nature mild.\nLet me behold thy face. Surely, this man\nWas born of woman.\nForgive my general and exceptless rashness,\nYou perpetual-sober gods! I do proclaim\nOne honest man--mistake me not--but one;\nNo more, I pray,--and he's a steward.\nHow fain would I have hated all mankind!\nAnd thou redeem'st thyself: but all, save thee,\nI fell with curses.\nMethinks thou art more honest now than wise;\nFor, by oppressing and betraying me,\nThou mightst have sooner got another service:\nFor many so arrive at second masters,\nUpon their first lord's neck. But tell me true--\nFor I must ever doubt, though ne'er so sure--\nIs not thy kindness subtle, covetous,\nIf not a usuring kindness, and, as rich men deal gifts,\nExpecting in return twenty for one?


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No, my most worthy master; in whose breast\nDoubt and suspect, alas, are placed too late:\nYou should have fear'd false times when you did feast:\nSuspect still comes where an estate is least.\nThat which I show, heaven knows, is merely love,\nDuty and zeal to your unmatched mind,\nCare of your food and living; and, believe it,\nMy most honour'd lord,\nFor any benefit that points to me,\nEither in hope or present, I'ld exchange\nFor this one wish, that you had power and wealth\nTo requite me, by making rich yourself.


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Look thee, 'tis so! Thou singly honest man,\nHere, take: the gods out of my misery\nHave sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy;\nBut thus condition'd: thou shalt build from men;\nHate all, curse all, show charity to none,\nBut let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone,\nEre thou relieve the beggar; give to dogs\nWhat thou deny'st to men; let prisons swallow 'em,\nDebts wither 'em to nothing; be men like\nblasted woods,\nAnd may diseases lick up their false bloods!\nAnd so farewell and thrive.


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If thou hatest curses,\nStay not; fly, whilst thou art blest and free:\nNe'er see thou man, and let me ne'er see thee.


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[Exit FLAVIUS. TIMON retires to his cave]\n[Enter Poet and Painter; TIMON watching]\nthem from his cave]


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Certain: Alcibiades reports it; Phrynia and\nTimandra had gold of him: he likewise enriched poor\nstraggling soldiers with great quantity: 'tis said\nhe gave unto his steward a mighty sum.


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Nothing else: you shall see him a palm in Athens\nagain, and flourish with the highest. Therefore\n'tis not amiss we tender our loves to him, in this\nsupposed distress of his: it will show honestly in\nus; and is very likely to load our purposes with\nwhat they travail for, if it be a just true report\nthat goes of his having.


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Good as the best. Promising is the very air o' the\ntime: it opens the eyes of expectation:\nperformance is ever the duller for his act; and,\nbut in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the\ndeed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is\nmost courtly and fashionable: performance is a kind\nof will or testament which argues a great sickness\nin his judgment that makes it.


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I am thinking what I shall say I have provided for\nhim: it must be a personating of himself; a satire\nagainst the softness of prosperity, with a discovery\nof the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency.


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[Aside] Must thou needs stand for a villain in\nthine own work? wilt thou whip thine own faults in\nother men? Do so, I have gold for thee.


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Nay, let's seek him:\nThen do we sin against our own estate,\nWhen we may profit meet, and come too late.


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True;\nWhen the day serves, before black-corner'd night,\nFind what thou want'st by free and offer'd light. Come.


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[Aside] I'll meet you at the turn. What a\ngod's gold,\nThat he is worshipp'd in a baser temple\nThan where swine feed!\n'Tis thou that rigg'st the bark and plough'st the foam,\nSettlest admired reverence in a slave:\nTo thee be worship! and thy saints for aye\nBe crown'd with plagues that thee alone obey!\nFit I meet them.


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Sir,\nHaving often of your open bounty tasted,\nHearing you were retired, your friends fall'n off,\nWhose thankless natures--O abhorred spirits!--\nNot all the whips of heaven are large enough:\nWhat! to you,\nWhose star-like nobleness gave life and influence\nTo their whole being! I am rapt and cannot cover\nThe monstrous bulk of this ingratitude\nWith any size of words.


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Let it go naked, men may see't the better:\nYou that are honest, by being what you are,\nMake them best seen and known.


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Good honest men! Thou draw'st a counterfeit\nBest in all Athens: thou'rt, indeed, the best;\nThou counterfeit'st most lively.


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E'en so, sir, as I say. And, for thy fiction,\nWhy, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth\nThat thou art even natural in thine art.\nBut, for all this, my honest-natured friends,\nI must needs say you have a little fault:\nMarry, 'tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I\nYou take much pains to mend.


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Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble,\nKnow his gross patchery, love him, feed him,\nKeep in your bosom: yet remain assured\nThat he's a made-up villain.


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Look you, I love you well; I'll give you gold,\nRid me these villains from your companies:\nHang them or stab them, drown them in a draught,\nConfound them by some course, and come to me,\nI'll give you gold enough.


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You that way and you this, but two in company;\nEach man apart, all single and alone,\nYet an arch-villain keeps him company.\nIf where thou art two villains shall not be,\nCome not near him. If thou wouldst not reside\nBut where one villain is, then him abandon.\nHence, pack! there's gold; you came for gold, ye slaves:\n[To Painter]\nYou have work'd for me; there's payment for you: hence!\n[To Poet]\nYou are an alchemist; make gold of that.\nOut, rascal dogs!


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It is in vain that you would speak with Timon;\nFor he is set so only to himself\nThat nothing but himself which looks like man\nIs friendly with him.


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At all times alike\nMen are not still the same: 'twas time and griefs\nThat framed him thus: time, with his fairer hand,\nOffering the fortunes of his former days,\nThe former man may make him. Bring us to him,\nAnd chance it as it may.


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Here is his cave.\nPeace and content be here! Lord Timon! Timon!\nLook out, and speak to friends: the Athenians,\nBy two of their most reverend senate, greet thee:\nSpeak to them, noble Timon.


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Thou sun, that comfort'st, burn! Speak, and\nbe hang'd:\nFor each true word, a blister! and each false\nBe as cauterizing to the root o' the tongue,\nConsuming it with speaking!


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O, forget\nWhat we are sorry for ourselves in thee.\nThe senators with one consent of love\nEntreat thee back to Athens; who have thought\nOn special dignities, which vacant lie\nFor thy best use and wearing.


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They confess\nToward thee forgetfulness too general, gross:\nWhich now the public body, which doth seldom\nPlay the recanter, feeling in itself\nA lack of Timon's aid, hath sense withal\nOf its own fail, restraining aid to Timon;\nAnd send forth us, to make their sorrow'd render,\nTogether with a recompense more fruitful\nThan their offence can weigh down by the dram;\nAy, even such heaps and sums of love and wealth\nAs shall to thee blot out what wrongs were theirs\nAnd write in thee the figures of their love,\nEver to read them thine.


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You witch me in it;\nSurprise me to the very brink of tears:\nLend me a fool's heart and a woman's eyes,\nAnd I'll beweep these comforts, worthy senators.


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Therefore, so please thee to return with us\nAnd of our Athens, thine and ours, to take\nThe captainship, thou shalt be met with thanks,\nAllow'd with absolute power and thy good name\nLive with authority: so soon we shall drive back\nOf Alcibiades the approaches wild,\nWho, like a boar too savage, doth root up\nHis country's peace.


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Well, sir, I will; therefore, I will, sir; thus:\nIf Alcibiades kill my countrymen,\nLet Alcibiades know this of Timon,\nThat Timon cares not. But if be sack fair Athens,\nAnd take our goodly aged men by the beards,\nGiving our holy virgins to the stain\nOf contumelious, beastly, mad-brain'd war,\nThen let him know, and tell him Timon speaks it,\nIn pity of our aged and our youth,\nI cannot choose but tell him, that I care not,\nAnd let him take't at worst; for their knives care not,\nWhile you have throats to answer: for myself,\nThere's not a whittle in the unruly camp\nBut I do prize it at my love before\nThe reverend'st throat in Athens. So I leave you\nTo the protection of the prosperous gods,\nAs thieves to keepers.


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Why, I was writing of my epitaph;\nit will be seen to-morrow: my long sickness\nOf health and living now begins to mend,\nAnd nothing brings me all things. Go, live still;\nBe Alcibiades your plague, you his,\nAnd last so long enough!


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But yet I love my country, and am not\nOne that rejoices in the common wreck,\nAs common bruit doth put it.


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Commend me to them,\nAnd tell them that, to ease them of their griefs,\nTheir fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses,\nTheir pangs of love, with other incident throes\nThat nature's fragile vessel doth sustain\nIn life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them:\nI'll teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades' wrath.


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I have a tree, which grows here in my close,\nThat mine own use invites me to cut down,\nAnd shortly must I fell it: tell my friends,\nTell Athens, in the sequence of degree\nFrom high to low throughout, that whoso please\nTo stop affliction, let him take his haste,\nCome hither, ere my tree hath felt the axe,\nAnd hang himself. I pray you, do my greeting.


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Come not to me again: but say to Athens,\nTimon hath made his everlasting mansion\nUpon the beached verge of the salt flood;\nWho once a day with his embossed froth\nThe turbulent surge shall cover: thither come,\nAnd let my grave-stone be your oracle.\nLips, let sour words go by and language end:\nWhat is amiss plague and infection mend!\nGraves only be men's works and death their gain!\nSun, hide thy beams! Timon hath done his reign.


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Our hope in him is dead: let us return,\nAnd strain what other means is left unto us\nIn our dear peril.


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I met a courier, one mine ancient friend;\nWhom, though in general part we were opposed,\nYet our old love made a particular force,\nAnd made us speak like friends: this man was riding\nFrom Alcibiades to Timon's cave,\nWith letters of entreaty, which imported\nHis fellowship i' the cause against your city,\nIn part for his sake moved.


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No talk of Timon, nothing of him expect.\nThe enemies' drum is heard, and fearful scouring\nDoth choke the air with dust: in, and prepare:\nOurs is the fall, I fear; our foes the snare.


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By all description this should be the place.\nWho's here? speak, ho! No answer! What is this?\nTimon is dead, who hath outstretch'd his span:\nSome beast rear'd this; there does not live a man.\nDead, sure; and this his grave. What's on this tomb\nI cannot read; the character I'll take with wax:\nOur captain hath in every figure skill,\nAn aged interpreter, though young in days:\nBefore proud Athens he's set down by this,\nWhose fall the mark of his ambition is.


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Sound to this coward and lascivious town\nOur terrible approach.\n[A parley sounded]\n[Enter Senators on the walls]\nTill now you have gone on and fill'd the time\nWith all licentious measure, making your wills\nThe scope of justice; till now myself and such\nAs slept within the shadow of your power\nHave wander'd with our traversed arms and breathed\nOur sufferance vainly: now the time is flush,\nWhen crouching marrow in the bearer strong\nCries of itself 'No more:' now breathless wrong\nShall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease,\nAnd pursy insolence shall break his wind\nWith fear and horrid flight.


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Noble and young,\nWhen thy first griefs were but a mere conceit,\nEre thou hadst power or we had cause of fear,\nWe sent to thee, to give thy rages balm,\nTo wipe out our ingratitude with loves\nAbove their quantity.


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So did we woo\nTransformed Timon to our city's love\nBy humble message and by promised means:\nWe were not all unkind, nor all deserve\nThe common stroke of war.


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These walls of ours\nWere not erected by their hands from whom\nYou have received your griefs; nor are they such\nThat these great towers, trophies and schools\nshould fall\nFor private faults in them.


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Nor are they living\nWho were the motives that you first went out;\nShame that they wanted cunning, in excess\nHath broke their hearts. March, noble lord,\nInto our city with thy banners spread:\nBy decimation, and a tithed death--\nIf thy revenges hunger for that food\nWhich nature loathes--take thou the destined tenth,\nAnd by the hazard of the spotted die\nLet die the spotted.


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All have not offended;\nFor those that were, it is not square to take\nOn those that are, revenges: crimes, like lands,\nAre not inherited. Then, dear countryman,\nBring in thy ranks, but leave without thy rage:\nSpare thy Athenian cradle and those kin\nWhich in the bluster of thy wrath must fall\nWith those that have offended: like a shepherd,\nApproach the fold and cull the infected forth,\nBut kill not all together.


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Set but thy foot\nAgainst our rampired gates, and they shall ope;\nSo thou wilt send thy gentle heart before,\nTo say thou'lt enter friendly.


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Throw thy glove,\nOr any token of thine honour else,\nThat thou wilt use the wars as thy redress\nAnd not as our confusion, all thy powers\nShall make their harbour in our town, till we\nHave seal'd thy full desire.


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Then there's my glove;\nDescend, and open your uncharged ports:\nThose enemies of Timon's and mine own\nWhom you yourselves shall set out for reproof\nFall and no more: and, to atone your fears\nWith my more noble meaning, not a man\nShall pass his quarter, or offend the stream\nOf regular justice in your city's bounds,\nBut shall be render'd to your public laws\nAt heaviest answer.


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My noble general, Timon is dead;\nEntomb'd upon the very hem o' the sea;\nAnd on his grave-stone this insculpture, which\nWith wax I brought away, whose soft impression\nInterprets for my poor ignorance.


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[Reads the epitaph] 'Here lies a\nwretched corse, of wretched soul bereft:\nSeek not my name: a plague consume you wicked\ncaitiffs left!\nHere lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men did hate:\nPass by and curse thy fill, but pass and stay\nnot here thy gait.'\nThese well express in thee thy latter spirits:\nThough thou abhorr'dst in us our human griefs,\nScorn'dst our brain's flow and those our\ndroplets which\nFrom niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit\nTaught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye\nOn thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead\nIs noble Timon: of whose memory\nHereafter more. Bring me into your city,\nAnd I will use the olive with my sword,\nMake war breed peace, make peace stint war, make each\nPrescribe to other as each other's leech.\nLet our drums strike.


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Noble patricians, patrons of my right,\nDefend the justice of my cause with arms,\nAnd, countrymen, my loving followers,\nPlead my successive title with your swords:\nI am his first-born son, that was the last\nThat wore the imperial diadem of Rome;\nThen let my father's honours live in me,\nNor wrong mine age with this indignity.


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Romans, friends, followers, favorers of my right,\nIf ever Bassianus, Caesar's son,\nWere gracious in the eyes of royal Rome,\nKeep then this passage to the Capitol\nAnd suffer not dishonour to approach\nThe imperial seat, to virtue consecrate,\nTo justice, continence and nobility;\nBut let desert in pure election shine,\nAnd, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice.


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Princes, that strive by factions and by friends\nAmbitiously for rule and empery,\nKnow that the people of Rome, for whom we stand\nA special party, have, by common voice,\nIn election for the Roman empery,\nChosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius\nFor many good and great deserts to Rome:\nA nobler man, a braver warrior,\nLives not this day within the city walls:\nHe by the senate is accit'd home\nFrom weary wars against the barbarous Goths;\nThat, with his sons, a terror to our foes,\nHath yoked a nation strong, train'd up in arms.\nTen years are spent since first he undertook\nThis cause of Rome and chastised with arms\nOur enemies' pride: five times he hath return'd\nBleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons\nIn coffins from the field;\nAnd now at last, laden with horror's spoils,\nReturns the good Andronicus to Rome,\nRenowned Titus, flourishing in arms.\nLet us entreat, by honour of his name,\nWhom worthily you would have now succeed.\nAnd in the Capitol and senate's right,\nWhom you pretend to honour and adore,\nThat you withdraw you and abate your strength;\nDismiss your followers and, as suitors should,\nPlead your deserts in peace and humbleness.


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Marcus Andronicus, so I do ally\nIn thy uprightness and integrity,\nAnd so I love and honour thee and thine,\nThy noble brother Titus and his sons,\nAnd her to whom my thoughts are humbled all,\nGracious Lavinia, Rome's rich ornament,\nThat I will here dismiss my loving friends,\nAnd to my fortunes and the people's favor\nCommit my cause in balance to be weigh'd.


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Friends, that have been thus forward in my right,\nI thank you all and here dismiss you all,\nAnd to the love and favor of my country\nCommit myself, my person and the cause.\n[Exeunt the followers of SATURNINUS]\nRome, be as just and gracious unto me\nAs I am confident and kind to thee.\nOpen the gates, and let me in.


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Romans, make way: the good Andronicus.\nPatron of virtue, Rome's best champion,\nSuccessful in the battles that he fights,\nWith honour and with fortune is return'd\nFrom where he circumscribed with his sword,\nAnd brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome.\n[Drums and trumpets sounded. Enter MARTIUS and]\nMUTIUS; After them, two Men bearing a coffin\ncovered with black; then LUCIUS and QUINTUS. After\nthem, TITUS ANDRONICUS; and then TAMORA, with\nALARBUS, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, AARON, and other Goths,\nprisoners; Soldiers and people following. The\nBearers set down the coffin, and TITUS speaks]


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Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds!\nLo, as the bark, that hath discharged her fraught,\nReturns with precious jading to the bay\nFrom whence at first she weigh'd her anchorage,\nCometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs,\nTo re-salute his country with his tears,\nTears of true joy for his return to Rome.\nThou great defender of this Capitol,\nStand gracious to the rites that we intend!\nRomans, of five and twenty valiant sons,\nHalf of the number that King Priam had,\nBehold the poor remains, alive and dead!\nThese that survive let Rome reward with love;\nThese that I bring unto their latest home,\nWith burial amongst their ancestors:\nHere Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword.\nTitus, unkind and careless of thine own,\nWhy suffer'st thou thy sons, unburied yet,\nTo hover on the dreadful shore of Styx?\nMake way to lay them by their brethren.\n[The tomb is opened]\nThere greet in silence, as the dead are wont,\nAnd sleep in peace, slain in your country's wars!\nO sacred receptacle of my joys,\nSweet cell of virtue and nobility,\nHow many sons of mine hast thou in store,\nThat thou wilt never render to me more!


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Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths,\nThat we may hew his limbs, and on a pile\nAd manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh,\nBefore this earthy prison of their bones;\nThat so the shadows be not unappeased,\nNor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth.


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Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious conqueror,\nVictorious Titus, rue the tears I shed,\nA mother's tears in passion for her son:\nAnd if thy sons were ever dear to thee,\nO, think my son to be as dear to me!\nSufficeth not that we are brought to Rome,\nTo beautify thy triumphs and return,\nCaptive to thee and to thy Roman yoke,\nBut must my sons be slaughter'd in the streets,\nFor valiant doings in their country's cause?\nO, if to fight for king and commonweal\nWere piety in thine, it is in these.\nAndronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood:\nWilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?\nDraw near them then in being merciful:\nSweet mercy is nobility's true badge:\nThrice noble Titus, spare my first-born son.


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Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.\nThese are their brethren, whom you Goths beheld\nAlive and dead, and for their brethren slain\nReligiously they ask a sacrifice:\nTo this your son is mark'd, and die he must,\nTo appease their groaning shadows that are gone.


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Away with him! and make a fire straight;\nAnd with our swords, upon a pile of wood,\nLet's hew his limbs till they be clean consumed.


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Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome.\nAlarbus goes to rest; and we survive\nTo tremble under Titus' threatening looks.\nThen, madam, stand resolved, but hope withal\nThe self-same gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy\nWith opportunity of sharp revenge\nUpon the Thracian tyrant in his tent,\nMay favor Tamora, the Queen of Goths--\nWhen Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen--\nTo quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.\n[Re-enter LUCIUS, QUINTUS, MARTIUS and MUTIUS, with]\ntheir swords bloody]


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See, lord and father, how we have perform'd\nOur Roman rites: Alarbus' limbs are lopp'd,\nAnd entrails feed the sacrificing fire,\nWhose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky.\nRemaineth nought, but to inter our brethren,\nAnd with loud 'larums welcome them to Rome.


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Let it be so; and let Andronicus\nMake this his latest farewell to their souls.\n[Trumpets sounded, and the coffin laid in the tomb]\nIn peace and honour rest you here, my sons;\nRome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest,\nSecure from worldly chances and mishaps!\nHere lurks no treason, here no envy swells,\nHere grow no damned grudges; here are no storms,\nNo noise, but silence and eternal sleep:\nIn peace and honour rest you here, my sons!


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In peace and honour live Lord Titus long;\nMy noble lord and father, live in fame!\nLo, at this tomb my tributary tears\nI render, for my brethren's obsequies;\nAnd at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy,\nShed on the earth, for thy return to Rome:\nO, bless me here with thy victorious hand,\nWhose fortunes Rome's best citizens applaud!


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Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserved\nThe cordial of mine age to glad my heart!\nLavinia, live; outlive thy father's days,\nAnd fame's eternal date, for virtue's praise!\n[Enter, below, MARCUS ANDRONICUS and Tribunes;]\nre-enter SATURNINUS and BASSIANUS, attended]


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And welcome, nephews, from successful wars,\nYou that survive, and you that sleep in fame!\nFair lords, your fortunes are alike in all,\nThat in your country's service drew your swords:\nBut safer triumph is this funeral pomp,\nThat hath aspired to Solon's happiness\nAnd triumphs over chance in honour's bed.\nTitus Andronicus, the people of Rome,\nWhose friend in justice thou hast ever been,\nSend thee by me, their tribune and their trust,\nThis palliament of white and spotless hue;\nAnd name thee in election for the empire,\nWith these our late-deceased emperor's sons:\nBe candidatus then, and put it on,\nAnd help to set a head on headless Rome.


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A better head her glorious body fits\nThan his that shakes for age and feebleness:\nWhat should I don this robe, and trouble you?\nBe chosen with proclamations to-day,\nTo-morrow yield up rule, resign my life,\nAnd set abroad new business for you all?\nRome, I have been thy soldier forty years,\nAnd led my country's strength successfully,\nAnd buried one and twenty valiant sons,\nKnighted in field, slain manfully in arms,\nIn right and service of their noble country\nGive me a staff of honour for mine age,\nBut not a sceptre to control the world:\nUpright he held it, lords, that held it last.


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Romans, do me right:\nPatricians, draw your swords: and sheathe them not\nTill Saturninus be Rome's emperor.\nAndronicus, would thou wert shipp'd to hell,\nRather than rob me of the people's hearts!


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Andronicus, I do not flatter thee,\nBut honour thee, and will do till I die:\nMy faction if thou strengthen with thy friends,\nI will most thankful be; and thanks to men\nOf noble minds is honourable meed.


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People of Rome, and people's tribunes here,\nI ask your voices and your suffrages:\nWill you bestow them friendly on Andronicus?


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To gratify the good Andronicus,\nAnd gratulate his safe return to Rome,\nThe people will accept whom he admits.


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Tribunes, I thank you: and this suit I make,\nThat you create your emperor's eldest son,\nLord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope,\nReflect on Rome as Titan's rays on earth,\nAnd ripen justice in this commonweal:\nThen, if you will elect by my advice,\nCrown him and say 'Long live our emperor!'


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With voices and applause of every sort,\nPatricians and plebeians, we create\nLord Saturninus Rome's great emperor,\nAnd say 'Long live our Emperor Saturnine!'


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Titus Andronicus, for thy favors done\nTo us in our election this day,\nI give thee thanks in part of thy deserts,\nAnd will with deeds requite thy gentleness:\nAnd, for an onset, Titus, to advance\nThy name and honourable family,\nLavinia will I make my empress,\nRome's royal mistress, mistress of my heart,\nAnd in the sacred Pantheon her espouse:\nTell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee?


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It doth, my worthy lord; and in this match\nI hold me highly honour'd of your grace:\nAnd here in sight of Rome to Saturnine,\nKing and commander of our commonweal,\nThe wide world's emperor, do I consecrate\nMy sword, my chariot and my prisoners;\nPresents well worthy Rome's imperial lord:\nReceive them then, the tribute that I owe,\nMine honour's ensigns humbled at thy feet.


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Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life!\nHow proud I am of thee and of thy gifts\nRome shall record, and when I do forget\nThe least of these unspeakable deserts,\nRomans, forget your fealty to me.


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[To TAMORA] Now, madam, are you prisoner to\nan emperor;\nTo him that, for your honour and your state,\nWill use you nobly and your followers.


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A goodly lady, trust me; of the hue\nThat I would choose, were I to choose anew.\nClear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance:\nThough chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer,\nThou comest not to be made a scorn in Rome:\nPrincely shall be thy usage every way.\nRest on my word, and let not discontent\nDaunt all your hopes: madam, he comforts you\nCan make you greater than the Queen of Goths.\nLavinia, you are not displeased with this?


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Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go;\nRansomless here we set our prisoners free:\nProclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum.


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Help, Lucius, help!\n[Dies]\n[During the fray, SATURNINUS, TAMORA, DEMETRIUS,]\nCHIRON and AARON go out and re-enter, above]


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Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine;\nMy sons would never so dishonour me:\nTraitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor.


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No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not,\nNor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock:\nI'll trust, by leisure, him that mocks me once;\nThee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons,\nConfederates all thus to dishonour me.\nWas there none else in Rome to make a stale,\nBut Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus,\nAgree these deeds with that proud brag of thine,\nThat said'st I begg'd the empire at thy hands.


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But go thy ways; go, give that changing piece\nTo him that flourish'd for her with his sword\nA valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy;\nOne fit to bandy with thy lawless sons,\nTo ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome.


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And therefore, lovely Tamora, queen of Goths,\nThat like the stately Phoebe 'mongst her nymphs\nDost overshine the gallant'st dames of Rome,\nIf thou be pleased with this my sudden choice,\nBehold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride,\nAnd will create thee empress of Rome,\nSpeak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice?\nAnd here I swear by all the Roman gods,\nSith priest and holy water are so near\nAnd tapers burn so bright and every thing\nIn readiness for Hymenaeus stand,\nI will not re-salute the streets of Rome,\nOr climb my palace, till from forth this place\nI lead espoused my bride along with me.


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And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome I swear,\nIf Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths,\nShe will a handmaid be to his desires,\nA loving nurse, a mother to his youth.


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Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. Lords, accompany\nYour noble emperor and his lovely bride,\nSent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine,\nWhose wisdom hath her fortune conquered:\nThere shall we consummate our spousal rites.


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I am not bid to wait upon this bride.\nTitus, when wert thou wont to walk alone,\nDishonour'd thus, and challenged of wrongs?


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No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine,\nNor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed\nThat hath dishonour'd all our family;\nUnworthy brother, and unworthy sons!


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Traitors, away! he rests not in this tomb:\nThis monument five hundred years hath stood,\nWhich I have sumptuously re-edified:\nHere none but soldiers and Rome's servitors\nRepose in fame; none basely slain in brawls:\nBury him where you can; he comes not here.


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My lord, this is impiety in you:\nMy nephew Mutius' deeds do plead for him\nHe must be buried with his brethren.


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Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest,\nAnd, with these boys, mine honour thou hast wounded:\nMy foes I do repute you every one;\nSo, trouble me no more, but get you gone.


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Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter\nHis noble nephew here in virtue's nest,\nThat died in honour and Lavinia's cause.\nThou art a Roman; be not barbarous:\nThe Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax\nThat slew himself; and wise Laertes' son\nDid graciously plead for his funerals:\nLet not young Mutius, then, that was thy joy\nBe barr'd his entrance here.


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Rise, Marcus, rise.\nThe dismall'st day is this that e'er I saw,\nTo be dishonour'd by my sons in Rome!\nWell, bury him, and bury me the next.


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My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps,\nHow comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths\nIs of a sudden thus advanced in Rome?


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I know not, Marcus; but I know it is,\nWhether by device or no, the heavens can tell:\nIs she not then beholding to the man\nThat brought her for this high good turn so far?\nYes, and will nobly him remunerate.\n[Flourish. Re-enter, from one side, SATURNINUS]\nattended, TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON and AARON; from\nthe other, BASSIANUS, LAVINIA, and others]


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Rape, call you it, my lord, to seize my own,\nMy truth-betrothed love and now my wife?\nBut let the laws of Rome determine all;\nMeanwhile I am possess'd of that is mine.


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My lord, what I have done, as best I may,\nAnswer I must and shall do with my life.\nOnly thus much I give your grace to know:\nBy all the duties that I owe to Rome,\nThis noble gentleman, Lord Titus here,\nIs in opinion and in honour wrong'd;\nThat in the rescue of Lavinia\nWith his own hand did slay his youngest son,\nIn zeal to you and highly moved to wrath\nTo be controll'd in that he frankly gave:\nReceive him, then, to favor, Saturnine,\nThat hath express'd himself in all his deeds\nA father and a friend to thee and Rome.


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Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds:\n'Tis thou and those that have dishonour'd me.\nRome and the righteous heavens be my judge,\nHow I have loved and honour'd Saturnine!


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My worthy lord, if ever Tamora\nWere gracious in those princely eyes of thine,\nThen hear me speak in indifferently for all;\nAnd at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past.


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Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend\nI should be author to dishonour you!\nBut on mine honour dare I undertake\nFor good Lord Titus' innocence in all;\nWhose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs:\nThen, at my suit, look graciously on him;\nLose not so noble a friend on vain suppose,\nNor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart.\n[Aside to SATURNINUS] My lord, be ruled by me,]\nbe won at last;\nDissemble all your griefs and discontents:\nYou are but newly planted in your throne;\nLest, then, the people, and patricians too,\nUpon a just survey, take Titus' part,\nAnd so supplant you for ingratitude,\nWhich Rome reputes to be a heinous sin,\nYield at entreats; and then let me alone:\nI'll find a day to massacre them all\nAnd raze their faction and their family,\nThe cruel father and his traitorous sons,\nTo whom I sued for my dear son's life,\nAnd make them know what 'tis to let a queen\nKneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain.\n[Aloud]\nCome, come, sweet emperor; come, Andronicus;\nTake up this good old man, and cheer the heart\nThat dies in tempest of thy angry frown.


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Titus, I am incorporate in Rome,\nA Roman now adopted happily,\nAnd must advise the emperor for his good.\nThis day all quarrels die, Andronicus;\nAnd let it be mine honour, good my lord,\nThat I have reconciled your friends and you.\nFor you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass'd\nMy word and promise to the emperor,\nThat you will be more mild and tractable.\nAnd fear not lords, and you, Lavinia;\nBy my advice, all humbled on your knees,\nYou shall ask pardon of his majesty.


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We do, and vow to heaven and to his highness,\nThat what we did was mildly as we might,\nTendering our sister's honour and our own.


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Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends:\nThe tribune and his nephews kneel for grace;\nI will not be denied: sweet heart, look back.


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Marcus, for thy sake and thy brother's here,\nAnd at my lovely Tamora's entreats,\nI do remit these young men's heinous faults: Stand up.\nLavinia, though you left me like a churl,\nI found a friend, and sure as death I swore\nI would not part a bachelor from the priest.\nCome, if the emperor's court can feast two brides,\nYou are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends.\nThis day shall be a love-day, Tamora.


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To-morrow, an it please your majesty\nTo hunt the panther and the hart with me,\nWith horn and hound we'll give your grace bonjour.


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Now climbeth Tamora Olympus' top,\nSafe out of fortune's shot; and sits aloft,\nSecure of thunder's crack or lightning flash;\nAdvanced above pale envy's threatening reach.\nAs when the golden sun salutes the morn,\nAnd, having gilt the ocean with his beams,\nGallops the zodiac in his glistering coach,\nAnd overlooks the highest-peering hills;\nSo Tamora:\nUpon her wit doth earthly honour wait,\nAnd virtue stoops and trembles at her frown.\nThen, Aaron, arm thy heart, and fit thy thoughts,\nTo mount aloft with thy imperial mistress,\nAnd mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long\nHast prisoner held, fetter'd in amorous chains\nAnd faster bound to Aaron's charming eyes\nThan is Prometheus tied to Caucasus.\nAway with slavish weeds and servile thoughts!\nI will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold,\nTo wait upon this new-made empress.\nTo wait, said I? to wanton with this queen,\nThis goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph,\nThis siren, that will charm Rome's Saturnine,\nAnd see his shipwreck and his commonweal's.\nHolloa! what storm is this?


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Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge,\nAnd manners, to intrude where I am graced;\nAnd may, for aught thou know'st, affected be.


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Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in all;\nAnd so in this, to bear me down with braves.\n'Tis not the difference of a year or two\nMakes me less gracious or thee more fortunate:\nI am as able and as fit as thou\nTo serve, and to deserve my mistress' grace;\nAnd that my sword upon thee shall approve,\nAnd plead my passions for Lavinia's love.


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Why, boy, although our mother, unadvised,\nGave you a dancing-rapier by your side,\nAre you so desperate grown, to threat your friends?\nGo to; have your lath glued within your sheath\nTill you know better how to handle it.


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[Coming forward] Why, how now, lords!\nSo near the emperor's palace dare you draw,\nAnd maintain such a quarrel openly?\nFull well I wot the ground of all this grudge:\nI would not for a million of gold\nThe cause were known to them it most concerns;\nNor would your noble mother for much more\nBe so dishonour'd in the court of Rome.\nFor shame, put up.


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Not I, till I have sheathed\nMy rapier in his bosom and withal\nThrust these reproachful speeches down his throat\nThat he hath breathed in my dishonour here.


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For that I am prepared and full resolved.\nFoul-spoken coward, that thunder'st with thy tongue,\nAnd with thy weapon nothing darest perform!


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Away, I say!\nNow, by the gods that warlike Goths adore,\nThis petty brabble will undo us all.\nWhy, lords, and think you not how dangerous\nIt is to jet upon a prince's right?\nWhat, is Lavinia then become so loose,\nOr Bassianus so degenerate,\nThat for her love such quarrels may be broach'd\nWithout controlment, justice, or revenge?\nYoung lords, beware! and should the empress know\nThis discord's ground, the music would not please.


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Why, are ye mad? or know ye not, in Rome\nHow furious and impatient they be,\nAnd cannot brook competitors in love?\nI tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths\nBy this device.


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Why makest thou it so strange?\nShe is a woman, therefore may be woo'd;\nShe is a woman, therefore may be won;\nShe is Lavinia, therefore must be loved.\nWhat, man! more water glideth by the mill\nThan wots the miller of; and easy it is\nOf a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know:\nThough Bassianus be the emperor's brother.\nBetter than he have worn Vulcan's badge.


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Then why should he despair that knows to court it\nWith words, fair looks and liberality?\nWhat, hast not thou full often struck a doe,\nAnd borne her cleanly by the keeper's nose?


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Would you had hit it too!\nThen should not we be tired with this ado.\nWhy, hark ye, hark ye! and are you such fools\nTo square for this? would it offend you, then\nThat both should speed?


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For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar:\n'Tis policy and stratagem must do\nThat you affect; and so must you resolve,\nThat what you cannot as you would achieve,\nYou must perforce accomplish as you may.\nTake this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste\nThan this Lavinia, Bassianus' love.\nA speedier course than lingering languishment\nMust we pursue, and I have found the path.\nMy lords, a solemn hunting is in hand;\nThere will the lovely Roman ladies troop:\nThe forest walks are wide and spacious;\nAnd many unfrequented plots there are\nFitted by kind for rape and villany:\nSingle you thither then this dainty doe,\nAnd strike her home by force, if not by words:\nThis way, or not at all, stand you in hope.\nCome, come, our empress, with her sacred wit\nTo villany and vengeance consecrate,\nWill we acquaint with all that we intend;\nAnd she shall file our engines with advice,\nThat will not suffer you to square yourselves,\nBut to your wishes' height advance you both.\nThe emperor's court is like the house of Fame,\nThe palace full of tongues, of eyes, and ears:\nThe woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull;\nThere speak, and strike, brave boys, and take\nyour turns;\nThere serve your lusts, shadow'd from heaven's eye,\nAnd revel in Lavinia's treasury.


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Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream\nTo cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits.\nPer Styga, per manes vehor.


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The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey,\nThe fields are fragrant and the woods are green:\nUncouple here and let us make a bay\nAnd wake the emperor and his lovely bride\nAnd rouse the prince and ring a hunter's peal,\nThat all the court may echo with the noise.\nSons, let it be your charge, as it is ours,\nTo attend the emperor's person carefully:\nI have been troubled in my sleep this night,\nBut dawning day new comfort hath inspired.\n[A cry of hounds and horns, winded in a peal. Enter]\nSATURNINUS, TAMORA, BASSIANUS, LAVINIA, DEMETRIUS,\nCHIRON, and Attendants]\nMany good morrows to your majesty;\nMadam, to you as many and as good:\nI promised your grace a hunter's peal.


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Come on, then; horse and chariots let us have,\nAnd to our sport.\n[To TAMORA]\nMadam, now shall ye see\nOur Roman hunting.


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I have dogs, my lord,\nWill rouse the proudest panther in the chase,\nAnd climb the highest promontory top.


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He that had wit would think that I had none,\nTo bury so much gold under a tree,\nAnd never after to inherit it.\nLet him that thinks of me so abjectly\nKnow that this gold must coin a stratagem,\nWhich, cunningly effected, will beget\nA very excellent piece of villany:\nAnd so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest\n[Hides the gold]\nThat have their alms out of the empress' chest.


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My lovely Aaron, wherefore look'st thou sad,\nWhen every thing doth make a gleeful boast?\nThe birds chant melody on every bush,\nThe snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun,\nThe green leaves quiver with the cooling wind\nAnd make a chequer'd shadow on the ground:\nUnder their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit,\nAnd, whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds,\nReplying shrilly to the well-tuned horns,\nAs if a double hunt were heard at once,\nLet us sit down and mark their yelping noise;\nAnd, after conflict such as was supposed\nThe wandering prince and Dido once enjoy'd,\nWhen with a happy storm they were surprised\nAnd curtain'd with a counsel-keeping cave,\nWe may, each wreathed in the other's arms,\nOur pastimes done, possess a golden slumber;\nWhiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds\nBe unto us as is a nurse's song\nOf lullaby to bring her babe asleep.


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Madam, though Venus govern your desires,\nSaturn is dominator over mine:\nWhat signifies my deadly-standing eye,\nMy silence and my cloudy melancholy,\nMy fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls\nEven as an adder when she doth unroll\nTo do some fatal execution?\nNo, madam, these are no venereal signs:\nVengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,\nBlood and revenge are hammering in my head.\nHark Tamora, the empress of my soul,\nWhich never hopes more heaven than rests in thee,\nThis is the day of doom for Bassianus:\nHis Philomel must lose her tongue to-day,\nThy sons make pillage of her chastity\nAnd wash their hands in Bassianus' blood.\nSeest thou this letter? take it up, I pray thee,\nAnd give the king this fatal plotted scroll.\nNow question me no more; we are espied;\nHere comes a parcel of our hopeful booty,\nWhich dreads not yet their lives' destruction.


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No more, great empress; Bassianus comes:\nBe cross with him; and I'll go fetch thy sons\nTo back thy quarrels, whatsoe'er they be.


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Who have we here? Rome's royal empress,\nUnfurnish'd of her well-beseeming troop?\nOr is it Dian, habited like her,\nWho hath abandoned her holy groves\nTo see the general hunting in this forest?


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Saucy controller of our private steps!\nHad I the power that some say Dian had,\nThy temples should be planted presently\nWith horns, as was Actaeon's; and the hounds\nShould drive upon thy new-transformed limbs,\nUnmannerly intruder as thou art!


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Under your patience, gentle empress,\n'Tis thought you have a goodly gift in horning;\nAnd to be doubted that your Moor and you\nAre singled forth to try experiments:\nJove shield your husband from his hounds to-day!\n'Tis pity they should take him for a stag.


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Believe me, queen, your swarth Cimmerian\nDoth make your honour of his body's hue,\nSpotted, detested, and abominable.\nWhy are you sequester'd from all your train,\nDismounted from your snow-white goodly steed.\nAnd wander'd hither to an obscure plot,\nAccompanied but with a barbarous Moor,\nIf foul desire had not conducted you?


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And, being intercepted in your sport,\nGreat reason that my noble lord be rated\nFor sauciness. I pray you, let us hence,\nAnd let her joy her raven-colour'd love;\nThis valley fits the purpose passing well.


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Have I not reason, think you, to look pale?\nThese two have 'ticed me hither to this place:\nA barren detested vale, you see it is;\nThe trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean,\nO'ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe:\nHere never shines the sun; here nothing breeds,\nUnless the nightly owl or fatal raven:\nAnd when they show'd me this abhorred pit,\nThey told me, here, at dead time of the night,\nA thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes,\nTen thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,\nWould make such fearful and confused cries\nAs any mortal body hearing it\nShould straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.\nNo sooner had they told this hellish tale,\nBut straight they told me they would bind me here\nUnto the body of a dismal yew,\nAnd leave me to this miserable death:\nAnd then they call'd me foul adulteress,\nLascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms\nThat ever ear did hear to such effect:\nAnd, had you not by wondrous fortune come,\nThis vengeance on me had they executed.\nRevenge it, as you love your mother's life,\nOr be ye not henceforth call'd my children.


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Stay, madam; here is more belongs to her;\nFirst thrash the corn, then after burn the straw:\nThis minion stood upon her chastity,\nUpon her nuptial vow, her loyalty,\nAnd with that painted hope braves your mightiness:\nAnd shall she carry this unto her grave?


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An if she do, I would I were an eunuch.\nDrag hence her husband to some secret hole,\nAnd make his dead trunk pillow to our lust.


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I warrant you, madam, we will make that sure.\nCome, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy\nThat nice-preserved honesty of yours.


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Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory\nTo see her tears; but be your heart to them\nAs unrelenting flint to drops of rain.


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When did the tiger's young ones teach the dam?\nO, do not learn her wrath; she taught it thee;\nThe milk thou suck'dst from her did turn to marble;\nEven at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny.\nYet every mother breeds not sons alike:\n[To CHIRON]\nDo thou entreat her show a woman pity.


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'Tis true; the raven doth not hatch a lark:\nYet have I heard,--O, could I find it now!--\nThe lion moved with pity did endure\nTo have his princely paws pared all away:\nSome say that ravens foster forlorn children,\nThe whilst their own birds famish in their nests:\nO, be to me, though thy hard heart say no,\nNothing so kind, but something pitiful!


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O, let me teach thee! for my father's sake,\nThat gave thee life, when well he might have\nslain thee,\nBe not obdurate, open thy deaf ears.


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Hadst thou in person ne'er offended me,\nEven for his sake am I pitiless.\nRemember, boys, I pour'd forth tears in vain,\nTo save your brother from the sacrifice;\nBut fierce Andronicus would not relent;\nTherefore, away with her, and use her as you will,\nThe worse to her, the better loved of me.


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O Tamora, be call'd a gentle queen,\nAnd with thine own hands kill me in this place!\nFor 'tis not life that I have begg'd so long;\nPoor I was slain when Bassianus died.


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'Tis present death I beg; and one thing more\nThat womanhood denies my tongue to tell:\nO, keep me from their worse than killing lust,\nAnd tumble me into some loathsome pit,\nWhere never man's eye may behold my body:\nDo this, and be a charitable murderer.


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No grace? no womanhood? Ah, beastly creature!\nThe blot and enemy to our general name!\nConfusion fall--


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Nay, then I'll stop your mouth. Bring thou her husband:\nThis is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him.\n[DEMETRIUS throws the body of BASSIANUS into the]\npit; then exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, dragging\noff LAVINIA]


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Farewell, my sons: see that you make her sure.\nNe'er let my heart know merry cheer indeed,\nTill all the Andronici be made away.\nNow will I hence to seek my lovely Moor,\nAnd let my spleenful sons this trull deflow'r.


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Come on, my lords, the better foot before:\nStraight will I bring you to the loathsome pit\nWhere I espied the panther fast asleep.


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What art thou fall'n? What subtle hole is this,\nWhose mouth is cover'd with rude-growing briers,\nUpon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood\nAs fresh as morning dew distill'd on flowers?\nA very fatal place it seems to me.\nSpeak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall?


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[Aside] Now will I fetch the king to find them here,\nThat he thereby may give a likely guess\nHow these were they that made away his brother.


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I am surprised with an uncouth fear;\nA chilling sweat o'er-runs my trembling joints:\nMy heart suspects more than mine eye can see.


