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I could put thee in comfort. Not by two that I know:\nThou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society,\nThe shape of Love's Tyburn that hangs up simplicity.


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I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move:\nO sweet Maria, empress of my love!\nThese numbers will I tear, and write in prose.


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This same shall go.\n[Reads]\nDid not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,\n'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,\nPersuade my heart to this false perjury?\nVows for thee broke deserve not punishment.\nA woman I forswore; but I will prove,\nThou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:\nMy vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;\nThy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me.\nVows are but breath, and breath a vapour is:\nThen thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine,\nExhalest this vapour-vow; in thee it is:\nIf broken then, it is no fault of mine:\nIf by me broke, what fool is not so wise\nTo lose an oath to win a paradise?


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This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity,\nA green goose a goddess: pure, pure idolatry.\nGod amend us, God amend! we are much out o' the way.


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All hid, all hid; an old infant play.\nLike a demigod here sit I in the sky.\nAnd wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'ereye.\nMore sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have my wish!\n[Enter DUMAIN, with a paper]\nDumain transform'd! four woodcocks in a dish!


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[Reads]\nOn a day--alack the day!--\nLove, whose month is ever May,\nSpied a blossom passing fair\nPlaying in the wanton air:\nThrough the velvet leaves the wind,\nAll unseen, can passage find;\nThat the lover, sick to death,\nWish himself the heaven's breath.\nAir, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;\nAir, would I might triumph so!\nBut, alack, my hand is sworn\nNe'er to pluck thee from thy thorn;\nVow, alack, for youth unmeet,\nYouth so apt to pluck a sweet!\nDo not call it sin in me,\nThat I am forsworn for thee;\nThou for whom Jove would swear\nJuno but an Ethiope were;\nAnd deny himself for Jove,\nTurning mortal for thy love.\nThis will I send, and something else more plain,\nThat shall express my true love's fasting pain.\nO, would the king, Biron, and Longaville,\nWere lovers too! Ill, to example ill,\nWould from my forehead wipe a perjured note;\nFor none offend where all alike do dote.


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[Advancing] Dumain, thy love is far from charity.\nYou may look pale, but I should blush, I know,\nTo be o'erheard and taken napping so.


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[Advancing] Come, sir, you blush; as his your case is such;\nYou chide at him, offending twice as much;\nYou do not love Maria; Longaville\nDid never sonnet for her sake compile,\nNor never lay his wreathed arms athwart\nHis loving bosom to keep down his heart.\nI have been closely shrouded in this bush\nAnd mark'd you both and for you both did blush:\nI heard your guilty rhymes, observed your fashion,\nSaw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion:\nAy me! says one; O Jove! the other cries;\nOne, her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes:\n[To LONGAVILLE]\nYou would for paradise break faith, and troth;\n[To DUMAIN]\nAnd Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath.\nWhat will Biron say when that he shall hear\nFaith so infringed, which such zeal did swear?\nHow will he scorn! how will he spend his wit!\nHow will he triumph, leap and laugh at it!\nFor all the wealth that ever I did see,\nI would not have him know so much by me.


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Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.\n[Advancing]\nAh, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me!\nGood heart, what grace hast thou, thus to reprove\nThese worms for loving, that art most in love?\nYour eyes do make no coaches; in your tears\nThere is no certain princess that appears;\nYou'll not be perjured, 'tis a hateful thing;\nTush, none but minstrels like of sonneting!\nBut are you not ashamed? nay, are you not,\nAll three of you, to be thus much o'ershot?\nYou found his mote; the king your mote did see;\nBut I a beam do find in each of three.\nO, what a scene of foolery have I seen,\nOf sighs, of groans, of sorrow and of teen!\nO me, with what strict patience have I sat,\nTo see a king transformed to a gnat!\nTo see great Hercules whipping a gig,\nAnd profound Solomon to tune a jig,\nAnd Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,\nAnd critic Timon laugh at idle toys!\nWhere lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumain?\nAnd gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?\nAnd where my liege's? all about the breast:\nA caudle, ho!


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Not you to me, but I betray'd by you:\nI, that am honest; I, that hold it sin\nTo break the vow I am engaged in;\nI am betray'd, by keeping company\nWith men like men of inconstancy.\nWhen shall you see me write a thing in rhyme?\nOr groan for love? or spend a minute's time\nIn pruning me? When shall you hear that I\nWill praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye,\nA gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist,\nA leg, a limb?


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[To COSTARD] Ah, you whoreson loggerhead! you were\nborn to do me shame.\nGuilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess.


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That you three fools lack'd me fool to make up the mess:\nHe, he, and you, and you, my liege, and I,\nAre pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.\nO, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more.


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Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace!\nAs true we are as flesh and blood can be:\nThe sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face;\nYoung blood doth not obey an old decree:\nWe cannot cross the cause why we were born;\nTherefore of all hands must we be forsworn.


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Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline,\nThat, like a rude and savage man of Inde,\nAt the first opening of the gorgeous east,\nBows not his vassal head and strucken blind\nKisses the base ground with obedient breast?\nWhat peremptory eagle-sighted eye\nDares look upon the heaven of her brow,\nThat is not blinded by her majesty?


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What zeal, what fury hath inspired thee now?\nMy love, her mistress, is a gracious moon;\nShe an attending star, scarce seen a light.


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My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron:\nO, but for my love, day would turn to night!\nOf all complexions the cull'd sovereignty\nDo meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek,\nWhere several worthies make one dignity,\nWhere nothing wants that want itself doth seek.\nLend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,--\nFie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not:\nTo things of sale a seller's praise belongs,\nShe passes praise; then praise too short doth blot.\nA wither'd hermit, five-score winters worn,\nMight shake off fifty, looking in her eye:\nBeauty doth varnish age, as if new-born,\nAnd gives the crutch the cradle's infancy:\nO, 'tis the sun that maketh all things shine.


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Is ebony like her? O wood divine!\nA wife of such wood were felicity.\nO, who can give an oath? where is a book?\nThat I may swear beauty doth beauty lack,\nIf that she learn not of her eye to look:\nNo face is fair that is not full so black.


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O paradox! Black is the badge of hell,\nThe hue of dungeons and the suit of night;\nAnd beauty's crest becomes the heavens well.


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Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.\nO, if in black my lady's brows be deck'd,\nIt mourns that painting and usurping hair\nShould ravish doters with a false aspect;\nAnd therefore is she born to make black fair.\nHer favour turns the fashion of the days,\nFor native blood is counted painting now;\nAnd therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,\nPaints itself black, to imitate her brow.


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'Tis more than need.\nHave at you, then, affection's men at arms.\nConsider what you first did swear unto,\nTo fast, to study, and to see no woman;\nFlat treason 'gainst the kingly state of youth.\nSay, can you fast? your stomachs are too young;\nAnd abstinence engenders maladies.\nAnd where that you have vow'd to study, lords,\nIn that each of you have forsworn his book,\nCan you still dream and pore and thereon look?\nFor when would you, my lord, or you, or you,\nHave found the ground of study's excellence\nWithout the beauty of a woman's face?\n[From women's eyes this doctrine I derive;]\nThey are the ground, the books, the academes\nFrom whence doth spring the true Promethean fire]\nWhy, universal plodding poisons up\nThe nimble spirits in the arteries,\nAs motion and long-during action tires\nThe sinewy vigour of the traveller.\nNow, for not looking on a woman's face,\nYou have in that forsworn the use of eyes\nAnd study too, the causer of your vow;\nFor where is any author in the world\nTeaches such beauty as a woman's eye?\nLearning is but an adjunct to ourself\nAnd where we are our learning likewise is:\nThen when ourselves we see in ladies' eyes,\nDo we not likewise see our learning there?\nO, we have made a vow to study, lords,\nAnd in that vow we have forsworn our books.\nFor when would you, my liege, or you, or you,\nIn leaden contemplation have found out\nSuch fiery numbers as the prompting eyes\nOf beauty's tutors have enrich'd you with?\nOther slow arts entirely keep the brain;\nAnd therefore, finding barren practisers,\nScarce show a harvest of their heavy toil:\nBut love, first learned in a lady's eyes,\nLives not alone immured in the brain;\nBut, with the motion of all elements,\nCourses as swift as thought in every power,\nAnd gives to every power a double power,\nAbove their functions and their offices.\nIt adds a precious seeing to the eye;\nA lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind;\nA lover's ear will hear the lowest sound,\nWhen the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd:\nLove's feeling is more soft and sensible\nThan are the tender horns of cockl'd snails;\nLove's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste:\nFor valour, is not Love a Hercules,\nStill climbing trees in the Hesperides?\nSubtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical\nAs bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair:\nAnd when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods\nMakes heaven drowsy with the harmony.\nNever durst poet touch a pen to write\nUntil his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs;\nO, then his lines would ravish savage ears\nAnd plant in tyrants mild humility.\nFrom women's eyes this doctrine I derive:\nThey sparkle still the right Promethean fire;\nThey are the books, the arts, the academes,\nThat show, contain and nourish all the world:\nElse none at all in ought proves excellent.\nThen fools you were these women to forswear,\nOr keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools.\nFor wisdom's sake, a word that all men love,\nOr for love's sake, a word that loves all men,\nOr for men's sake, the authors of these women,\nOr women's sake, by whom we men are men,\nLet us once lose our oaths to find ourselves,\nOr else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths.\nIt is religion to be thus forsworn,\nFor charity itself fulfills the law,\nAnd who can sever love from charity?


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Advance your standards, and upon them, lords;\nPell-mell, down with them! but be first advised,\nIn conflict that you get the sun of them.


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First, from the park let us conduct them thither;\nThen homeward every man attach the hand\nOf his fair mistress: in the afternoon\nWe will with some strange pastime solace them,\nSuch as the shortness of the time can shape;\nFor revels, dances, masks and merry hours\nForerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers.


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Allons! allons! Sow'd cockle reap'd no corn;\nAnd justice always whirls in equal measure:\nLight wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn;\nIf so, our copper buys no better treasure.


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I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner\nhave been sharp and sententious; pleasant without\nscurrility, witty without affection, audacious without\nimpudency, learned without opinion, and strange with-\nout heresy. I did converse this quondam day with\na companion of the king's, who is intituled, nomi-\nnated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado.


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Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his\ndiscourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye\nambitious, his gait majestical, and his general\nbehavior vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is\ntoo picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it\nwere, too peregrinate, as I may call it.


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He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer\nthan the staple of his argument. I abhor such\nfanatical phantasimes, such insociable and\npoint-devise companions; such rackers of\northography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should\nsay doubt; det, when he should pronounce debt,--d,\ne, b, t, not d, e, t: he clepeth a calf, cauf;\nhalf, hauf; neighbour vocatur nebor; neigh\nabbreviated ne. This is abhominable,--which he\nwould call abbominable: it insinuateth me of\ninsanie: anne intelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic.


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O, they have lived long on the alms-basket of words.\nI marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word;\nfor thou art not so long by the head as\nhonorificabilitudinitatibus: thou art easier\nswallowed than a flap-dragon.


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Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet\ntouch, a quick venue of wit! snip, snap, quick and\nhome! it rejoiceth my intellect: true wit!


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Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about\nyour infamy circum circa,--a gig of a cuckold's horn.


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An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst\nhave it to buy gingerbread: hold, there is the very\nremuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny\npurse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O, an\nthe heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my\nbastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me!\nGo to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers'\nends, as they say.


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Arts-man, preambulate, we will be singled from the\nbarbarous. Do you not educate youth at the\ncharge-house on the top of the mountain?


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Sir, it is the king's most sweet pleasure and\naffection to congratulate the princess at her\npavilion in the posteriors of this day, which the\nrude multitude call the afternoon.


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The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is\nliable, congruent and measurable for the afternoon:\nthe word is well culled, chose, sweet and apt, I do\nassure you, sir, I do assure.


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Sir, the king is a noble gentleman, and my familiar,\nI do assure ye, very good friend: for what is\ninward between us, let it pass. I do beseech thee,\nremember thy courtesy; I beseech thee, apparel thy\nhead: and among other important and most serious\ndesigns, and of great import indeed, too, but let\nthat pass: for I must tell thee, it will please his\ngrace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor\nshoulder, and with his royal finger, thus, dally\nwith my excrement, with my mustachio; but, sweet\nheart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no\nfable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his\ngreatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of\ntravel, that hath seen the world; but let that pass.\nThe very all of all is,--but, sweet heart, I do\nimplore secrecy,--that the king would have me\npresent the princess, sweet chuck, with some\ndelightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or\nantique, or firework. Now, understanding that the\ncurate and your sweet self are good at such\neruptions and sudden breaking out of mirth, as it\nwere, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to\ncrave your assistance.


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Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies.\nSir, as concerning some entertainment of time, some\nshow in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by\nour assistants, at the king's command, and this most\ngallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before\nthe princess; I say none so fit as to present the\nNine Worthies.


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Joshua, yourself; myself and this gallant gentleman,\nJudas Maccabaeus; this swain, because of his great\nlimb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the\npage, Hercules,--


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Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for\nthat Worthy's thumb: he is not so big as the end of his club.


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Shall I have audience? he shall present Hercules in\nminority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a\nsnake; and I will have an apology for that purpose.


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An excellent device! so, if any of the audience\nhiss, you may cry 'Well done, Hercules! now thou\ncrushest the snake!' that is the way to make an\noffence gracious, though few have the grace to do it.


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I'll make one in a dance, or so; or I will play\nOn the tabour to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay.


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Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart,\nIf fairings come thus plentifully in:\nA lady wall'd about with diamonds!\nLook you what I have from the loving king.


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Nothing but this! yes, as much love in rhyme\nAs would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper,\nWrit o' both sides the leaf, margent and all,\nThat he was fain to seal on Cupid's name.


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He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy;\nAnd so she died: had she been light, like you,\nOf such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit,\nShe might ha' been a grandam ere she died:\nAnd so may you; for a light heart lives long.


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Well bandied both; a set of wit well play'd.\nBut Rosaline, you have a favour too:\nWho sent it? and what is it?


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I would you knew:\nAn if my face were but as fair as yours,\nMy favour were as great; be witness this.\nNay, I have verses too, I thank Biron:\nThe numbers true; and, were the numbering too,\nI were the fairest goddess on the ground:\nI am compared to twenty thousand fairs.\nO, he hath drawn my picture in his letter!


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'Ware pencils, ho! let me not die your debtor,\nMy red dominical, my golden letter:\nO, that your face were not so full of O's!


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Yes, madam, and moreover\nSome thousand verses of a faithful lover,\nA huge translation of hypocrisy,\nVilely compiled, profound simplicity.


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They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.\nThat same Biron I'll torture ere I go:\nO that I knew he were but in by the week!\nHow I would make him fawn and beg and seek\nAnd wait the season and observe the times\nAnd spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes\nAnd shape his service wholly to my hests\nAnd make him proud to make me proud that jests!\nSo perttaunt-like would I o'ersway his state\nThat he should be my fool and I his fate.


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None are so surely caught, when they are catch'd,\nAs wit turn'd fool: folly, in wisdom hatch'd,\nHath wisdom's warrant and the help of school\nAnd wit's own grace to grace a learned fool.


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Folly in fools bears not so strong a note\nAs foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote;\nSince all the power thereof it doth apply\nTo prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.


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Prepare, madam, prepare!\nArm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are\nAgainst your peace: Love doth approach disguised,\nArmed in arguments; you'll be surprised:\nMuster your wits; stand in your own defence;\nOr hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.


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Under the cool shade of a sycamore\nI thought to close mine eyes some half an hour;\nWhen, lo! to interrupt my purposed rest,\nToward that shade I might behold addrest\nThe king and his companions: warily\nI stole into a neighbour thicket by,\nAnd overheard what you shall overhear,\nThat, by and by, disguised they will be here.\nTheir herald is a pretty knavish page,\nThat well by heart hath conn'd his embassage:\nAction and accent did they teach him there;\n'Thus must thou speak,' and 'thus thy body bear:'\nAnd ever and anon they made a doubt\nPresence majestical would put him out,\n'For,' quoth the king, 'an angel shalt thou see;\nYet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.'\nThe boy replied, 'An angel is not evil;\nI should have fear'd her had she been a devil.'\nWith that, all laugh'd and clapp'd him on the shoulder,\nMaking the bold wag by their praises bolder:\nOne rubb'd his elbow thus, and fleer'd and swore\nA better speech was never spoke before;\nAnother, with his finger and his thumb,\nCried, 'Via! we will do't, come what will come;'\nThe third he caper'd, and cried, 'All goes well;'\nThe fourth turn'd on the toe, and down he fell.\nWith that, they all did tumble on the ground,\nWith such a zealous laughter, so profound,\nThat in this spleen ridiculous appears,\nTo cheque their folly, passion's solemn tears.


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They do, they do: and are apparell'd thus.\nLike Muscovites or Russians, as I guess.\nTheir purpose is to parle, to court and dance;\nAnd every one his love-feat will advance\nUnto his several mistress, which they'll know\nBy favours several which they did bestow.


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And will they so? the gallants shall be task'd;\nFor, ladies, we shall every one be mask'd;\nAnd not a man of them shall have the grace,\nDespite of suit, to see a lady's face.\nHold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear,\nAnd then the king will court thee for his dear;\nHold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine,\nSo shall Biron take me for Rosaline.\nAnd change your favours too; so shall your loves\nWoo contrary, deceived by these removes.


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The effect of my intent is to cross theirs:\nThey do it but in mocking merriment;\nAnd mock for mock is only my intent.\nTheir several counsels they unbosom shall\nTo loves mistook, and so be mock'd withal\nUpon the next occasion that we meet,\nWith visages displayed, to talk and greet.


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No, to the death, we will not move a foot;\nNor to their penn'd speech render we no grace,\nBut while 'tis spoke each turn away her face.


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Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt\nThe rest will ne'er come in, if he be out\nThere's no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown,\nTo make theirs ours and ours none but our own:\nSo shall we stay, mocking intended game,\nAnd they, well mock'd, depart away with shame.


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The trumpet sounds: be mask'd; the maskers come.\n[The Ladies mask]\n[Enter Blackamoors with music; MOTH; FERDINAND,]\nBIRON, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN, in Russian habits,\nand masked]


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A holy parcel of the fairest dames.\n[The Ladies turn their backs to him]\nThat ever turn'd their--backs--to mortal views!


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What would these strangers? know their minds, Boyet:\nIf they do speak our language, 'tis our will:\nThat some plain man recount their purposes\nKnow what they would.


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It is not so. Ask them how many inches\nIs in one mile: if they have measured many,\nThe measure then of one is easily told.


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If to come hither you have measured miles,\nAnd many miles, the princess bids you tell\nHow many inches doth fill up one mile.


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How many weary steps,\nOf many weary miles you have o'ergone,\nAre number'd in the travel of one mile?


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We number nothing that we spend for you:\nOur duty is so rich, so infinite,\nThat we may do it still without accompt.\nVouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,\nThat we, like savages, may worship it.


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Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do!\nVouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine,\nThose clouds removed, upon our watery eyne.


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Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon.\n[Music plays]\nNot yet! no dance! Thus change I like the moon.


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Nay then, two treys, and if you grow so nice,\nMetheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice!\nThere's half-a-dozen sweets.


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The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen\nAs is the razor's edge invisible,\nCutting a smaller hair than may be seen,\nAbove the sense of sense; so sensible\nSeemeth their conference; their conceits have wings\nFleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.


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Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits.\n[Exeunt FERDINAND, Lords, and Blackamoors]\nAre these the breed of wits so wonder'd at?


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O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout!\nWill they not, think you, hang themselves tonight?\nOr ever, but in vizards, show their faces?\nThis pert Biron was out of countenance quite.


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Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear:\nImmediately they will again be here\nIn their own shapes; for it can never be\nThey will digest this harsh indignity.


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They will, they will, God knows,\nAnd leap for joy, though they are lame with blows:\nTherefore change favours; and, when they repair,\nBlow like sweet roses in this summer air.


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Fair ladies mask'd are roses in their bud;\nDismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown,\nAre angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.


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Good madam, if by me you'll be advised,\nLet's, mock them still, as well known as disguised:\nLet us complain to them what fools were here,\nDisguised like Muscovites, in shapeless gear;\nAnd wonder what they were and to what end\nTheir shallow shows and prologue vilely penn'd\nAnd their rough carriage so ridiculous,\nShould be presented at our tent to us.


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Whip to our tents, as roes run o'er land.\n[Exeunt PRINCESS, ROSALINE, KATHARINE, and MARIA]\n[Re-enter FERDINAND, BIRON, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN,]\nin their proper habits]


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This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease,\nAnd utters it again when God doth please:\nHe is wit's pedler, and retails his wares\nAt wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;\nAnd we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,\nHave not the grace to grace it with such show.\nThis gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;\nHad he been Adam, he had tempted Eve;\nA' can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he\nThat kiss'd his hand away in courtesy;\nThis is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,\nThat, when he plays at tables, chides the dice\nIn honourable terms: nay, he can sing\nA mean most meanly; and in ushering\nMend him who can: the ladies call him sweet;\nThe stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet:\nThis is the flower that smiles on every one,\nTo show his teeth as white as whale's bone;\nAnd consciences, that will not die in debt,\nPay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.


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See where it comes! Behavior, what wert thou\nTill this madman show'd thee? and what art thou now?\n[Re-enter the PRINCESS, ushered by BOYET, ROSALINE,]\nMARIA, and KATHARINE]


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You nickname virtue; vice you should have spoke;\nFor virtue's office never breaks men's troth.\nNow by my maiden honour, yet as pure\nAs the unsullied lily, I protest,\nA world of torments though I should endure,\nI would not yield to be your house's guest;\nSo much I hate a breaking cause to be\nOf heavenly oaths, vow'd with integrity.


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Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear;\nWe have had pastimes here and pleasant game:\nA mess of Russians left us but of late.


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Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord:\nMy lady, to the manner of the days,\nIn courtesy gives undeserving praise.\nWe four indeed confronted were with four\nIn Russian habit: here they stay'd an hour,\nAnd talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord,\nThey did not bless us with one happy word.\nI dare not call them fools; but this I think,\nWhen they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.


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This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet,\nYour wit makes wise things foolish: when we greet,\nWith eyes best seeing, heaven's fiery eye,\nBy light we lose light: your capacity\nIs of that nature that to your huge store\nWise things seem foolish and rich things but poor.


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Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury.\nCan any face of brass hold longer out?\nHere stand I. lady, dart thy skill at me;\nBruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout;\nThrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance;\nCut me to pieces with thy keen conceit;\nAnd I will wish thee never more to dance,\nNor never more in Russian habit wait.\nO, never will I trust to speeches penn'd,\nNor to the motion of a schoolboy's tongue,\nNor never come in vizard to my friend,\nNor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper's song!\nTaffeta phrases, silken terms precise,\nThree-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation,\nFigures pedantical; these summer-flies\nHave blown me full of maggot ostentation:\nI do forswear them; and I here protest,\nBy this white glove;--how white the hand, God knows!--\nHenceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd\nIn russet yeas and honest kersey noes:\nAnd, to begin, wench,--so God help me, la!--\nMy love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.


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Yet I have a trick\nOf the old rage: bear with me, I am sick;\nI'll leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see:\nWrite, 'Lord have mercy on us' on those three;\nThey are infected; in their hearts it lies;\nThey have the plague, and caught it of your eyes;\nThese lords are visited; you are not free,\nFor the Lord's tokens on you do I see.


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Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear\nAs precious eyesight, and did value me\nAbove this world; adding thereto moreover\nThat he would wed me, or else die my lover.


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Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear;\nAnd Lord Biron, I thank him, is my dear.\nWhat, will you have me, or your pearl again?


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Neither of either; I remit both twain.\nI see the trick on't: here was a consent,\nKnowing aforehand of our merriment,\nTo dash it like a Christmas comedy:\nSome carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany,\nSome mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick,\nThat smiles his cheek in years and knows the trick\nTo make my lady laugh when she's disposed,\nTold our intents before; which once disclosed,\nThe ladies did change favours: and then we,\nFollowing the signs, woo'd but the sign of she.\nNow, to our perjury to add more terror,\nWe are again forsworn, in will and error.\nMuch upon this it is: and might not you\n[To BOYET]\nForestall our sport, to make us thus untrue?\nDo not you know my lady's foot by the squier,\nAnd laugh upon the apple of her eye?\nAnd stand between her back, sir, and the fire,\nHolding a trencher, jesting merrily?\nYou put our page out: go, you are allow'd;\nDie when you will, a smock shall be your shroud.\nYou leer upon me, do you? there's an eye\nWounds like a leaden sword.


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Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace! I have done.\n[Enter COSTARD]\nWelcome, pure wit! thou partest a fair fray.


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Not so, sir; under correction, sir; I hope it is not so.\nYou cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir we know\nwhat we know:\nI hope, sir, three times thrice, sir,--


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O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors,\nsir, will show whereuntil it doth amount: for mine\nown part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man\nin one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir.


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It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the\nGreat: for mine own part, I know not the degree of\nthe Worthy, but I am to stand for him.


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We are shame-proof, my lord: and tis some policy\nTo have one show worse than the king's and his company.


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Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now:\nThat sport best pleases that doth least know how:\nWhere zeal strives to content, and the contents\nDies in the zeal of that which it presents:\nTheir form confounded makes most form in mirth,\nWhen great things labouring perish in their birth.


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That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for,\nI protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding\nfantastical; too, too vain, too too vain: but we\nwill put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra.\nI wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement!


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Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He\npresents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the\nGreat; the parish curate, Alexander; Armado's page,\nHercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabaeus: And if\nthese four Worthies in their first show thrive,\nThese four will change habits, and present the other five.


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The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool\nand the boy:--\nAbate throw at novum, and the whole world again\nCannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.


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It is, 'Great,' sir:--\nPompey surnamed the Great;\nThat oft in field, with targe and shield, did make\nmy foe to sweat:\nAnd travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance,\nAnd lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France,\nIf your ladyship would say, 'Thanks, Pompey,' I had done.


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When in the world I lived, I was the world's\ncommander;\nBy east, west, north, and south, I spread my\nconquering might:\nMy scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander,--


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[To SIR NATHANIEL] O, sir, you have overthrown\nAlisander the conqueror! You will be scraped out of\nthe painted cloth for this: your lion, that holds\nhis poll-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given\nto Ajax: he will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror,\nand afeard to speak! run away for shame, Alisander.\n[SIR NATHANIEL retires]\nThere, an't shall please you; a foolish mild man; an\nhonest man, look you, and soon dashed. He is a\nmarvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good\nbowler: but, for Alisander,--alas, you see how\n'tis,--a little o'erparted. But there are Worthies\na-coming will speak their mind in some other sort.


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Great Hercules is presented by this imp,\nWhose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed canis;\nAnd when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,\nThus did he strangle serpents in his manus.\nQuoniam he seemeth in minority,\nErgo I come with this apology.\nKeep some state in thy exit, and vanish.\n[MOTH retires]\nJudas I am,--


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Peace!--\nThe armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty\nGave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;\nA man so breathed, that certain he would fight; yea\nFrom morn till night, out of his pavilion.\nI am that flower,--


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The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks,\nbeat not the bones of the buried: when he breathed,\nhe was a man. But I will forward with my device.\n[To the PRINCESS]\nSweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing.


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Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor\nwench is cast away: she's quick; the child brags in\nher belly already: tis yours.


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Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is\nquick by him and hanged for Pompey that is dead by\nhim.


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I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man:\nI'll slash; I'll do it by the sword. I bepray you,\nlet me borrow my arms again.


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Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you\nnot see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean\nyou? You will lose your reputation.


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True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of\nlinen: since when, I'll be sworn, he wore none but\na dishclout of Jaquenetta's, and that a' wears next\nhis heart for a favour.


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For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have\nseen the day of wrong through the little hole of\ndiscretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.


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Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,\nFor all your fair endeavors; and entreat,\nOut of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe\nIn your rich wisdom to excuse or hide\nThe liberal opposition of our spirits,\nIf over-boldly we have borne ourselves\nIn the converse of breath: your gentleness\nWas guilty of it. Farewell worthy lord!\nA heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue:\nExcuse me so, coming too short of thanks\nFor my great suit so easily obtain'd.


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The extreme parts of time extremely forms\nAll causes to the purpose of his speed,\nAnd often at his very loose decides\nThat which long process could not arbitrate:\nAnd though the mourning brow of progeny\nForbid the smiling courtesy of love\nThe holy suit which fain it would convince,\nYet, since love's argument was first on foot,\nLet not the cloud of sorrow justle it\nFrom what it purposed; since, to wail friends lost\nIs not by much so wholesome-profitable\nAs to rejoice at friends but newly found.PRINCESS. I understand you not: my griefs are double.


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Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;\nAnd by these badges understand the king.\nFor your fair sakes have we neglected time,\nPlay'd foul play with our oaths: your beauty, ladies,\nHath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours\nEven to the opposed end of our intents:\nAnd what in us hath seem'd ridiculous,--\nAs love is full of unbefitting strains,\nAll wanton as a child, skipping and vain,\nForm'd by the eye and therefore, like the eye,\nFull of strange shapes, of habits and of forms,\nVarying in subjects as the eye doth roll\nTo every varied object in his glance:\nWhich parti-coated presence of loose love\nPut on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,\nHave misbecomed our oaths and gravities,\nThose heavenly eyes, that look into these faults,\nSuggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,\nOur love being yours, the error that love makes\nIs likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false,\nBy being once false for ever to be true\nTo those that make us both,--fair ladies, you:\nAnd even that falsehood, in itself a sin,\nThus purifies itself and turns to grace.


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We have received your letters full of love;\nYour favours, the ambassadors of love;\nAnd, in our maiden council, rated them\nAt courtship, pleasant jest and courtesy,\nAs bombast and as lining to the time:\nBut more devout than this in our respects\nHave we not been; and therefore met your loves\nIn their own fashion, like a merriment.


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A time, methinks, too short\nTo make a world-without-end bargain in.\nNo, no, my lord, your grace is perjured much,\nFull of dear guiltiness; and therefore this:\nIf for my love, as there is no such cause,\nYou will do aught, this shall you do for me:\nYour oath I will not trust; but go with speed\nTo some forlorn and naked hermitage,\nRemote from all the pleasures of the world;\nThere stay until the twelve celestial signs\nHave brought about the annual reckoning.\nIf this austere insociable life\nChange not your offer made in heat of blood;\nIf frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds\nNip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,\nBut that it bear this trial and last love;\nThen, at the expiration of the year,\nCome challenge me, challenge me by these deserts,\nAnd, by this virgin palm now kissing thine\nI will be thine; and till that instant shut\nMy woeful self up in a mourning house,\nRaining the tears of lamentation\nFor the remembrance of my father's death.\nIf this thou do deny, let our hands part,\nNeither entitled in the other's heart.


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If this, or more than this, I would deny,\nTo flatter up these powers of mine with rest,\nThe sudden hand of death close up mine eye!\nHence ever then my heart is in thy breast.


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You must be purged too, your sins are rack'd,\nYou are attaint with faults and perjury:\nTherefore if you my favour mean to get,\nA twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest,\nBut seek the weary beds of people sick]


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Not so, my lord; a twelvemonth and a day\nI'll mark no words that smooth-faced wooers say:\nCome when the king doth to my lady come;\nThen, if I have much love, I'll give you some.


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Studies my lady? mistress, look on me;\nBehold the window of my heart, mine eye,\nWhat humble suit attends thy answer there:\nImpose some service on me for thy love.


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Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron,\nBefore I saw you; and the world's large tongue\nProclaims you for a man replete with mocks,\nFull of comparisons and wounding flouts,\nWhich you on all estates will execute\nThat lie within the mercy of your wit.\nTo weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,\nAnd therewithal to win me, if you please,\nWithout the which I am not to be won,\nYou shall this twelvemonth term from day to day\nVisit the speechless sick and still converse\nWith groaning wretches; and your task shall be,\nWith all the fierce endeavor of your wit\nTo enforce the pained impotent to smile.


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To move wild laughter in the throat of death?\nIt cannot be; it is impossible:\nMirth cannot move a soul in agony.


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Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit,\nWhose influence is begot of that loose grace\nWhich shallow laughing hearers give to fools:\nA jest's prosperity lies in the ear\nOf him that hears it, never in the tongue\nOf him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,\nDeaf'd with the clamours of their own dear groans,\nWill hear your idle scorns, continue then,\nAnd I will have you and that fault withal;\nBut if they will not, throw away that spirit,\nAnd I shall find you empty of that fault,\nRight joyful of your reformation.


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Our wooing doth not end like an old play;\nJack hath not Jill: these ladies' courtesy\nMight well have made our sport a comedy.


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I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am\na votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the\nplough for her sweet love three years. But, most\nesteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that\nthe two learned men have compiled in praise of the\nowl and the cuckoo? It should have followed in the\nend of our show.


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Holla! approach.\n[Re-enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, MOTH, COSTARD,]\nand others]\nThis side is Hiems, Winter, this Ver, the Spring;\nthe one maintained by the owl, the other by the\ncuckoo. Ver, begin.\n[THE SONG]\nSPRING.\nWhen daisies pied and violets blue\nAnd lady-smocks all silver-white\nAnd cuckoo-buds of yellow hue\nDo paint the meadows with delight,\nThe cuckoo then, on every tree,\nMocks married men; for thus sings he, . Cuckoo;\nCuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,\nUnpleasing to a married ear!\nWhen shepherds pipe on oaten straws\nAnd merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,\nWhen turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,\nAnd maidens bleach their summer smocks\nThe cuckoo then, on every tree,\nMocks married men; for thus sings he, . Cuckoo;\nCuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,\nUnpleasing to a married ear!\nWINTER.\nWhen icicles hang by the wall\nAnd Dick the shepherd blows his nail\nAnd Tom bears logs into the hall\nAnd milk comes frozen home in pail,\nWhen blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,\nThen nightly sings the staring owl, . Tu-whit;\nTu-who, a merry note,\nWhile greasy Joan doth keel the pot.\nWhen all aloud the wind doth blow\nAnd coughing drowns the parson's saw\nAnd birds sit brooding in the snow\nAnd Marian's nose looks red and raw,\nWhen roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,\nThen nightly sings the staring owl, . Tu-whit;\nTu-who, a merry note,\nWhile greasy Joan doth keel the pot.


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[Exeunt]\n[Alarum within. Enter DUNCAN, MALCOLM, DONALBAIN,]\nLENNOX, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Sergeant]


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This is the sergeant\nWho like a good and hardy soldier fought\n'Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend!\nSay to the king the knowledge of the broil\nAs thou didst leave it.


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Doubtful it stood;\nAs two spent swimmers, that do cling together\nAnd choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald--\nWorthy to be a rebel, for to that\nThe multiplying villanies of nature\nDo swarm upon him--from the western isles\nOf kerns and gallowglasses is supplied;\nAnd fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling,\nShow'd like a rebel's whore: but all's too weak:\nFor brave Macbeth--well he deserves that name--\nDisdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel,\nWhich smoked with bloody execution,\nLike valour's minion carved out his passage\nTill he faced the slave;\nWhich ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,\nTill he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,\nAnd fix'd his head upon our battlements.


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As whence the sun 'gins his reflection\nShipwrecking storms and direful thunders break,\nSo from that spring whence comfort seem'd to come\nDiscomfort swells. Mark, king of Scotland, mark:\nNo sooner justice had with valour arm'd\nCompell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels,\nBut the Norweyan lord surveying vantage,\nWith furbish'd arms and new supplies of men\nBegan a fresh assault.


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Yes;\nAs sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.\nIf I say sooth, I must report they were\nAs cannons overcharged with double cracks, so they\nDoubly redoubled strokes upon the foe:\nExcept they meant to bathe in reeking wounds,\nOr memorise another Golgotha,\nI cannot tell.\nBut I am faint, my gashes cry for help.


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So well thy words become thee as thy wounds;\nThey smack of honour both. Go get him surgeons.\n[Exit Sergeant, attended]\nWho comes here?


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From Fife, great king;\nWhere the Norweyan banners flout the sky\nAnd fan our people cold. Norway himself,\nWith terrible numbers,\nAssisted by that most disloyal traitor\nThe thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict;\nTill that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof,\nConfronted him with self-comparisons,\nPoint against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm.\nCurbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude,\nThe victory fell on us.


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That now\nSweno, the Norways' king, craves composition:\nNor would we deign him burial of his men\nTill he disbursed at Saint Colme's inch\nTen thousand dollars to our general use.


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No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive\nOur bosom interest: go pronounce his present death,\nAnd with his former title greet Macbeth.


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A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap,\nAnd munch'd, and munch'd, and munch'd:--\n'Give me,' quoth I:\n'Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed ronyon cries.\nHer husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger:\nBut in a sieve I'll thither sail,\nAnd, like a rat without a tail,\nI'll do, I'll do, and I'll do.


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I myself have all the other,\nAnd the very ports they blow,\nAll the quarters that they know\nI' the shipman's card.\nI will drain him dry as hay:\nSleep shall neither night nor day\nHang upon his pent-house lid;\nHe shall live a man forbid:\nWeary se'nnights nine times nine\nShall he dwindle, peak and pine:\nThough his bark cannot be lost,\nYet it shall be tempest-tost.\nLook what I have.


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The weird sisters, hand in hand,\nPosters of the sea and land,\nThus do go about, about:\nThrice to thine and thrice to mine\nAnd thrice again, to make up nine.\nPeace! the charm's wound up.


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How far is't call'd to Forres? What are these\nSo wither'd and so wild in their attire,\nThat look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,\nAnd yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught\nThat man may question? You seem to understand me,\nBy each at once her chappy finger laying\nUpon her skinny lips: you should be women,\nAnd yet your beards forbid me to interpret\nThat you are so.


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Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear\nThings that do sound so fair? I' the name of truth,\nAre ye fantastical, or that indeed\nWhich outwardly ye show? My noble partner\nYou greet with present grace and great prediction\nOf noble having and of royal hope,\nThat he seems rapt withal: to me you speak not.\nIf you can look into the seeds of time,\nAnd say which grain will grow and which will not,\nSpeak then to me, who neither beg nor fear\nYour favours nor your hate.


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Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more:\nBy Sinel's death I know I am thane of Glamis;\nBut how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor lives,\nA prosperous gentleman; and to be king\nStands not within the prospect of belief,\nNo more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence\nYou owe this strange intelligence? or why\nUpon this blasted heath you stop our way\nWith such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you.


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Were such things here as we do speak about?\nOr have we eaten on the insane root\nThat takes the reason prisoner?


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The king hath happily received, Macbeth,\nThe news of thy success; and when he reads\nThy personal venture in the rebels' fight,\nHis wonders and his praises do contend\nWhich should be thine or his: silenced with that,\nIn viewing o'er the rest o' the selfsame day,\nHe finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks,\nNothing afeard of what thyself didst make,\nStrange images of death. As thick as hail\nCame post with post; and every one did bear\nThy praises in his kingdom's great defence,\nAnd pour'd them down before him.


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We are sent\nTo give thee from our royal master thanks;\nOnly to herald thee into his sight,\nNot pay thee.


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And, for an earnest of a greater honour,\nHe bade me, from him, call thee thane of Cawdor:\nIn which addition, hail, most worthy thane!\nFor it is thine.


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Who was the thane lives yet;\nBut under heavy judgment bears that life\nWhich he deserves to lose. Whether he was combined\nWith those of Norway, or did line the rebel\nWith hidden help and vantage, or that with both\nHe labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not;\nBut treasons capital, confess'd and proved,\nHave overthrown him.


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[Aside] Glamis, and thane of Cawdor!\nThe greatest is behind.\n[To ROSS and ANGUS]\nThanks for your pains.\n[To BANQUO]\nDo you not hope your children shall be kings,\nWhen those that gave the thane of Cawdor to me\nPromised no less to them?


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That trusted home\nMight yet enkindle you unto the crown,\nBesides the thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange:\nAnd oftentimes, to win us to our harm,\nThe instruments of darkness tell us truths,\nWin us with honest trifles, to betray's\nIn deepest consequence.\nCousins, a word, I pray you.


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[Aside]. Two truths are told,\nAs happy prologues to the swelling act\nOf the imperial theme.--I thank you, gentlemen.\n[Aside] This supernatural soliciting]\nCannot be ill, cannot be good: if ill,\nWhy hath it given me earnest of success,\nCommencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor:\nIf good, why do I yield to that suggestion\nWhose horrid image doth unfix my hair\nAnd make my seated heart knock at my ribs,\nAgainst the use of nature? Present fears\nAre less than horrible imaginings:\nMy thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,\nShakes so my single state of man that function\nIs smother'd in surmise, and nothing is\nBut what is not.


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New horrors come upon him,\nLike our strange garments, cleave not to their mould\nBut with the aid of use.


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Give me your favour: my dull brain was wrought\nWith things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains\nAre register'd where every day I turn\nThe leaf to read them. Let us toward the king.\nThink upon what hath chanced, and, at more time,\nThe interim having weigh'd it, let us speak\nOur free hearts each to other.


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My liege,\nThey are not yet come back. But I have spoke\nWith one that saw him die: who did report\nThat very frankly he confess'd his treasons,\nImplored your highness' pardon and set forth\nA deep repentance: nothing in his life\nBecame him like the leaving it; he died\nAs one that had been studied in his death\nTo throw away the dearest thing he owed,\nAs 'twere a careless trifle.


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There's no art\nTo find the mind's construction in the face:\nHe was a gentleman on whom I built\nAn absolute trust.\n[Enter MACBETH, BANQUO, ROSS, and ANGUS]\nO worthiest cousin!\nThe sin of my ingratitude even now\nWas heavy on me: thou art so far before\nThat swiftest wing of recompense is slow\nTo overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserved,\nThat the proportion both of thanks and payment\nMight have been mine! only I have left to say,\nMore is thy due than more than all can pay.


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The service and the loyalty I owe,\nIn doing it, pays itself. Your highness' part\nIs to receive our duties; and our duties\nAre to your throne and state children and servants,\nWhich do but what they should, by doing every thing\nSafe toward your love and honour.


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Welcome hither:\nI have begun to plant thee, and will labour\nTo make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,\nThat hast no less deserved, nor must be known\nNo less to have done so, let me enfold thee\nAnd hold thee to my heart.


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My plenteous joys,\nWanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves\nIn drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes,\nAnd you whose places are the nearest, know\nWe will establish our estate upon\nOur eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter\nThe Prince of Cumberland; which honour must\nNot unaccompanied invest him only,\nBut signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine\nOn all deservers. From hence to Inverness,\nAnd bind us further to you.


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The rest is labour, which is not used for you:\nI'll be myself the harbinger and make joyful\nThe hearing of my wife with your approach;\nSo humbly take my leave.


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[Aside] The Prince of Cumberland! that is a step\nOn which I must fall down, or else o'erleap,\nFor in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires;\nLet not light see my black and deep desires:\nThe eye wink at the hand; yet let that be,\nWhich the eye fears, when it is done, to see.


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True, worthy Banquo; he is full so valiant,\nAnd in his commendations I am fed;\nIt is a banquet to me. Let's after him,\nWhose care is gone before to bid us welcome:\nIt is a peerless kinsman.


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'They met me in the day of success: and I have\nlearned by the perfectest report, they have more in\nthem than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire\nto question them further, they made themselves air,\ninto which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in\nthe wonder of it, came missives from the king, who\nall-hailed me 'Thane of Cawdor;' by which title,\nbefore, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred\nme to the coming on of time, with 'Hail, king that\nshalt be!' This have I thought good to deliver\nthee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou\nmightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being\nignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it\nto thy heart, and farewell.'\nGlamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be\nWhat thou art promised: yet do I fear thy nature;\nIt is too full o' the milk of human kindness\nTo catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great;\nArt not without ambition, but without\nThe illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly,\nThat wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,\nAnd yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'ldst have, great Glamis,\nThat which cries 'Thus thou must do, if thou have it;\nAnd that which rather thou dost fear to do\nThan wishest should be undone.' Hie thee hither,\nThat I may pour my spirits in thine ear;\nAnd chastise with the valour of my tongue\nAll that impedes thee from the golden round,\nWhich fate and metaphysical aid doth seem\nTo have thee crown'd withal.\n[Enter a Messenger]\nWhat is your tidings?


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Thou'rt mad to say it:\nIs not thy master with him? who, were't so,\nWould have inform'd for preparation.


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So please you, it is true: our thane is coming:\nOne of my fellows had the speed of him,\nWho, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more\nThan would make up his message.


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Give him tending;\nHe brings great news.\n[Exit Messenger]\nThe raven himself is hoarse\nThat croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan\nUnder my battlements. Come, you spirits\nThat tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,\nAnd fill me from the crown to the toe top-full\nOf direst cruelty! make thick my blood;\nStop up the access and passage to remorse,\nThat no compunctious visitings of nature\nShake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between\nThe effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,\nAnd take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,\nWherever in your sightless substances\nYou wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,\nAnd pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,\nThat my keen knife see not the wound it makes,\nNor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,\nTo cry 'Hold, hold!'\n[Enter MACBETH]\nGreat Glamis! worthy Cawdor!\nGreater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!\nThy letters have transported me beyond\nThis ignorant present, and I feel now\nThe future in the instant.


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O, never\nShall sun that morrow see!\nYour face, my thane, is as a book where men\nMay read strange matters. To beguile the time,\nLook like the time; bear welcome in your eye,\nYour hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,\nBut be the serpent under't. He that's coming\nMust be provided for: and you shall put\nThis night's great business into my dispatch;\nWhich shall to all our nights and days to come\nGive solely sovereign sway and masterdom.


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[Exeunt]\n[Hautboys and torches. Enter DUNCAN, MALCOLM,]\nDONALBAIN, BANQUO, LENNOX, MACDUFF, ROSS, ANGUS, and Attendants]


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This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air\nNimbly and sweetly recommends itself\nUnto our gentle senses.


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This guest of summer,\nThe temple-haunting martlet, does approve,\nBy his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath\nSmells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,\nButtress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird\nHath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle:\nWhere they most breed and haunt, I have observed,\nThe air is delicate.


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See, see, our honour'd hostess!\nThe love that follows us sometime is our trouble,\nWhich still we thank as love. Herein I teach you\nHow you shall bid God 'ild us for your pains,\nAnd thank us for your trouble.


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All our service\nIn every point twice done and then done double\nWere poor and single business to contend\nAgainst those honours deep and broad wherewith\nYour majesty loads our house: for those of old,\nAnd the late dignities heap'd up to them,\nWe rest your hermits.


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Where's the thane of Cawdor?\nWe coursed him at the heels, and had a purpose\nTo be his purveyor: but he rides well;\nAnd his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him\nTo his home before us. Fair and noble hostess,\nWe are your guest to-night.


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Your servants ever\nHave theirs, themselves and what is theirs, in compt,\nTo make their audit at your highness' pleasure,\nStill to return your own.


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Give me your hand;\nConduct me to mine host: we love him highly,\nAnd shall continue our graces towards him.\nBy your leave, hostess.


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[Exeunt]\n[Hautboys and torches. Enter a Sewer, and divers]\nServants with dishes and service, and pass over the stage. Then enter MACBETH]


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If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well\nIt were done quickly: if the assassination\nCould trammel up the consequence, and catch\nWith his surcease success; that but this blow\nMight be the be-all and the end-all here,\nBut here, upon this bank and shoal of time,\nWe'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases\nWe still have judgment here; that we but teach\nBloody instructions, which, being taught, return\nTo plague the inventor: this even-handed justice\nCommends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice\nTo our own lips. He's here in double trust;\nFirst, as I am his kinsman and his subject,\nStrong both against the deed; then, as his host,\nWho should against his murderer shut the door,\nNot bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan\nHath borne his faculties so meek, hath been\nSo clear in his great office, that his virtues\nWill plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against\nThe deep damnation of his taking-off;\nAnd pity, like a naked new-born babe,\nStriding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed\nUpon the sightless couriers of the air,\nShall blow the horrid deed in every eye,\nThat tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur\nTo prick the sides of my intent, but only\nVaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself\nAnd falls on the other.\n[Enter LADY MACBETH]\nHow now! what news?


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We will proceed no further in this business:\nHe hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought\nGolden opinions from all sorts of people,\nWhich would be worn now in their newest gloss,\nNot cast aside so soon.


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Was the hope drunk\nWherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since?\nAnd wakes it now, to look so green and pale\nAt what it did so freely? From this time\nSuch I account thy love. Art thou afeard\nTo be the same in thine own act and valour\nAs thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that\nWhich thou esteem'st the ornament of life,\nAnd live a coward in thine own esteem,\nLetting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,'\nLike the poor cat i' the adage?


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What beast was't, then,\nThat made you break this enterprise to me?\nWhen you durst do it, then you were a man;\nAnd, to be more than what you were, you would\nBe so much more the man. Nor time nor place\nDid then adhere, and yet you would make both:\nThey have made themselves, and that their fitness now\nDoes unmake you. I have given suck, and know\nHow tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:\nI would, while it was smiling in my face,\nHave pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,\nAnd dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you\nHave done to this.


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We fail!\nBut screw your courage to the sticking-place,\nAnd we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep--\nWhereto the rather shall his day's hard journey\nSoundly invite him--his two chamberlains\nWill I with wine and wassail so convince\nThat memory, the warder of the brain,\nShall be a fume, and the receipt of reason\nA limbeck only: when in swinish sleep\nTheir drenched natures lie as in a death,\nWhat cannot you and I perform upon\nThe unguarded Duncan? what not put upon\nHis spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt\nOf our great quell?


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Bring forth men-children only;\nFor thy undaunted mettle should compose\nNothing but males. Will it not be received,\nWhen we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two\nOf his own chamber and used their very daggers,\nThat they have done't?


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I am settled, and bend up\nEach corporal agent to this terrible feat.\nAway, and mock the time with fairest show:\nFalse face must hide what the false heart doth know.


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Hold, take my sword. There's husbandry in heaven;\nTheir candles are all out. Take thee that too.\nA heavy summons lies like lead upon me,\nAnd yet I would not sleep: merciful powers,\nRestrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature\nGives way to in repose!\n[Enter MACBETH, and a Servant with a torch]\nGive me my sword.\nWho's there?


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What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's a-bed:\nHe hath been in unusual pleasure, and\nSent forth great largess to your offices.\nThis diamond he greets your wife withal,\nBy the name of most kind hostess; and shut up\nIn measureless content.


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I think not of them:\nYet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,\nWe would spend it in some words upon that business,\nIf you would grant the time.


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So I lose none\nIn seeking to augment it, but still keep\nMy bosom franchised and allegiance clear,\nI shall be counsell'd.


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Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,\nShe strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.\n[Exit Servant]\nIs this a dagger which I see before me,\nThe handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.\nI have thee not, and yet I see thee still.\nArt thou not, fatal vision, sensible\nTo feeling as to sight? or art thou but\nA dagger of the mind, a false creation,\nProceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?\nI see thee yet, in form as palpable\nAs this which now I draw.\nThou marshall'st me the way that I was going;\nAnd such an instrument I was to use.\nMine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,\nOr else worth all the rest; I see thee still,\nAnd on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,\nWhich was not so before. There's no such thing:\nIt is the bloody business which informs\nThus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one halfworld\nNature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse\nThe curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates\nPale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder,\nAlarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,\nWhose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.\nWith Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design\nMoves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,\nHear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear\nThy very stones prate of my whereabout,\nAnd take the present horror from the time,\nWhich now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives:\nWords to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.\n[A bell rings]\nI go, and it is done; the bell invites me.\nHear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell\nThat summons thee to heaven or to hell.


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That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold;\nWhat hath quench'd them hath given me fire.\nHark! Peace!\nIt was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,\nWhich gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it:\nThe doors are open; and the surfeited grooms\nDo mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd\ntheir possets,\nThat death and nature do contend about them,\nWhether they live or die.


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Alack, I am afraid they have awaked,\nAnd 'tis not done. The attempt and not the deed\nConfounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready;\nHe could not miss 'em. Had he not resembled\nMy father as he slept, I had done't.\n[Enter MACBETH]\nMy husband!


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There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried\n'Murder!'\nThat they did wake each other: I stood and heard them:\nBut they did say their prayers, and address'd them\nAgain to sleep.


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One cried 'God bless us!' and 'Amen' the other;\nAs they had seen me with these hangman's hands.\nListening their fear, I could not say 'Amen,'\nWhen they did say 'God bless us!'


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But wherefore could not I pronounce 'Amen'?\nI had most need of blessing, and 'Amen'\nStuck in my throat.


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Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!\nMacbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep,\nSleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,\nThe death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,\nBalm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,\nChief nourisher in life's feast,--


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Still it cried 'Sleep no more!' to all the house:\n'Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor\nShall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more.'


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Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,\nYou do unbend your noble strength, to think\nSo brainsickly of things. Go get some water,\nAnd wash this filthy witness from your hand.\nWhy did you bring these daggers from the place?\nThey must lie there: go carry them; and smear\nThe sleepy grooms with blood.


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Infirm of purpose!\nGive me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead\nAre but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood\nThat fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,\nI'll gild the faces of the grooms withal;\nFor it must seem their guilt.


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Whence is that knocking?\nHow is't with me, when every noise appals me?\nWhat hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes.\nWill all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood\nClean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather\nThe multitudinous seas in incarnadine,\nMaking the green one red.


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My hands are of your colour; but I shame\nTo wear a heart so white.\n[Knocking within]\nI hear a knocking\nAt the south entry: retire we to our chamber;\nA little water clears us of this deed:\nHow easy is it, then! Your constancy\nHath left you unattended.\n[Knocking within]\nHark! more knocking.\nGet on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,\nAnd show us to be watchers. Be not lost\nSo poorly in your thoughts.


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To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself.\n[Knocking within]\nWake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!


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Here's a knocking indeed! If a\nman were porter of hell-gate, he should have\nold turning the key.\n[Knocking within]\nKnock,\nknock, knock! Who's there, i' the name of\nBeelzebub? Here's a farmer, that hanged\nhimself on the expectation of plenty: come in\ntime; have napkins enow about you; here\nyou'll sweat for't.\n[Knocking within]\nKnock,\nknock! Who's there, in the other devil's\nname? Faith, here's an equivocator, that could\nswear in both the scales against either scale;\nwho committed treason enough for God's sake,\nyet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come\nin, equivocator.\n[Knocking within]\nKnock,\nknock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an\nEnglish tailor come hither, for stealing out of\na French hose: come in, tailor; here you may\nroast your goose.\n[Knocking within]\nKnock,\nknock; never at quiet! What are you? But\nthis place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter\nit no further: I had thought to have let in\nsome of all professions that go the primrose\nway to the everlasting bonfire.\n[Knocking within]\nAnon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter.


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'Faith sir, we were carousing till the\nsecond cock: and drink, sir, is a great\nprovoker of three things.


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Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and\nurine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes;\nit provokes the desire, but it takes\naway the performance: therefore, much drink\nmay be said to be an equivocator with lechery:\nit makes him, and it mars him; it sets\nhim on, and it takes him off; it persuades him,\nand disheartens him; makes him stand to, and\nnot stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him\nin a sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him.


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That it did, sir, i' the very throat on\nme: but I requited him for his lie; and, I\nthink, being too strong for him, though he took\nup my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast\nhim.


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The night has been unruly: where we lay,\nOur chimneys were blown down; and, as they say,\nLamentings heard i' the air; strange screams of death,\nAnd prophesying with accents terrible\nOf dire combustion and confused events\nNew hatch'd to the woeful time: the obscure bird\nClamour'd the livelong night: some say, the earth\nWas feverous and did shake.


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Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!\nMost sacrilegious murder hath broke ope\nThe Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence\nThe life o' the building!


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Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight\nWith a new Gorgon: do not bid me speak;\nSee, and then speak yourselves.\n[Exeunt MACBETH and LENNOX]\nAwake, awake!\nRing the alarum-bell. Murder and treason!\nBanquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake!\nShake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit,\nAnd look on death itself! up, up, and see\nThe great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo!\nAs from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites,\nTo countenance this horror! Ring the bell.


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What's the business,\nThat such a hideous trumpet calls to parley\nThe sleepers of the house? speak, speak!


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O gentle lady,\n'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak:\nThe repetition, in a woman's ear,\nWould murder as it fell.\n[Enter BANQUO]\nO Banquo, Banquo,\nOur royal master 's murder'd!


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Had I but died an hour before this chance,\nI had lived a blessed time; for, from this instant,\nThere 's nothing serious in mortality:\nAll is but toys: renown and grace is dead;\nThe wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees\nIs left this vault to brag of.


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You are, and do not know't:\nThe spring, the head, the fountain of your blood\nIs stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd.


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Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done 't:\nTheir hands and faces were an badged with blood;\nSo were their daggers, which unwiped we found\nUpon their pillows:\nThey stared, and were distracted; no man's life\nWas to be trusted with them.


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Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,\nLoyal and neutral, in a moment? No man:\nThe expedition my violent love\nOutrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan,\nHis silver skin laced with his golden blood;\nAnd his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature\nFor ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers,\nSteep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers\nUnmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain,\nThat had a heart to love, and in that heart\nCourage to make 's love known?


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[Aside to MALCOLM] What should be spoken here,\nwhere our fate,\nHid in an auger-hole, may rush, and seize us?\nLet 's away;\nOur tears are not yet brew'd.


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Look to the lady:\n[LADY MACBETH is carried out]\nAnd when we have our naked frailties hid,\nThat suffer in exposure, let us meet,\nAnd question this most bloody piece of work,\nTo know it further. Fears and scruples shake us:\nIn the great hand of God I stand; and thence\nAgainst the undivulged pretence I fight\nOf treasonous malice.


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What will you do? Let's not consort with them:\nTo show an unfelt sorrow is an office\nWhich the false man does easy. I'll to England.


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To Ireland, I; our separated fortune\nShall keep us both the safer: where we are,\nThere's daggers in men's smiles: the near in blood,\nThe nearer bloody.


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This murderous shaft that's shot\nHath not yet lighted, and our safest way\nIs to avoid the aim. Therefore, to horse;\nAnd let us not be dainty of leave-taking,\nBut shift away: there's warrant in that theft\nWhich steals itself, when there's no mercy left.


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Threescore and ten I can remember well:\nWithin the volume of which time I have seen\nHours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night\nHath trifled former knowings.


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Ah, good father,\nThou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man's act,\nThreaten his bloody stage: by the clock, 'tis day,\nAnd yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp:\nIs't night's predominance, or the day's shame,\nThat darkness does the face of earth entomb,\nWhen living light should kiss it?


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'Tis unnatural,\nEven like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last,\nA falcon, towering in her pride of place,\nWas by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd.


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And Duncan's horses--a thing most strange and certain--\nBeauteous and swift, the minions of their race,\nTurn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out,\nContending 'gainst obedience, as they would make\nWar with mankind.


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They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes\nThat look'd upon't. Here comes the good Macduff.\n[Enter MACDUFF]\nHow goes the world, sir, now?


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They were suborn'd:\nMalcolm and Donalbain, the king's two sons,\nAre stol'n away and fled; which puts upon them\nSuspicion of the deed.


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'Gainst nature still!\nThriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up\nThine own life's means! Then 'tis most like\nThe sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth.


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Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all,\nAs the weird women promised, and, I fear,\nThou play'dst most foully for't: yet it was said\nIt should not stand in thy posterity,\nBut that myself should be the root and father\nOf many kings. If there come truth from them--\nAs upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine--\nWhy, by the verities on thee made good,\nMay they not be my oracles as well,\nAnd set me up in hope? But hush! no more.\n[Sennet sounded. Enter MACBETH, as king, LADY]\nMACBETH, as queen, LENNOX, ROSS, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants]


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Let your highness\nCommand upon me; to the which my duties\nAre with a most indissoluble tie\nFor ever knit.


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We should have else desired your good advice,\nWhich still hath been both grave and prosperous,\nIn this day's council; but we'll take to-morrow.\nIs't far you ride?


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As far, my lord, as will fill up the time\n'Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better,\nI must become a borrower of the night\nFor a dark hour or twain.


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We hear, our bloody cousins are bestow'd\nIn England and in Ireland, not confessing\nTheir cruel parricide, filling their hearers\nWith strange invention: but of that to-morrow,\nWhen therewithal we shall have cause of state\nCraving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu,\nTill you return at night. Goes Fleance with you?


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I wish your horses swift and sure of foot;\nAnd so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell.\n[Exit BANQUO]\nLet every man be master of his time\nTill seven at night: to make society\nThe sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself\nTill supper-time alone: while then, God be with you!\n[Exeunt all but MACBETH, and an attendant]\nSirrah, a word with you: attend those men\nOur pleasure?


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Bring them before us.\n[Exit Attendant]\nTo be thus is nothing;\nBut to be safely thus.--Our fears in Banquo\nStick deep; and in his royalty of nature\nReigns that which would be fear'd: 'tis much he dares;\nAnd, to that dauntless temper of his mind,\nHe hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour\nTo act in safety. There is none but he\nWhose being I do fear: and, under him,\nMy Genius is rebuked; as, it is said,\nMark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters\nWhen first they put the name of king upon me,\nAnd bade them speak to him: then prophet-like\nThey hail'd him father to a line of kings:\nUpon my head they placed a fruitless crown,\nAnd put a barren sceptre in my gripe,\nThence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,\nNo son of mine succeeding. If 't be so,\nFor Banquo's issue have I filed my mind;\nFor them the gracious Duncan have I murder'd;\nPut rancours in the vessel of my peace\nOnly for them; and mine eternal jewel\nGiven to the common enemy of man,\nTo make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings!\nRather than so, come fate into the list.\nAnd champion me to the utterance! Who's there!\n[Re-enter Attendant, with two Murderers]\nNow go to the door, and stay there till we call.\n[Exit Attendant]\nWas it not yesterday we spoke together?


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Well then, now\nHave you consider'd of my speeches? Know\nThat it was he in the times past which held you\nSo under fortune, which you thought had been\nOur innocent self: this I made good to you\nIn our last conference, pass'd in probation with you,\nHow you were borne in hand, how cross'd,\nthe instruments,\nWho wrought with them, and all things else that might\nTo half a soul and to a notion crazed\nSay 'Thus did Banquo.'


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I did so, and went further, which is now\nOur point of second meeting. Do you find\nYour patience so predominant in your nature\nThat you can let this go? Are you so gospell'd\nTo pray for this good man and for his issue,\nWhose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave\nAnd beggar'd yours for ever?


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Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men;\nAs hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,\nShoughs, water-rugs and demi-wolves, are clept\nAll by the name of dogs: the valued file\nDistinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,\nThe housekeeper, the hunter, every one\nAccording to the gift which bounteous nature\nHath in him closed; whereby he does receive\nParticular addition. from the bill\nThat writes them all alike: and so of men.\nNow, if you have a station in the file,\nNot i' the worst rank of manhood, say 't;\nAnd I will put that business in your bosoms,\nWhose execution takes your enemy off,\nGrapples you to the heart and love of us,\nWho wear our health but sickly in his life,\nWhich in his death were perfect.


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I am one, my liege,\nWhom the vile blows and buffets of the world\nHave so incensed that I am reckless what\nI do to spite the world.


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And I another\nSo weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,\nThat I would set my lie on any chance,\nTo mend it, or be rid on't.


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So is he mine; and in such bloody distance,\nThat every minute of his being thrusts\nAgainst my near'st of life: and though I could\nWith barefaced power sweep him from my sight\nAnd bid my will avouch it, yet I must not,\nFor certain friends that are both his and mine,\nWhose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall\nWho I myself struck down; and thence it is,\nThat I to your assistance do make love,\nMasking the business from the common eye\nFor sundry weighty reasons.


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Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most\nI will advise you where to plant yourselves;\nAcquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time,\nThe moment on't; for't must be done to-night,\nAnd something from the palace; always thought\nThat I require a clearness: and with him--\nTo leave no rubs nor botches in the work--\nFleance his son, that keeps him company,\nWhose absence is no less material to me\nThan is his father's, must embrace the fate\nOf that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart:\nI'll come to you anon.


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I'll call upon you straight: abide within.\n[Exeunt Murderers]\nIt is concluded. Banquo, thy soul's flight,\nIf it find heaven, must find it out to-night.


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Nought's had, all's spent,\nWhere our desire is got without content:\n'Tis safer to be that which we destroy\nThan by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.\n[Enter MACBETH]\nHow now, my lord! why do you keep alone,\nOf sorriest fancies your companions making,\nUsing those thoughts which should indeed have died\nWith them they think on? Things without all remedy\nShould be without regard: what's done is done.


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We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it:\nShe'll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice\nRemains in danger of her former tooth.\nBut let the frame of things disjoint, both the\nworlds suffer,\nEre we will eat our meal in fear and sleep\nIn the affliction of these terrible dreams\nThat shake us nightly: better be with the dead,\nWhom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,\nThan on the torture of the mind to lie\nIn restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave;\nAfter life's fitful fever he sleeps well;\nTreason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,\nMalice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,\nCan touch him further.


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Come on;\nGentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks;\nBe bright and jovial among your guests to-night.


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So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you:\nLet your remembrance apply to Banquo;\nPresent him eminence, both with eye and tongue:\nUnsafe the while, that we\nMust lave our honours in these flattering streams,\nAnd make our faces vizards to our hearts,\nDisguising what they are.


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There's comfort yet; they are assailable;\nThen be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown\nHis cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons\nThe shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums\nHath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done\nA deed of dreadful note.


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Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,\nTill thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,\nScarf up the tender eye of pitiful day;\nAnd with thy bloody and invisible hand\nCancel and tear to pieces that great bond\nWhich keeps me pale! Light thickens; and the crow\nMakes wing to the rooky wood:\nGood things of day begin to droop and drowse;\nWhile night's black agents to their preys do rouse.\nThou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still;\nThings bad begun make strong themselves by ill.\nSo, prithee, go with me.


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He needs not our mistrust, since he delivers\nOur offices and what we have to do\nTo the direction just.


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Then stand with us.\nThe west yet glimmers with some streaks of day:\nNow spurs the lated traveller apace\nTo gain the timely inn; and near approaches\nThe subject of our watch.


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Almost a mile: but he does usually,\nSo all men do, from hence to the palace gate\nMake it their walk.


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Ourself will mingle with society,\nAnd play the humble host.\nOur hostess keeps her state, but in best time\nWe will require her welcome.


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See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.\nBoth sides are even: here I'll sit i' the midst:\nBe large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure\nThe table round.\n[Approaching the door]\nThere's blood on thy face.


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Thou art the best o' the cut-throats: yet he's good\nThat did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it,\nThou art the nonpareil.


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Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect,\nWhole as the marble, founded as the rock,\nAs broad and general as the casing air:\nBut now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, bound in\nTo saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo's safe?


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Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides,\nWith twenty trenched gashes on his head;\nThe least a death to nature.


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Thanks for that:\nThere the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled\nHath nature that in time will venom breed,\nNo teeth for the present. Get thee gone: to-morrow\nWe'll hear, ourselves, again.


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My royal lord,\nYou do not give the cheer: the feast is sold\nThat is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making,\n'Tis given with welcome: to feed were best at home;\nFrom thence the sauce to meat is ceremony;\nMeeting were bare without it.


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Here had we now our country's honour roof'd,\nWere the graced person of our Banquo present;\nWho may I rather challenge for unkindness\nThan pity for mischance!


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His absence, sir,\nLays blame upon his promise. Please't your highness\nTo grace us with your royal company.


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Sit, worthy friends: my lord is often thus,\nAnd hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat;\nThe fit is momentary; upon a thought\nHe will again be well: if much you note him,\nYou shall offend him and extend his passion:\nFeed, and regard him not. Are you a man?


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O proper stuff!\nThis is the very painting of your fear:\nThis is the air-drawn dagger which, you said,\nLed you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts,\nImpostors to true fear, would well become\nA woman's story at a winter's fire,\nAuthorized by her grandam. Shame itself!\nWhy do you make such faces? When all's done,\nYou look but on a stool.


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Prithee, see there! behold! look! lo!\nhow say you?\nWhy, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.\nIf charnel-houses and our graves must send\nThose that we bury back, our monuments\nShall be the maws of kites.


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Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,\nEre human statute purged the gentle weal;\nAy, and since too, murders have been perform'd\nToo terrible for the ear: the times have been,\nThat, when the brains were out, the man would die,\nAnd there an end; but now they rise again,\nWith twenty mortal murders on their crowns,\nAnd push us from our stools: this is more strange\nThan such a murder is.


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I do forget.\nDo not muse at me, my most worthy friends,\nI have a strange infirmity, which is nothing\nTo those that know me. Come, love and health to all;\nThen I'll sit down. Give me some wine; fill full.\nI drink to the general joy o' the whole table,\nAnd to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss;\nWould he were here! to all, and him, we thirst,\nAnd all to all.


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Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!\nThy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;\nThou hast no speculation in those eyes\nWhich thou dost glare with!


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Think of this, good peers,\nBut as a thing of custom: 'tis no other;\nOnly it spoils the pleasure of the time.


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What man dare, I dare:\nApproach thou like the rugged Russian bear,\nThe arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;\nTake any shape but that, and my firm nerves\nShall never tremble: or be alive again,\nAnd dare me to the desert with thy sword;\nIf trembling I inhabit then, protest me\nThe baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!\nUnreal mockery, hence!\n[GHOST OF BANQUO vanishes]\nWhy, so: being gone,\nI am a man again. Pray you, sit still.


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Can such things be,\nAnd overcome us like a summer's cloud,\nWithout our special wonder? You make me strange\nEven to the disposition that I owe,\nWhen now I think you can behold such sights,\nAnd keep the natural ruby of your cheeks,\nWhen mine is blanched with fear.


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I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse;\nQuestion enrages him. At once, good night:\nStand not upon the order of your going,\nBut go at once.


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It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood:\nStones have been known to move and trees to speak;\nAugurs and understood relations have\nBy magot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth\nThe secret'st man of blood. What is the night?


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I hear it by the way; but I will send:\nThere's not a one of them but in his house\nI keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow,\nAnd betimes I will, to the weird sisters:\nMore shall they speak; for now I am bent to know,\nBy the worst means, the worst. For mine own good,\nAll causes shall give way: I am in blood\nStepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,\nReturning were as tedious as go o'er:\nStrange things I have in head, that will to hand;\nWhich must be acted ere they may be scann'd.


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Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse\nIs the initiate fear that wants hard use:\nWe are yet but young in deed.


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Have I not reason, beldams as you are,\nSaucy and overbold? How did you dare\nTo trade and traffic with Macbeth\nIn riddles and affairs of death;\nAnd I, the mistress of your charms,\nThe close contriver of all harms,\nWas never call'd to bear my part,\nOr show the glory of our art?\nAnd, which is worse, all you have done\nHath been but for a wayward son,\nSpiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,\nLoves for his own ends, not for you.\nBut make amends now: get you gone,\nAnd at the pit of Acheron\nMeet me i' the morning: thither he\nWill come to know his destiny:\nYour vessels and your spells provide,\nYour charms and every thing beside.\nI am for the air; this night I'll spend\nUnto a dismal and a fatal end:\nGreat business must be wrought ere noon:\nUpon the corner of the moon\nThere hangs a vaporous drop profound;\nI'll catch it ere it come to ground:\nAnd that distill'd by magic sleights\nShall raise such artificial sprites\nAs by the strength of their illusion\nShall draw him on to his confusion:\nHe shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear\nHe hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear:\nAnd you all know, security\nIs mortals' chiefest enemy.\n[Music and a song within: 'Come away, come away,' &c]\nHark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see,\nSits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me.


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My former speeches have but hit your thoughts,\nWhich can interpret further: only, I say,\nThings have been strangely borne. The\ngracious Duncan\nWas pitied of Macbeth: marry, he was dead:\nAnd the right-valiant Banquo walk'd too late;\nWhom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd,\nFor Fleance fled: men must not walk too late.\nWho cannot want the thought how monstrous\nIt was for Malcolm and for Donalbain\nTo kill their gracious father? damned fact!\nHow it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight\nIn pious rage the two delinquents tear,\nThat were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep?\nWas not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too;\nFor 'twould have anger'd any heart alive\nTo hear the men deny't. So that, I say,\nHe has borne all things well: and I do think\nThat had he Duncan's sons under his key--\nAs, an't please heaven, he shall not--they\nshould find\nWhat 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance.\nBut, peace! for from broad words and 'cause he fail'd\nHis presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear\nMacduff lives in disgrace: sir, can you tell\nWhere he bestows himself?


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The son of Duncan,\nFrom whom this tyrant holds the due of birth\nLives in the English court, and is received\nOf the most pious Edward with such grace\nThat the malevolence of fortune nothing\nTakes from his high respect: thither Macduff\nIs gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid\nTo wake Northumberland and warlike Siward:\nThat, by the help of these--with Him above\nTo ratify the work--we may again\nGive to our tables meat, sleep to our nights,\nFree from our feasts and banquets bloody knives,\nDo faithful homage and receive free honours:\nAll which we pine for now: and this report\nHath so exasperate the king that he\nPrepares for some attempt of war.


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He did: and with an absolute 'Sir, not I,'\nThe cloudy messenger turns me his back,\nAnd hums, as who should say 'You'll rue the time\nThat clogs me with this answer.'


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And that well might\nAdvise him to a caution, to hold what distance\nHis wisdom can provide. Some holy angel\nFly to the court of England and unfold\nHis message ere he come, that a swift blessing\nMay soon return to this our suffering country\nUnder a hand accursed!


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Round about the cauldron go;\nIn the poison'd entrails throw.\nToad, that under cold stone\nDays and nights has thirty-one\nSwelter'd venom sleeping got,\nBoil thou first i' the charmed pot.


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Fillet of a fenny snake,\nIn the cauldron boil and bake;\nEye of newt and toe of frog,\nWool of bat and tongue of dog,\nAdder's fork and blind-worm's sting,\nLizard's leg and owlet's wing,\nFor a charm of powerful trouble,\nLike a hell-broth boil and bubble.


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Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,\nWitches' mummy, maw and gulf\nOf the ravin'd salt-sea shark,\nRoot of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,\nLiver of blaspheming Jew,\nGall of goat, and slips of yew\nSilver'd in the moon's eclipse,\nNose of Turk and Tartar's lips,\nFinger of birth-strangled babe\nDitch-deliver'd by a drab,\nMake the gruel thick and slab:\nAdd thereto a tiger's chaudron,\nFor the ingredients of our cauldron.


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O well done! I commend your pains;\nAnd every one shall share i' the gains;\nAnd now about the cauldron sing,\nLive elves and fairies in a ring,\nEnchanting all that you put in.


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I conjure you, by that which you profess,\nHowe'er you come to know it, answer me:\nThough you untie the winds and let them fight\nAgainst the churches; though the yesty waves\nConfound and swallow navigation up;\nThough bladed corn be lodged and trees blown down;\nThough castles topple on their warders' heads;\nThough palaces and pyramids do slope\nTheir heads to their foundations; though the treasure\nOf nature's germens tumble all together,\nEven till destruction sicken; answer me\nTo what I ask you.


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Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten\nHer nine farrow; grease that's sweaten\nFrom the murderer's gibbet throw\nInto the flame.


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Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks;\nThou hast harp'd my fear aright: but one\nword more,--


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Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn\nThe power of man, for none of woman born\nShall harm Macbeth.


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Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee?\nBut yet I'll make assurance double sure,\nAnd take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live;\nThat I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,\nAnd sleep in spite of thunder.\n[Thunder. Third Apparition: a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand]\nWhat is this\nThat rises like the issue of a king,\nAnd wears upon his baby-brow the round\nAnd top of sovereignty?


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Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care\nWho chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are:\nMacbeth shall never vanquish'd be until\nGreat Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill\nShall come against him.


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That will never be\nWho can impress the forest, bid the tree\nUnfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements! good!\nRebellion's head, rise never till the wood\nOf Birnam rise, and our high-placed Macbeth\nShall live the lease of nature, pay his breath\nTo time and mortal custom. Yet my heart\nThrobs to know one thing: tell me, if your art\nCan tell so much: shall Banquo's issue ever\nReign in this kingdom?


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I will be satisfied: deny me this,\nAnd an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know.\nWhy sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this?


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Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;\nCome like shadows, so depart!\n[A show of Eight Kings, the last with a glass in]\nhis hand; GHOST OF BANQUO following]


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Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo: down!\nThy crown does sear mine eye-balls. And thy hair,\nThou other gold-bound brow, is like the first.\nA third is like the former. Filthy hags!\nWhy do you show me this? A fourth! Start, eyes!\nWhat, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?\nAnother yet! A seventh! I'll see no more:\nAnd yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass\nWhich shows me many more; and some I see\nThat two-fold balls and treble scepters carry:\nHorrible sight! Now, I see, 'tis true;\nFor the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me,\nAnd points at them for his.\n[Apparitions vanish]\nWhat, is this so?


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Ay, sir, all this is so: but why\nStands Macbeth thus amazedly?\nCome, sisters, cheer we up his sprites,\nAnd show the best of our delights:\nI'll charm the air to give a sound,\nWhile you perform your antic round:\nThat this great king may kindly say,\nOur duties did his welcome pay.


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Where are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour\nStand aye accursed in the calendar!\nCome in, without there!


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Infected be the air whereon they ride;\nAnd damn'd all those that trust them! I did hear\nThe galloping of horse: who was't came by?


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Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits:\nThe flighty purpose never is o'ertook\nUnless the deed go with it; from this moment\nThe very firstlings of my heart shall be\nThe firstlings of my hand. And even now,\nTo crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done:\nThe castle of Macduff I will surprise;\nSeize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword\nHis wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls\nThat trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool;\nThis deed I'll do before this purpose cool.\nBut no more sights!--Where are these gentlemen?\nCome, bring me where they are.


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Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes,\nHis mansion and his titles in a place\nFrom whence himself does fly? He loves us not;\nHe wants the natural touch: for the poor wren,\nThe most diminutive of birds, will fight,\nHer young ones in her nest, against the owl.\nAll is the fear and nothing is the love;\nAs little is the wisdom, where the flight\nSo runs against all reason.


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My dearest coz,\nI pray you, school yourself: but for your husband,\nHe is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows\nThe fits o' the season. I dare not speak\nmuch further;\nBut cruel are the times, when we are traitors\nAnd do not know ourselves, when we hold rumour\nFrom what we fear, yet know not what we fear,\nBut float upon a wild and violent sea\nEach way and move. I take my leave of you:\nShall not be long but I'll be here again:\nThings at the worst will cease, or else climb upward\nTo what they were before. My pretty cousin,\nBlessing upon you!


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I am so much a fool, should I stay longer,\nIt would be my disgrace and your discomfort:\nI take my leave at once.


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Then the liars and swearers are fools,\nfor there are liars and swearers enow to beat\nthe honest men and hang up them.


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If he were dead, you'ld weep for\nhim: if you would not, it were a good sign\nthat I should quickly have a new father.


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Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known,\nThough in your state of honour I am perfect.\nI doubt some danger does approach you nearly:\nIf you will take a homely man's advice,\nBe not found here; hence, with your little ones.\nTo fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage;\nTo do worse to you were fell cruelty,\nWhich is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you!\nI dare abide no longer.


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Whither should I fly?\nI have done no harm. But I remember now\nI am in this earthly world; where to do harm\nIs often laudable, to do good sometime\nAccounted dangerous folly: why then, alas,\nDo I put up that womanly defence,\nTo say I have done no harm?\n[Enter Murderers]\nWhat are these faces?


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He has kill'd me, mother:\nRun away, I pray you!\n[Dies]\n[Exit LADY MACDUFF, crying 'Murder!' Exeunt]\nMurderers, following her]


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Let us rather\nHold fast the mortal sword, and like good men\nBestride our down-fall'n birthdom: each new morn\nNew widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows\nStrike heaven on the face, that it resounds\nAs if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out\nLike syllable of dolour.


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What I believe I'll wail,\nWhat know believe, and what I can redress,\nAs I shall find the time to friend, I will.\nWhat you have spoke, it may be so perchance.\nThis tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,\nWas once thought honest: you have loved him well.\nHe hath not touch'd you yet. I am young;\nbut something\nYou may deserve of him through me, and wisdom\nTo offer up a weak poor innocent lamb\nTo appease an angry god.


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But Macbeth is.\nA good and virtuous nature may recoil\nIn an imperial charge. But I shall crave\nyour pardon;\nThat which you are my thoughts cannot transpose:\nAngels are bright still, though the brightest fell;\nThough all things foul would wear the brows of grace,\nYet grace must still look so.


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Perchance even there where I did find my doubts.\nWhy in that rawness left you wife and child,\nThose precious motives, those strong knots of love,\nWithout leave-taking? I pray you,\nLet not my jealousies be your dishonours,\nBut mine own safeties. You may be rightly just,\nWhatever I shall think.


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Bleed, bleed, poor country!\nGreat tyranny! lay thou thy basis sure,\nFor goodness dare not cheque thee: wear thou\nthy wrongs;\nThe title is affeer'd! Fare thee well, lord:\nI would not be the villain that thou think'st\nFor the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp,\nAnd the rich East to boot.


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Be not offended:\nI speak not as in absolute fear of you.\nI think our country sinks beneath the yoke;\nIt weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash\nIs added to her wounds: I think withal\nThere would be hands uplifted in my right;\nAnd here from gracious England have I offer\nOf goodly thousands: but, for all this,\nWhen I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,\nOr wear it on my sword, yet my poor country\nShall have more vices than it had before,\nMore suffer and more sundry ways than ever,\nBy him that shall succeed.


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It is myself I mean: in whom I know\nAll the particulars of vice so grafted\nThat, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth\nWill seem as pure as snow, and the poor state\nEsteem him as a lamb, being compared\nWith my confineless harms.


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I grant him bloody,\nLuxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,\nSudden, malicious, smacking of every sin\nThat has a name: but there's no bottom, none,\nIn my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters,\nYour matrons and your maids, could not fill up\nThe cistern of my lust, and my desire\nAll continent impediments would o'erbear\nThat did oppose my will: better Macbeth\nThan such an one to reign.


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Boundless intemperance\nIn nature is a tyranny; it hath been\nThe untimely emptying of the happy throne\nAnd fall of many kings. But fear not yet\nTo take upon you what is yours: you may\nConvey your pleasures in a spacious plenty,\nAnd yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink.\nWe have willing dames enough: there cannot be\nThat vulture in you, to devour so many\nAs will to greatness dedicate themselves,\nFinding it so inclined.


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With this there grows\nIn my most ill-composed affection such\nA stanchless avarice that, were I king,\nI should cut off the nobles for their lands,\nDesire his jewels and this other's house:\nAnd my more-having would be as a sauce\nTo make me hunger more; that I should forge\nQuarrels unjust against the good and loyal,\nDestroying them for wealth.


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This avarice\nSticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root\nThan summer-seeming lust, and it hath been\nThe sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear;\nScotland hath foisons to fill up your will.\nOf your mere own: all these are portable,\nWith other graces weigh'd.


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But I have none: the king-becoming graces,\nAs justice, verity, temperance, stableness,\nBounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,\nDevotion, patience, courage, fortitude,\nI have no relish of them, but abound\nIn the division of each several crime,\nActing it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should\nPour the sweet milk of concord into hell,\nUproar the universal peace, confound\nAll unity on earth.


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Fit to govern!\nNo, not to live. O nation miserable,\nWith an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd,\nWhen shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,\nSince that the truest issue of thy throne\nBy his own interdiction stands accursed,\nAnd does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father\nWas a most sainted king: the queen that bore thee,\nOftener upon her knees than on her feet,\nDied every day she lived. Fare thee well!\nThese evils thou repeat'st upon thyself\nHave banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast,\nThy hope ends here!


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Macduff, this noble passion,\nChild of integrity, hath from my soul\nWiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts\nTo thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth\nBy many of these trains hath sought to win me\nInto his power, and modest wisdom plucks me\nFrom over-credulous haste: but God above\nDeal between thee and me! for even now\nI put myself to thy direction, and\nUnspeak mine own detraction, here abjure\nThe taints and blames I laid upon myself,\nFor strangers to my nature. I am yet\nUnknown to woman, never was forsworn,\nScarcely have coveted what was mine own,\nAt no time broke my faith, would not betray\nThe devil to his fellow and delight\nNo less in truth than life: my first false speaking\nWas this upon myself: what I am truly,\nIs thine and my poor country's to command:\nWhither indeed, before thy here-approach,\nOld Siward, with ten thousand warlike men,\nAlready at a point, was setting forth.\nNow we'll together; and the chance of goodness\nBe like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?


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Ay, sir; there are a crew of wretched souls\nThat stay his cure: their malady convinces\nThe great assay of art; but at his touch--\nSuch sanctity hath heaven given his hand--\nThey presently amend.


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'Tis call'd the evil:\nA most miraculous work in this good king;\nWhich often, since my here-remain in England,\nI have seen him do. How he solicits heaven,\nHimself best knows: but strangely-visited people,\nAll swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,\nThe mere despair of surgery, he cures,\nHanging a golden stamp about their necks,\nPut on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken,\nTo the succeeding royalty he leaves\nThe healing benediction. With this strange virtue,\nHe hath a heavenly gift of prophecy,\nAnd sundry blessings hang about his throne,\nThat speak him full of grace.


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Alas, poor country!\nAlmost afraid to know itself. It cannot\nBe call'd our mother, but our grave; where nothing,\nBut who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;\nWhere sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air\nAre made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems\nA modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell\nIs there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives\nExpire before the flowers in their caps,\nDying or ere they sicken.


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When I came hither to transport the tidings,\nWhich I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour\nOf many worthy fellows that were out;\nWhich was to my belief witness'd the rather,\nFor that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot:\nNow is the time of help; your eye in Scotland\nWould create soldiers, make our women fight,\nTo doff their dire distresses.


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Be't their comfort\nWe are coming thither: gracious England hath\nLent us good Siward and ten thousand men;\nAn older and a better soldier none\nThat Christendom gives out.


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Would I could answer\nThis comfort with the like! But I have words\nThat would be howl'd out in the desert air,\nWhere hearing should not latch them.


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Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,\nWhich shall possess them with the heaviest sound\nThat ever yet they heard.


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Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes\nSavagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,\nWere, on the quarry of these murder'd deer,\nTo add the death of you.


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Merciful heaven!\nWhat, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;\nGive sorrow words: the grief that does not speak\nWhispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.


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He has no children. All my pretty ones?\nDid you say all? O hell-kite! All?\nWhat, all my pretty chickens and their dam\nAt one fell swoop?


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I shall do so;\nBut I must also feel it as a man:\nI cannot but remember such things were,\nThat were most precious to me. Did heaven look on,\nAnd would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,\nThey were all struck for thee! naught that I am,\nNot for their own demerits, but for mine,\nFell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now!


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O, I could play the woman with mine eyes\nAnd braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens,\nCut short all intermission; front to front\nBring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;\nWithin my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,\nHeaven forgive him too!


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This tune goes manly.\nCome, go we to the king; our power is ready;\nOur lack is nothing but our leave; Macbeth\nIs ripe for shaking, and the powers above\nPut on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may:\nThe night is long that never finds the day.


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I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive\nno truth in your report. When was it she last walked?


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Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen\nher rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon\nher, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it,\nwrite upon't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again\nreturn to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.


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A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once\nthe benefit of sleep, and do the effects of\nwatching! In this slumbery agitation, besides her\nwalking and other actual performances, what, at any\ntime, have you heard her say?


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Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to\nconfirm my speech.\n[Enter LADY MACBETH, with a taper]\nLo you, here she comes! This is her very guise;\nand, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.


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It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus\nwashing her hands: I have known her continue in\nthis a quarter of an hour.


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Hark! she speaks: I will set down what comes from\nher, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.


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Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One: two: why,\nthen, 'tis time to do't.--Hell is murky!--Fie, my\nlord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we\nfear who knows it, when none can call our power to\naccount?--Yet who would have thought the old man\nto have had so much blood in him.


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The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?--\nWhat, will these hands ne'er be clean?--No more o'\nthat, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with\nthis starting.


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Here's the smell of the blood still: all the\nperfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little\nhand. Oh, oh, oh!


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This disease is beyond my practise: yet I have known\nthose which have walked in their sleep who have died\nholily in their beds.


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Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so\npale.--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he\ncannot come out on's grave.


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To bed, to bed! there's knocking at the gate:\ncome, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's\ndone cannot be undone.--To bed, to bed, to bed!


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Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds\nDo breed unnatural troubles: infected minds\nTo their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets:\nMore needs she the divine than the physician.\nGod, God forgive us all! Look after her;\nRemove from her the means of all annoyance,\nAnd still keep eyes upon her. So, good night:\nMy mind she has mated, and amazed my sight.\nI think, but dare not speak.


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The English power is near, led on by Malcolm,\nHis uncle Siward and the good Macduff:\nRevenges burn in them; for their dear causes\nWould to the bleeding and the grim alarm\nExcite the mortified man.


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For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file\nOf all the gentry: there is Siward's son,\nAnd many unrough youths that even now\nProtest their first of manhood.


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Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies:\nSome say he's mad; others that lesser hate him\nDo call it valiant fury: but, for certain,\nHe cannot buckle his distemper'd cause\nWithin the belt of rule.


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Now does he feel\nHis secret murders sticking on his hands;\nNow minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;\nThose he commands move only in command,\nNothing in love: now does he feel his title\nHang loose about him, like a giant's robe\nUpon a dwarfish thief.


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Who then shall blame\nHis pester'd senses to recoil and start,\nWhen all that is within him does condemn\nItself for being there?


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Well, march we on,\nTo give obedience where 'tis truly owed:\nMeet we the medicine of the sickly weal,\nAnd with him pour we in our country's purge\nEach drop of us.


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Or so much as it needs,\nTo dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds.\nMake we our march towards Birnam.


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Bring me no more reports; let them fly all:\nTill Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane,\nI cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm?\nWas he not born of woman? The spirits that know\nAll mortal consequences have pronounced me thus:\n'Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman\nShall e'er have power upon thee.' Then fly,\nfalse thanes,\nAnd mingle with the English epicures:\nThe mind I sway by and the heart I bear\nShall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.\n[Enter a Servant]\nThe devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!\nWhere got'st thou that goose look?


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Go prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,\nThou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch?\nDeath of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine\nAre counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?


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Take thy face hence.\n[Exit Servant]\nSeyton!--I am sick at heart,\nWhen I behold--Seyton, I say!--This push\nWill cheer me ever, or disseat me now.\nI have lived long enough: my way of life\nIs fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf;\nAnd that which should accompany old age,\nAs honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,\nI must not look to have; but, in their stead,\nCurses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,\nWhich the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!


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I'll put it on.\nSend out more horses; skirr the country round;\nHang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.\nHow does your patient, doctor?


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Cure her of that.\nCanst thou not minister to a mind diseased,\nPluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,\nRaze out the written troubles of the brain\nAnd with some sweet oblivious antidote\nCleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff\nWhich weighs upon the heart?


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Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it.\nCome, put mine armour on; give me my staff.\nSeyton, send out. Doctor, the thanes fly from me.\nCome, sir, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, cast\nThe water of my land, find her disease,\nAnd purge it to a sound and pristine health,\nI would applaud thee to the very echo,\nThat should applaud again.--Pull't off, I say.--\nWhat rhubarb, cyme, or what purgative drug,\nWould scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them?


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[Exeunt]\n[Drum and colours. Enter MALCOLM, SIWARD and YOUNG]\nSIWARD, MACDUFF, MENTEITH, CAITHNESS, ANGUS,\nLENNOX, ROSS, and Soldiers, marching]


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Let every soldier hew him down a bough\nAnd bear't before him: thereby shall we shadow\nThe numbers of our host and make discovery\nErr in report of us.


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We learn no other but the confident tyrant\nKeeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure\nOur setting down before 't.


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'Tis his main hope:\nFor where there is advantage to be given,\nBoth more and less have given him the revolt,\nAnd none serve with him but constrained things\nWhose hearts are absent too.


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The time approaches\nThat will with due decision make us know\nWhat we shall say we have and what we owe.\nThoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate,\nBut certain issue strokes must arbitrate:\nTowards which advance the war.


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Hang out our banners on the outward walls;\nThe cry is still 'They come:' our castle's strength\nWill laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie\nTill famine and the ague eat them up:\nWere they not forced with those that should be ours,\nWe might have met them dareful, beard to beard,\nAnd beat them backward home.\n[A cry of women within]\nWhat is that noise?


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I have almost forgot the taste of fears;\nThe time has been, my senses would have cool'd\nTo hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair\nWould at a dismal treatise rouse and stir\nAs life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors;\nDireness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts\nCannot once start me.\n[Re-enter SEYTON]\nWherefore was that cry?


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She should have died hereafter;\nThere would have been a time for such a word.\nTo-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,\nCreeps in this petty pace from day to day\nTo the last syllable of recorded time,\nAnd all our yesterdays have lighted fools\nThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!\nLife's but a walking shadow, a poor player\nThat struts and frets his hour upon the stage\nAnd then is heard no more: it is a tale\nTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,\nSignifying nothing.\n[Enter a Messenger]\nThou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.


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As I did stand my watch upon the hill,\nI look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought,\nThe wood began to move.


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Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so:\nWithin this three mile may you see it coming;\nI say, a moving grove.


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If thou speak'st false,\nUpon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,\nTill famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth,\nI care not if thou dost for me as much.\nI pull in resolution, and begin\nTo doubt the equivocation of the fiend\nThat lies like truth: 'Fear not, till Birnam wood\nDo come to Dunsinane:' and now a wood\nComes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!\nIf this which he avouches does appear,\nThere is nor flying hence nor tarrying here.\nI gin to be aweary of the sun,\nAnd wish the estate o' the world were now undone.\nRing the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack!\nAt least we'll die with harness on our back.


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Now near enough: your leafy screens throw down.\nAnd show like those you are. You, worthy uncle,\nShall, with my cousin, your right-noble son,\nLead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we\nShall take upon 's what else remains to do,\nAccording to our order.


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They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly,\nBut, bear-like, I must fight the course. What's he\nThat was not born of woman? Such a one\nAm I to fear, or none.


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Thou wast born of woman\nBut swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,\nBrandish'd by man that's of a woman born.


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That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face!\nIf thou be'st slain and with no stroke of mine,\nMy wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still.\nI cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms\nAre hired to bear their staves: either thou, Macbeth,\nOr else my sword with an unbatter'd edge\nI sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be;\nBy this great clatter, one of greatest note\nSeems bruited. Let me find him, fortune!\nAnd more I beg not.


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This way, my lord; the castle's gently render'd:\nThe tyrant's people on both sides do fight;\nThe noble thanes do bravely in the war;\nThe day almost itself professes yours,\nAnd little is to do.


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Why should I play the Roman fool, and die\nOn mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes\nDo better upon them.


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Of all men else I have avoided thee:\nBut get thee back; my soul is too much charged\nWith blood of thine already.


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Thou losest labour:\nAs easy mayst thou the intrenchant air\nWith thy keen sword impress as make me bleed:\nLet fall thy blade on vulnerable crests;\nI bear a charmed life, which must not yield,\nTo one of woman born.


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Despair thy charm;\nAnd let the angel whom thou still hast served\nTell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb\nUntimely ripp'd.


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Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,\nFor it hath cow'd my better part of man!\nAnd be these juggling fiends no more believed,\nThat palter with us in a double sense;\nThat keep the word of promise to our ear,\nAnd break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee.


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Then yield thee, coward,\nAnd live to be the show and gaze o' the time:\nWe'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,\nPainted on a pole, and underwrit,\n'Here may you see the tyrant.'


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I will not yield,\nTo kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet,\nAnd to be baited with the rabble's curse.\nThough Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,\nAnd thou opposed, being of no woman born,\nYet I will try the last. Before my body\nI throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,\nAnd damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'\n[Exeunt, fighting. Alarums]\n[Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours,]\nMALCOLM, SIWARD, ROSS, the other Thanes, and Soldiers]


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Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt:\nHe only lived but till he was a man;\nThe which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd\nIn the unshrinking station where he fought,\nBut like a man he died.


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Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow\nMust not be measured by his worth, for then\nIt hath no end.


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Why then, God's soldier be he!\nHad I as many sons as I have hairs,\nI would not wish them to a fairer death:\nAnd so, his knell is knoll'd.


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He's worth no more\nThey say he parted well, and paid his score:\nAnd so, God be with him! Here comes newer comfort.


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Hail, king! for so thou art: behold, where stands\nThe usurper's cursed head: the time is free:\nI see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl,\nThat speak my salutation in their minds;\nWhose voices I desire aloud with mine:\nHail, King of Scotland!


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We shall not spend a large expense of time\nBefore we reckon with your several loves,\nAnd make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen,\nHenceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland\nIn such an honour named. What's more to do,\nWhich would be planted newly with the time,\nAs calling home our exiled friends abroad\nThat fled the snares of watchful tyranny;\nProducing forth the cruel ministers\nOf this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen,\nWho, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands\nTook off her life; this, and what needful else\nThat calls upon us, by the grace of Grace,\nWe will perform in measure, time and place:\nSo, thanks to all at once and to each one,\nWhom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone.


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Of government the properties to unfold,\nWould seem in me to affect speech and discourse;\nSince I am put to know that your own science\nExceeds, in that, the lists of all advice\nMy strength can give you: then no more remains,\nBut that to your sufficiency [--]\n[--] as your Worth is able,]\nAnd let them work. The nature of our people,\nOur city's institutions, and the terms\nFor common justice, you're as pregnant in\nAs art and practise hath enriched any\nThat we remember. There is our commission,\nFrom which we would not have you warp. Call hither,\nI say, bid come before us Angelo.\n[Exit an Attendant]\nWhat figure of us Think you he will bear?\nFor you must know, we have with special soul\nElected him our absence to supply,\nLent him our terror, dress'd him with our love,\nAnd given his deputation all the organs\nOf our own power: what think you of it?


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Angelo,\nThere is a kind of character in thy life,\nThat to the observer doth thy history\nFully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings\nAre not thine own so proper as to waste\nThyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.\nHeaven doth with us as we with torches do,\nNot light them for themselves; for if our virtues\nDid not go forth of us, 'twere all alike\nAs if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd\nBut to fine issues, nor Nature never lends\nThe smallest scruple of her excellence\nBut, like a thrifty goddess, she determines\nHerself the glory of a creditor,\nBoth thanks and use. But I do bend my speech\nTo one that can my part in him advertise;\nHold therefore, Angelo:--\nIn our remove be thou at full ourself;\nMortality and mercy in Vienna\nLive in thy tongue and heart: old Escalus,\nThough first in question, is thy secondary.\nTake thy commission.


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Now, good my lord,\nLet there be some more test made of my metal,\nBefore so noble and so great a figure\nBe stamp'd upon it.


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No more evasion:\nWe have with a leaven'd and prepared choice\nProceeded to you; therefore take your honours.\nOur haste from hence is of so quick condition\nThat it prefers itself and leaves unquestion'd\nMatters of needful value. We shall write to you,\nAs time and our concernings shall importune,\nHow it goes with us, and do look to know\nWhat doth befall you here. So, fare you well;\nTo the hopeful execution do I leave you\nOf your commissions.


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My haste may not admit it;\nNor need you, on mine honour, have to do\nWith any scruple; your scope is as mine own\nSo to enforce or qualify the laws\nAs to your soul seems good. Give me your hand:\nI'll privily away. I love the people,\nBut do not like to stage me to their eyes:\nThrough it do well, I do not relish well\nTheir loud applause and Aves vehement;\nNor do I think the man of safe discretion\nThat does affect it. Once more, fare you well.


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I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave\nTo have free speech with you; and it concerns me\nTo look into the bottom of my place:\nA power I have, but of what strength and nature\nI am not yet instructed.


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'Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together,\nAnd we may soon our satisfaction have\nTouching that point.


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If the duke with the other dukes come not to\ncomposition with the King of Hungary, why then all\nthe dukes fall upon the king.


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Thou concludest like the sanctimonious pirate, that\nwent to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scraped\none out of the table.


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Why, 'twas a commandment to command the captain and\nall the rest from their functions: they put forth\nto steal. There's not a soldier of us all, that, in\nthe thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition\nwell that prays for peace.


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Ay, why not? Grace is grace, despite of all\ncontroversy: as, for example, thou thyself art a\nwicked villain, despite of all grace.


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And thou the velvet: thou art good velvet; thou'rt\na three-piled piece, I warrant thee: I had as lief\nbe a list of an English kersey as be piled, as thou\nart piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak\nfeelingly now?


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I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most painful\nfeeling of thy speech: I will, out of thine own\nconfession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I\nlive, forget to drink after thee.


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Behold, behold. where Madam Mitigation comes! I\nhave purchased as many diseases under her roof as come to--


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Nay, not as one would say, healthy; but so sound as\nthings that are hollow: thy bones are hollow;\nimpiety has made a feast of thee.


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Nay, but I know 'tis so: I saw him arrested, saw\nhim carried away; and, which is more, within these\nthree days his head to be chopped off.


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Believe me, this may be: he promised to meet me two\nhours since, and he was ever precise in\npromise-keeping.


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Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what\nwith the gallows and what with poverty, I am\ncustom-shrunk.\n[Enter POMPEY]\nHow now! what's the news with you?


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Come; fear you not: good counsellors lack no\nclients: though you change your place, you need not\nchange your trade; I'll be your tapster still.\nCourage! there will be pity taken on you: you that\nhave worn your eyes almost out in the service, you\nwill be considered.


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Thus can the demigod Authority\nMake us pay down for our offence by weight\nThe words of heaven; on whom it will, it will;\nOn whom it will not, so; yet still 'tis just.


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From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty:\nAs surfeit is the father of much fast,\nSo every scope by the immoderate use\nTurns to restraint. Our natures do pursue,\nLike rats that ravin down their proper bane,\nA thirsty evil; and when we drink we die.


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If could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would\nsend for certain of my creditors: and yet, to say\nthe truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom\nas the morality of imprisonment. What's thy\noffence, Claudio?


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Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract\nI got possession of Julietta's bed:\nYou know the lady; she is fast my wife,\nSave that we do the denunciation lack\nOf outward order: this we came not to,\nOnly for propagation of a dower\nRemaining in the coffer of her friends,\nFrom whom we thought it meet to hide our love\nTill time had made them for us. But it chances\nThe stealth of our most mutual entertainment\nWith character too gross is writ on Juliet.


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Unhappily, even so.\nAnd the new deputy now for the duke--\nWhether it be the fault and glimpse of newness,\nOr whether that the body public be\nA horse whereon the governor doth ride,\nWho, newly in the seat, that it may know\nHe can command, lets it straight feel the spur;\nWhether the tyranny be in his place,\nOr in his emmence that fills it up,\nI stagger in:--but this new governor\nAwakes me all the enrolled penalties\nWhich have, like unscour'd armour, hung by the wall\nSo long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round\nAnd none of them been worn; and, for a name,\nNow puts the drowsy and neglected act\nFreshly on me: 'tis surely for a name.


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I warrant it is: and thy head stands so tickle on\nthy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love,\nmay sigh it off. Send after the duke and appeal to\nhim.


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I have done so, but he's not to be found.\nI prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service:\nThis day my sister should the cloister enter\nAnd there receive her approbation:\nAcquaint her with the danger of my state:\nImplore her, in my voice, that she make friends\nTo the strict deputy; bid herself assay him:\nI have great hope in that; for in her youth\nThere is a prone and speechless dialect,\nSuch as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art\nWhen she will play with reason and discourse,\nAnd well she can persuade.


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I pray she may; as well for the encouragement of the\nlike, which else would stand under grievous\nimposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I\nwould be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a\ngame of tick-tack. I'll to her.


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No, holy father; throw away that thought;\nBelieve not that the dribbling dart of love\nCan pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee\nTo give me secret harbour, hath a purpose\nMore grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends\nOf burning youth.


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My holy sir, none better knows than you\nHow I have ever loved the life removed\nAnd held in idle price to haunt assemblies\nWhere youth, and cost, and witless bravery keeps.\nI have deliver'd to Lord Angelo,\nA man of stricture and firm abstinence,\nMy absolute power and place here in Vienna,\nAnd he supposes me travell'd to Poland;\nFor so I have strew'd it in the common ear,\nAnd so it is received. Now, pious sir,\nYou will demand of me why I do this?


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We have strict statutes and most biting laws.\nThe needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds,\nWhich for this nineteen years we have let slip;\nEven like an o'ergrown lion in a cave,\nThat goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,\nHaving bound up the threatening twigs of birch,\nOnly to stick it in their children's sight\nFor terror, not to use, in time the rod\nBecomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees,\nDead to infliction, to themselves are dead;\nAnd liberty plucks justice by the nose;\nThe baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart\nGoes all decorum.


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It rested in your grace\nTo unloose this tied-up justice when you pleased:\nAnd it in you more dreadful would have seem'd\nThan in Lord Angelo.


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I do fear, too dreadful:\nSith 'twas my fault to give the people scope,\n'Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them\nFor what I bid them do: for we bid this be done,\nWhen evil deeds have their permissive pass\nAnd not the punishment. Therefore indeed, my father,\nI have on Angelo imposed the office;\nWho may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,\nAnd yet my nature never in the fight\nTo do in slander. And to behold his sway,\nI will, as 'twere a brother of your order,\nVisit both prince and people: therefore, I prithee,\nSupply me with the habit and instruct me\nHow I may formally in person bear me\nLike a true friar. More reasons for this action\nAt our more leisure shall I render you;\nOnly, this one: Lord Angelo is precise;\nStands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses\nThat his blood flows, or that his appetite\nIs more to bread than stone: hence shall we see,\nIf power change purpose, what our seemers be.


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Yes, truly; I speak not as desiring more;\nBut rather wishing a more strict restraint\nUpon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.


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It is a man's voice. Gentle Isabella,\nTurn you the key, and know his business of him;\nYou may, I may not; you are yet unsworn.\nWhen you have vow'd, you must not speak with men\nBut in the presence of the prioress:\nThen, if you speak, you must not show your face,\nOr, if you show your face, you must not speak.\nHe calls again; I pray you, answer him.


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Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses\nProclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me\nAs bring me to the sight of Isabella,\nA novice of this place and the fair sister\nTo her unhappy brother Claudio?


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Why 'her unhappy brother'? let me ask,\nThe rather for I now must make you know\nI am that Isabella and his sister.


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For that which, if myself might be his judge,\nHe should receive his punishment in thanks:\nHe hath got his friend with child.


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It is true.\nI would not--though 'tis my familiar sin\nWith maids to seem the lapwing and to jest,\nTongue far from heart--play with all virgins so:\nI hold you as a thing ensky'd and sainted.\nBy your renouncement an immortal spirit,\nAnd to be talk'd with in sincerity,\nAs with a saint.


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Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, 'tis thus:\nYour brother and his lover have embraced:\nAs those that feed grow full, as blossoming time\nThat from the seedness the bare fallow brings\nTo teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb\nExpresseth his full tilth and husbandry.


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This is the point.\nThe duke is very strangely gone from hence;\nBore many gentlemen, myself being one,\nIn hand and hope of action: but we do learn\nBy those that know the very nerves of state,\nHis givings-out were of an infinite distance\nFrom his true-meant design. Upon his place,\nAnd with full line of his authority,\nGoverns Lord Angelo; a man whose blood\nIs very snow-broth; one who never feels\nThe wanton stings and motions of the sense,\nBut doth rebate and blunt his natural edge\nWith profits of the mind, study and fast.\nHe--to give fear to use and liberty,\nWhich have for long run by the hideous law,\nAs mice by lions--hath pick'd out an act,\nUnder whose heavy sense your brother's life\nFalls into forfeit: he arrests him on it;\nAnd follows close the rigour of the statute,\nTo make him an example. All hope is gone,\nUnless you have the grace by your fair prayer\nTo soften Angelo: and that's my pith of business\n'Twixt you and your poor brother.


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Our doubts are traitors\nAnd make us lose the good we oft might win\nBy fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo,\nAnd let him learn to know, when maidens sue,\nMen give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,\nAll their petitions are as freely theirs\nAs they themselves would owe them.


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I will about it straight;\nNo longer staying but to give the mother\nNotice of my affair. I humbly thank you:\nCommend me to my brother: soon at night\nI'll send him certain word of my success.


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We must not make a scarecrow of the law,\nSetting it up to fear the birds of prey,\nAnd let it keep one shape, till custom make it\nTheir perch and not their terror.


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Ay, but yet\nLet us be keen, and rather cut a little,\nThan fall, and bruise to death. Alas, this gentleman\nWhom I would save, had a most noble father!\nLet but your honour know,\nWhom I believe to be most strait in virtue,\nThat, in the working of your own affections,\nHad time cohered with place or place with wishing,\nOr that the resolute acting of your blood\nCould have attain'd the effect of your own purpose,\nWhether you had not sometime in your life\nErr'd in this point which now you censure him,\nAnd pull'd the law upon you.


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'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,\nAnother thing to fall. I not deny,\nThe jury, passing on the prisoner's life,\nMay in the sworn twelve have a thief or two\nGuiltier than him they try. What's open made to justice,\nThat justice seizes: what know the laws\nThat thieves do pass on thieves? 'Tis very pregnant,\nThe jewel that we find, we stoop and take't\nBecause we see it; but what we do not see\nWe tread upon, and never think of it.\nYou may not so extenuate his offence\nFor I have had such faults; but rather tell me,\nWhen I, that censure him, do so offend,\nLet mine own judgment pattern out my death,\nAnd nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.


plain_text:
See that Claudio\nBe executed by nine to-morrow morning:\nBring him his confessor, let him be prepared;\nFor that's the utmost of his pilgrimage.


plain_text:
[Aside] Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all!\nSome rise by sin, and some by virtue fall:\nSome run from brakes of ice, and answer none:\nAnd some condemned for a fault alone.


plain_text:
Come, bring them away: if these be good people in\na commonweal that do nothing but use their abuses in\ncommon houses, I know no law: bring them away.


plain_text:
If it Please your honour, I am the poor duke's\nconstable, and my name is Elbow: I do lean upon\njustice, sir, and do bring in here before your good\nhonour two notorious benefactors.


plain_text:
If it? please your honour, I know not well what they\nare: but precise villains they are, that I am sure\nof; and void of all profanation in the world that\ngood Christians ought to have.


plain_text:
He, sir! a tapster, sir; parcel-bawd; one that\nserves a bad woman; whose house, sir, was, as they\nsay, plucked down in the suburbs; and now she\nprofesses a hot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house too.


plain_text:
I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as\nshe, that this house, if it be not a bawd's house,\nit is pity of her life, for it is a naughty house.


plain_text:
Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had been a woman\ncardinally given, might have been accused in\nfornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there.


plain_text:
Sir, she came in great with child; and longing,\nsaving your honour's reverence, for stewed prunes;\nsir, we had but two in the house, which at that very\ndistant time stood, as it were, in a fruit-dish, a\ndish of some three-pence; your honours have seen\nsuch dishes; they are not China dishes, but very\ngood dishes,--


plain_text:
No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein in\nthe right: but to the point. As I say, this\nMistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and\nbeing great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for\nprunes; and having but two in the dish, as I said,\nMaster Froth here, this very man, having eaten the\nrest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very\nhonestly; for, as you know, Master Froth, I could\nnot give you three-pence again.


plain_text:
Why, very well; I telling you then, if you be\nremembered, that such a one and such a one were past\ncure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept very\ngood diet, as I told you,--


plain_text:
Come, you are a tedious fool: to the purpose. What\nwas done to Elbow's wife, that he hath cause to\ncomplain of? Come me to what was done to her.


plain_text:
Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour's\nleave. And, I beseech you, look into Master Froth\nhere, sir; a man of four-score pound a year; whose\nfather died at Hallowmas: was't not at Hallowmas,\nMaster Froth?


plain_text:
Why, very well; I hope here be truths. He, sir,\nsitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir; 'twas in\nthe Bunch of Grapes, where indeed you have a delight\nto sit, have you not?


plain_text:
This will last out a night in Russia,\nWhen nights are longest there: I'll take my leave.\nAnd leave you to the hearing of the cause;\nHoping you'll find good cause to whip them all.


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I think no less. Good morrow to your lordship.\n[Exit ANGELO]\nNow, sir, come on: what was done to Elbow's wife, once more?


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I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman's face.\nGood Master Froth, look upon his honour; 'tis for a\ngood purpose. Doth your honour mark his face?


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I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst\nthing about him. Good, then; if his face be the\nworst thing about him, how could Master Froth do the\nconstable's wife any harm? I would know that of\nyour honour.


plain_text:
First, an it like you, the house is a respected\nhouse; next, this is a respected fellow; and his\nmistress is a respected woman.


plain_text:
Varlet, thou liest; thou liest, wicked varlet! the\ntime has yet to come that she was ever respected\nwith man, woman, or child.


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O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked\nHannibal! I respected with her before I was married\nto her! If ever I was respected with her, or she\nwith me, let not your worship think me the poor\nduke's officer. Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or\nI'll have mine action of battery on thee.


plain_text:
Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is't\nyour worship's pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff?


plain_text:
Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in him\nthat thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him\ncontinue in his courses till thou knowest what they\nare.


plain_text:
Marry, I thank your worship for it. Thou seest, thou\nwicked varlet, now, what's come upon thee: thou art\nto continue now, thou varlet; thou art to continue.


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Nine! Come hither to me, Master Froth. Master\nFroth, I would not have you acquainted with\ntapsters: they will draw you, Master Froth, and you\nwill hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no\nmore of you.


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I thank your worship. For mine own part, I never\ncome into any room in a tap-house, but I am drawn\nin.


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Well, no more of it, Master Froth: farewell.\n[Exit FROTH]\nCome you hither to me, Master tapster. What's your\nname, Master tapster?


plain_text:
Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you;\nso that in the beastliest sense you are Pompey the\nGreat. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey,\nhowsoever you colour it in being a tapster, are you\nnot? come, tell me true: it shall be the better for you.


plain_text:
How would you live, Pompey? by being a bawd? What\ndo you think of the trade, Pompey? is it a lawful trade?


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Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will to't then.\nIf your worship will take order for the drabs and\nthe knaves, you need not to fear the bawds.


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If you head and hang all that offend that way but\nfor ten year together, you'll be glad to give out a\ncommission for more heads: if this law hold in\nVienna ten year, I'll rent the fairest house in it\nafter three-pence a bay: if you live to see this\ncome to pass, say Pompey told you so.


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Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital of your\nprophecy, hark you: I advise you, let me not find\nyou before me again upon any complaint whatsoever;\nno, not for dwelling where you do: if I do, Pompey,\nI shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd\nCaesar to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I shall\nhave you whipt: so, for this time, Pompey, fare you well.


plain_text:
I thank your worship for your good counsel:\n[Aside]\nbut I shall follow it as the flesh and fortune shall\nbetter determine.\nWhip me? No, no; let carman whip his jade:\nThe valiant heart is not whipt out of his trade.


plain_text:
Come hither to me, Master Elbow; come hither, Master\nconstable. How long have you been in this place of constable?


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I thought, by your readiness in the office, you had\ncontinued in it some time. You say, seven years together?


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Alas, it hath been great pains to you. They do you\nwrong to put you so oft upon 't: are there not men\nin your ward sufficient to serve it?


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Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters: as they\nare chosen, they are glad to choose me for them; I\ndo it for some piece of money, and go through with\nall.


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It is but needful:\nMercy is not itself, that oft looks so;\nPardon is still the nurse of second woe:\nBut yet,--poor Claudio! There is no remedy.\nCome, sir.


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Pray you, do.\n[Exit Servant]\nI'll know\nHis pleasure; may be he will relent. Alas,\nHe hath but as offended in a dream!\nAll sects, all ages smack of this vice; and he\nTo die for't!


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Lest I might be too rash:\nUnder your good correction, I have seen,\nWhen, after execution, judgment hath\nRepented o'er his doom.


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I crave your honour's pardon.\nWhat shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet?\nShe's very near her hour.


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Well, let her be admitted.\n[Exit Servant]\nSee you the fornicatress be removed:\nLet have needful, but not lavish, means;\nThere shall be order for't.


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There is a vice that most I do abhor,\nAnd most desire should meet the blow of justice;\nFor which I would not plead, but that I must;\nFor which I must not plead, but that I am\nAt war 'twixt will and will not.


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Condemn the fault and not the actor of it?\nWhy, every fault's condemn'd ere it be done:\nMine were the very cipher of a function,\nTo fine the faults whose fine stands in record,\nAnd let go by the actor.


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[Aside to ISABELLA] Give't not o'er so: to him\nagain, entreat him;\nKneel down before him, hang upon his gown:\nYou are too cold; if you should need a pin,\nYou could not with more tame a tongue desire it:\nTo him, I say!


plain_text:
But might you do't, and do the world no wrong,\nIf so your heart were touch'd with that remorse\nAs mine is to him?


plain_text:
Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word.\nMay call it back again. Well, believe this,\nNo ceremony that to great ones 'longs,\nNot the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,\nThe marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,\nBecome them with one half so good a grace\nAs mercy does.\nIf he had been as you and you as he,\nYou would have slipt like him; but he, like you,\nWould not have been so stern.


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I would to heaven I had your potency,\nAnd you were Isabel! should it then be thus?\nNo; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge,\nAnd what a prisoner.


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Alas, alas!\nWhy, all the souls that were were forfeit once;\nAnd He that might the vantage best have took\nFound out the remedy. How would you be,\nIf He, which is the top of judgment, should\nBut judge you as you are? O, think on that;\nAnd mercy then will breathe within your lips,\nLike man new made.


plain_text:
Be you content, fair maid;\nIt is the law, not I condemn your brother:\nWere he my kinsman, brother, or my son,\nIt should be thus with him: he must die tomorrow.


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To-morrow! O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him!\nHe's not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens\nWe kill the fowl of season: shall we serve heaven\nWith less respect than we do minister\nTo our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you;\nWho is it that hath died for this offence?\nThere's many have committed it.


plain_text:
The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept:\nThose many had not dared to do that evil,\nIf the first that did the edict infringe\nHad answer'd for his deed: now 'tis awake\nTakes note of what is done; and, like a prophet,\nLooks in a glass, that shows what future evils,\nEither new, or by remissness new-conceived,\nAnd so in progress to be hatch'd and born,\nAre now to have no successive degrees,\nBut, ere they live, to end.


plain_text:
I show it most of all when I show justice;\nFor then I pity those I do not know,\nWhich a dismiss'd offence would after gall;\nAnd do him right that, answering one foul wrong,\nLives not to act another. Be satisfied;\nYour brother dies to-morrow; be content.


plain_text:
So you must be the first that gives this sentence,\nAnd he, that suffer's. O, it is excellent\nTo have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous\nTo use it like a giant.


plain_text:
Could great men thunder\nAs Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet,\nFor every pelting, petty officer\nWould use his heaven for thunder;\nNothing but thunder! Merciful Heaven,\nThou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt\nSplit'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak\nThan the soft myrtle: but man, proud man,\nDrest in a little brief authority,\nMost ignorant of what he's most assured,\nHis glassy essence, like an angry ape,\nPlays such fantastic tricks before high heaven\nAs make the angels weep; who, with our spleens,\nWould all themselves laugh mortal.


plain_text:
We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:\nGreat men may jest with saints; 'tis wit in them,\nBut in the less foul profanation.


plain_text:
Because authority, though it err like others,\nHath yet a kind of medicine in itself,\nThat skins the vice o' the top. Go to your bosom;\nKnock there, and ask your heart what it doth know\nThat's like my brother's fault: if it confess\nA natural guiltiness such as is his,\nLet it not sound a thought upon your tongue\nAgainst my brother's life.


plain_text:
Not with fond shekels of the tested gold,\nOr stones whose rates are either rich or poor\nAs fancy values them; but with true prayers\nThat shall be up at heaven and enter there\nEre sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls,\nFrom fasting maids whose minds are dedicate\nTo nothing temporal.


plain_text:
From thee, even from thy virtue!\nWhat's this, what's this? Is this her fault or mine?\nThe tempter or the tempted, who sins most?\nHa!\nNot she: nor doth she tempt: but it is I\nThat, lying by the violet in the sun,\nDo as the carrion does, not as the flower,\nCorrupt with virtuous season. Can it be\nThat modesty may more betray our sense\nThan woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough,\nShall we desire to raze the sanctuary\nAnd pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie!\nWhat dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo?\nDost thou desire her foully for those things\nThat make her good? O, let her brother live!\nThieves for their robbery have authority\nWhen judges steal themselves. What, do I love her,\nThat I desire to hear her speak again,\nAnd feast upon her eyes? What is't I dream on?\nO cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint,\nWith saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous\nIs that temptation that doth goad us on\nTo sin in loving virtue: never could the strumpet,\nWith all her double vigour, art and nature,\nOnce stir my temper; but this virtuous maid\nSubdues me quite. Even till now,\nWhen men were fond, I smiled and wonder'd how.


plain_text:
Bound by my charity and my blest order,\nI come to visit the afflicted spirits\nHere in the prison. Do me the common right\nTo let me see them and to make me know\nThe nature of their crimes, that I may minister\nTo them accordingly.


plain_text:
I would do more than that, if more were needful.\n[Enter JULIET]\nLook, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine,\nWho, falling in the flaws of her own youth,\nHath blister'd her report: she is with child;\nAnd he that got it, sentenced; a young man\nMore fit to do another such offence\nThan die for this.


plain_text:
As I do think, to-morrow.\nI have provided for you: stay awhile,\n[To JULIET]\nAnd you shall be conducted.


plain_text:
I'll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience,\nAnd try your penitence, if it be sound,\nOr hollowly put on.


plain_text:
'Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent,\nAs that the sin hath brought you to this shame,\nWhich sorrow is always towards ourselves, not heaven,\nShowing we would not spare heaven as we love it,\nBut as we stand in fear,--


plain_text:
There rest.\nYour partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow,\nAnd I am going with instruction to him.\nGrace go with you, Benedicite!


plain_text:
Must die to-morrow! O injurious love,\nThat respites me a life, whose very comfort\nIs still a dying horror!


plain_text:
When I would pray and think, I think and pray\nTo several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words;\nWhilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,\nAnchors on Isabel: Heaven in my mouth,\nAs if I did but only chew his name;\nAnd in my heart the strong and swelling evil\nOf my conception. The state, whereon I studied\nIs like a good thing, being often read,\nGrown fear'd and tedious; yea, my gravity,\nWherein--let no man hear me--I take pride,\nCould I with boot change for an idle plume,\nWhich the air beats for vain. O place, O form,\nHow often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,\nWrench awe from fools and tie the wiser souls\nTo thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood:\nLet's write good angel on the devil's horn:\n'Tis not the devil's crest.\n[Enter a Servant]\nHow now! who's there?


plain_text:
Teach her the way.\n[Exit Servant]\nO heavens!\nWhy does my blood thus muster to my heart,\nMaking both it unable for itself,\nAnd dispossessing all my other parts\nOf necessary fitness?\nSo play the foolish throngs with one that swoons;\nCome all to help him, and so stop the air\nBy which he should revive: and even so\nThe general, subject to a well-wish'd king,\nQuit their own part, and in obsequious fondness\nCrowd to his presence, where their untaught love\nMust needs appear offence.\n[Enter ISABELLA]\nHow now, fair maid?


plain_text:
That you might know it, would much better please me\nThan to demand what 'tis. Your brother cannot live.


plain_text:
When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve,\nLonger or shorter, he may be so fitted\nThat his soul sicken not.


plain_text:
Ha! fie, these filthy vices! It were as good\nTo pardon him that hath from nature stolen\nA man already made, as to remit\nTheir saucy sweetness that do coin heaven's image\nIn stamps that are forbid: 'tis all as easy\nFalsely to take away a life true made\nAs to put metal in restrained means\nTo make a false one.


plain_text:
Say you so? then I shall pose you quickly.\nWhich had you rather, that the most just law\nNow took your brother's life; or, to redeem him,\nGive up your body to such sweet uncleanness\nAs she that he hath stain'd?


plain_text:
Nay, I'll not warrant that; for I can speak\nAgainst the thing I say. Answer to this:\nI, now the voice of the recorded law,\nPronounce a sentence on your brother's life:\nMight there not be a charity in sin\nTo save this brother's life?


plain_text:
That I do beg his life, if it be sin,\nHeaven let me bear it! you granting of my suit,\nIf that be sin, I'll make it my morn prayer\nTo have it added to the faults of mine,\nAnd nothing of your answer.


plain_text:
Nay, but hear me.\nYour sense pursues not mine: either you are ignorant,\nOr seem so craftily; and that's not good.


plain_text:
Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright\nWhen it doth tax itself; as these black masks\nProclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder\nThan beauty could, display'd. But mark me;\nTo be received plain, I'll speak more gross:\nYour brother is to die.


plain_text:
Admit no other way to save his life,--\nAs I subscribe not that, nor any other,\nBut in the loss of question,--that you, his sister,\nFinding yourself desired of such a person,\nWhose credit with the judge, or own great place,\nCould fetch your brother from the manacles\nOf the all-building law; and that there were\nNo earthly mean to save him, but that either\nYou must lay down the treasures of your body\nTo this supposed, or else to let him suffer;\nWhat would you do?


plain_text:
As much for my poor brother as myself:\nThat is, were I under the terms of death,\nThe impression of keen whips I'ld wear as rubies,\nAnd strip myself to death, as to a bed\nThat longing have been sick for, ere I'ld yield\nMy body up to shame.


plain_text:
And 'twere the cheaper way:\nBetter it were a brother died at once,\nThan that a sister, by redeeming him,\nShould die for ever.


plain_text:
Ignomy in ransom and free pardon\nAre of two houses: lawful mercy\nIs nothing kin to foul redemption.


plain_text:
You seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant;\nAnd rather proved the sliding of your brother\nA merriment than a vice.


plain_text:
O, pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out,\nTo have what we would have, we speak not what we mean:\nI something do excuse the thing I hate,\nFor his advantage that I dearly love.


plain_text:
Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves;\nWhich are as easy broke as they make forms.\nWomen! Help Heaven! men their creation mar\nIn profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail;\nFor we are soft as our complexions are,\nAnd credulous to false prints.


plain_text:
I think it well:\nAnd from this testimony of your own sex,--\nSince I suppose we are made to be no stronger\nThan faults may shake our frames,--let me be bold;\nI do arrest your words. Be that you are,\nThat is, a woman; if you be more, you're none;\nIf you be one, as you are well express'd\nBy all external warrants, show it now,\nBy putting on the destined livery.


plain_text:
I know your virtue hath a licence in't,\nWhich seems a little fouler than it is,\nTo pluck on others.


plain_text:
Ha! little honour to be much believed,\nAnd most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming!\nI will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for't:\nSign me a present pardon for my brother,\nOr with an outstretch'd throat I'll tell the world aloud\nWhat man thou art.


plain_text:
Who will believe thee, Isabel?\nMy unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life,\nMy vouch against you, and my place i' the state,\nWill so your accusation overweigh,\nThat you shall stifle in your own report\nAnd smell of calumny. I have begun,\nAnd now I give my sensual race the rein:\nFit thy consent to my sharp appetite;\nLay by all nicety and prolixious blushes,\nThat banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother\nBy yielding up thy body to my will;\nOr else he must not only die the death,\nBut thy unkindness shall his death draw out\nTo lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow,\nOr, by the affection that now guides me most,\nI'll prove a tyrant to him. As for you,\nSay what you can, my false o'erweighs your true.


plain_text:
To whom should I complain? Did I tell this,\nWho would believe me? O perilous mouths,\nThat bear in them one and the self-same tongue,\nEither of condemnation or approof;\nBidding the law make court'sy to their will:\nHooking both right and wrong to the appetite,\nTo follow as it draws! I'll to my brother:\nThough he hath fallen by prompture of the blood,\nYet hath he in him such a mind of honour.\nThat, had he twenty heads to tender down\nOn twenty bloody blocks, he'ld yield them up,\nBefore his sister should her body stoop\nTo such abhorr'd pollution.\nThen, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die:\nMore than our brother is our chastity.\nI'll tell him yet of Angelo's request,\nAnd fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest.


plain_text:
Be absolute for death; either death or life\nShall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life:\nIf I do lose thee, I do lose a thing\nThat none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,\nServile to all the skyey influences,\nThat dost this habitation, where thou keep'st,\nHourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool;\nFor him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun\nAnd yet runn'st toward him still. Thou art not noble;\nFor all the accommodations that thou bear'st\nAre nursed by baseness. Thou'rt by no means valiant;\nFor thou dost fear the soft and tender fork\nOf a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,\nAnd that thou oft provokest; yet grossly fear'st\nThy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;\nFor thou exist'st on many a thousand grains\nThat issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;\nFor what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get,\nAnd what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not certain;\nFor thy complexion shifts to strange effects,\nAfter the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor;\nFor, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,\nThou bear's thy heavy riches but a journey,\nAnd death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none;\nFor thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,\nThe mere effusion of thy proper loins,\nDo curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,\nFor ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age,\nBut, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,\nDreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth\nBecomes as aged, and doth beg the alms\nOf palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich,\nThou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,\nTo make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this\nThat bears the name of life? Yet in this life\nLie hid moe thousand deaths: yet death we fear,\nThat makes these odds all even.


plain_text:
I humbly thank you.\nTo sue to live, I find I seek to die;\nAnd, seeking death, find life: let it come on.


plain_text:
Why,\nAs all comforts are; most good, most good indeed.\nLord Angelo, having affairs to heaven,\nIntends you for his swift ambassador,\nWhere you shall be an everlasting leiger:\nTherefore your best appointment make with speed;\nTo-morrow you set on.


plain_text:
Yes, brother, you may live:\nThere is a devilish mercy in the judge,\nIf you'll implore it, that will free your life,\nBut fetter you till death.


plain_text:
Ay, just; perpetual durance, a restraint,\nThough all the world's vastidity you had,\nTo a determined scope.


plain_text:
In such a one as, you consenting to't,\nWould bark your honour from that trunk you bear,\nAnd leave you naked.


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O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake,\nLest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain,\nAnd six or seven winters more respect\nThan a perpetual honour. Darest thou die?\nThe sense of death is most in apprehension;\nAnd the poor beetle, that we tread upon,\nIn corporal sufferance finds a pang as great\nAs when a giant dies.


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Why give you me this shame?\nThink you I can a resolution fetch\nFrom flowery tenderness? If I must die,\nI will encounter darkness as a bride,\nAnd hug it in mine arms.


plain_text:
There spake my brother; there my father's grave\nDid utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die:\nThou art too noble to conserve a life\nIn base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,\nWhose settled visage and deliberate word\nNips youth i' the head and follies doth emmew\nAs falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil\nHis filth within being cast, he would appear\nA pond as deep as hell.


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O, 'tis the cunning livery of hell,\nThe damned'st body to invest and cover\nIn prenzie guards! Dost thou think, Claudio?\nIf I would yield him my virginity,\nThou mightst be freed.


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Yes, he would give't thee, from this rank offence,\nSo to offend him still. This night's the time\nThat I should do what I abhor to name,\nOr else thou diest to-morrow.


plain_text:
Yes. Has he affections in him,\nThat thus can make him bite the law by the nose,\nWhen he would force it? Sure, it is no sin,\nOr of the deadly seven, it is the least.


plain_text:
If it were damnable, he being so wise,\nWhy would he for the momentary trick\nBe perdurably fined? O Isabel!


plain_text:
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;\nTo lie in cold obstruction and to rot;\nThis sensible warm motion to become\nA kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit\nTo bathe in fiery floods, or to reside\nIn thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;\nTo be imprison'd in the viewless winds,\nAnd blown with restless violence round about\nThe pendent world; or to be worse than worst\nOf those that lawless and incertain thought\nImagine howling: 'tis too horrible!\nThe weariest and most loathed worldly life\nThat age, ache, penury and imprisonment\nCan lay on nature is a paradise\nTo what we fear of death.


plain_text:
Sweet sister, let me live:\nWhat sin you do to save a brother's life,\nNature dispenses with the deed so far\nThat it becomes a virtue.


plain_text:
O you beast!\nO faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!\nWilt thou be made a man out of my vice?\nIs't not a kind of incest, to take life\nFrom thine own sister's shame? What should I think?\nHeaven shield my mother play'd my father fair!\nFor such a warped slip of wilderness\nNe'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance!\nDie, perish! Might but my bending down\nReprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed:\nI'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death,\nNo word to save thee.


plain_text:
O, fie, fie, fie!\nThy sin's not accidental, but a trade.\nMercy to thee would prove itself a bawd:\n'Tis best thou diest quickly.


plain_text:
Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and\nby have some speech with you: the satisfaction I\nwould require is likewise your own benefit.


plain_text:
I have no superfluous leisure; my stay must be\nstolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you awhile.


plain_text:
Son, I have overheard what hath passed between you\nand your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to\ncorrupt her; only he hath made an essay of her\nvirtue to practise his judgment with the disposition\nof natures: she, having the truth of honour in her,\nhath made him that gracious denial which he is most\nglad to receive. I am confessor to Angelo, and I\nknow this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to\ndeath: do not satisfy your resolution with hopes\nthat are fallible: tomorrow you must die; go to\nyour knees and make ready.


plain_text:
That now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me\nawhile with the maid: my mind promises with my\nhabit no loss shall touch her by my company.


plain_text:
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good:\nthe goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty\nbrief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of\nyour complexion, shall keep the body of it ever\nfair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you,\nfortune hath conveyed to my understanding; and, but\nthat frailty hath examples for his falling, I should\nwonder at Angelo. How will you do to content this\nsubstitute, and to save your brother?


plain_text:
I am now going to resolve him: I had rather my\nbrother die by the law than my son should be\nunlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good duke\ndeceived in Angelo! If ever he return and I can\nspeak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or\ndiscover his government.


plain_text:
That shall not be much amiss: Yet, as the matter\nnow stands, he will avoid your accusation; he made\ntrial of you only. Therefore fasten your ear on my\nadvisings: to the love I have in doing good a\nremedy presents itself. I do make myself believe\nthat you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged\nlady a merited benefit; redeem your brother from\nthe angry law; do no stain to your own gracious\nperson; and much please the absent duke, if\nperadventure he shall ever return to have hearing of\nthis business.


plain_text:
Let me hear you speak farther. I have spirit to do\nanything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.


plain_text:
Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have\nyou not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of\nFrederick the great soldier who miscarried at sea?


plain_text:
She should this Angelo have married; was affianced\nto her by oath, and the nuptial appointed: between\nwhich time of the contract and limit of the\nsolemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea,\nhaving in that perished vessel the dowry of his\nsister. But mark how heavily this befell to the\npoor gentlewoman: there she lost a noble and\nrenowned brother, in his love toward her ever most\nkind and natural; with him, the portion and sinew of\nher fortune, her marriage-dowry; with both, her\ncombinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo.


plain_text:
Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them\nwith his comfort; swallowed his vows whole,\npretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few,\nbestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet\nwears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears,\nis washed with them, but relents not.


plain_text:
What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid\nfrom the world! What corruption in this life, that\nit will let this man live! But how out of this can she avail?


plain_text:
It is a rupture that you may easily heal: and the\ncure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps\nyou from dishonour in doing it.


plain_text:
This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance\nof her first affection: his unjust unkindness, that\nin all reason should have quenched her love, hath,\nlike an impediment in the current, made it more\nviolent and unruly. Go you to Angelo; answer his\nrequiring with a plausible obedience; agree with\nhis demands to the point; only refer yourself to\nthis advantage, first, that your stay with him may\nnot be long; that the time may have all shadow and\nsilence in it; and the place answer to convenience.\nThis being granted in course,--and now follows\nall,--we shall advise this wronged maid to stead up\nyour appointment, go in your place; if the encounter\nacknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him to\nher recompense: and here, by this, is your brother\nsaved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana\nadvantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid\nwill I frame and make fit for his attempt. If you\nthink well to carry this as you may, the doubleness\nof the benefit defends the deceit from reproof.\nWhat think you of it?


plain_text:
The image of it gives me content already; and I\ntrust it will grow to a most prosperous perfection.


plain_text:
It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily\nto Angelo: if for this night he entreat you to his\nbed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will\npresently to Saint Luke's: there, at the moated\ngrange, resides this dejected Mariana. At that\nplace call upon me; and dispatch with Angelo, that\nit may be quickly.


plain_text:
[Exeunt severally]\n[Enter, on one side, DUKE VINCENTIO disguised as]\nbefore; on the other, ELBOW, and Officers with POMPEY]


plain_text:
Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will\nneeds buy and sell men and women like beasts, we\nshall have all the world drink brown and white bastard.


plain_text:
'Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the\nmerriest was put down, and the worser allowed by\norder of law a furred gown to keep him warm; and\nfurred with fox and lamb-skins too, to signify, that\ncraft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing.


plain_text:
Marry, sir, he hath offended the law: and, sir, we\ntake him to be a thief too, sir; for we have found\nupon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have\nsent to the deputy.


plain_text:
Fie, sirrah! a bawd, a wicked bawd!\nThe evil that thou causest to be done,\nThat is thy means to live. Do thou but think\nWhat 'tis to cram a maw or clothe a back\nFrom such a filthy vice: say to thyself,\nFrom their abominable and beastly touches\nI drink, I eat, array myself, and live.\nCanst thou believe thy living is a life,\nSo stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend.


plain_text:
Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin,\nThou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer:\nCorrection and instruction must both work\nEre this rude beast will profit.


plain_text:
He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him\nwarning: the deputy cannot abide a whoremaster: if\nhe be a whoremonger, and comes before him, he were\nas good go a mile on his errand.


plain_text:
How now, noble Pompey! What, at the wheels of\nCaesar? art thou led in triumph? What, is there\nnone of Pygmalion's images, newly made woman, to be\nhad now, for putting the hand in the pocket and\nextracting it clutch'd? What reply, ha? What\nsayest thou to this tune, matter and method? Is't\nnot drowned i' the last rain, ha? What sayest\nthou, Trot? Is the world as it was, man? Which is\nthe way? Is it sad, and few words? or how? The\ntrick of it?


plain_text:
Why, 'tis good; it is the right of it; it must be\nso: ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd:\nan unshunned consequence; it must be so. Art going\nto prison, Pompey?


plain_text:
Well, then, imprison him: if imprisonment be the\ndue of a bawd, why, 'tis his right: bawd is he\ndoubtless, and of antiquity too; bawd-born.\nFarewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison,\nPompey: you will turn good husband now, Pompey; you\nwill keep the house.


plain_text:
No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear.\nI will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage: If\nyou take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the\nmore. Adieu, trusty Pompey. 'Bless you, friar.


plain_text:
It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from\nthe state, and usurp the beggary he was never born\nto. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence; he\nputs transgression to 't.


plain_text:
Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred;\nit is well allied: but it is impossible to extirp\nit quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put\ndown. They say this Angelo was not made by man and\nwoman after this downright way of creation: is it\ntrue, think you?


plain_text:
Some report a sea-maid spawned him; some, that he\nwas begot between two stock-fishes. But it is\ncertain that when he makes water his urine is\ncongealed ice; that I know to be true: and he is a\nmotion generative; that's infallible.


plain_text:
Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the\nrebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of a\nman! Would the duke that is absent have done this?\nEre he would have hanged a man for the getting a\nhundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing\na thousand: he had some feeling of the sport: he\nknew the service, and that instructed him to mercy.


plain_text:
Who, not the duke? yes, your beggar of fifty; and\nhis use was to put a ducat in her clack-dish: the\nduke had crotchets in him. He would be drunk too;\nthat let me inform you.


plain_text:
Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the\nduke: and I believe I know the cause of his\nwithdrawing.


plain_text:
No, pardon; 'tis a secret must be locked within the\nteeth and the lips: but this I can let you\nunderstand, the greater file of the subject held the\nduke to be wise.


plain_text:
Either this is the envy in you, folly, or mistaking:\nthe very stream of his life and the business he hath\nhelmed must upon a warranted need give him a better\nproclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own\nbringings-forth, and he shall appear to the\nenvious a scholar, a statesman and a soldier.\nTherefore you speak unskilfully: or if your\nknowledge be more it is much darkened in your malice.


plain_text:
I can hardly believe that, since you know not what\nyou speak. But, if ever the duke return, as our\nprayers are he may, let me desire you to make your\nanswer before him. If it be honest you have spoke,\nyou have courage to maintain it: I am bound to call\nupon you; and, I pray you, your name?


plain_text:
O, you hope the duke will return no more; or you\nimagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But indeed I\ncan do you little harm; you'll forswear this again.


plain_text:
I'll be hanged first: thou art deceived in me,\nfriar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if\nClaudio die to-morrow or no?


plain_text:
Why? For filling a bottle with a tundish. I would\nthe duke we talk of were returned again: the\nungenitured agent will unpeople the province with\ncontinency; sparrows must not build in his\nhouse-eaves, because they are lecherous. The duke\nyet would have dark deeds darkly answered; he would\nnever bring them to light: would he were returned!\nMarry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing.\nFarewell, good friar: I prithee, pray for me. The\nduke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on\nFridays. He's not past it yet, and I say to thee,\nhe would mouth with a beggar, though she smelt brown\nbread and garlic: say that I said so. Farewell.


plain_text:
No might nor greatness in mortality\nCan censure 'scape; back-wounding calumny\nThe whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong\nCan tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?\nBut who comes here?


plain_text:
Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in\nthe same kind! This would make mercy swear and play\nthe tyrant.


plain_text:
My lord, this is one Lucio's information against me.\nMistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the\nduke's time; he promised her marriage: his child\nis a year and a quarter old, come Philip and Jacob:\nI have kept it myself; and see how he goes about to abuse me!


plain_text:
That fellow is a fellow of much licence: let him be\ncalled before us. Away with her to prison! Go to;\nno more words.\n[Exeunt Officers with MISTRESS OVERDONE]\nProvost, my brother Angelo will not be altered;\nClaudio must die to-morrow: let him be furnished\nwith divines, and have all charitable preparation.\nif my brother wrought by my pity, it should not be\nso with him.


plain_text:
Not of this country, though my chance is now\nTo use it for my time: I am a brother\nOf gracious order, late come from the See\nIn special business from his holiness.


plain_text:
None, but that there is so great a fever on\ngoodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it:\nnovelty is only in request; and it is as dangerous\nto be aged in any kind of course, as it is virtuous\nto be constant in any undertaking. There is scarce\ntruth enough alive to make societies secure; but\nsecurity enough to make fellowships accurst: much\nupon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This\nnews is old enough, yet it is every day's news. I\npray you, sir, of what disposition was the duke?


plain_text:
Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at\nany thing which professed to make him rejoice: a\ngentleman of all temperance. But leave we him to\nhis events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous;\nand let me desire to know how you find Claudio\nprepared. I am made to understand that you have\nlent him visitation.


plain_text:
He professes to have received no sinister measure\nfrom his judge, but most willingly humbles himself\nto the determination of justice: yet had he framed\nto himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many\ndeceiving promises of life; which I by my good\nleisure have discredited to him, and now is he\nresolved to die.


plain_text:
You have paid the heavens your function, and the\nprisoner the very debt of your calling. I have\nlaboured for the poor gentleman to the extremest\nshore of my modesty: but my brother justice have I\nfound so severe, that he hath forced me to tell him\nhe is indeed Justice.


plain_text:
If his own life answer the straitness of his\nproceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he\nchance to fail, he hath sentenced himself.


plain_text:
Peace be with you!\n[Exeunt ESCALUS and Provost]\nHe who the sword of heaven will bear\nShould be as holy as severe;\nPattern in himself to know,\nGrace to stand, and virtue go;\nMore nor less to others paying\nThan by self-offences weighing.\nShame to him whose cruel striking\nKills for faults of his own liking!\nTwice treble shame on Angelo,\nTo weed my vice and let his grow!\nO, what may man within him hide,\nThough angel on the outward side!\nHow may likeness made in crimes,\nMaking practise on the times,\nTo draw with idle spiders' strings\nMost ponderous and substantial things!\nCraft against vice I must apply:\nWith Angelo to-night shall lie\nHis old betrothed but despised;\nSo disguise shall, by the disguised,\nPay with falsehood false exacting,\nAnd perform an old contracting.


plain_text:
[Exit]\n[Enter MARIANA and a Boy]\n[Boy sings]\nTake, O, take those lips away,\nThat so sweetly were forsworn;\nAnd those eyes, the break of day,\nLights that do mislead the morn:\nBut my kisses bring again, bring again;\nSeals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.


plain_text:
Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away:\nHere comes a man of comfort, whose advice\nHath often still'd my brawling discontent.\n[Exit Boy]\n[Enter DUKE VINCENTIO disguised as before]\nI cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish\nYou had not found me here so musical:\nLet me excuse me, and believe me so,\nMy mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe.


plain_text:
'Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm\nTo make bad good, and good provoke to harm.\nI pray, you, tell me, hath any body inquired\nfor me here to-day? much upon this time have\nI promised here to meet.


plain_text:
I do constantly believe you. The time is come even\nnow. I shall crave your forbearance a little: may\nbe I will call upon you anon, for some advantage to yourself.


plain_text:
He hath a garden circummured with brick,\nWhose western side is with a vineyard back'd;\nAnd to that vineyard is a planched gate,\nThat makes his opening with this bigger key:\nThis other doth command a little door\nWhich from the vineyard to the garden leads;\nThere have I made my promise\nUpon the heavy middle of the night\nTo call upon him.


plain_text:
I have ta'en a due and wary note upon't:\nWith whispering and most guilty diligence,\nIn action all of precept, he did show me\nThe way twice o'er.


plain_text:
No, none, but only a repair i' the dark;\nAnd that I have possess'd him my most stay\nCan be but brief; for I have made him know\nI have a servant comes with me along,\nThat stays upon me, whose persuasion is\nI come about my brother.


plain_text:
'Tis well borne up.\nI have not yet made known to Mariana\nA word of this. What, ho! within! come forth!\n[Re-enter MARIANA]\nI pray you, be acquainted with this maid;\nShe comes to do you good.


plain_text:
Take, then, this your companion by the hand,\nWho hath a story ready for your ear.\nI shall attend your leisure: but make haste;\nThe vaporous night approaches.


plain_text:
O place and greatness! millions of false eyes\nAre stuck upon thee: volumes of report\nRun with these false and most contrarious quests\nUpon thy doings: thousand escapes of wit\nMake thee the father of their idle dreams\nAnd rack thee in their fancies.\n[Re-enter MARIANA and ISABELLA]\nWelcome, how agreed?


plain_text:
Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all.\nHe is your husband on a pre-contract:\nTo bring you thus together, 'tis no sin,\nSith that the justice of your title to him\nDoth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go:\nOur corn's to reap, for yet our tithe's to sow.


plain_text:
If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can; but if he be a\nmarried man, he's his wife's head, and I can never\ncut off a woman's head.


plain_text:
Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me a\ndirect answer. To-morrow morning are to die Claudio\nand Barnardine. Here is in our prison a common\nexecutioner, who in his office lacks a helper: if\nyou will take it on you to assist him, it shall\nredeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have\nyour full time of imprisonment and your deliverance\nwith an unpitied whipping, for you have been a\nnotorious bawd.


plain_text:
Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time out of mind;\nbut yet I will be content to be a lawful hangman. I\nwould be glad to receive some instruction from my\nfellow partner.


plain_text:
Sirrah, here's a fellow will help you to-morrow in\nyour execution. If you think it meet, compound with\nhim by the year, and let him abide here with you; if\nnot, use him for the present and dismiss him. He\ncannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd.


plain_text:
Pray, sir, by your good favour,--for surely, sir, a\ngood favour you have, but that you have a hanging\nlook,--do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery?


plain_text:
Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and\nyour whores, sir, being members of my occupation,\nusing painting, do prove my occupation a mystery:\nbut what mystery there should be in hanging, if I\nshould be hanged, I cannot imagine.


plain_text:
Every true man's apparel fits your thief: if it be\ntoo little for your thief, your true man thinks it\nbig enough; if it be too big for your thief, your\nthief thinks it little enough: so every true man's\napparel fits your thief.


plain_text:
Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your hangman is\na more penitent trade than your bawd; he doth\noftener ask forgiveness.


plain_text:
I do desire to learn, sir: and I hope, if you have\noccasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find\nme yare; for truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you\na good turn.


plain_text:
Call hither Barnardine and Claudio:\n[Exeunt POMPEY and ABHORSON]\nThe one has my pity; not a jot the other,\nBeing a murderer, though he were my brother.\n[Enter CLAUDIO]\nLook, here's the warrant, Claudio, for thy death:\n'Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow\nThou must be made immortal. Where's Barnardine?


plain_text:
As fast lock'd up in sleep as guiltless labour\nWhen it lies starkly in the traveller's bones:\nHe will not wake.


plain_text:
Who can do good on him?\nWell, go, prepare yourself.\n[Knocking within]\nBut, hark, what noise?\nHeaven give your spirits comfort!\n[Exit CLAUDIO]\nBy and by.\nI hope it is some pardon or reprieve\nFor the most gentle Claudio.\n[Enter DUKE VINCENTIO disguised as before]\nWelcome father.


plain_text:
Not so, not so; his life is parallel'd\nEven with the stroke and line of his great justice:\nHe doth with holy abstinence subdue\nThat in himself which he spurs on his power\nTo qualify in others: were he meal'd with that\nWhich he corrects, then were he tyrannous;\nBut this being so, he's just.\n[Knocking within]\nNow are they come.\n[Exit Provost]\nThis is a gentle provost: seldom when\nThe steeled gaoler is the friend of men.\n[Knocking within]\nHow now! what noise? That spirit's possessed with haste\nThat wounds the unsisting postern with these strokes.


plain_text:
Happily\nYou something know; yet I believe there comes\nNo countermand; no such example have we:\nBesides, upon the very siege of justice\nLord Angelo hath to the public ear\nProfess'd the contrary.\n[Enter a Messenger]\nThis is his lordship's man.


plain_text:
[Giving a paper]\nMy lord hath sent you this note; and by me this\nfurther charge, that you swerve not from the\nsmallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or\nother circumstance. Good morrow; for, as I take it,\nit is almost day.


plain_text:
[Aside] This is his pardon, purchased by such sin\nFor which the pardoner himself is in.\nHence hath offence his quick celerity,\nWhen it is born in high authority:\nWhen vice makes mercy, mercy's so extended,\nThat for the fault's love is the offender friended.\nNow, sir, what news?


plain_text:
I told you. Lord Angelo, belike thinking me remiss\nin mine office, awakens me with this unwonted\nputting-on; methinks strangely, for he hath not used it before.


plain_text:
[Reads]\n'Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let\nClaudio be executed by four of the clock; and in the\nafternoon Barnardine: for my better satisfaction,\nlet me have Claudio's head sent me by five. Let\nthis be duly performed; with a thought that more\ndepends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail\nnot to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril.'\nWhat say you to this, sir?


plain_text:
How came it that the absent duke had not either\ndelivered him to his liberty or executed him? I\nhave heard it was ever his manner to do so.


plain_text:
His friends still wrought reprieves for him: and,\nindeed, his fact, till now in the government of Lord\nAngelo, came not to an undoubtful proof.


plain_text:
A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully but\nas a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless\nof what's past, present, or to come; insensible of\nmortality, and desperately mortal.


plain_text:
He will hear none: he hath evermore had the liberty\nof the prison; give him leave to escape hence, he\nwould not: drunk many times a day, if not many days\nentirely drunk. We have very oft awaked him, as if\nto carry him to execution, and showed him a seeming\nwarrant for it: it hath not moved him at all.


plain_text:
More of him anon. There is written in your brow,\nprovost, honesty and constancy: if I read it not\ntruly, my ancient skill beguiles me; but, in the\nboldness of my cunning, I will lay myself in hazard.\nClaudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is\nno greater forfeit to the law than Angelo who hath\nsentenced him. To make you understand this in a\nmanifested effect, I crave but four days' respite;\nfor the which you are to do me both a present and a\ndangerous courtesy.


plain_text:
A lack, how may I do it, having the hour limited,\nand an express command, under penalty, to deliver\nhis head in the view of Angelo? I may make my case\nas Claudio's, to cross this in the smallest.


plain_text:
By the vow of mine order I warrant you, if my\ninstructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine\nbe this morning executed, and his head born to Angelo.


plain_text:
O, death's a great disguiser; and you may add to it.\nShave the head, and tie the beard; and say it was\nthe desire of the penitent to be so bared before his\ndeath: you know the course is common. If any thing\nfall to you upon this, more than thanks and good\nfortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will plead\nagainst it with my life.


plain_text:
Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet since I see\nyou fearful, that neither my coat, integrity, nor\npersuasion can with ease attempt you, I will go\nfurther than I meant, to pluck all fears out of you.\nLook you, sir, here is the hand and seal of the\nduke: you know the character, I doubt not; and the\nsignet is not strange to you.


plain_text:
The contents of this is the return of the duke: you\nshall anon over-read it at your pleasure; where you\nshall find, within these two days he will be here.\nThis is a thing that Angelo knows not; for he this\nvery day receives letters of strange tenor;\nperchance of the duke's death; perchance entering\ninto some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what\nis writ. Look, the unfolding star calls up the\nshepherd. Put not yourself into amazement how these\nthings should be: all difficulties are but easy\nwhen they are known. Call your executioner, and off\nwith Barnardine's head: I will give him a present\nshrift and advise him for a better place. Yet you\nare amazed; but this shall absolutely resolve you.\nCome away; it is almost clear dawn.


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I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house\nof profession: one would think it were Mistress\nOverdone's own house, for here be many of her old\ncustomers. First, here's young Master Rash; he's in\nfor a commodity of brown paper and old ginger,\nninescore and seventeen pounds; of which he made\nfive marks, ready money: marry, then ginger was not\nmuch in request, for the old women were all dead.\nThen is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of\nMaster Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of\npeach-coloured satin, which now peaches him a\nbeggar. Then have we here young Dizy, and young\nMaster Deep-vow, and Master Copperspur, and Master\nStarve-lackey the rapier and dagger man, and young\nDrop-heir that killed lusty Pudding, and Master\nForthlight the tilter, and brave Master Shooty the\ngreat traveller, and wild Half-can that stabbed\nPots, and, I think, forty more; all great doers in\nour trade, and are now 'for the Lord's sake.'


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O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night,\nand is hanged betimes in the morning, may sleep the\nsounder all the next day.


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Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily\nyou are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort\nyou and pray with you.


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Friar, not I. I have been drinking hard all night,\nand I will have more time to prepare me, or they\nshall beat out my brains with billets: I will not\nconsent to die this day, that's certain.


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Here in the prison, father,\nThere died this morning of a cruel fever\nOne Ragozine, a most notorious pirate,\nA man of Claudio's years; his beard and head\nJust of his colour. What if we do omit\nThis reprobate till he were well inclined;\nAnd satisfy the deputy with the visage\nOf Ragozine, more like to Claudio?


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O, 'tis an accident that heaven provides!\nDispatch it presently; the hour draws on\nPrefix'd by Angelo: see this be done,\nAnd sent according to command; whiles I\nPersuade this rude wretch willingly to die.


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This shall be done, good father, presently.\nBut Barnardine must die this afternoon:\nAnd how shall we continue Claudio,\nTo save me from the danger that might come\nIf he were known alive?


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Let this be done.\nPut them in secret holds, both Barnardine and Claudio:\nEre twice the sun hath made his journal greeting\nTo the under generation, you shall find\nYour safety manifested.


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Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo.\n[Exit Provost]\nNow will I write letters to Angelo,--\nThe provost, he shall bear them, whose contents\nShall witness to him I am near at home,\nAnd that, by great injunctions, I am bound\nTo enter publicly: him I'll desire\nTo meet me at the consecrated fount\nA league below the city; and from thence,\nBy cold gradation and well-balanced form,\nWe shall proceed with Angelo.


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Convenient is it. Make a swift return;\nFor I would commune with you of such things\nThat want no ear but yours.


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The tongue of Isabel. She's come to know\nIf yet her brother's pardon be come hither:\nBut I will keep her ignorant of her good,\nTo make her heavenly comforts of despair,\nWhen it is least expected.


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This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot;\nForbear it therefore; give your cause to heaven.\nMark what I say, which you shall find\nBy every syllable a faithful verity:\nThe duke comes home to-morrow; nay, dry your eyes;\nOne of our convent, and his confessor,\nGives me this instance: already he hath carried\nNotice to Escalus and Angelo,\nWho do prepare to meet him at the gates,\nThere to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom\nIn that good path that I would wish it go,\nAnd you shall have your bosom on this wretch,\nGrace of the duke, revenges to your heart,\nAnd general honour.


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This letter, then, to Friar Peter give;\n'Tis that he sent me of the duke's return:\nSay, by this token, I desire his company\nAt Mariana's house to-night. Her cause and yours\nI'll perfect him withal, and he shall bring you\nBefore the duke, and to the head of Angelo\nAccuse him home and home. For my poor self,\nI am combined by a sacred vow\nAnd shall be absent. Wend you with this letter:\nCommand these fretting waters from your eyes\nWith a light heart; trust not my holy order,\nIf I pervert your course. Who's here?


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O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see\nthine eyes so red: thou must be patient. I am fain\nto dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not for\nmy head fill my belly; one fruitful meal would set\nme to 't. But they say the duke will be here\nto-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother:\nif the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been\nat home, he had lived.


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Sir, the duke is marvellous little beholding to your\nreports; but the best is, he lives not in them.


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Yes, marry, did I. but I was fain to forswear it;\nthey would else have married me to the rotten medlar.


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By my troth, I'll go with thee to the lane's end:\nif bawdy talk offend you, we'll have very little of\nit. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.


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In most uneven and distracted manner. His actions\nshow much like to madness: pray heaven his wisdom be\nnot tainted! And why meet him at the gates, and\nredeliver our authorities there


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And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his\nentering, that if any crave redress of injustice,\nthey should exhibit their petitions in the street?


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He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch of\ncomplaints, and to deliver us from devices\nhereafter, which shall then have no power to stand\nagainst us.


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Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed betimes\ni' the morn; I'll call you at your house: give\nnotice to such men of sort and suit as are to meet\nhim.


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Good night.\n[Exit ESCALUS]\nThis deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant\nAnd dull to all proceedings. A deflower'd maid!\nAnd by an eminent body that enforced\nThe law against it! But that her tender shame\nWill not proclaim against her maiden loss,\nHow might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no;\nFor my authority bears of a credent bulk,\nThat no particular scandal once can touch\nBut it confounds the breather. He should have lived,\nSave that riotous youth, with dangerous sense,\nMight in the times to come have ta'en revenge,\nBy so receiving a dishonour'd life\nWith ransom of such shame. Would yet he had lived!\nA lack, when once our grace we have forgot,\nNothing goes right: we would, and we would not.


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These letters at fit time deliver me\n[Giving letters]\nThe provost knows our purpose and our plot.\nThe matter being afoot, keep your instruction,\nAnd hold you ever to our special drift;\nThough sometimes you do blench from this to that,\nAs cause doth minister. Go call at Flavius' house,\nAnd tell him where I stay: give the like notice\nTo Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus,\nAnd bid them bring the trumpets to the gate;\nBut send me Flavius first.


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I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast made good haste:\nCome, we will walk. There's other of our friends\nWill greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius.


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To speak so indirectly I am loath:\nI would say the truth; but to accuse him so,\nThat is your part: yet I am advised to do it;\nHe says, to veil full purpose.


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Besides, he tells me that, if peradventure\nHe speak against me on the adverse side,\nI should not think it strange; for 'tis a physic\nThat's bitter to sweet end.


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Come, I have found you out a stand most fit,\nWhere you may have such vantage on the duke,\nHe shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets sounded;\nThe generous and gravest citizens\nHave hent the gates, and very near upon\nThe duke is entering: therefore, hence, away!


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[Exeunt]\n[MARIANA veiled, ISABELLA, and FRIAR PETER, at their]\nstand. Enter DUKE VINCENTIO, VARRIUS, Lords,\nANGELO, ESCALUS, LUCIO, Provost, Officers, and\nCitizens, at several doors]


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Many and hearty thankings to you both.\nWe have made inquiry of you; and we hear\nSuch goodness of your justice, that our soul\nCannot but yield you forth to public thanks,\nForerunning more requital.


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O, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it,\nTo lock it in the wards of covert bosom,\nWhen it deserves, with characters of brass,\nA forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time\nAnd razure of oblivion. Give me your hand,\nAnd let the subject see, to make them know\nThat outward courtesies would fain proclaim\nFavours that keep within. Come, Escalus,\nYou must walk by us on our other hand;\nAnd good supporters are you.


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Justice, O royal duke! Vail your regard\nUpon a wrong'd, I would fain have said, a maid!\nO worthy prince, dishonour not your eye\nBy throwing it on any other object\nTill you have heard me in my true complaint\nAnd given me justice, justice, justice, justice!


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Relate your wrongs; in what? by whom? be brief.\nHere is Lord Angelo shall give you justice:\nReveal yourself to him.


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O worthy duke,\nYou bid me seek redemption of the devil:\nHear me yourself; for that which I must speak\nMust either punish me, not being believed,\nOr wring redress from you. Hear me, O hear me, here!


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My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm:\nShe hath been a suitor to me for her brother\nCut off by course of justice,--


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Most strange, but yet most truly, will I speak:\nThat Angelo's forsworn; is it not strange?\nThat Angelo's a murderer; is 't not strange?\nThat Angelo is an adulterous thief,\nAn hypocrite, a virgin-violator;\nIs it not strange and strange?


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It is not truer he is Angelo\nThan this is all as true as it is strange:\nNay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth\nTo the end of reckoning.


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O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believest\nThere is another comfort than this world,\nThat thou neglect me not, with that opinion\nThat I am touch'd with madness! Make not impossible\nThat which but seems unlike: 'tis not impossible\nBut one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground,\nMay seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute\nAs Angelo; even so may Angelo,\nIn all his dressings, characts, titles, forms,\nBe an arch-villain; believe it, royal prince:\nIf he be less, he's nothing; but he's more,\nHad I more name for badness.


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By mine honesty,\nIf she be mad,--as I believe no other,--\nHer madness hath the oddest frame of sense,\nSuch a dependency of thing on thing,\nAs e'er I heard in madness.


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O gracious duke,\nHarp not on that, nor do not banish reason\nFor inequality; but let your reason serve\nTo make the truth appear where it seems hid,\nAnd hide the false seems true.


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I am the sister of one Claudio,\nCondemn'd upon the act of fornication\nTo lose his head; condemn'd by Angelo:\nI, in probation of a sisterhood,\nWas sent to by my brother; one Lucio\nAs then the messenger,--


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That's I, an't like your grace:\nI came to her from Claudio, and desired her\nTo try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo\nFor her poor brother's pardon.


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I wish you now, then;\nPray you, take note of it: and when you have\nA business for yourself, pray heaven you then\nBe perfect.


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In brief, to set the needless process by,\nHow I persuaded, how I pray'd, and kneel'd,\nHow he refell'd me, and how I replied,--\nFor this was of much length,--the vile conclusion\nI now begin with grief and shame to utter:\nHe would not, but by gift of my chaste body\nTo his concupiscible intemperate lust,\nRelease my brother; and, after much debatement,\nMy sisterly remorse confutes mine honour,\nAnd I did yield to him: but the next morn betimes,\nHis purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant\nFor my poor brother's head.


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By heaven, fond wretch, thou knowist not what thou speak'st,\nOr else thou art suborn'd against his honour\nIn hateful practise. First, his integrity\nStands without blemish. Next, it imports no reason\nThat with such vehemency he should pursue\nFaults proper to himself: if he had so offended,\nHe would have weigh'd thy brother by himself\nAnd not have cut him off. Some one hath set you on:\nConfess the truth, and say by whose advice\nThou camest here to complain.


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And is this all?\nThen, O you blessed ministers above,\nKeep me in patience, and with ripen'd time\nUnfold the evil which is here wrapt up\nIn countenance! Heaven shield your grace from woe,\nAs I, thus wrong'd, hence unbelieved go!


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I know you'ld fain be gone. An officer!\nTo prison with her! Shall we thus permit\nA blasting and a scandalous breath to fall\nOn him so near us? This needs must be a practise.\nWho knew of Your intent and coming hither?


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My lord, I know him; 'tis a meddling friar;\nI do not like the man: had he been lay, my lord\nFor certain words he spake against your grace\nIn your retirement, I had swinged him soundly.


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Words against me? this is a good friar, belike!\nAnd to set on this wretched woman here\nAgainst our substitute! Let this friar be found.


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But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar,\nI saw them at the prison: a saucy friar,\nA very scurvy fellow.


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Blessed be your royal grace!\nI have stood by, my lord, and I have heard\nYour royal ear abused. First, hath this woman\nMost wrongfully accused your substitute,\nWho is as free from touch or soil with her\nAs she from one ungot.


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I know him for a man divine and holy;\nNot scurvy, nor a temporary meddler,\nAs he's reported by this gentleman;\nAnd, on my trust, a man that never yet\nDid, as he vouches, misreport your grace.


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Well, he in time may come to clear himself;\nBut at this instant he is sick my lord,\nOf a strange fever. Upon his mere request,\nBeing come to knowledge that there was complaint\nIntended 'gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither,\nTo speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know\nIs true and false; and what he with his oath\nAnd all probation will make up full clear,\nWhensoever he's convented. First, for this woman.\nTo justify this worthy nobleman,\nSo vulgarly and personally accused,\nHer shall you hear disproved to her eyes,\nTill she herself confess it.


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Good friar, let's hear it.\n[ISABELLA is carried off guarded; and MARIANA comes forward]\nDo you not smile at this, Lord Angelo?\nO heaven, the vanity of wretched fools!\nGive us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo;\nIn this I'll be impartial; be you judge\nOf your own cause. Is this the witness, friar?\nFirst, let her show her face, and after speak.


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My lord; I do confess I ne'er was married;\nAnd I confess besides I am no maid:\nI have known my husband; yet my husband\nKnows not that ever he knew me.


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Now I come to't my lord\nShe that accuses him of fornication,\nIn self-same manner doth accuse my husband,\nAnd charges him my lord, with such a time\nWhen I'll depose I had him in mine arms\nWith all the effect of love.


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Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo,\nWho thinks he knows that he ne'er knew my body,\nBut knows he thinks that he knows Isabel's.


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My husband bids me; now I will unmask.\n[Unveiling]\nThis is that face, thou cruel Angelo,\nWhich once thou sworest was worth the looking on;\nThis is the hand which, with a vow'd contract,\nWas fast belock'd in thine; this is the body\nThat took away the match from Isabel,\nAnd did supply thee at thy garden-house\nIn her imagined person.


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My lord, I must confess I know this woman:\nAnd five years since there was some speech of marriage\nBetwixt myself and her; which was broke off,\nPartly for that her promised proportions\nCame short of composition, but in chief\nFor that her reputation was disvalued\nIn levity: since which time of five years\nI never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her,\nUpon my faith and honour.


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Noble prince,\nAs there comes light from heaven and words from breath,\nAs there is sense in truth and truth in virtue,\nI am affianced this man's wife as strongly\nAs words could make up vows: and, my good lord,\nBut Tuesday night last gone in's garden-house\nHe knew me as a wife. As this is true,\nLet me in safety raise me from my knees\nOr else for ever be confixed here,\nA marble monument!


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I did but smile till now:\nNow, good my lord, give me the scope of justice\nMy patience here is touch'd. I do perceive\nThese poor informal women are no more\nBut instruments of some more mightier member\nThat sets them on: let me have way, my lord,\nTo find this practise out.


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Ay, with my heart\nAnd punish them to your height of pleasure.\nThou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman,\nCompact with her that's gone, think'st thou thy oaths,\nThough they would swear down each particular saint,\nWere testimonies against his worth and credit\nThat's seal'd in approbation? You, Lord Escalus,\nSit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains\nTo find out this abuse, whence 'tis derived.\nThere is another friar that set them on;\nLet him be sent for.


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Would he were here, my lord! for he indeed\nHath set the women on to this complaint:\nYour provost knows the place where he abides\nAnd he may fetch him.


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Go do it instantly.\n[Exit Provost]\nAnd you, my noble and well-warranted cousin,\nWhom it concerns to hear this matter forth,\nDo with your injuries as seems you best,\nIn any chastisement: I for a while will leave you;\nBut stir not you till you have well determined\nUpon these slanderers.


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My lord, we'll do it throughly.\n[Exit DUKE]\nSignior Lucio, did not you say you knew that\nFriar Lodowick to be a dishonest person?


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'Cucullus non facit monachum:' honest in nothing\nbut in his clothes; and one that hath spoke most\nvillanous speeches of the duke.


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We shall entreat you to abide here till he come and\nenforce them against him: we shall find this friar a\nnotable fellow.


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Call that same Isabel here once again; I would speak with her.\n[Exit an Attendant]\nPray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you\nshall see how I'll handle her.


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Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately,\nshe would sooner confess: perchance, publicly,\nshe'll be ashamed.


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That's the way; for women are light at midnight.\n[Re-enter Officers with ISABELLA; and Provost with]\nthe DUKE VINCENTIO in his friar's habit]


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Respect to your great place! and let the devil\nBe sometime honour'd for his burning throne!\nWhere is the duke? 'tis he should hear me speak.


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Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls,\nCome you to seek the lamb here of the fox?\nGood night to your redress! Is the duke gone?\nThen is your cause gone too. The duke's unjust,\nThus to retort your manifest appeal,\nAnd put your trial in the villain's mouth\nWhich here you come to accuse.


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Why, thou unreverend and unhallow'd friar,\nIs't not enough thou hast suborn'd these women\nTo accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth\nAnd in the witness of his proper ear,\nTo call him villain? and then to glance from him\nTo the duke himself, to tax him with injustice?\nTake him hence; to the rack with him! We'll touse you\nJoint by joint, but we will know his purpose.\nWhat 'unjust'!


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Be not so hot; the duke\nDare no more stretch this finger of mine than he\nDare rack his own: his subject am I not,\nNor here provincial. My business in this state\nMade me a looker on here in Vienna,\nWhere I have seen corruption boil and bubble\nTill it o'er-run the stew; laws for all faults,\nBut faults so countenanced, that the strong statutes\nStand like the forfeits in a barber's shop,\nAs much in mock as mark.


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I remember you, sir, by the sound of your voice: I\nmet you at the prison, in the absence of the duke.


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Do you so, sir? And was the duke a fleshmonger, a\nfool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be?


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You must, sir, change persons with me, ere you make\nthat my report: you, indeed, spoke so of him; and\nmuch more, much worse.


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Such a fellow is not to be talked withal. Away with\nhim to prison! Where is the provost? Away with him\nto prison! lay bolts enough upon him: let him\nspeak no more. Away with those giglots too, and\nwith the other confederate companion!


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Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; foh, sir! Why, you\nbald-pated, lying rascal, you must be hooded, must\nyou? Show your knave's visage, with a pox to you!\nshow your sheep-biting face, and be hanged an hour!\nWill't not off?


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Thou art the first knave that e'er madest a duke.\nFirst, provost, let me bail these gentle three.\n[To LUCIO]\nSneak not away, sir; for the friar and you\nMust have a word anon. Lay hold on him.


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[To ESCALUS] What you have spoke I pardon: sit you down:\nWe'll borrow place of him.\n[To ANGELO]\nSir, by your leave.\nHast thou or word, or wit, or impudence,\nThat yet can do thee office? If thou hast,\nRely upon it till my tale be heard,\nAnd hold no longer out.


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O my dread lord,\nI should be guiltier than my guiltiness,\nTo think I can be undiscernible,\nWhen I perceive your grace, like power divine,. Hath look'd upon my passes. Then, good prince,\nNo longer session hold upon my shame,\nBut let my trial be mine own confession:\nImmediate sentence then and sequent death\nIs all the grace I beg.


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Go take her hence, and marry her instantly.\nDo you the office, friar; which consummate,\nReturn him here again. Go with him, provost.


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Come hither, Isabel.\nYour friar is now your prince: as I was then\nAdvertising and holy to your business,\nNot changing heart with habit, I am still\nAttorney'd at your service.


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You are pardon'd, Isabel:\nAnd now, dear maid, be you as free to us.\nYour brother's death, I know, sits at your heart;\nAnd you may marvel why I obscured myself,\nLabouring to save his life, and would not rather\nMake rash remonstrance of my hidden power\nThan let him so be lost. O most kind maid,\nIt was the swift celerity of his death,\nWhich I did think with slower foot came on,\nThat brain'd my purpose. But, peace be with him!\nThat life is better life, past fearing death,\nThan that which lives to fear: make it your comfort,\nSo happy is your brother.


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For this new-married man approaching here,\nWhose salt imagination yet hath wrong'd\nYour well defended honour, you must pardon\nFor Mariana's sake: but as he adjudged your brother,--\nBeing criminal, in double violation\nOf sacred chastity and of promise-breach\nThereon dependent, for your brother's life,--\nThe very mercy of the law cries out\nMost audible, even from his proper tongue,\n'An Angelo for Claudio, death for death!'\nHaste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure;\nLike doth quit like, and MEASURE still FOR MEASURE.\nThen, Angelo, thy fault's thus manifested;\nWhich, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee vantage.\nWe do condemn thee to the very block\nWhere Claudio stoop'd to death, and with like haste.\nAway with him!


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It is your husband mock'd you with a husband.\nConsenting to the safeguard of your honour,\nI thought your marriage fit; else imputation,\nFor that he knew you, might reproach your life\nAnd choke your good to come; for his possessions,\nAlthough by confiscation they are ours,\nWe do instate and widow you withal,\nTo buy you a better husband.


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O my good lord! Sweet Isabel, take my part;\nLend me your knees, and all my life to come\nI'll lend you all my life to do you service.


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Against all sense you do importune her:\nShould she kneel down in mercy of this fact,\nHer brother's ghost his paved bed would break,\nAnd take her hence in horror.


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Isabel,\nSweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me;\nHold up your hands, say nothing; I'll speak all.\nThey say, best men are moulded out of faults;\nAnd, for the most, become much more the better\nFor being a little bad: so may my husband.\nO Isabel, will you not lend a knee?


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Most bounteous sir,\n[Kneeling]\nLook, if it please you, on this man condemn'd,\nAs if my brother lived: I partly think\nA due sincerity govern'd his deeds,\nTill he did look on me: since it is so,\nLet him not die. My brother had but justice,\nIn that he did the thing for which he died:\nFor Angelo,\nHis act did not o'ertake his bad intent,\nAnd must be buried but as an intent\nThat perish'd by the way: thoughts are no subjects;\nIntents but merely thoughts.


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Your suit's unprofitable; stand up, I say.\nI have bethought me of another fault.\nProvost, how came it Claudio was beheaded\nAt an unusual hour?


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Pardon me, noble lord:\nI thought it was a fault, but knew it not;\nYet did repent me, after more advice;\nFor testimony whereof, one in the prison,\nThat should by private order else have died,\nI have reserved alive.


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I am sorry, one so learned and so wise\nAs you, Lord Angelo, have still appear'd,\nShould slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood.\nAnd lack of temper'd judgment afterward.


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I am sorry that such sorrow I procure:\nAnd so deep sticks it in my penitent heart\nThat I crave death more willingly than mercy;\n'Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it.\n[Re-enter Provost, with BARNARDINE, CLAUDIO muffled,]\nand JULIET]


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There was a friar told me of this man.\nSirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul.\nThat apprehends no further than this world,\nAnd squarest thy life according. Thou'rt condemn'd:\nBut, for those earthly faults, I quit them all;\nAnd pray thee take this mercy to provide\nFor better times to come. Friar, advise him;\nI leave him to your hand. What muffled fellow's that?


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This is another prisoner that I saved.\nWho should have died when Claudio lost his head;\nAs like almost to Claudio as himself.


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[To ISABELLA] If he be like your brother, for his sake\nIs he pardon'd; and, for your lovely sake,\nGive me your hand and say you will be mine.\nHe is my brother too: but fitter time for that.\nBy this Lord Angelo perceives he's safe;\nMethinks I see a quickening in his eye.\nWell, Angelo, your evil quits you well:\nLook that you love your wife; her worth worth yours.\nI find an apt remission in myself;\nAnd yet here's one in place I cannot pardon.\n[To LUCIO]\nYou, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward,\nOne all of luxury, an ass, a madman;\nWherein have I so deserved of you,\nThat you extol me thus?


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'Faith, my lord. I spoke it but according to the\ntrick. If you will hang me for it, you may; but I\nhad rather it would please you I might be whipt.


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Whipt first, sir, and hanged after.\nProclaim it, provost, round about the city.\nIs any woman wrong'd by this lewd fellow,\nAs I have heard him swear himself there's one\nWhom he begot with child, let her appear,\nAnd he shall marry her: the nuptial finish'd,\nLet him be whipt and hang'd.


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I beseech your highness, do not marry me to a whore.\nYour highness said even now, I made you a duke:\ngood my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold.


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Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her.\nThy slanders I forgive; and therewithal\nRemit thy other forfeits. Take him to prison;\nAnd see our pleasure herein executed.


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Slandering a prince deserves it.\n[Exit Officers with LUCIO]\nShe, Claudio, that you wrong'd, look you restore.\nJoy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo:\nI have confess'd her and I know her virtue.\nThanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness:\nThere's more behind that is more gratulate.\nThanks, provost, for thy care and secrecy:\nWe shill employ thee in a worthier place.\nForgive him, Angelo, that brought you home\nThe head of Ragozine for Claudio's:\nThe offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel,\nI have a motion much imports your good;\nWhereto if you'll a willing ear incline,\nWhat's mine is yours and what is yours is mine.\nSo, bring us to our palace; where we'll show\nWhat's yet behind, that's meet you all should know.


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In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:\nIt wearies me; you say it wearies you;\nBut how I caught it, found it, or came by it,\nWhat stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,\nI am to learn;\nAnd such a want-wit sadness makes of me,\nThat I have much ado to know myself.


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Your mind is tossing on the ocean;\nThere, where your argosies with portly sail,\nLike signiors and rich burghers on the flood,\nOr, as it were, the pageants of the sea,\nDo overpeer the petty traffickers,\nThat curtsy to them, do them reverence,\nAs they fly by them with their woven wings.


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Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,\nThe better part of my affections would\nBe with my hopes abroad. I should be still\nPlucking the grass, to know where sits the wind,\nPeering in maps for ports and piers and roads;\nAnd every object that might make me fear\nMisfortune to my ventures, out of doubt\nWould make me sad.


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My wind cooling my broth\nWould blow me to an ague, when I thought\nWhat harm a wind too great at sea might do.\nI should not see the sandy hour-glass run,\nBut I should think of shallows and of flats,\nAnd see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,\nVailing her high-top lower than her ribs\nTo kiss her burial. Should I go to church\nAnd see the holy edifice of stone,\nAnd not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,\nWhich touching but my gentle vessel's side,\nWould scatter all her spices on the stream,\nEnrobe the roaring waters with my silks,\nAnd, in a word, but even now worth this,\nAnd now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought\nTo think on this, and shall I lack the thought\nThat such a thing bechanced would make me sad?\nBut tell not me; I know, Antonio\nIs sad to think upon his merchandise.


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Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,\nMy ventures are not in one bottom trusted,\nNor to one place; nor is my whole estate\nUpon the fortune of this present year:\nTherefore my merchandise makes me not sad.


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Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad,\nBecause you are not merry: and 'twere as easy\nFor you to laugh and leap and say you are merry,\nBecause you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,\nNature hath framed strange fellows in her time:\nSome that will evermore peep through their eyes\nAnd laugh like parrots at a bag-piper,\nAnd other of such vinegar aspect\nThat they'll not show their teeth in way of smile,\nThough Nestor swear the jest be laughable.


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Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,\nGratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:\nWe leave you now with better company.


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Your worth is very dear in my regard.\nI take it, your own business calls on you\nAnd you embrace the occasion to depart.


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My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,\nWe two will leave you: but at dinner-time,\nI pray you, have in mind where we must meet.


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You look not well, Signior Antonio;\nYou have too much respect upon the world:\nThey lose it that do buy it with much care:\nBelieve me, you are marvellously changed.


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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;\nA stage where every man must play a part,\nAnd mine a sad one.


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Let me play the fool:\nWith mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,\nAnd let my liver rather heat with wine\nThan my heart cool with mortifying groans.\nWhy should a man, whose blood is warm within,\nSit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?\nSleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice\nBy being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio--\nI love thee, and it is my love that speaks--\nThere are a sort of men whose visages\nDo cream and mantle like a standing pond,\nAnd do a wilful stillness entertain,\nWith purpose to be dress'd in an opinion\nOf wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,\nAs who should say 'I am Sir Oracle,\nAnd when I ope my lips let no dog bark!'\nO my Antonio, I do know of these\nThat therefore only are reputed wise\nFor saying nothing; when, I am very sure,\nIf they should speak, would almost damn those ears,\nWhich, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.\nI'll tell thee more of this another time:\nBut fish not, with this melancholy bait,\nFor this fool gudgeon, this opinion.\nCome, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile:\nI'll end my exhortation after dinner.


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Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time:\nI must be one of these same dumb wise men,\nFor Gratiano never lets me speak.


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Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable\nIn a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible.


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Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more\nthan any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two\ngrains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you\nshall seek all day ere you find them, and when you\nhave them, they are not worth the search.


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Well, tell me now what lady is the same\nTo whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,\nThat you to-day promised to tell me of?


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'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,\nHow much I have disabled mine estate,\nBy something showing a more swelling port\nThan my faint means would grant continuance:\nNor do I now make moan to be abridged\nFrom such a noble rate; but my chief care\nIs to come fairly off from the great debts\nWherein my time something too prodigal\nHath left me gaged. To you, Antonio,\nI owe the most, in money and in love,\nAnd from your love I have a warranty\nTo unburden all my plots and purposes\nHow to get clear of all the debts I owe.


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I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;\nAnd if it stand, as you yourself still do,\nWithin the eye of honour, be assured,\nMy purse, my person, my extremest means,\nLie all unlock'd to your occasions.


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In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,\nI shot his fellow of the self-same flight\nThe self-same way with more advised watch,\nTo find the other forth, and by adventuring both\nI oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,\nBecause what follows is pure innocence.\nI owe you much, and, like a wilful youth,\nThat which I owe is lost; but if you please\nTo shoot another arrow that self way\nWhich you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,\nAs I will watch the aim, or to find both\nOr bring your latter hazard back again\nAnd thankfully rest debtor for the first.


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You know me well, and herein spend but time\nTo wind about my love with circumstance;\nAnd out of doubt you do me now more wrong\nIn making question of my uttermost\nThan if you had made waste of all I have:\nThen do but say to me what I should do\nThat in your knowledge may by me be done,\nAnd I am prest unto it: therefore, speak.


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In Belmont is a lady richly left;\nAnd she is fair, and, fairer than that word,\nOf wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes\nI did receive fair speechless messages:\nHer name is Portia, nothing undervalued\nTo Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia:\nNor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,\nFor the four winds blow in from every coast\nRenowned suitors, and her sunny locks\nHang on her temples like a golden fleece;\nWhich makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand,\nAnd many Jasons come in quest of her.\nO my Antonio, had I but the means\nTo hold a rival place with one of them,\nI have a mind presages me such thrift,\nThat I should questionless be fortunate!


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Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;\nNeither have I money nor commodity\nTo raise a present sum: therefore go forth;\nTry what my credit can in Venice do:\nThat shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,\nTo furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.\nGo, presently inquire, and so will I,\nWhere money is, and I no question make\nTo have it of my trust or for my sake.


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You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in\nthe same abundance as your good fortunes are: and\nyet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit\nwith too much as they that starve with nothing. It\nis no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the\nmean: superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but\ncompetency lives longer.


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If to do were as easy as to know what were good to\ndo, chapels had been churches and poor men's\ncottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that\nfollows his own instructions: I can easier teach\ntwenty what were good to be done, than be one of the\ntwenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may\ndevise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps\no'er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the\nyouth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the\ncripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to\nchoose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose!' I may\nneither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I\ndislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed\nby the will of a dead father. Is it not hard,\nNerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none?


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Your father was ever virtuous; and holy men at their\ndeath have good inspirations: therefore the lottery,\nthat he hath devised in these three chests of gold,\nsilver and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning\nchooses you, will, no doubt, never be chosen by any\nrightly but one who shall rightly love. But what\nwarmth is there in your affection towards any of\nthese princely suitors that are already come?


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I pray thee, over-name them; and as thou namest\nthem, I will describe them; and, according to my\ndescription, level at my affection.


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Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but\ntalk of his horse; and he makes it a great\nappropriation to his own good parts, that he can\nshoe him himself. I am much afeard my lady his\nmother played false with a smith.


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He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'If you\nwill not have me, choose:' he hears merry tales and\nsmiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping\nphilosopher when he grows old, being so full of\nunmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be\nmarried to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth\nthan to either of these. God defend me from these\ntwo!


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God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man.\nIn truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker: but,\nhe! why, he hath a horse better than the\nNeapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than\nthe Count Palatine; he is every man in no man; if a\nthrostle sing, he falls straight a capering: he will\nfence with his own shadow: if I should marry him, I\nshould marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me\nI would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I\nshall never requite him.


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You know I say nothing to him, for he understands\nnot me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French,\nnor Italian, and you will come into the court and\nswear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English.\nHe is a proper man's picture, but, alas, who can\nconverse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited!\nI think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round\nhose in France, his bonnet in Germany and his\nbehavior every where.


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That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he\nborrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman and\nswore he would pay him again when he was able: I\nthink the Frenchman became his surety and sealed\nunder for another.


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Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, and\nmost vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: when\nhe is best, he is a little worse than a man, and\nwhen he is worst, he is little better than a beast:\nand the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall\nmake shift to go without him.


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If he should offer to choose, and choose the right\ncasket, you should refuse to perform your father's\nwill, if you should refuse to accept him.


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Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a\ndeep glass of rhenish wine on the contrary casket,\nfor if the devil be within and that temptation\nwithout, I know he will choose it. I will do any\nthing, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.


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You need not fear, lady, the having any of these\nlords: they have acquainted me with their\ndeterminations; which is, indeed, to return to their\nhome and to trouble you with no more suit, unless\nyou may be won by some other sort than your father's\nimposition depending on the caskets.


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If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as\nchaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner\nof my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers\nare so reasonable, for there is not one among them\nbut I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant\nthem a fair departure.


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Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a\nVenetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither\nin company of the Marquis of Montferrat?


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True, madam: he, of all the men that ever my foolish\neyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.


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I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of\nthy praise.\n[Enter a Serving-man]\nHow now! what news?


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The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take\ntheir leave: and there is a forerunner come from a\nfifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the\nprince his master will be here to-night.


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If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a\nheart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should\nbe glad of his approach: if he have the condition\nof a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had\nrather he should shrive me than wive me. Come,\nNerissa. Sirrah, go before.\nWhiles we shut the gates\nupon one wooer, another knocks at the door.


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Oh, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a\ngood man is to have you understand me that he is\nsufficient. Yet his means are in supposition: he\nhath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the\nIndies; I understand moreover, upon the Rialto, he\nhath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and\nother ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships\nare but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats\nand water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves, I\nmean pirates, and then there is the peril of waters,\nwinds and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding,\nsufficient. Three thousand ducats; I think I may\ntake his bond.


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Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation which\nyour prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into. I\nwill buy with you, sell with you, talk with you,\nwalk with you, and so following, but I will not eat\nwith you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What\nnews on the Rialto? Who is he comes here?


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[Aside] How like a fawning publican he looks!\nI hate him for he is a Christian,\nBut more for that in low simplicity\nHe lends out money gratis and brings down\nThe rate of usance here with us in Venice.\nIf I can catch him once upon the hip,\nI will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.\nHe hates our sacred nation, and he rails,\nEven there where merchants most do congregate,\nOn me, my bargains and my well-won thrift,\nWhich he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,\nIf I forgive him!


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I am debating of my present store,\nAnd, by the near guess of my memory,\nI cannot instantly raise up the gross\nOf full three thousand ducats. What of that?\nTubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,\nWill furnish me. But soft! how many months\nDo you desire?\n[To ANTONIO]\nRest you fair, good signior;\nYour worship was the last man in our mouths.


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Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow\nBy taking nor by giving of excess,\nYet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,\nI'll break a custom. Is he yet possess'd\nHow much ye would?


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I had forgot; three months; you told me so.\nWell then, your bond; and let me see; but hear you;\nMethought you said you neither lend nor borrow\nUpon advantage.


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When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep--\nThis Jacob from our holy Abram was,\nAs his wise mother wrought in his behalf,\nThe third possessor; ay, he was the third--


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No, not take interest, not, as you would say,\nDirectly interest: mark what Jacob did.\nWhen Laban and himself were compromised\nThat all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied\nShould fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank,\nIn the end of autumn turned to the rams,\nAnd, when the work of generation was\nBetween these woolly breeders in the act,\nThe skilful shepherd peel'd me certain wands,\nAnd, in the doing of the deed of kind,\nHe stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,\nWho then conceiving did in eaning time\nFall parti-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's.\nThis was a way to thrive, and he was blest:\nAnd thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.


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This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for;\nA thing not in his power to bring to pass,\nBut sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven.\nWas this inserted to make interest good?\nOr is your gold and silver ewes and rams?


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Mark you this, Bassanio,\nThe devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.\nAn evil soul producing holy witness\nIs like a villain with a smiling cheek,\nA goodly apple rotten at the heart:\nO, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!


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Three thousand ducats; 'tis a good round sum.\nThree months from twelve; then, let me see; the rate--


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Signior Antonio, many a time and oft\nIn the Rialto you have rated me\nAbout my moneys and my usances:\nStill have I borne it with a patient shrug,\nFor sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.\nYou call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,\nAnd spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,\nAnd all for use of that which is mine own.\nWell then, it now appears you need my help:\nGo to, then; you come to me, and you say\n'Shylock, we would have moneys:' you say so;\nYou, that did void your rheum upon my beard\nAnd foot me as you spurn a stranger cur\nOver your threshold: moneys is your suit\nWhat should I say to you? Should I not say\n'Hath a dog money? is it possible\nA cur can lend three thousand ducats?' Or\nShall I bend low and in a bondman's key,\nWith bated breath and whispering humbleness, Say this;\n'Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;\nYou spurn'd me such a day; another time\nYou call'd me dog; and for these courtesies\nI'll lend you thus much moneys'?


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I am as like to call thee so again,\nTo spit on thee again, to spurn thee too.\nIf thou wilt lend this money, lend it not\nAs to thy friends; for when did friendship take\nA breed for barren metal of his friend?\nBut lend it rather to thine enemy,\nWho, if he break, thou mayst with better face\nExact the penalty.


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Why, look you, how you storm!\nI would be friends with you and have your love,\nForget the shames that you have stain'd me with,\nSupply your present wants and take no doit\nOf usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me:\nThis is kind I offer.


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This kindness will I show.\nGo with me to a notary, seal me there\nYour single bond; and, in a merry sport,\nIf you repay me not on such a day,\nIn such a place, such sum or sums as are\nExpress'd in the condition, let the forfeit\nBe nominated for an equal pound\nOf your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken\nIn what part of your body pleaseth me.


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Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it:\nWithin these two months, that's a month before\nThis bond expires, I do expect return\nOf thrice three times the value of this bond.


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O father Abram, what these Christians are,\nWhose own hard dealings teaches them suspect\nThe thoughts of others! Pray you, tell me this;\nIf he should break his day, what should I gain\nBy the exaction of the forfeiture?\nA pound of man's flesh taken from a man\nIs not so estimable, profitable neither,\nAs flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say,\nTo buy his favour, I extend this friendship:\nIf he will take it, so; if not, adieu;\nAnd, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.


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Then meet me forthwith at the notary's;\nGive him direction for this merry bond,\nAnd I will go and purse the ducats straight,\nSee to my house, left in the fearful guard\nOf an unthrifty knave, and presently\nI will be with you.


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[Exeunt]\n[Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF MOROCCO]\nand his train; PORTIA, NERISSA, and others\nattending]


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Mislike me not for my complexion,\nThe shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun,\nTo whom I am a neighbour and near bred.\nBring me the fairest creature northward born,\nWhere Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,\nAnd let us make incision for your love,\nTo prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.\nI tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine\nHath fear'd the valiant: by my love I swear\nThe best-regarded virgins of our clime\nHave loved it too: I would not change this hue,\nExcept to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.


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In terms of choice I am not solely led\nBy nice direction of a maiden's eyes;\nBesides, the lottery of my destiny\nBars me the right of voluntary choosing:\nBut if my father had not scanted me\nAnd hedged me by his wit, to yield myself\nHis wife who wins me by that means I told you,\nYourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair\nAs any comer I have look'd on yet\nFor my affection.


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Even for that I thank you:\nTherefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets\nTo try my fortune. By this scimitar\nThat slew the Sophy and a Persian prince\nThat won three fields of Sultan Solyman,\nI would outstare the sternest eyes that look,\nOutbrave the heart most daring on the earth,\nPluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,\nYea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,\nTo win thee, lady. But, alas the while!\nIf Hercules and Lichas play at dice\nWhich is the better man, the greater throw\nMay turn by fortune from the weaker hand:\nSo is Alcides beaten by his page;\nAnd so may I, blind fortune leading me,\nMiss that which one unworthier may attain,\nAnd die with grieving.


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You must take your chance,\nAnd either not attempt to choose at all\nOr swear before you choose, if you choose wrong\nNever to speak to lady afterward\nIn way of marriage: therefore be advised.


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Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from\nthis Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and\ntempts me saying to me 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good\nLauncelot,' or 'good Gobbo,' or good Launcelot\nGobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away. My\nconscience says 'No; take heed,' honest Launcelot;\ntake heed, honest Gobbo, or, as aforesaid, 'honest\nLauncelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy\nheels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me\npack: 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the\nfiend; 'for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,'\nsays the fiend, 'and run.' Well, my conscience,\nhanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely\nto me 'My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest\nman's son,' or rather an honest woman's son; for,\nindeed, my father did something smack, something\ngrow to, he had a kind of taste; well, my conscience\nsays 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the\nfiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience.\n'Conscience,' say I, 'you counsel well;' ' Fiend,'\nsay I, 'you counsel well:' to be ruled by my\nconscience, I should stay with the Jew my master,\nwho, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil; and, to\nrun away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the\nfiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil\nhimself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil\nincarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is\nbut a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel\nme to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more\nfriendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are\nat your command; I will run.


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[Aside] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father!\nwho, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind,\nknows me not: I will try confusions with him.


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Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but,\nat the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at\nthe very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn\ndown indirectly to the Jew's house.


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By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can\nyou tell me whether one Launcelot,\nthat dwells with him, dwell with him or no?


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Talk you of young Master Launcelot?\n[Aside]\nMark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you\nof young Master Launcelot?


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No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father,\nthough I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man\nand, God be thanked, well to live.


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Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master\nLauncelot, father; for the young gentleman,\naccording to Fates and Destinies and such odd\nsayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of\nlearning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say\nin plain terms, gone to heaven.


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Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman:\nbut, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his\nsoul, alive or dead?


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Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of\nthe knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his\nown child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of\nyour son: give me your blessing: truth will come\nto light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son\nmay, but at the length truth will out.


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Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but\ngive me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy\nthat was, your son that is, your child that shall\nbe.


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I know not what I shall think of that: but I am\nLauncelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your\nwife is my mother.


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Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou\nbe Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood.\nLord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou\ngot! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than\nDobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.


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It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows\nbackward: I am sure he had more hair of his tail\nthan I have of my face when I last saw him.


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Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy\nmaster agree? I have brought him a present. How\n'gree you now?


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Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I have set\nup my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I\nhave run some ground. My master's a very Jew: give\nhim a present! give him a halter: I am famished in\nhis service; you may tell every finger I have with\nmy ribs. Father, I am glad you are come: give me\nyour present to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed,\ngives rare new liveries: if I serve not him, I\nwill run as far as God has any ground. O rare\nfortune! here comes the man: to him, father; for I\nam a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.


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You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper\nbe ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See\nthese letters delivered; put the liveries to making,\nand desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.


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Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew,\nand have a desire, as my father shall specify--


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To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having\ndone me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being, I\nhope, an old man, shall frutify unto you--


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In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as\nyour worship shall know by this honest old man; and,\nthough I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.


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I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit:\nShylock thy master spoke with me this day,\nAnd hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment\nTo leave a rich Jew's service, to become\nThe follower of so poor a gentleman.


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The old proverb is very well parted between my\nmaster Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of\nGod, sir, and he hath enough.


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Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son.\nTake leave of thy old master and inquire\nMy lodging out. Give him a livery\nMore guarded than his fellows': see it done.


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Father, in. I cannot get a service, no; I have\nne'er a tongue in my head. Well, if any man in\nItaly have a fairer table which doth offer to swear\nupon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to,\nhere's a simple line of life: here's a small trifle\nof wives: alas, fifteen wives is nothing! eleven\nwidows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one\nman: and then to 'scape drowning thrice, and to be\nin peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed;\nhere are simple scapes. Well, if Fortune be a\nwoman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father,\ncome; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye.


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I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:\nThese things being bought and orderly bestow'd,\nReturn in haste, for I do feast to-night\nMy best-esteem'd acquaintance: hie thee, go.


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Why then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;\nThou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice;\nParts that become thee happily enough\nAnd in such eyes as ours appear not faults;\nBut where thou art not known, why, there they show\nSomething too liberal. Pray thee, take pain\nTo allay with some cold drops of modesty\nThy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behavior\nI be misconstrued in the place I go to,\nAnd lose my hopes.


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Signior Bassanio, hear me:\nIf I do not put on a sober habit,\nTalk with respect and swear but now and then,\nWear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,\nNay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes\nThus with my hat, and sigh and say 'amen,'\nUse all the observance of civility,\nLike one well studied in a sad ostent\nTo please his grandam, never trust me more.


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No, that were pity:\nI would entreat you rather to put on\nYour boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends\nThat purpose merriment. But fare you well:\nI have some business.


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I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so:\nOur house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,\nDidst rob it of some taste of tediousness.\nBut fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee:\nAnd, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see\nLorenzo, who is thy new master's guest:\nGive him this letter; do it secretly;\nAnd so farewell: I would not have my father\nSee me in talk with thee.


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Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful\npagan, most sweet Jew! if a Christian did not play\nthe knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But,\nadieu: these foolish drops do something drown my\nmanly spirit: adieu.


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Farewell, good Launcelot.\n[Exit Launcelot]\nAlack, what heinous sin is it in me\nTo be ashamed to be my father's child!\nBut though I am a daughter to his blood,\nI am not to his manners. O Lorenzo,\nIf thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,\nBecome a Christian and thy loving wife.


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'Tis now but four o'clock: we have two hours\nTo furnish us.\n[Enter LAUNCELOT, with a letter]\nFriend Launcelot, what's the news?


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I know the hand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand;\nAnd whiter than the paper it writ on\nIs the fair hand that writ.


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Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica\nI will not fail her; speak it privately.\nGo, gentlemen,\n[Exit Launcelot]\nWill you prepare you for this masque tonight?\nI am provided of a torch-bearer.


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I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed\nHow I shall take her from her father's house,\nWhat gold and jewels she is furnish'd with,\nWhat page's suit she hath in readiness.\nIf e'er the Jew her father come to heaven,\nIt will be for his gentle daughter's sake:\nAnd never dare misfortune cross her foot,\nUnless she do it under this excuse,\nThat she is issue to a faithless Jew.\nCome, go with me; peruse this as thou goest:\nFair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.


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Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,\nThe difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:--\nWhat, Jessica!--thou shalt not gormandise,\nAs thou hast done with me:--What, Jessica!--\nAnd sleep and snore, and rend apparel out;--\nWhy, Jessica, I say!


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I am bid forth to supper, Jessica:\nThere are my keys. But wherefore should I go?\nI am not bid for love; they flatter me:\nBut yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon\nThe prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl,\nLook to my house. I am right loath to go:\nThere is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,\nFor I did dream of money-bags to-night.


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An they have conspired together, I will not say you\nshall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not\nfor nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on\nBlack-Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning,\nfalling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four\nyear, in the afternoon.


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What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica:\nLock up my doors; and when you hear the drum\nAnd the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife,\nClamber not you up to the casements then,\nNor thrust your head into the public street\nTo gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces,\nBut stop my house's ears, I mean my casements:\nLet not the sound of shallow foppery enter\nMy sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear,\nI have no mind of feasting forth to-night:\nBut I will go. Go you before me, sirrah;\nSay I will come.


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I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at\nwindow, for all this, There will come a Christian\nboy, will be worth a Jewess' eye.


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The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder;\nSnail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day\nMore than the wild-cat: drones hive not with me;\nTherefore I part with him, and part with him\nTo one that would have him help to waste\nHis borrow'd purse. Well, Jessica, go in;\nPerhaps I will return immediately:\nDo as I bid you; shut doors after you:\nFast bind, fast find;\nA proverb never stale in thrifty mind.


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O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly\nTo seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont\nTo keep obliged faith unforfeited!


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That ever holds: who riseth from a feast\nWith that keen appetite that he sits down?\nWhere is the horse that doth untread again\nHis tedious measures with the unbated fire\nThat he did pace them first? All things that are,\nAre with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.\nHow like a younker or a prodigal\nThe scarfed bark puts from her native bay,\nHugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind!\nHow like the prodigal doth she return,\nWith over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails,\nLean, rent and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!


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Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;\nNot I, but my affairs, have made you wait:\nWhen you shall please to play the thieves for wives,\nI'll watch as long for you then. Approach;\nHere dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within?


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Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed,\nFor who love I so much? And now who knows\nBut you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?


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Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.\nI am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,\nFor I am much ashamed of my exchange:\nBut love is blind and lovers cannot see\nThe pretty follies that themselves commit;\nFor if they could, Cupid himself would blush\nTo see me thus transformed to a boy.


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What, must I hold a candle to my shames?\nThey in themselves, good-sooth, are too too light.\nWhy, 'tis an office of discovery, love;\nAnd I should be obscured.


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So are you, sweet,\nEven in the lovely garnish of a boy.\nBut come at once;\nFor the close night doth play the runaway,\nAnd we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.


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Beshrew me but I love her heartily;\nFor she is wise, if I can judge of her,\nAnd fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,\nAnd true she is, as she hath proved herself,\nAnd therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true,\nShall she be placed in my constant soul.\n[Enter JESSICA, below]\nWhat, art thou come? On, gentlemen; away!\nOur masquing mates by this time for us stay.


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Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?\n'Tis nine o'clock: our friends all stay for you.\nNo masque to-night: the wind is come about;\nBassanio presently will go aboard:\nI have sent twenty out to seek for you.


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Go draw aside the curtains and discover\nThe several caskets to this noble prince.\nNow make your choice.


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The first, of gold, who this inscription bears,\n'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;'\nThe second, silver, which this promise carries,\n'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves;'\nThis third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt,\n'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'\nHow shall I know if I do choose the right?


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Some god direct my judgment! Let me see;\nI will survey the inscriptions back again.\nWhat says this leaden casket?\n'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'\nMust give: for what? for lead? hazard for lead?\nThis casket threatens. Men that hazard all\nDo it in hope of fair advantages:\nA golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;\nI'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.\nWhat says the silver with her virgin hue?\n'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'\nAs much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco,\nAnd weigh thy value with an even hand:\nIf thou be'st rated by thy estimation,\nThou dost deserve enough; and yet enough\nMay not extend so far as to the lady:\nAnd yet to be afeard of my deserving\nWere but a weak disabling of myself.\nAs much as I deserve! Why, that's the lady:\nI do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,\nIn graces and in qualities of breeding;\nBut more than these, in love I do deserve.\nWhat if I stray'd no further, but chose here?\nLet's see once more this saying graved in gold\n'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'\nWhy, that's the lady; all the world desires her;\nFrom the four corners of the earth they come,\nTo kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint:\nThe Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds\nOf wide Arabia are as thoroughfares now\nFor princes to come view fair Portia:\nThe watery kingdom, whose ambitious head\nSpits in the face of heaven, is no bar\nTo stop the foreign spirits, but they come,\nAs o'er a brook, to see fair Portia.\nOne of these three contains her heavenly picture.\nIs't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation\nTo think so base a thought: it were too gross\nTo rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.\nOr shall I think in silver she's immured,\nBeing ten times undervalued to tried gold?\nO sinful thought! Never so rich a gem\nWas set in worse than gold. They have in England\nA coin that bears the figure of an angel\nStamped in gold, but that's insculp'd upon;\nBut here an angel in a golden bed\nLies all within. Deliver me the key:\nHere do I choose, and thrive I as I may!


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O hell! what have we here?\nA carrion Death, within whose empty eye\nThere is a written scroll! I'll read the writing.\n[Reads]\nAll that glitters is not gold;\nOften have you heard that told:\nMany a man his life hath sold\nBut my outside to behold:\nGilded tombs do worms enfold.\nHad you been as wise as bold,\nYoung in limbs, in judgment old,\nYour answer had not been inscroll'd:\nFare you well; your suit is cold.\nCold, indeed; and labour lost:\nThen, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!\nPortia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart\nTo take a tedious leave: thus losers part.


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Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail:\nWith him is Gratiano gone along;\nAnd in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.


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He came too late, the ship was under sail:\nBut there the duke was given to understand\nThat in a gondola were seen together\nLorenzo and his amorous Jessica:\nBesides, Antonio certified the duke\nThey were not with Bassanio in his ship.


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I never heard a passion so confused,\nSo strange, outrageous, and so variable,\nAs the dog Jew did utter in the streets:\n'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!\nFled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!\nJustice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter!\nA sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,\nOf double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter!\nAnd jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones,\nStolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl;\nShe hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.'


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Marry, well remember'd.\nI reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday,\nWho told me, in the narrow seas that part\nThe French and English, there miscarried\nA vessel of our country richly fraught:\nI thought upon Antonio when he told me;\nAnd wish'd in silence that it were not his.


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A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.\nI saw Bassanio and Antonio part:\nBassanio told him he would make some speed\nOf his return: he answer'd, 'Do not so;\nSlubber not business for my sake, Bassanio\nBut stay the very riping of the time;\nAnd for the Jew's bond which he hath of me,\nLet it not enter in your mind of love:\nBe merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts\nTo courtship and such fair ostents of love\nAs shall conveniently become you there:'\nAnd even there, his eye being big with tears,\nTurning his face, he put his hand behind him,\nAnd with affection wondrous sensible\nHe wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted.


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I think he only loves the world for him.\nI pray thee, let us go and find him out\nAnd quicken his embraced heaviness\nWith some delight or other.


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Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain straight:\nThe Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath,\nAnd comes to his election presently.\n[Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF ARRAGON,]\nPORTIA, and their trains]


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Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince:\nIf you choose that wherein I am contain'd,\nStraight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized:\nBut if you fail, without more speech, my lord,\nYou must be gone from hence immediately.


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I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things:\nFirst, never to unfold to any one\nWhich casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail\nOf the right casket, never in my life\nTo woo a maid in way of marriage: Lastly,\nIf I do fail in fortune of my choice,\nImmediately to leave you and be gone.


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And so have I address'd me. Fortune now\nTo my heart's hope! Gold; silver; and base lead.\n'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'\nYou shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard.\nWhat says the golden chest? ha! let me see:\n'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'\nWhat many men desire! that 'many' may be meant\nBy the fool multitude, that choose by show,\nNot learning more than the fond eye doth teach;\nWhich pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet,\nBuilds in the weather on the outward wall,\nEven in the force and road of casualty.\nI will not choose what many men desire,\nBecause I will not jump with common spirits\nAnd rank me with the barbarous multitudes.\nWhy, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;\nTell me once more what title thou dost bear:\n'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves:'\nAnd well said too; for who shall go about\nTo cozen fortune and be honourable\nWithout the stamp of merit? Let none presume\nTo wear an undeserved dignity.\nO, that estates, degrees and offices\nWere not derived corruptly, and that clear honour\nWere purchased by the merit of the wearer!\nHow many then should cover that stand bare!\nHow many be commanded that command!\nHow much low peasantry would then be glean'd\nFrom the true seed of honour! and how much honour\nPick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times\nTo be new-varnish'd! Well, but to my choice:\n'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'\nI will assume desert. Give me a key for this,\nAnd instantly unlock my fortunes here.


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What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,\nPresenting me a schedule! I will read it.\nHow much unlike art thou to Portia!\nHow much unlike my hopes and my deservings!\n'Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.'\nDid I deserve no more than a fool's head?\nIs that my prize? are my deserts no better?


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What is here?\n[Reads]\nThe fire seven times tried this:\nSeven times tried that judgment is,\nThat did never choose amiss.\nSome there be that shadows kiss;\nSuch have but a shadow's bliss:\nThere be fools alive, I wis,\nSilver'd o'er; and so was this.\nTake what wife you will to bed,\nI will ever be your head:\nSo be gone: you are sped.\nStill more fool I shall appear\nBy the time I linger here\nWith one fool's head I came to woo,\nBut I go away with two.\nSweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath,\nPatiently to bear my wroth.


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Thus hath the candle singed the moth.\nO, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,\nThey have the wisdom by their wit to lose.


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Madam, there is alighted at your gate\nA young Venetian, one that comes before\nTo signify the approaching of his lord;\nFrom whom he bringeth sensible regreets,\nTo wit, besides commends and courteous breath,\nGifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen\nSo likely an ambassador of love:\nA day in April never came so sweet,\nTo show how costly summer was at hand,\nAs this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.


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No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard\nThou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee,\nThou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him.\nCome, come, Nerissa; for I long to see\nQuick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly.


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Why, yet it lives there uncheck'd that Antonio hath\na ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas;\nthe Goodwins, I think they call the place; a very\ndangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many\na tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip\nReport be an honest woman of her word.


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I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever\nknapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she\nwept for the death of a third husband. But it is\ntrue, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the\nplain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the\nhonest Antonio,--O that I had a title good enough\nto keep his name company!--


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Let me say 'amen' betimes, lest the devil cross my\nprayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.\n[Enter SHYLOCK]\nHow now, Shylock! what news among the merchants?


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And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was\nfledged; and then it is the complexion of them all\nto leave the dam.


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There is more difference between thy flesh and hers\nthan between jet and ivory; more between your bloods\nthan there is between red wine and rhenish. But\ntell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any\nloss at sea or no?


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There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a\nprodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the\nRialto; a beggar, that was used to come so smug upon\nthe mart; let him look to his bond: he was wont to\ncall me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was\nwont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him\nlook to his bond.


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To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else,\nit will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and\nhindered me half a million; laughed at my losses,\nmocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my\nbargains, cooled my friends, heated mine\nenemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath\nnot a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,\ndimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with\nthe same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject\nto the same diseases, healed by the same means,\nwarmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as\na Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?\nif you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison\nus, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not\nrevenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will\nresemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian,\nwhat is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian\nwrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by\nChristian example? Why, revenge. The villany you\nteach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I\nwill better the instruction.


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Why, there, there, there, there! a diamond gone,\ncost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse\nnever fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it\ntill now: two thousand ducats in that; and other\nprecious, precious jewels. I would my daughter\nwere dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear!\nwould she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in\nher coffin! No news of them? Why, so: and I know\nnot what's spent in the search: why, thou loss upon\nloss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to\nfind the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge:\nnor no in luck stirring but what lights on my\nshoulders; no sighs but of my breathing; no tears\nbut of my shedding.


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Thou stickest a dagger in me: I shall never see my\ngold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting!\nfourscore ducats!


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There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my\ncompany to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break.


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Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it was my\nturquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor:\nI would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.


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Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee\nme an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I\nwill have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were\nhe out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I\nwill. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue;\ngo, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal.


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I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two\nBefore you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,\nI lose your company: therefore forbear awhile.\nThere's something tells me, but it is not love,\nI would not lose you; and you know yourself,\nHate counsels not in such a quality.\nBut lest you should not understand me well,--\nAnd yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,--\nI would detain you here some month or two\nBefore you venture for me. I could teach you\nHow to choose right, but I am then forsworn;\nSo will I never be: so may you miss me;\nBut if you do, you'll make me wish a sin,\nThat I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,\nThey have o'erlook'd me and divided me;\nOne half of me is yours, the other half yours,\nMine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,\nAnd so all yours. O, these naughty times\nPut bars between the owners and their rights!\nAnd so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so,\nLet fortune go to hell for it, not I.\nI speak too long; but 'tis to peize the time,\nTo eke it and to draw it out in length,\nTo stay you from election.


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None but that ugly treason of mistrust,\nWhich makes me fear the enjoying of my love:\nThere may as well be amity and life\n'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.


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'Confess' and 'love'\nHad been the very sum of my confession:\nO happy torment, when my torturer\nDoth teach me answers for deliverance!\nBut let me to my fortune and the caskets.


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Away, then! I am lock'd in one of them:\nIf you do love me, you will find me out.\nNerissa and the rest, stand all aloof.\nLet music sound while he doth make his choice;\nThen, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,\nFading in music: that the comparison\nMay stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream\nAnd watery death-bed for him. He may win;\nAnd what is music then? Then music is\nEven as the flourish when true subjects bow\nTo a new-crowned monarch: such it is\nAs are those dulcet sounds in break of day\nThat creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear,\nAnd summon him to marriage. Now he goes,\nWith no less presence, but with much more love,\nThan young Alcides, when he did redeem\nThe virgin tribute paid by howling Troy\nTo the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice\nThe rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,\nWith bleared visages, come forth to view\nThe issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules!\nLive thou, I live: with much, much more dismay\nI view the fight than thou that makest the fray.\n[Music, whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself]\nSONG.\nTell me where is fancy bred,\nOr in the heart, or in the head?\nHow begot, how nourished?\nReply, reply.\nIt is engender'd in the eyes,\nWith gazing fed; and fancy dies\nIn the cradle where it lies.\nLet us all ring fancy's knell\nI'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.


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So may the outward shows be least themselves:\nThe world is still deceived with ornament.\nIn law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,\nBut, being seasoned with a gracious voice,\nObscures the show of evil? In religion,\nWhat damned error, but some sober brow\nWill bless it and approve it with a text,\nHiding the grossness with fair ornament?\nThere is no vice so simple but assumes\nSome mark of virtue on his outward parts:\nHow many cowards, whose hearts are all as false\nAs stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins\nThe beards of Hercules and frowning Mars;\nWho, inward search'd, have livers white as milk;\nAnd these assume but valour's excrement\nTo render them redoubted! Look on beauty,\nAnd you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight;\nWhich therein works a miracle in nature,\nMaking them lightest that wear most of it:\nSo are those crisped snaky golden locks\nWhich make such wanton gambols with the wind,\nUpon supposed fairness, often known\nTo be the dowry of a second head,\nThe skull that bred them in the sepulchre.\nThus ornament is but the guiled shore\nTo a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf\nVeiling an Indian beauty; in a word,\nThe seeming truth which cunning times put on\nTo entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,\nHard food for Midas, I will none of thee;\nNor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge\n'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead,\nWhich rather threatenest than dost promise aught,\nThy paleness moves me more than eloquence;\nAnd here choose I; joy be the consequence!


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[Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air,\nAs doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,\nAnd shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! O love,\nBe moderate; allay thy ecstasy,\nIn measure rein thy joy; scant this excess.\nI feel too much thy blessing: make it less,\nFor fear I surfeit.


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What find I here?\n[Opening the leaden casket]\nFair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god\nHath come so near creation? Move these eyes?\nOr whether, riding on the balls of mine,\nSeem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips,\nParted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar\nShould sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs\nThe painter plays the spider and hath woven\nA golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men,\nFaster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,--\nHow could he see to do them? having made one,\nMethinks it should have power to steal both his\nAnd leave itself unfurnish'd. Yet look, how far\nThe substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow\nIn underprizing it, so far this shadow\nDoth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll,\nThe continent and summary of my fortune.\n[Reads]\nYou that choose not by the view,\nChance as fair and choose as true!\nSince this fortune falls to you,\nBe content and seek no new,\nIf you be well pleased with this\nAnd hold your fortune for your bliss,\nTurn you where your lady is\nAnd claim her with a loving kiss.\nA gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave;\nI come by note, to give and to receive.\nLike one of two contending in a prize,\nThat thinks he hath done well in people's eyes,\nHearing applause and universal shout,\nGiddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt\nWhether these pearls of praise be his or no;\nSo, thrice fair lady, stand I, even so;\nAs doubtful whether what I see be true,\nUntil confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you.


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You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,\nSuch as I am: though for myself alone\nI would not be ambitious in my wish,\nTo wish myself much better; yet, for you\nI would be trebled twenty times myself;\nA thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich;\nThat only to stand high in your account,\nI might in virtue, beauties, livings, friends,\nExceed account; but the full sum of me\nIs sum of something, which, to term in gross,\nIs an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractised;\nHappy in this, she is not yet so old\nBut she may learn; happier than this,\nShe is not bred so dull but she can learn;\nHappiest of all is that her gentle spirit\nCommits itself to yours to be directed,\nAs from her lord, her governor, her king.\nMyself and what is mine to you and yours\nIs now converted: but now I was the lord\nOf this fair mansion, master of my servants,\nQueen o'er myself: and even now, but now,\nThis house, these servants and this same myself\nAre yours, my lord: I give them with this ring;\nWhich when you part from, lose, or give away,\nLet it presage the ruin of your love\nAnd be my vantage to exclaim on you.


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Madam, you have bereft me of all words,\nOnly my blood speaks to you in my veins;\nAnd there is such confusion in my powers,\nAs after some oration fairly spoke\nBy a beloved prince, there doth appear\nAmong the buzzing pleased multitude;\nWhere every something, being blent together,\nTurns to a wild of nothing, save of joy,\nExpress'd and not express'd. But when this ring\nParts from this finger, then parts life from hence:\nO, then be bold to say Bassanio's dead!


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My lord and lady, it is now our time,\nThat have stood by and seen our wishes prosper,\nTo cry, good joy: good joy, my lord and lady!


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My lord Bassanio and my gentle lady,\nI wish you all the joy that you can wish;\nFor I am sure you can wish none from me:\nAnd when your honours mean to solemnize\nThe bargain of your faith, I do beseech you,\nEven at that time I may be married too.


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I thank your lordship, you have got me one.\nMy eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:\nYou saw the mistress, I beheld the maid;\nYou loved, I loved for intermission.\nNo more pertains to me, my lord, than you.\nYour fortune stood upon the casket there,\nAnd so did mine too, as the matter falls;\nFor wooing here until I sweat again,\nAnd sweating until my very roof was dry\nWith oaths of love, at last, if promise last,\nI got a promise of this fair one here\nTo have her love, provided that your fortune\nAchieved her mistress.


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No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down.\nBut who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What,\nand my old Venetian friend Salerio?\n[Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALERIO, a Messenger]\nfrom Venice]


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Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither;\nIf that the youth of my new interest here\nHave power to bid you welcome. By your leave,\nI bid my very friends and countrymen,\nSweet Portia, welcome.


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I thank your honour. For my part, my lord,\nMy purpose was not to have seen you here;\nBut meeting with Salerio by the way,\nHe did entreat me, past all saying nay,\nTo come with him along.


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Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;\nNor well, unless in mind: his letter there\nWill show you his estate.


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Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome.\nYour hand, Salerio: what's the news from Venice?\nHow doth that royal merchant, good Antonio?\nI know he will be glad of our success;\nWe are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.


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There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper,\nThat steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek:\nSome dear friend dead; else nothing in the world\nCould turn so much the constitution\nOf any constant man. What, worse and worse!\nWith leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself,\nAnd I must freely have the half of anything\nThat this same paper brings you.


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O sweet Portia,\nHere are a few of the unpleasant'st words\nThat ever blotted paper! Gentle lady,\nWhen I did first impart my love to you,\nI freely told you, all the wealth I had\nRan in my veins, I was a gentleman;\nAnd then I told you true: and yet, dear lady,\nRating myself at nothing, you shall see\nHow much I was a braggart. When I told you\nMy state was nothing, I should then have told you\nThat I was worse than nothing; for, indeed,\nI have engaged myself to a dear friend,\nEngaged my friend to his mere enemy,\nTo feed my means. Here is a letter, lady;\nThe paper as the body of my friend,\nAnd every word in it a gaping wound,\nIssuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio?\nHave all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit?\nFrom Tripolis, from Mexico and England,\nFrom Lisbon, Barbary and India?\nAnd not one vessel 'scape the dreadful touch\nOf merchant-marring rocks?


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Not one, my lord.\nBesides, it should appear, that if he had\nThe present money to discharge the Jew,\nHe would not take it. Never did I know\nA creature, that did bear the shape of man,\nSo keen and greedy to confound a man:\nHe plies the duke at morning and at night,\nAnd doth impeach the freedom of the state,\nIf they deny him justice: twenty merchants,\nThe duke himself, and the magnificoes\nOf greatest port, have all persuaded with him;\nBut none can drive him from the envious plea\nOf forfeiture, of justice and his bond.


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When I was with him I have heard him swear\nTo Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen,\nThat he would rather have Antonio's flesh\nThan twenty times the value of the sum\nThat he did owe him: and I know, my lord,\nIf law, authority and power deny not,\nIt will go hard with poor Antonio.


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The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,\nThe best-condition'd and unwearied spirit\nIn doing courtesies, and one in whom\nThe ancient Roman honour more appears\nThan any that draws breath in Italy.


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What, no more?\nPay him six thousand, and deface the bond;\nDouble six thousand, and then treble that,\nBefore a friend of this description\nShall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault.\nFirst go with me to church and call me wife,\nAnd then away to Venice to your friend;\nFor never shall you lie by Portia's side\nWith an unquiet soul. You shall have gold\nTo pay the petty debt twenty times over:\nWhen it is paid, bring your true friend along.\nMy maid Nerissa and myself meantime\nWill live as maids and widows. Come, away!\nFor you shall hence upon your wedding-day:\nBid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer:\nSince you are dear bought, I will love you dear.\nBut let me hear the letter of your friend.


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[Reads] Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all\nmiscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is\nvery low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since\nin paying it, it is impossible I should live, all\ndebts are cleared between you and I, if I might but\nsee you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your\npleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come,\nlet not my letter.


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Since I have your good leave to go away,\nI will make haste: but, till I come again,\nNo bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay,\nNo rest be interposer 'twixt us twain.


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Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of mercy;\nThis is the fool that lent out money gratis:\nGaoler, look to him.


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I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond:\nI have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.\nThou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause;\nBut, since I am a dog, beware my fangs:\nThe duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder,\nThou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond\nTo come abroad with him at his request.


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I'll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak:\nI'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more.\nI'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,\nTo shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield\nTo Christian intercessors. Follow not;\nI'll have no speaking: I will have my bond.


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Let him alone:\nI'll follow him no more with bootless prayers.\nHe seeks my life; his reason well I know:\nI oft deliver'd from his forfeitures\nMany that have at times made moan to me;\nTherefore he hates me.


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The duke cannot deny the course of law:\nFor the commodity that strangers have\nWith us in Venice, if it be denied,\nWill much impeach the justice of his state;\nSince that the trade and profit of the city\nConsisteth of all nations. Therefore, go:\nThese griefs and losses have so bated me,\nThat I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh\nTo-morrow to my bloody creditor.\nWell, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come\nTo see me pay his debt, and then I care not!


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Madam, although I speak it in your presence,\nYou have a noble and a true conceit\nOf godlike amity; which appears most strongly\nIn bearing thus the absence of your lord.\nBut if you knew to whom you show this honour,\nHow true a gentleman you send relief,\nHow dear a lover of my lord your husband,\nI know you would be prouder of the work\nThan customary bounty can enforce you.


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I never did repent for doing good,\nNor shall not now: for in companions\nThat do converse and waste the time together,\nWhose souls do bear an equal yoke Of love,\nThere must be needs a like proportion\nOf lineaments, of manners and of spirit;\nWhich makes me think that this Antonio,\nBeing the bosom lover of my lord,\nMust needs be like my lord. If it be so,\nHow little is the cost I have bestow'd\nIn purchasing the semblance of my soul\nFrom out the state of hellish misery!\nThis comes too near the praising of myself;\nTherefore no more of it: hear other things.\nLorenzo, I commit into your hands\nThe husbandry and manage of my house\nUntil my lord's return: for mine own part,\nI have toward heaven breathed a secret vow\nTo live in prayer and contemplation,\nOnly attended by Nerissa here,\nUntil her husband and my lord's return:\nThere is a monastery two miles off;\nAnd there will we abide. I do desire you\nNot to deny this imposition;\nThe which my love and some necessity\nNow lays upon you.


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My people do already know my mind,\nAnd will acknowledge you and Jessica\nIn place of Lord Bassanio and myself.\nAnd so farewell, till we shall meet again.


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I thank you for your wish, and am well pleased\nTo wish it back on you: fare you well Jessica.\n[Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO]\nNow, Balthasar,\nAs I have ever found thee honest-true,\nSo let me find thee still. Take this same letter,\nAnd use thou all the endeavour of a man\nIn speed to Padua: see thou render this\nInto my cousin's hand, Doctor Bellario;\nAnd, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee,\nBring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed\nUnto the tranect, to the common ferry\nWhich trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,\nBut get thee gone: I shall be there before thee.


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Come on, Nerissa; I have work in hand\nThat you yet know not of: we'll see our husbands\nBefore they think of us.


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They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit,\nThat they shall think we are accomplished\nWith that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager,\nWhen we are both accoutred like young men,\nI'll prove the prettier fellow of the two,\nAnd wear my dagger with the braver grace,\nAnd speak between the change of man and boy\nWith a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps\nInto a manly stride, and speak of frays\nLike a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies,\nHow honourable ladies sought my love,\nWhich I denying, they fell sick and died;\nI could not do withal; then I'll repent,\nAnd wish for all that, that I had not killed them;\nAnd twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,\nThat men shall swear I have discontinued school\nAbove a twelvemonth. I have within my mind\nA thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,\nWhich I will practise.


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Fie, what a question's that,\nIf thou wert near a lewd interpreter!\nBut come, I'll tell thee all my whole device\nWhen I am in my coach, which stays for us\nAt the park gate; and therefore haste away,\nFor we must measure twenty miles to-day.


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Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father\nare to be laid upon the children: therefore, I\npromise ye, I fear you. I was always plain with\nyou, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter:\ntherefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you\nare damned. There is but one hope in it that can do\nyou any good; and that is but a kind of bastard\nhope neither.


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Truly then I fear you are damned both by father and\nmother: thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I\nfall into Charybdis, your mother: well, you are\ngone both ways.


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Truly, the more to blame he: we were Christians\nenow before; e'en as many as could well live, one by\nanother. This making Christians will raise the\nprice of hogs: if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we\nshall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money.


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Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo: Launcelot and I\nare out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for\nme in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter: and he\nsays, you are no good member of the commonwealth,\nfor in converting Jews to Christians, you raise the\nprice of pork.


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I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than\nyou can the getting up of the negro's belly: the\nMoor is with child by you, Launcelot.


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It is much that the Moor should be more than reason:\nbut if she be less than an honest woman, she is\nindeed more than I took her for.


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How every fool can play upon the word! I think the\nbest grace of wit will shortly turn into silence,\nand discourse grow commendable in none only but\nparrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner.


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Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show\nthe whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray\ntree, understand a plain man in his plain meaning:\ngo to thy fellows; bid them cover the table, serve\nin the meat, and we will come in to dinner.


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For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the\nmeat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in\nto dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and\nconceits shall govern.


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O dear discretion, how his words are suited!\nThe fool hath planted in his memory\nAn army of good words; and I do know\nA many fools, that stand in better place,\nGarnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word\nDefy the matter. How cheerest thou, Jessica?\nAnd now, good sweet, say thy opinion,\nHow dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?


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Past all expressing. It is very meet\nThe Lord Bassanio live an upright life;\nFor, having such a blessing in his lady,\nHe finds the joys of heaven here on earth;\nAnd if on earth he do not mean it, then\nIn reason he should never come to heaven\nWhy, if two gods should play some heavenly match\nAnd on the wager lay two earthly women,\nAnd Portia one, there must be something else\nPawn'd with the other, for the poor rude world\nHath not her fellow.


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I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer\nA stony adversary, an inhuman wretch\nuncapable of pity, void and empty\nFrom any dram of mercy.


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I have heard\nYour grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify\nHis rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate\nAnd that no lawful means can carry me\nOut of his envy's reach, I do oppose\nMy patience to his fury, and am arm'd\nTo suffer, with a quietness of spirit,\nThe very tyranny and rage of his.


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Make room, and let him stand before our face.\nShylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,\nThat thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice\nTo the last hour of act; and then 'tis thought\nThou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange\nThan is thy strange apparent cruelty;\nAnd where thou now exact'st the penalty,\nWhich is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,\nThou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,\nBut, touch'd with human gentleness and love,\nForgive a moiety of the principal;\nGlancing an eye of pity on his losses,\nThat have of late so huddled on his back,\nEnow to press a royal merchant down\nAnd pluck commiseration of his state\nFrom brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,\nFrom stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd\nTo offices of tender courtesy.\nWe all expect a gentle answer, Jew.


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I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;\nAnd by our holy Sabbath have I sworn\nTo have the due and forfeit of my bond:\nIf you deny it, let the danger light\nUpon your charter and your city's freedom.\nYou'll ask me, why I rather choose to have\nA weight of carrion flesh than to receive\nThree thousand ducats: I'll not answer that:\nBut, say, it is my humour: is it answer'd?\nWhat if my house be troubled with a rat\nAnd I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats\nTo have it baned? What, are you answer'd yet?\nSome men there are love not a gaping pig;\nSome, that are mad if they behold a cat;\nAnd others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose,\nCannot contain their urine: for affection,\nMistress of passion, sways it to the mood\nOf what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer:\nAs there is no firm reason to be render'd,\nWhy he cannot abide a gaping pig;\nWhy he, a harmless necessary cat;\nWhy he, a woollen bagpipe; but of force\nMust yield to such inevitable shame\nAs to offend, himself being offended;\nSo can I give no reason, nor I will not,\nMore than a lodged hate and a certain loathing\nI bear Antonio, that I follow thus\nA losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?


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I pray you, think you question with the Jew:\nYou may as well go stand upon the beach\nAnd bid the main flood bate his usual height;\nYou may as well use question with the wolf\nWhy he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;\nYou may as well forbid the mountain pines\nTo wag their high tops and to make no noise,\nWhen they are fretten with the gusts of heaven;\nYou may as well do anything most hard,\nAs seek to soften that--than which what's harder?--\nHis Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you,\nMake no more offers, use no farther means,\nBut with all brief and plain conveniency\nLet me have judgment and the Jew his will.


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What judgment shall I dread, doing\nWere in six parts and every part a ducat,\nI would not draw them; I would have my bond.


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What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?\nYou have among you many a purchased slave,\nWhich, like your asses and your dogs and mules,\nYou use in abject and in slavish parts,\nBecause you bought them: shall I say to you,\nLet them be free, marry them to your heirs?\nWhy sweat they under burthens? let their beds\nBe made as soft as yours and let their palates\nBe season'd with such viands? You will answer\n'The slaves are ours:' so do I answer you:\nThe pound of flesh, which I demand of him,\nIs dearly bought; 'tis mine and I will have it.\nIf you deny me, fie upon your law!\nThere is no force in the decrees of Venice.\nI stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?


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Upon my power I may dismiss this court,\nUnless Bellario, a learned doctor,\nWhom I have sent for to determine this,\nCome here to-day.


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Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!\nThe Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all,\nEre thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.


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I am a tainted wether of the flock,\nMeetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit\nDrops earliest to the ground; and so let me\nYou cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,\nThan to live still and write mine epitaph.


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Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,\nThou makest thy knife keen; but no metal can,\nNo, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness\nOf thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?


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O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog!\nAnd for thy life let justice be accused.\nThou almost makest me waver in my faith\nTo hold opinion with Pythagoras,\nThat souls of animals infuse themselves\nInto the trunks of men: thy currish spirit\nGovern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter,\nEven from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,\nAnd, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,\nInfused itself in thee; for thy desires\nAre wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous.


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Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,\nThou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud:\nRepair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall\nTo cureless ruin. I stand here for law.


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With all my heart. Some three or four of you\nGo give him courteous conduct to this place.\nMeantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter.


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[Reads]\nYour grace shall understand that at the receipt of\nyour letter I am very sick: but in the instant that\nyour messenger came, in loving visitation was with\nme a young doctor of Rome; his name is Balthasar. I\nacquainted him with the cause in controversy between\nthe Jew and Antonio the merchant: we turned o'er\nmany books together: he is furnished with my\nopinion; which, bettered with his own learning, the\ngreatness whereof I cannot enough commend, comes\nwith him, at my importunity, to fill up your grace's\nrequest in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of\nyears be no impediment to let him lack a reverend\nestimation; for I never knew so young a body with so\nold a head. I leave him to your gracious\nacceptance, whose trial shall better publish his\ncommendation.


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You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes:\nAnd here, I take it, is the doctor come.\n[Enter PORTIA, dressed like a doctor of laws]\nGive me your hand. Come you from old Bellario?


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You are welcome: take your place.\nAre you acquainted with the difference\nThat holds this present question in the court?


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Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;\nYet in such rule that the Venetian law\nCannot impugn you as you do proceed.\nYou stand within his danger, do you not?


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The quality of mercy is not strain'd,\nIt droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven\nUpon the place beneath: it is twice blest;\nIt blesseth him that gives and him that takes:\n'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes\nThe throned monarch better than his crown;\nHis sceptre shows the force of temporal power,\nThe attribute to awe and majesty,\nWherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;\nBut mercy is above this sceptred sway;\nIt is enthroned in the hearts of kings,\nIt is an attribute to God himself;\nAnd earthly power doth then show likest God's\nWhen mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,\nThough justice be thy plea, consider this,\nThat, in the course of justice, none of us\nShould see salvation: we do pray for mercy;\nAnd that same prayer doth teach us all to render\nThe deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much\nTo mitigate the justice of thy plea;\nWhich if thou follow, this strict court of Venice\nMust needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.


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Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;\nYea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,\nI will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,\nOn forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:\nIf this will not suffice, it must appear\nThat malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,\nWrest once the law to your authority:\nTo do a great right, do a little wrong,\nAnd curb this cruel devil of his will.


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It must not be; there is no power in Venice\nCan alter a decree established:\n'Twill be recorded for a precedent,\nAnd many an error by the same example\nWill rush into the state: it cannot be.


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Why, this bond is forfeit;\nAnd lawfully by this the Jew may claim\nA pound of flesh, to be by him cut off\nNearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful:\nTake thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.


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When it is paid according to the tenor.\nIt doth appear you are a worthy judge;\nYou know the law, your exposition\nHath been most sound: I charge you by the law,\nWhereof you are a well-deserving pillar,\nProceed to judgment: by my soul I swear\nThere is no power in the tongue of man\nTo alter me: I stay here on my bond.


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For the intent and purpose of the law\nHath full relation to the penalty,\nWhich here appeareth due upon the bond.


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Ay, his breast:\nSo says the bond: doth it not, noble judge?\n'Nearest his heart:' those are the very words.


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But little: I am arm'd and well prepared.\nGive me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well!\nGrieve not that I am fallen to this for you;\nFor herein Fortune shows herself more kind\nThan is her custom: it is still her use\nTo let the wretched man outlive his wealth,\nTo view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow\nAn age of poverty; from which lingering penance\nOf such misery doth she cut me off.\nCommend me to your honourable wife:\nTell her the process of Antonio's end;\nSay how I loved you, speak me fair in death;\nAnd, when the tale is told, bid her be judge\nWhether Bassanio had not once a love.\nRepent but you that you shall lose your friend,\nAnd he repents not that he pays your debt;\nFor if the Jew do cut but deep enough,\nI'll pay it presently with all my heart.


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Antonio, I am married to a wife\nWhich is as dear to me as life itself;\nBut life itself, my wife, and all the world,\nAre not with me esteem'd above thy life:\nI would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all\nHere to this devil, to deliver you.


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I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love:\nI would she were in heaven, so she could\nEntreat some power to change this currish Jew.


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These be the Christian husbands. I have a daughter;\nWould any of the stock of Barrabas\nHad been her husband rather than a Christian!\n[Aside]\nWe trifle time: I pray thee, pursue sentence.


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Tarry a little; there is something else.\nThis bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;\nThe words expressly are 'a pound of flesh:'\nTake then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;\nBut, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed\nOne drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods\nAre, by the laws of Venice, confiscate\nUnto the state of Venice.


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Thyself shalt see the act:\nFor, as thou urgest justice, be assured\nThou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.


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Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh.\nShed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more\nBut just a pound of flesh: if thou cut'st more\nOr less than a just pound, be it but so much\nAs makes it light or heavy in the substance,\nOr the division of the twentieth part\nOf one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn\nBut in the estimation of a hair,\nThou diest and all thy goods are confiscate.


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Tarry, Jew:\nThe law hath yet another hold on you.\nIt is enacted in the laws of Venice,\nIf it be proved against an alien\nThat by direct or indirect attempts\nHe seek the life of any citizen,\nThe party 'gainst the which he doth contrive\nShall seize one half his goods; the other half\nComes to the privy coffer of the state;\nAnd the offender's life lies in the mercy\nOf the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.\nIn which predicament, I say, thou stand'st;\nFor it appears, by manifest proceeding,\nThat indirectly and directly too\nThou hast contrived against the very life\nOf the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd\nThe danger formerly by me rehearsed.\nDown therefore and beg mercy of the duke.


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Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself:\nAnd yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,\nThou hast not left the value of a cord;\nTherefore thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.


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That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits,\nI pardon thee thy life before thou ask it:\nFor half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;\nThe other half comes to the general state,\nWhich humbleness may drive unto a fine.


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Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:\nYou take my house when you do take the prop\nThat doth sustain my house; you take my life\nWhen you do take the means whereby I live.


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So please my lord the duke and all the court\nTo quit the fine for one half of his goods,\nI am content; so he will let me have\nThe other half in use, to render it,\nUpon his death, unto the gentleman\nThat lately stole his daughter:\nTwo things provided more, that, for this favour,\nHe presently become a Christian;\nThe other, that he do record a gift,\nHere in the court, of all he dies possess'd,\nUnto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.


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I pray you, give me leave to go from hence;\nI am not well: send the deed after me,\nAnd I will sign it.


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In christening shalt thou have two god-fathers:\nHad I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more,\nTo bring thee to the gallows, not the font.


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I humbly do desire your grace of pardon:\nI must away this night toward Padua,\nAnd it is meet I presently set forth.


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I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.\nAntonio, gratify this gentleman,\nFor, in my mind, you are much bound to him.


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Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend\nHave by your wisdom been this day acquitted\nOf grievous penalties; in lieu whereof,\nThree thousand ducats, due unto the Jew,\nWe freely cope your courteous pains withal.


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He is well paid that is well satisfied;\nAnd I, delivering you, am satisfied\nAnd therein do account myself well paid:\nMy mind was never yet more mercenary.\nI pray you, know me when we meet again:\nI wish you well, and so I take my leave.


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Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further:\nTake some remembrance of us, as a tribute,\nNot as a fee: grant me two things, I pray you,\nNot to deny me, and to pardon me.


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You press me far, and therefore I will yield.\n[To ANTONIO]\nGive me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake;\n[To BASSANIO]\nAnd, for your love, I'll take this ring from you:\nDo not draw back your hand; I'll take no more;\nAnd you in love shall not deny me this.


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There's more depends on this than on the value.\nThe dearest ring in Venice will I give you,\nAnd find it out by proclamation:\nOnly for this, I pray you, pardon me.


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I see, sir, you are liberal in offers\nYou taught me first to beg; and now methinks\nYou teach me how a beggar should be answer'd.


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Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;\nAnd when she put it on, she made me vow\nThat I should neither sell nor give nor lose it.


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That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts.\nAn if your wife be not a mad-woman,\nAnd know how well I have deserved the ring,\nShe would not hold out enemy for ever,\nFor giving it to me. Well, peace be with you!


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My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:\nLet his deservings and my love withal\nBe valued against your wife's commandment.


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Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him;\nGive him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst,\nUnto Antonio's house: away! make haste.\n[Exit Gratiano]\nCome, you and I will thither presently;\nAnd in the morning early will we both\nFly toward Belmont: come, Antonio.


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Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed\nAnd let him sign it: we'll away to-night\nAnd be a day before our husbands home:\nThis deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.


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Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en\nMy Lord Bassanio upon more advice\nHath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat\nYour company at dinner.


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That cannot be:\nHis ring I do accept most thankfully:\nAnd so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore,\nI pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house.


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Sir, I would speak with you.\n[Aside to PORTIA]\nI'll see if I can get my husband's ring,\nWhich I did make him swear to keep for ever.


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[Aside to NERISSA] Thou mayst, I warrant.\nWe shall have old swearing\nThat they did give the rings away to men;\nBut we'll outface them, and outswear them too.\n[Aloud]\nAway! make haste: thou knowist where I will tarry.


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The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,\nWhen the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees\nAnd they did make no noise, in such a night\nTroilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls\nAnd sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents,\nWhere Cressid lay that night.


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In such a night\nDid Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew\nAnd saw the lion's shadow ere himself\nAnd ran dismay'd away.


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In such a night\nStood Dido with a willow in her hand\nUpon the wild sea banks and waft her love\nTo come again to Carthage.


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In such a night\nDid Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew\nAnd with an unthrift love did run from Venice\nAs far as Belmont.


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In such a night\nDid young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,\nStealing her soul with many vows of faith\nAnd ne'er a true one.


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Stephano is my name; and I bring word\nMy mistress will before the break of day\nBe here at Belmont; she doth stray about\nBy holy crosses, where she kneels and prays\nFor happy wedlock hours.


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He is not, nor we have not heard from him.\nBut go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,\nAnd ceremoniously let us prepare\nSome welcome for the mistress of the house.


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Tell him there's a post come from my master, with\nhis horn full of good news: my master will be here\nere morning.


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Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming.\nAnd yet no matter: why should we go in?\nMy friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,\nWithin the house, your mistress is at hand;\nAnd bring your music forth into the air.\n[Exit Stephano]\nHow sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!\nHere will we sit and let the sounds of music\nCreep in our ears: soft stillness and the night\nBecome the touches of sweet harmony.\nSit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven\nIs thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:\nThere's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st\nBut in his motion like an angel sings,\nStill quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;\nSuch harmony is in immortal souls;\nBut whilst this muddy vesture of decay\nDoth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.\n[Enter Musicians]\nCome, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn!\nWith sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,\nAnd draw her home with music.


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The reason is, your spirits are attentive:\nFor do but note a wild and wanton herd,\nOr race of youthful and unhandled colts,\nFetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,\nWhich is the hot condition of their blood;\nIf they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,\nOr any air of music touch their ears,\nYou shall perceive them make a mutual stand,\nTheir savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze\nBy the sweet power of music: therefore the poet\nDid feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods;\nSince nought so stockish, hard and full of rage,\nBut music for the time doth change his nature.\nThe man that hath no music in himself,\nNor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,\nIs fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;\nThe motions of his spirit are dull as night\nAnd his affections dark as Erebus:\nLet no such man be trusted. Mark the music.


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That light we see is burning in my hall.\nHow far that little candle throws his beams!\nSo shines a good deed in a naughty world.


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So doth the greater glory dim the less:\nA substitute shines brightly as a king\nUnto the king be by, and then his state\nEmpties itself, as doth an inland brook\nInto the main of waters. Music! hark!


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The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,\nWhen neither is attended, and I think\nThe nightingale, if she should sing by day,\nWhen every goose is cackling, would be thought\nNo better a musician than the wren.\nHow many things by season season'd are\nTo their right praise and true perfection!\nPeace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion\nAnd would not be awaked.


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We have been praying for our husbands' healths,\nWhich speed, we hope, the better for our words.\nAre they return'd?


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Go in, Nerissa;\nGive order to my servants that they take\nNo note at all of our being absent hence;\nNor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.


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This night methinks is but the daylight sick;\nIt looks a little paler: 'tis a day,\nSuch as the day is when the sun is hid.\n[Enter BASSANIO, ANTONIO, GRATIANO, and]\ntheir followers]


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Let me give light, but let me not be light;\nFor a light wife doth make a heavy husband,\nAnd never be Bassanio so for me:\nBut God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord.


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I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend.\nThis is the man, this is Antonio,\nTo whom I am so infinitely bound.


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Sir, you are very welcome to our house:\nIt must appear in other ways than words,\nTherefore I scant this breathing courtesy.


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[To NERISSA] By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong;\nIn faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk:\nWould he were gelt that had it, for my part,\nSince you do take it, love, so much at heart.


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About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring\nThat she did give me, whose posy was\nFor all the world like cutler's poetry\nUpon a knife, 'Love me, and leave me not.'


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What talk you of the posy or the value?\nYou swore to me, when I did give it you,\nThat you would wear it till your hour of death\nAnd that it should lie with you in your grave:\nThough not for me, yet for your vehement oaths,\nYou should have been respective and have kept it.\nGave it a judge's clerk! no, God's my judge,\nThe clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it.


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Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth,\nA kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy,\nNo higher than thyself; the judge's clerk,\nA prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee:\nI could not for my heart deny it him.


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You were to blame, I must be plain with you,\nTo part so slightly with your wife's first gift:\nA thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger\nAnd so riveted with faith unto your flesh.\nI gave my love a ring and made him swear\nNever to part with it; and here he stands;\nI dare be sworn for him he would not leave it\nNor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth\nThat the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano,\nYou give your wife too unkind a cause of grief:\nAn 'twere to me, I should be mad at it.


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My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away\nUnto the judge that begg'd it and indeed\nDeserved it too; and then the boy, his clerk,\nThat took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine;\nAnd neither man nor master would take aught\nBut the two rings.


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If I could add a lie unto a fault,\nI would deny it; but you see my finger\nHath not the ring upon it; it is gone.


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Even so void is your false heart of truth.\nBy heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed\nUntil I see the ring.


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Sweet Portia,\nIf you did know to whom I gave the ring,\nIf you did know for whom I gave the ring\nAnd would conceive for what I gave the ring\nAnd how unwillingly I left the ring,\nWhen nought would be accepted but the ring,\nYou would abate the strength of your displeasure.


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If you had known the virtue of the ring,\nOr half her worthiness that gave the ring,\nOr your own honour to contain the ring,\nYou would not then have parted with the ring.\nWhat man is there so much unreasonable,\nIf you had pleased to have defended it\nWith any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty\nTo urge the thing held as a ceremony?\nNerissa teaches me what to believe:\nI'll die for't but some woman had the ring.


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No, by my honour, madam, by my soul,\nNo woman had it, but a civil doctor,\nWhich did refuse three thousand ducats of me\nAnd begg'd the ring; the which I did deny him\nAnd suffer'd him to go displeased away;\nEven he that did uphold the very life\nOf my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady?\nI was enforced to send it after him;\nI was beset with shame and courtesy;\nMy honour would not let ingratitude\nSo much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady;\nFor, by these blessed candles of the night,\nHad you been there, I think you would have begg'd\nThe ring of me to give the worthy doctor.


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Let not that doctor e'er come near my house:\nSince he hath got the jewel that I loved,\nAnd that which you did swear to keep for me,\nI will become as liberal as you;\nI'll not deny him any thing I have,\nNo, not my body nor my husband's bed:\nKnow him I shall, I am well sure of it:\nLie not a night from home; watch me like Argus:\nIf you do not, if I be left alone,\nNow, by mine honour, which is yet mine own,\nI'll have that doctor for my bedfellow.


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Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong;\nAnd, in the hearing of these many friends,\nI swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,\nWherein I see myself--


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Mark you but that!\nIn both my eyes he doubly sees himself;\nIn each eye, one: swear by your double self,\nAnd there's an oath of credit.


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Nay, but hear me:\nPardon this fault, and by my soul I swear\nI never more will break an oath with thee.


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I once did lend my body for his wealth;\nWhich, but for him that had your husband's ring,\nHad quite miscarried: I dare be bound again,\nMy soul upon the forfeit, that your lord\nWill never more break faith advisedly.


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And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano;\nFor that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk,\nIn lieu of this last night did lie with me.


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Why, this is like the mending of highways\nIn summer, where the ways are fair enough:\nWhat, are we cuckolds ere we have deserved it?


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Speak not so grossly. You are all amazed:\nHere is a letter; read it at your leisure;\nIt comes from Padua, from Bellario:\nThere you shall find that Portia was the doctor,\nNerissa there her clerk: Lorenzo here\nShall witness I set forth as soon as you\nAnd even but now return'd; I have not yet\nEnter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome;\nAnd I have better news in store for you\nThan you expect: unseal this letter soon;\nThere you shall find three of your argosies\nAre richly come to harbour suddenly:\nYou shall not know by what strange accident\nI chanced on this letter.


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Sweet lady, you have given me life and living;\nFor here I read for certain that my ships\nAre safely come to road.


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Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee.\nThere do I give to you and Jessica,\nFrom the rich Jew, a special deed of gift,\nAfter his death, of all he dies possess'd of.


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It is almost morning,\nAnd yet I am sure you are not satisfied\nOf these events at full. Let us go in;\nAnd charge us there upon inter'gatories,\nAnd we will answer all things faithfully.


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Let it be so: the first inter'gatory\nThat my Nerissa shall be sworn on is,\nWhether till the next night she had rather stay,\nOr go to bed now, being two hours to day:\nBut were the day come, I should wish it dark,\nThat I were couching with the doctor's clerk.\nWell, while I live I'll fear no other thing\nSo sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.


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Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star-\nchamber matter of it: if he were twenty Sir John\nFalstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire.


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Ay, and 'Rato-lorum' too; and a gentleman born,\nmaster parson; who writes himself 'Armigero,' in any\nbill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, 'Armigero.'


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All his successors gone before him hath done't; and\nall his ancestors that come after him may: they may\ngive the dozen white luces in their coat.


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The dozen white louses do become an old coat well;\nit agrees well, passant; it is a familiar beast to\nman, and signifies love.


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Yes, py'r lady; if he has a quarter of your coat,\nthere is but three skirts for yourself, in my\nsimple conjectures: but that is all one. If Sir\nJohn Falstaff have committed disparagements unto\nyou, I am of the church, and will be glad to do my\nbenevolence to make atonements and compremises\nbetween you.


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It is not meet the council hear a riot; there is no\nfear of Got in a riot: the council, look you, shall\ndesire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a\nriot; take your vizaments in that.


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It is petter that friends is the sword, and end it:\nand there is also another device in my prain, which\nperadventure prings goot discretions with it: there\nis Anne Page, which is daughter to Master Thomas\nPage, which is pretty virginity.


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It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as\nyou will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys,\nand gold and silver, is her grandsire upon his\ndeath's-bed--Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!\n--give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years\nold: it were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles\nand prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master\nAbraham and Mistress Anne Page.


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Shall I tell you a lie? I do despise a liar as I do\ndespise one that is false, or as I despise one that\nis not true. The knight, Sir John, is there; and, I\nbeseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will\npeat the door for Master Page.\n[Knocks]\nWhat, hoa! Got pless your house here!


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Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, and Justice\nShallow; and here young Master Slender, that\nperadventures shall tell you another tale, if\nmatters grow to your likings.


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Master Page, I am glad to see you: much good do it\nyour good heart! I wished your venison better; it\nwas ill killed. How doth good Mistress Page?--and I\nthank you always with my heart, la! with my heart.


plain_text:
Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog: can there be\nmore said? he is good and fair. Is Sir John\nFalstaff here?


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If it be confessed, it is not redress'd: is not that\nso, Master Page? He hath wronged me; indeed he\nhath, at a word, he hath, believe me: Robert\nShallow, esquire, saith, he is wronged.


plain_text:
Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you;\nand against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph,\nNym, and Pistol.


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Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand. There is\nthree umpires in this matter, as I understand; that\nis, Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; and there is\nmyself, fidelicet myself; and the three party is,\nlastly and finally, mine host of the Garter.


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Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in my note-\nbook; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with\nas great discreetly as we can.


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Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I would I might\nnever come in mine own great chamber again else, of\nseven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward\nshovel-boards, that cost me two shilling and two\npence apiece of Yead Miller, by these gloves.


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Ha, thou mountain-foreigner! Sir John and Master mine,\nI combat challenge of this latten bilbo.\nWord of denial in thy labras here!\nWord of denial: froth and scum, thou liest!


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Be avised, sir, and pass good humours: I will say\n'marry trap' with you, if you run the nuthook's\nhumour on me; that is the very note of it.


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By this hat, then, he in the red face had it; for\nthough I cannot remember what I did when you made me\ndrunk, yet I am not altogether an ass.


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Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but 'tis no\nmatter: I'll ne'er be drunk whilst I live again,\nbut in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick:\nif I be drunk, I'll be drunk with those that have\nthe fear of God, and not with drunken knaves.


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You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen; you hear it.\n[Enter ANNE PAGE, with wine; MISTRESS FORD]\nand MISTRESS PAGE, following]


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Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a\nhot venison pasty to dinner: come, gentlemen, I hope\nwe shall drink down all unkindness.


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I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of\nSongs and Sonnets here.\n[Enter SIMPLE]\nHow now, Simple! where have you been? I must wait\non myself, must I? You have not the Book of Riddles\nabout you, have you?


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Book of Riddles! why, did you not lend it to Alice\nShortcake upon All-hallowmas last, a fortnight\nafore Michaelmas?


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Come, coz; come, coz; we stay for you. A word with\nyou, coz; marry, this, coz: there is, as 'twere, a\ntender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh\nhere. Do you understand me?


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Give ear to his motions, Master Slender: I will\ndescription the matter to you, if you be capacity of it.


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Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says: I pray\nyou, pardon me; he's a justice of peace in his\ncountry, simple though I stand here.


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But can you affection the 'oman? Let us command to\nknow that of your mouth or of your lips; for divers\nphilosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the\nmouth. Therefore, precisely, can you carry your\ngood will to the maid?


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Nay, Got's lords and his ladies! you must speak\npossitable, if you can carry her your desires\ntowards her.


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Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz: what I do\nis to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid?


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I will marry her, sir, at your request: but if there\nbe no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may\ndecrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are\nmarried and have more occasion to know one another;\nI hope, upon familiarity will grow more contempt:\nbut if you say, 'Marry her,' I will marry her; that\nI am freely dissolved, and dissolutely.


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It is a fery discretion answer; save the fall is in\nthe ort 'dissolutely:' the ort is, according to our\nmeaning, 'resolutely:' his meaning is good.


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Here comes fair Mistress Anne.\n[Re-enter ANNE PAGE]\nWould I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne!


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I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. Go,\nsirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my\ncousin Shallow.\n[Exit SIMPLE]\nA justice of peace sometimes may be beholding to his\nfriend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy\nyet, till my mother be dead: but what though? Yet I\nlive like a poor gentleman born.


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I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised\nmy shin th' other day with playing at sword and\ndagger with a master of fence; three veneys for a\ndish of stewed prunes; and, by my troth, I cannot\nabide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your\ndogs bark so? be there bears i' the town?


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I love the sport well but I shall as soon quarrel at\nit as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see\nthe bear loose, are you not?


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That's meat and drink to me, now. I have seen\nSackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by\nthe chain; but, I warrant you, the women have so\ncried and shrieked at it, that it passed: but women,\nindeed, cannot abide 'em; they are very ill-favored\nrough things.


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Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius' house which\nis the way: and there dwells one Mistress Quickly,\nwhich is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry\nnurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and\nhis wringer.


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Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter; for it\nis a 'oman that altogether's acquaintance with\nMistress Anne Page: and the letter is, to desire\nand require her to solicit your master's desires to\nMistress Anne Page. I pray you, be gone: I will\nmake an end of my dinner; there's pippins and cheese to come.


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Thou'rt an emperor, Caesar, Keisar, and Pheezar. I\nwill entertain Bardolph; he shall draw, he shall\ntap: said I well, bully Hector?


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I have spoke; let him follow.\n[To BARDOLPH]\nLet me see thee froth and lime: I am at a word; follow.


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Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade:\nan old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered\nserving-man a fresh tapster. Go; adieu.


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I am glad I am so acquit of this tinderbox: his\nthefts were too open; his filching was like an\nunskilful singer; he kept not time.


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No quips now, Pistol! Indeed, I am in the waist two\nyards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about\nthrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford's\nwife: I spy entertainment in her; she discourses,\nshe carves, she gives the leer of invitation: I\ncan construe the action of her familiar style; and\nthe hardest voice of her behavior, to be Englished\nrightly, is, 'I am Sir John Falstaff's.'


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I have writ me here a letter to her: and here\nanother to Page's wife, who even now gave me good\neyes too, examined my parts with most judicious\noeillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my\nfoot, sometimes my portly belly.


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O, she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a\ngreedy intention, that the appetite of her eye did\nseem to scorch me up like a burning-glass! Here's\nanother letter to her: she bears the purse too; she\nis a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will\nbe cheater to them both, and they shall be\nexchequers to me; they shall be my East and West\nIndies, and I will trade to them both. Go bear thou\nthis letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to\nMistress Ford: we will thrive, lads, we will thrive.


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[To ROBIN] Hold, sirrah, bear you these letters tightly;\nSail like my pinnace to these golden shores.\nRogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go;\nTrudge, plod away o' the hoof; seek shelter, pack!\nFalstaff will learn the humour of the age,\nFrench thrift, you rogues; myself and skirted page.


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Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds,\nAnd high and low beguiles the rich and poor:\nTester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack,\nBase Phrygian Turk!


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And I to Ford shall eke unfold\nHow Falstaff, varlet vile,\nHis dove will prove, his gold will hold,\nAnd his soft couch defile.


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My humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to\ndeal with poison; I will possess him with\nyellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous:\nthat is my true humour.


plain_text:
What, John Rugby! I pray thee, go to the casement,\nand see if you can see my master, Master Doctor\nCaius, coming. If he do, i' faith, and find any\nbody in the house, here will be an old abusing of\nGod's patience and the king's English.


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Go; and we'll have a posset for't soon at night, in\nfaith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire.\n[Exit RUGBY]\nAn honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant\nshall come in house withal, and, I warrant you, no\ntell-tale nor no breed-bate: his worst fault is,\nthat he is given to prayer; he is something peevish\nthat way: but nobody but has his fault; but let\nthat pass. Peter Simple, you say your name is?


plain_text:
Ay, forsooth: but he is as tall a man of his hands\nas any is between this and his head; he hath fought\nwith a warrener.


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How say you? O, I should remember him: does he not\nhold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait?


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Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell\nMaster Parson Evans I will do what I can for your\nmaster: Anne is a good girl, and I wish--


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We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man;\ngo into this closet: he will not stay long.\n[Shuts SIMPLE in the closet]\nWhat, John Rugby! John! what, John, I say!\nGo, John, go inquire for my master; I doubt\nhe be not well, that he comes not home.\n[Singing]\nAnd down, down, adown-a, &c.


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Vat is you sing? I do not like des toys. Pray you,\ngo and vetch me in my closet un boitier vert, a box,\na green-a box: do intend vat I speak? a green-a box.


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Ay, forsooth; I'll fetch it you.\n[Aside]\nI am glad he went not in himself: if he had found\nthe young man, he would have been horn-mad.


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You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby. Come,\ntake-a your rapier, and come after my heel to the court.


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By my trot, I tarry too long. Od's me!\nQu'ai-j'oublie! dere is some simples in my closet,\ndat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind.


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I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth\nof it: he came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh.


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To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to\nspeak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my\nmaster in the way of marriage.


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[Aside to SIMPLE] I am glad he is so quiet: if he\nhad been thoroughly moved, you should have heard him\nso loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding,\nman, I'll do you your master what good I can: and\nthe very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my\nmaster,--I may call him my master, look you, for I\nkeep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake,\nscour, dress meat and drink, make the beds and do\nall myself,--


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[Aside to SIMPLE] Are you avised o' that? you\nshall find it a great charge: and to be up early\nand down late; but notwithstanding,--to tell you in\nyour ear; I would have no words of it,--my master\nhimself is in love with Mistress Anne Page: but\nnotwithstanding that, I know Anne's mind,--that's\nneither here nor there.


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You jack'nape, give-a this letter to Sir Hugh; by\ngar, it is a shallenge: I will cut his troat in dee\npark; and I will teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest\nto meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good\nyou tarry here. By gar, I will cut all his two\nstones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to throw\nat his dog:


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It is no matter-a ver dat: do not you tell-a me\ndat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I\nvill kill de Jack priest; and I have appointed mine\nhost of de Jarteer to measure our weapon. By gar, I\nwill myself have Anne Page.


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Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We\nmust give folks leave to prate: what, the good-jer!


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Rugby, come to the court with me. By gar, if I have\nnot Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my\ndoor. Follow my heels, Rugby.


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You shall have An fool's-head of your own. No, I\nknow Anne's mind for that: never a woman in Windsor\nknows more of Anne's mind than I do; nor can do more\nthan I do with her, I thank heaven.


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In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and\ngentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you\nthat by the way; I praise heaven for it.


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Troth, sir, all is in his hands above: but\nnotwithstanding, Master Fenton, I'll be sworn on a\nbook, she loves you. Have not your worship a wart\nabove your eye?


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Well, thereby hangs a tale: good faith, it is such\nanother Nan; but, I detest, an honest maid as ever\nbroke bread: we had an hour's talk of that wart. I\nshall never laugh but in that maid's company! But\nindeed she is given too much to allicholy and\nmusing: but for you--well, go to.


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Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there's money\nfor thee; let me have thy voice in my behalf: if\nthou seest her before me, commend me.


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Will I? i'faith, that we will; and I will tell your\nworship more of the wart the next time we have\nconfidence; and of other wooers.


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Farewell to your worship.\n[Exit FENTON]\nTruly, an honest gentleman: but Anne loves him not;\nfor I know Anne's mind as well as another does. Out\nupon't! what have I forgot?


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What, have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-\ntime of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them?\nLet me see.\n[Reads]\n'Ask me no reason why I love you; for though\nLove use Reason for his physician, he admits him\nnot for his counsellor. You are not young, no more\nam I; go to then, there's sympathy: you are merry,\nso am I; ha, ha! then there's more sympathy: you\nlove sack, and so do I; would you desire better\nsympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page,--at\nthe least, if the love of soldier can suffice,--\nthat I love thee. I will not say, pity me; 'tis\nnot a soldier-like phrase: but I say, love me. By me,\nThine own true knight,\nBy day or night,\nOr any kind of light,\nWith all his might\nFor thee to fight, JOHN FALSTAFF'\nWhat a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked\nworld! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with\nage to show himself a young gallant! What an\nunweighed behavior hath this Flemish drunkard\npicked--with the devil's name!--out of my\nconversation, that he dares in this manner assay me?\nWhy, he hath not been thrice in my company! What\nshould I say to him? I was then frugal of my\nmirth: Heaven forgive me! Why, I'll exhibit a bill\nin the parliament for the putting down of men. How\nshall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be,\nas sure as his guts are made of puddings.


plain_text:
Well, I do then; yet I say I could show you to the\ncontrary. O Mistress Page, give me some counsel!


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What? thou liest! Sir Alice Ford! These knights\nwill hack; and so thou shouldst not alter the\narticle of thy gentry.


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We burn daylight: here, read, read; perceive how I\nmight be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat\nmen, as long as I have an eye to make difference of\nmen's liking: and yet he would not swear; praised\nwomen's modesty; and gave such orderly and\nwell-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness, that I\nwould have sworn his disposition would have gone to\nthe truth of his words; but they do no more adhere\nand keep place together than the Hundredth Psalm to\nthe tune of 'Green Sleeves.' What tempest, I trow,\nthrew this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his\nbelly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged\non him? I think the best way were to entertain him\nwith hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted\nhim in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like?


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Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and\nFord differs! To thy great comfort in this mystery\nof ill opinions, here's the twin-brother of thy\nletter: but let thine inherit first; for, I\nprotest, mine never shall. I warrant he hath a\nthousand of these letters, writ with blank space for\ndifferent names--sure, more,--and these are of the\nsecond edition: he will print them, out of doubt;\nfor he cares not what he puts into the press, when\nhe would put us two. I had rather be a giantess,\nand lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you\ntwenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man.


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Nay, I know not: it makes me almost ready to\nwrangle with mine own honesty. I'll entertain\nmyself like one that I am not acquainted withal;\nfor, sure, unless he know some strain in me, that I\nknow not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury.


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So will I. if he come under my hatches, I'll never\nto sea again. Let's be revenged on him: let's\nappoint him a meeting; give him a show of comfort in\nhis suit and lead him on with a fine-baited delay,\ntill he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter.


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Nay, I will consent to act any villany against him,\nthat may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O,\nthat my husband saw this letter! it would give\neternal food to his jealousy.


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Why, look where he comes; and my good man too: he's\nas far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause;\nand that I hope is an unmeasurable distance.


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He wooes both high and low, both rich and poor,\nBoth young and old, one with another, Ford;\nHe loves the gallimaufry: Ford, perpend.


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With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou,\nLike Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels:\nO, odious is the name!


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The horn, I say. Farewell.\nTake heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot by night:\nTake heed, ere summer comes or cuckoo-birds do sing.\nAway, Sir Corporal Nym!\nBelieve it, Page; he speaks sense.


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[To PAGE] And this is true; I like not the humour\nof lying. He hath wronged me in some humours: I\nshould have borne the humoured letter to her; but I\nhave a sword and it shall bite upon my necessity.\nHe loves your wife; there's the short and the long.\nMy name is Corporal Nym; I speak and I avouch; 'tis\ntrue: my name is Nym and Falstaff loves your wife.\nAdieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese,\nand there's the humour of it. Adieu.


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Have with you. You'll come to dinner, George.\n[Aside to MISTRESS FORD]\nLook who comes yonder: she shall be our messenger\nto this paltry knight.


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Hang 'em, slaves! I do not think the knight would\noffer it: but these that accuse him in his intent\ntowards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men;\nvery rogues, now they be out of service.


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Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage\ntowards my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and\nwhat he gets more of her than sharp words, let it\nlie on my head.


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I do not misdoubt my wife; but I would be loath to\nturn them together. A man may be too confident: I\nwould have nothing lie on my head: I cannot be thus satisfied.


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Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes:\nthere is either liquor in his pate or money in his\npurse when he looks so merrily.\n[Enter Host]\nHow now, mine host!


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I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and\ntwenty, good Master Page! Master Page, will you go\nwith us? we have sport in hand.


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[To PAGE] Will you go with us to behold it? My\nmerry host hath had the measuring of their weapons;\nand, I think, hath appointed them contrary places;\nfor, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester.\nHark, I will tell you what our sport shall be.


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None, I protest: but I'll give you a pottle of\nburnt sack to give me recourse to him and tell him\nmy name is Brook; only for a jest.


plain_text:
My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress;\n--said I well?--and thy name shall be Brook. It is\na merry knight. Will you go, An-heires?


plain_text:
Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In these times\nyou stand on distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and\nI know not what: 'tis the heart, Master Page; 'tis\nhere, 'tis here. I have seen the time, with my long\nsword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats.


plain_text:
Though Page be a secure fool, an stands so firmly\non his wife's frailty, yet I cannot put off my\nopinion so easily: she was in his company at Page's\nhouse; and what they made there, I know not. Well,\nI will look further into't: and I have a disguise\nto sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not\nmy labour; if she be otherwise, 'tis labour well bestowed.


plain_text:
Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should\nlay my countenance to pawn; I have grated upon my\ngood friends for three reprieves for you and your\ncoach-fellow Nym; or else you had looked through\nthe grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damned in\nhell for swearing to gentlemen my friends, you were\ngood soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress\nBridget lost the handle of her fan, I took't upon\nmine honour thou hadst it not.


plain_text:
Reason, you rogue, reason: thinkest thou I'll\nendanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more\nabout me, I am no gibbet for you. Go. A short knife\nand a throng! To your manor of Pickt-hatch! Go.\nYou'll not bear a letter for me, you rogue! you\nstand upon your honour! Why, thou unconfinable\nbaseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the\nterms of my honour precise: I, I, I myself\nsometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand\nand hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to\nshuffle, to hedge and to lurch; and yet you, rogue,\nwill ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain\nlooks, your red-lattice phrases, and your\nbold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your\nhonour! You will not do it, you!


plain_text:
There is one Mistress Ford, sir:--I pray, come a\nlittle nearer this ways:--I myself dwell with master\nDoctor Caius,--


plain_text:
Why, sir, she's a good creature. Lord Lord! your\nworship's a wanton! Well, heaven forgive you and all\nof us, I pray!


plain_text:
Marry, this is the short and the long of it; you\nhave brought her into such a canaries as 'tis\nwonderful. The best courtier of them all, when the\ncourt lay at Windsor, could never have brought her\nto such a canary. Yet there has been knights, and\nlords, and gentlemen, with their coaches, I warrant\nyou, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift\nafter gift; smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so\nrushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold; and in\nsuch alligant terms; and in such wine and sugar of\nthe best and the fairest, that would have won any\nwoman's heart; and, I warrant you, they could never\nget an eye-wink of her: I had myself twenty angels\ngiven me this morning; but I defy all angels, in\nany such sort, as they say, but in the way of\nhonesty: and, I warrant you, they could never get\nher so much as sip on a cup with the proudest of\nthem all: and yet there has been earls, nay, which\nis more, pensioners; but, I warrant you, all is one with her.


plain_text:
Marry, she hath received your letter, for the which\nshe thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you\nto notify that her husband will be absence from his\nhouse between ten and eleven.


plain_text:
Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and see the\npicture, she says, that you wot of: Master Ford,\nher husband, will be from home. Alas! the sweet\nwoman leads an ill life with him: he's a very\njealousy man: she leads a very frampold life with\nhim, good heart.


plain_text:
Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to\nyour worship. Mistress Page hath her hearty\ncommendations to you too: and let me tell you in\nyour ear, she's as fartuous a civil modest wife, and\none, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor\nevening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe'er be the\nother: and she bade me tell your worship that her\nhusband is seldom from home; but she hopes there\nwill come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon\na man: surely I think you have charms, la; yes, in truth.


plain_text:
But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford's wife and\nPage's wife acquainted each other how they love me?


plain_text:
That were a jest indeed! they have not so little\ngrace, I hope: that were a trick indeed! but\nMistress Page would desire you to send her your\nlittle page, of all loves: her husband has a\nmarvellous infection to the little page; and truly\nMaster Page is an honest man. Never a wife in\nWindsor leads a better life than she does: do what\nshe will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go\nto bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as\nshe will: and truly she deserves it; for if there\nbe a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must\nsend her your page; no remedy.


plain_text:
Nay, but do so, then: and, look you, he may come and\ngo between you both; and in any case have a\nnay-word, that you may know one another's mind, and\nthe boy never need to understand any thing; for\n'tis not good that children should know any\nwickedness: old folks, you know, have discretion,\nas they say, and know the world.


plain_text:
Fare thee well: commend me to them both: there's\nmy purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with\nthis woman.\n[Exeunt MISTRESS QUICKLY and ROBIN]\nThis news distracts me!


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This punk is one of Cupid's carriers:\nClap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights:\nGive fire: she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all!


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Sayest thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; I'll make\nmore of thy old body than I have done. Will they\nyet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the expense\nof so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I\nthank thee. Let them say 'tis grossly done; so it be\nfairly done, no matter.


plain_text:
Sir John, there's one Master Brook below would fain\nspeak with you, and be acquainted with you; and hath\nsent your worship a morning's draught of sack.


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Call him in.\n[Exit BARDOLPH]\nSuch Brooks are welcome to me, that o'erflow such\nliquor. Ah, ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page\nhave I encompassed you? go to; via!


plain_text:
Good Sir John, I sue for yours: not to charge you;\nfor I must let you understand I think myself in\nbetter plight for a lender than you are: the which\nhath something embolden'd me to this unseasoned\nintrusion; for they say, if money go before, all\nways do lie open.


plain_text:
Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me:\nif you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or\nhalf, for easing me of the carriage.


plain_text:
Sir, I hear you are a scholar,--I will be brief\nwith you,--and you have been a man long known to me,\nthough I had never so good means, as desire, to make\nmyself acquainted with you. I shall discover a\nthing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine\nown imperfection: but, good Sir John, as you have\none eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded,\nturn another into the register of your own; that I\nmay pass with a reproof the easier, sith you\nyourself know how easy it is to be such an offender.


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I have long loved her, and, I protest to you,\nbestowed much on her; followed her with a doting\nobservance; engrossed opportunities to meet her;\nfee'd every slight occasion that could but niggardly\ngive me sight of her; not only bought many presents\nto give her, but have given largely to many to know\nwhat she would have given; briefly, I have pursued\nher as love hath pursued me; which hath been on the\nwing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have\nmerited, either in my mind or, in my means, meed,\nI am sure, I have received none; unless experience\nbe a jewel that I have purchased at an infinite\nrate, and that hath taught me to say this:\n'Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues;\nPursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.'


plain_text:
Like a fair house built on another man's ground; so\nthat I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place\nwhere I erected it.


plain_text:
When I have told you that, I have told you all.\nSome say, that though she appear honest to me, yet in\nother places she enlargeth her mirth so far that\nthere is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir\nJohn, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a\ngentleman of excellent breeding, admirable\ndiscourse, of great admittance, authentic in your\nplace and person, generally allowed for your many\nwar-like, court-like, and learned preparations.


plain_text:
Believe it, for you know it. There is money; spend\nit, spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only\ngive me so much of your time in exchange of it, as\nto lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this\nFord's wife: use your art of wooing; win her to\nconsent to you: if any man may, you may as soon as\nany.


plain_text:
Would it apply well to the vehemency of your\naffection, that I should win what you would enjoy?\nMethinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously.


plain_text:
O, understand my drift. She dwells so securely on\nthe excellency of her honour, that the folly of my\nsoul dares not present itself: she is too bright to\nbe looked against. Now, could I could come to her\nwith any detection in my hand, my desires had\ninstance and argument to commend themselves: I\ncould drive her then from the ward of her purity,\nher reputation, her marriage-vow, and a thousand\nother her defences, which now are too too strongly\nembattled against me. What say you to't, Sir John?


plain_text:
Master Brook, I will first make bold with your\nmoney; next, give me your hand; and last, as I am a\ngentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford's wife.


plain_text:
Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want\nnone. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her\nown appointment; even as you came in to me, her\nassistant or go-between parted from me: I say I\nshall be with her between ten and eleven; for at\nthat time the jealous rascally knave her husband\nwill be forth. Come you to me at night; you shall\nknow how I speed.


plain_text:
Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not:\nyet I wrong him to call him poor; they say the\njealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; for the\nwhich his wife seems to me well-favored. I will\nuse her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue's coffer;\nand there's my harvest-home.


plain_text:
Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will\nstare him out of his wits; I will awe him with my\ncudgel: it shall hang like a meteor o'er the\ncuckold's horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I\nwill predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt\nlie with his wife. Come to me soon at night.\nFord's a knave, and I will aggravate his style;\nthou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and\ncuckold. Come to me soon at night.


plain_text:
What a damned Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is\nready to crack with impatience. Who says this is\nimprovident jealousy? my wife hath sent to him; the\nhour is fixed; the match is made. Would any man\nhave thought this? See the hell of having a false\nwoman! My bed shall be abused, my coffers\nransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not\nonly receive this villanous wrong, but stand under\nthe adoption of abominable terms, and by him that\ndoes me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds\nwell; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are\ndevils' additions, the names of fiends: but\nCuckold! Wittol!--Cuckold! the devil himself hath\nnot such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass: he\nwill trust his wife; he will not be jealous. I will\nrather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh\nthe Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my\naqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling\ngelding, than my wife with herself; then she plots,\nthen she ruminates, then she devises; and what they\nthink in their hearts they may effect, they will\nbreak their hearts but they will effect. God be\npraised for my jealousy! Eleven o'clock the hour.\nI will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on\nFalstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it;\nbetter three hours too soon than a minute too late.\nFie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuckold! cuckold!


plain_text:
By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come; he\nhas pray his Pible well, dat he is no come: by gar,\nJack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come.


plain_text:
By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him.\nTake your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him.


plain_text:
To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee\ntraverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to\nsee thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy\ndistance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? is\nhe dead, my Francisco? ha, bully! What says my\nAEsculapius? my Galen? my heart of elder? ha! is\nhe dead, bully stale? is he dead?


plain_text:
I pray you, bear vitness that me have stay six or\nseven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come.


plain_text:
He is the wiser man, master doctor: he is a curer of\nsouls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should\nfight, you go against the hair of your professions.\nIs it not true, Master Page?


plain_text:
Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old and of\nthe peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to\nmake one. Though we are justices and doctors and\nchurchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our\nyouth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page.


plain_text:
It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor\nCaius, I am come to fetch you home. I am sworn of\nthe peace: you have showed yourself a wise\nphysician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise\nand patient churchman. You must go with me, master doctor.


plain_text:
By gar, den, I have as mush mock-vater as de\nEnglishman. Scurvy jack-dog priest! by gar, me\nvill cut his ears.


plain_text:
And, moreover, bully,--but first, master guest, and\nMaster Page, and eke Cavaleiro Slender, go you\nthrough the town to Frogmore.


plain_text:
He is there: see what humour he is in; and I will\nbring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well?


plain_text:
Let him die: sheathe thy impatience, throw cold\nwater on thy choler: go about the fields with me\nthrough Frogmore: I will bring thee where Mistress\nAnne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou\nshalt woo her. Cried I aim? said I well?


plain_text:
By gar, me dank you for dat: by gar, I love you;\nand I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl,\nde knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients.


plain_text:
I pray you now, good master Slender's serving-man,\nand friend Simple by your name, which way have you\nlooked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic?


plain_text:
Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, every\nway; old Windsor way, and every way but the town\nway.


plain_text:
'Pless my soul, how full of chollors I am, and\ntrempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have\ndeceived me. How melancholies I am! I will knog\nhis urinals about his knave's costard when I have\ngood opportunities for the ork. 'Pless my soul!\n[Sings]\nTo shallow rivers, to whose falls\nMelodious birds sings madrigals;\nThere will we make our peds of roses,\nAnd a thousand fragrant posies.\nTo shallow--\nMercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry.\n[Sings]\nMelodious birds sing madrigals--\nWhen as I sat in Pabylon--\nAnd a thousand vagram posies.\nTo shallow &c.


plain_text:
He's welcome.\n[Sings]\nTo shallow rivers, to whose falls-\nHeaven prosper the right! What weapons is he?


plain_text:
No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master\nShallow, and another gentleman, from Frogmore, over\nthe stile, this way.


plain_text:
How now, master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh.\nKeep a gamester from the dice, and a good student\nfrom his book, and it is wonderful.


plain_text:
Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike\nhaving received wrong by some person, is at most\nodds with his own gravity and patience that ever you\nsaw.


plain_text:
I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never\nheard a man of his place, gravity and learning, so\nwide of his own respect.


plain_text:
He has no more knowledge in Hibocrates and Galen,\n--and he is a knave besides; a cowardly knave as you\nwould desires to be acquainted withal.


plain_text:
[Aside to DOCTOR CAIUS] Pray you let us not be\nlaughing-stocks to other men's humours; I desire you\nin friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends.\n[Aloud]\nI will knog your urinals about your knave's cockscomb\nfor missing your meetings and appointments.


plain_text:
Diable! Jack Rugby,--mine host de Jarteer,--have I\nnot stay for him to kill him? have I not, at de place\nI did appoint?


plain_text:
As I am a Christians soul now, look you, this is the\nplace appointed: I'll be judgement by mine host of\nthe Garter.


plain_text:
Peace, I say! hear mine host of the Garter. Am I\npolitic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I\nlose my doctor? no; he gives me the potions and the\nmotions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir\nHugh? no; he gives me the proverbs and the\nno-verbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so. Give me\nthy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have\ndeceived you both; I have directed you to wrong\nplaces: your hearts are mighty, your skins are\nwhole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay\ntheir swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace;\nfollow, follow, follow.


plain_text:
This is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog. I\ndesire you that we may be friends; and let us knog\nour prains together to be revenge on this same\nscall, scurvy cogging companion, the host of the Garter.


plain_text:
Nay, keep your way, little gallant; you were wont to\nbe a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether\nhad you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master's heels?


plain_text:
Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want\nof company. I think, if your husbands were dead,\nyou two would marry.


plain_text:
I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my\nhusband had him of. What do you call your knight's\nname, sirrah?


plain_text:
He, he; I can never hit on's name. There is such a\nleague between my good man and he! Is your wife at\nhome indeed?


plain_text:
Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes? hath he any\nthinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them.\nWhy, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile, as\neasy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve\nscore. He pieces out his wife's inclination; he\ngives her folly motion and advantage: and now she's\ngoing to my wife, and Falstaff's boy with her. A\nman may hear this shower sing in the wind. And\nFalstaff's boy with her! Good plots, they are laid;\nand our revolted wives share damnation together.\nWell; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck\nthe borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming\nMistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and\nwilful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all\nmy neighbours shall cry aim.\n[Clock heard]\nThe clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me\nsearch: there I shall find Falstaff: I shall be\nrather praised for this than mocked; for it is as\npositive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is\nthere: I will go.\n[Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, SLENDER, Host,]\nSIR HUGH EVANS, DOCTOR CAIUS, and RUGBY]


plain_text:
And so must I, sir: we have appointed to dine with\nMistress Anne, and I would not break with her for\nmore money than I'll speak of.


plain_text:
We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and\nmy cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer.


plain_text:
You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you:\nbut my wife, master doctor, is for you altogether.


plain_text:
What say you to young Master Fenton? he capers, he\ndances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he\nspeaks holiday, he smells April and May: he will\ncarry't, he will carry't; 'tis in his buttons; he\nwill carry't.


plain_text:
Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is\nof no having: he kept company with the wild prince\nand Poins; he is of too high a region; he knows too\nmuch. No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes\nwith the finger of my substance: if he take her,\nlet him take her simply; the wealth I have waits on\nmy consent, and my consent goes not that way.


plain_text:
I beseech you heartily, some of you go home with me\nto dinner: besides your cheer, you shall have\nsport; I will show you a monster. Master doctor,\nyou shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and you, Sir Hugh.


plain_text:
[Aside] I think I shall drink in pipe wine first\nwith him; I'll make him dance. Will you go, gentles?


plain_text:
Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be\nready here hard by in the brew-house: and when I\nsuddenly call you, come forth, and without any pause\nor staggering take this basket on your shoulders:\nthat done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry\nit among the whitsters in Datchet-mead, and there\nempty it in the muddy ditch close by the Thames side.


plain_text:
Ay, I'll be sworn. My master knows not of your\nbeing here and hath threatened to put me into\neverlasting liberty if I tell you of it; for he\nswears he'll turn me away.


plain_text:
Thou'rt a good boy: this secrecy of thine shall be\na tailor to thee and shall make thee a new doublet\nand hose. I'll go hide me.


plain_text:
Go to, then: we'll use this unwholesome humidity,\nthis gross watery pumpion; we'll teach him to know\nturtles from jays.


plain_text:
Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let\nme die, for I have lived long enough: this is the\nperiod of my ambition: O this blessed hour!


plain_text:
Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate,\nMistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish: I would\nthy husband were dead: I'll speak it before the\nbest lord; I would make thee my lady.


plain_text:
Let the court of France show me such another. I see\nhow thine eye would emulate the diamond: thou hast\nthe right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the\nship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of\nVenetian admittance.


plain_text:
By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so: thou\nwouldst make an absolute courtier; and the firm\nfixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion\nto thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see\nwhat thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature\nthy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it.


plain_text:
What made me love thee? let that persuade thee\nthere's something extraordinary in thee. Come, I\ncannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a\nmany of these lisping hawthorn-buds, that come like\nwomen in men's apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury\nin simple time; I cannot: but I love thee; none\nbut thee; and thou deservest it.


plain_text:
Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the\nCounter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek\nof a lime-kiln.


plain_text:
[Within] Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford! here's\nMistress Page at the door, sweating and blowing and\nlooking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently.


plain_text:
Pray you, do so: she's a very tattling woman.\n[FALSTAFF hides himself]\n[Re-enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN]\nWhat's the matter? how now!


plain_text:
O well-a-day, Mistress Ford! having an honest man\nto your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion!


plain_text:
Your husband's coming hither, woman, with all the\nofficers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that\nhe says is here now in the house by your consent, to\ntake an ill advantage of his assence: you are undone.


plain_text:
Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man\nhere! but 'tis most certain your husband's coming,\nwith half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a\none. I come before to tell you. If you know\nyourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you\nhave a friend here convey, convey him out. Be not\namazed; call all your senses to you; defend your\nreputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever.


plain_text:
What shall I do? There is a gentleman my dear\nfriend; and I fear not mine own shame so much as his\nperil: I had rather than a thousand pound he were\nout of the house.


plain_text:
For shame! never stand 'you had rather' and 'you\nhad rather:' your husband's here at hand, bethink\nyou of some conveyance: in the house you cannot\nhide him. O, how have you deceived me! Look, here\nis a basket: if he be of any reasonable stature, he\nmay creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as\nif it were going to bucking: or--it is whiting-time\n--send him by your two men to Datchet-mead.


plain_text:
[Coming forward] Let me see't, let me see't, O, let\nme see't! I'll in, I'll in. Follow your friend's\ncounsel. I'll in.


plain_text:
What, John! Robert! John!\n[Exit ROBIN]\n[Re-enter Servants]\nGo take up these clothes here quickly. Where's the\ncowl-staff? look, how you drumble! Carry them to\nthe laundress in Datchet-meat; quickly, come.


plain_text:
Pray you, come near: if I suspect without cause,\nwhy then make sport at me; then let me be your jest;\nI deserve it. How now! whither bear you this?


plain_text:
Buck! I would I could wash myself of the buck!\nBuck, buck, buck! Ay, buck; I warrant you, buck;\nand of the season too, it shall appear.\n[Exeunt Servants with the basket]\nGentlemen, I have dreamed to-night; I'll tell you my\ndream. Here, here, here be my keys: ascend my\nchambers; search, seek, find out: I'll warrant\nwe'll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first.\n[Locking the door]\nSo, now uncape.


plain_text:
I am half afraid he will have need of washing; so\nthrowing him into the water will do him a benefit.


plain_text:
I think my husband hath some special suspicion of\nFalstaff's being here; for I never saw him so gross\nin his jealousy till now.


plain_text:
I will lay a plot to try that; and we will yet have\nmore tricks with Falstaff: his dissolute disease will\nscarce obey this medicine.


plain_text:
Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress\nQuickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the\nwater; and give him another hope, to betray him to\nanother punishment?


plain_text:
If there be any pody in the house, and in the\nchambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses,\nheaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment!


plain_text:
Fie, fie, Master Ford! are you not ashamed? What\nspirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I\nwould not ha' your distemper in this kind for the\nwealth of Windsor Castle.


plain_text:
You suffer for a pad conscience: your wife is as\nhonest a 'omans as I will desires among five\nthousand, and five hundred too.


plain_text:
Well, I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk in\nthe Park: I pray you, pardon me; I will hereafter\nmake known to you why I have done this. Come,\nwife; come, Mistress Page. I pray you, pardon me;\npray heartily, pardon me.


plain_text:
Let's go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we'll mock\nhim. I do invite you to-morrow morning to my house\nto breakfast: after, we'll a-birding together; I\nhave a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so?


plain_text:
Why, thou must be thyself.\nHe doth object I am too great of birth--,\nAnd that, my state being gall'd with my expense,\nI seek to heal it only by his wealth:\nBesides these, other bars he lays before me,\nMy riots past, my wild societies;\nAnd tells me 'tis a thing impossible\nI should love thee but as a property.


plain_text:
No, heaven so speed me in my time to come!\nAlbeit I will confess thy father's wealth\nWas the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne:\nYet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value\nThan stamps in gold or sums in sealed bags;\nAnd 'tis the very riches of thyself\nThat now I aim at.


plain_text:
Gentle Master Fenton,\nYet seek my father's love; still seek it, sir:\nIf opportunity and humblest suit\nCannot attain it, why, then,--hark you hither!


plain_text:
I come to him.\n[Aside]\nThis is my father's choice.\nO, what a world of vile ill-favor'd faults\nLooks handsome in three hundred pounds a-year!


plain_text:
I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you\ngood jests of him. Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress\nAnne the jest, how my father stole two geese out of\na pen, good uncle.


plain_text:
My will! 'od's heartlings, that's a pretty jest\nindeed! I ne'er made my will yet, I thank heaven; I\nam not such a sickly creature, I give heaven praise.


plain_text:
Truly, for mine own part, I would little or nothing\nwith you. Your father and my uncle hath made\nmotions: if it be my luck, so; if not, happy man be\nhis dole! They can tell you how things go better\nthan I can: you may ask your father; here he comes.


plain_text:
Now, Master Slender: love him, daughter Anne.\nWhy, how now! what does Master Fenton here?\nYou wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house:\nI told you, sir, my daughter is disposed of.


plain_text:
No, good Master Fenton.\nCome, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in.\nKnowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton.


plain_text:
Good Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter\nIn such a righteous fashion as I do,\nPerforce, against all cheques, rebukes and manners,\nI must advance the colours of my love\nAnd not retire: let me have your good will.


plain_text:
Come, trouble not yourself. Good Master Fenton,\nI will not be your friend nor enemy:\nMy daughter will I question how she loves you,\nAnd as I find her, so am I affected.\nTill then farewell, sir: she must needs go in;\nHer father will be angry.


plain_text:
This is my doing, now: 'Nay,' said I, 'will you cast\naway your child on a fool, and a physician? Look on\nMaster Fenton:' this is my doing.


plain_text:
Now heaven send thee good fortune!\n[Exit FENTON]\nA kind heart he hath: a woman would run through\nfire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I\nwould my master had Mistress Anne; or I would\nMaster Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master\nFenton had her; I will do what I can for them all\nthree; for so I have promised, and I'll be as good\nas my word; but speciously for Master Fenton. Well,\nI must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from\nmy two mistresses: what a beast am I to slack it!


plain_text:
Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in't.\n[Exit BARDOLPH]\nHave I lived to be carried in a basket, like a\nbarrow of butcher's offal, and to be thrown in the\nThames? Well, if I be served such another trick,\nI'll have my brains ta'en out and buttered, and give\nthem to a dog for a new-year's gift. The rogues\nslighted me into the river with as little remorse as\nthey would have drowned a blind bitch's puppies,\nfifteen i' the litter: and you may know by my size\nthat I have a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the\nbottom were as deep as hell, I should down. I had\nbeen drowned, but that the shore was shelvy and\nshallow,--a death that I abhor; for the water swells\na man; and what a thing should I have been when I\nhad been swelled! I should have been a mountain of mummy.


plain_text:
Let me pour in some sack to the Thames water; for my\nbelly's as cold as if I had swallowed snowballs for\npills to cool the reins. Call her in.


plain_text:
Alas the day! good heart, that was not her fault:\nshe does so take on with her men; they mistook their erection.


plain_text:
Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn\nyour heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning\na-birding; she desires you once more to come to her\nbetween eight and nine: I must carry her word\nquickly: she'll make you amends, I warrant you.


plain_text:
Well, I will visit her: tell her so; and bid her\nthink what a man is: let her consider his frailty,\nand then judge of my merit.


plain_text:
I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word\nto stay within: I like his money well. O, here he comes.


plain_text:
No, Master Brook; but the peaking Cornuto her\nhusband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual\n'larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our\nencounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested,\nand, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy;\nand at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither\nprovoked and instigated by his distemper, and,\nforsooth, to search his house for his wife's love.


plain_text:
You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes\nin one Mistress Page; gives intelligence of Ford's\napproach; and, in her invention and Ford's wife's\ndistraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.


plain_text:
By the Lord, a buck-basket! rammed me in with foul\nshirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy\nnapkins; that, Master Brook, there was the rankest\ncompound of villanous smell that ever offended nostril.


plain_text:
Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have\nsuffered to bring this woman to evil for your good.\nBeing thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford's\nknaves, his hinds, were called forth by their\nmistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to\nDatchet-lane: they took me on their shoulders; met\nthe jealous knave their master in the door, who\nasked them once or twice what they had in their\nbasket: I quaked for fear, lest the lunatic knave\nwould have searched it; but fate, ordaining he\nshould be a cuckold, held his hand. Well: on went he\nfor a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But\nmark the sequel, Master Brook: I suffered the pangs\nof three several deaths; first, an intolerable\nfright, to be detected with a jealous rotten\nbell-wether; next, to be compassed, like a good\nbilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to\npoint, heel to head; and then, to be stopped in,\nlike a strong distillation, with stinking clothes\nthat fretted in their own grease: think of that,--a\nman of my kidney,--think of that,--that am as subject\nto heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution\nand thaw: it was a miracle to scape suffocation.\nAnd in the height of this bath, when I was more than\nhalf stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be\nthrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot,\nin that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of\nthat,--hissing hot,--think of that, Master Brook.


plain_text:
In good sadness, I am sorry that for my sake you\nhave sufferd all this. My suit then is desperate;\nyou'll undertake her no more?


plain_text:
Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have\nbeen into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her\nhusband is this morning gone a-birding: I have\nreceived from her another embassy of meeting; 'twixt\neight and nine is the hour, Master Brook.


plain_text:
Is it? I will then address me to my appointment.\nCome to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall\nknow how I speed; and the conclusion shall be\ncrowned with your enjoying her. Adieu. You shall\nhave her, Master Brook; Master Brook, you shall\ncuckold Ford.


plain_text:
Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? do I\nsleep? Master Ford awake! awake, Master Ford!\nthere's a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford.\nThis 'tis to be married! this 'tis to have linen\nand buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself\nwhat I am: I will now take the lecher; he is at my\nhouse; he cannot 'scape me; 'tis impossible he\nshould; he cannot creep into a halfpenny purse,\nnor into a pepper-box: but, lest the devil that\nguides him should aid him, I will search\nimpossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid,\nyet to be what I would not shall not make me tame:\nif I have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go\nwith me: I'll be horn-mad.


plain_text:
Sure he is by this, or will be presently: but,\ntruly, he is very courageous mad about his throwing\ninto the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly.


plain_text:
I'll be with her by and by; I'll but bring my young\nman here to school. Look, where his master comes;\n'tis a playing-day, I see.\n[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS]\nHow now, Sir Hugh! no school to-day?


plain_text:
Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in\nthe world at his book. I pray you, ask him some\nquestions in his accidence.


plain_text:
Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus\ndeclined, Singulariter, nominativo, hic, haec, hoc.


plain_text:
You do ill to teach the child such words: he\nteaches him to hick and to hack, which they'll do\nfast enough of themselves, and to call 'horum:' fie upon you!


plain_text:
'Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no\nunderstandings for thy cases and the numbers of the\ngenders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as\nI would desires.


plain_text:
It is qui, quae, quod: if you forget your 'quies,'\nyour 'quaes,' and your 'quods,' you must be\npreeches. Go your ways, and play; go.


plain_text:
Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my\nsufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love,\nand I profess requital to a hair's breadth; not\nonly, Mistress Ford, in the simple\noffice of love, but in all the accoutrement,\ncomplement and ceremony of it. But are you\nsure of your husband now?


plain_text:
Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again:\nhe so takes on yonder with my husband; so rails\nagainst all married mankind; so curses all Eve's\ndaughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets\nhimself on the forehead, crying, 'Peer out, peer\nout!' that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but\ntameness, civility and patience, to this his\ndistemper he is in now: I am glad the fat knight is not here.


plain_text:
Of none but him; and swears he was carried out, the\nlast time he searched for him, in a basket; protests\nto my husband he is now here, and hath drawn him and\nthe rest of their company from their sport, to make\nanother experiment of his suspicion: but I am glad\nthe knight is not here; now he shall see his own foolery.


plain_text:
Why then you are utterly shamed, and he's but a dead\nman. What a woman are you!--Away with him, away\nwith him! better shame than murder.


plain_text:
Alas, three of Master Ford's brothers watch the door\nwith pistols, that none shall issue out; otherwise\nyou might slip away ere he came. But what make you here?


plain_text:
He will seek there, on my word. Neither press,\ncoffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an\nabstract for the remembrance of such places, and\ngoes to them by his note: there is no hiding you in the house.


plain_text:
Alas the day, I know not! There is no woman's gown\nbig enough for him otherwise he might put on a hat,\na muffler and a kerchief, and so escape.


plain_text:
On my word, it will serve him; she's as big as he\nis: and there's her thrummed hat and her muffler\ntoo. Run up, Sir John.


plain_text:
I would my husband would meet him in this shape: he\ncannot abide the old woman of Brentford; he swears\nshe's a witch; forbade her my house and hath\nthreatened to beat her.


plain_text:
We'll try that; for I'll appoint my men to carry the\nbasket again, to meet him at the door with it, as\nthey did last time.


plain_text:
I'll first direct my men what they shall do with the\nbasket. Go up; I'll bring linen for him straight.


plain_text:
Hang him, dishonest varlet! we cannot misuse him enough.\nWe'll leave a proof, by that which we will do,\nWives may be merry, and yet honest too:\nWe do not act that often jest and laugh;\n'Tis old, but true, Still swine eat all the draff.


plain_text:
Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders:\nyour master is hard at door; if he bid you set it\ndown, obey him: quickly, dispatch.


plain_text:
Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have you any\nway then to unfool me again? Set down the basket,\nvillain! Somebody call my wife. Youth in a basket!\nO you panderly rascals! there's a knot, a ging, a\npack, a conspiracy against me: now shall the devil\nbe shamed. What, wife, I say! Come, come forth!\nBehold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching!


plain_text:
So say I too, sir.\n[Re-enter MISTRESS FORD]\nCome hither, Mistress Ford; Mistress Ford the honest\nwoman, the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that\nhath the jealous fool to her husband! I suspect\nwithout cause, mistress, do I?


plain_text:
Master Page, as I am a man, there was one conveyed\nout of my house yesterday in this basket: why may\nnot he be there again? In my house I am sure he is:\nmy intelligence is true; my jealousy is reasonable.\nPluck me out all the linen.


plain_text:
Help to search my house this one time. If I find\nnot what I seek, show no colour for my extremity; let\nme for ever be your table-sport; let them say of\nme, 'As jealous as Ford, Chat searched a hollow\nwalnut for his wife's leman.' Satisfy me once more;\nonce more search with me.


plain_text:
A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not\nforbid her my house? She comes of errands, does\nshe? We are simple men; we do not know what's\nbrought to pass under the profession of\nfortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells,\nby the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond\nour element we know nothing. Come down, you witch,\nyou hag, you; come down, I say!


plain_text:
I'll prat her.\n[Beating him]\nOut of my door, you witch, you hag, you baggage, you\npolecat, you runyon! out, out! I'll conjure you,\nI'll fortune-tell you.


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By the yea and no, I think the 'oman is a witch\nindeed: I like not when a 'oman has a great peard;\nI spy a great peard under his muffler.


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Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you, follow;\nsee but the issue of my jealousy: if I cry out thus\nupon no trail, never trust me when I open again.


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What think you? may we, with the warrant of\nwomanhood and the witness of a good conscience,\npursue him with any further revenge?


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The spirit of wantonness is, sure, scared out of\nhim: if the devil have him not in fee-simple, with\nfine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the\nway of waste, attempt us again.


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Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape the\nfigures out of your husband's brains. If they can\nfind in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight\nshall be any further afflicted, we two will still be\nthe ministers.


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I'll warrant they'll have him publicly shamed: and\nmethinks there would be no period to the jest,\nshould he not be publicly shamed.


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Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your\nhorses: the duke himself will be to-morrow at\ncourt, and they are going to meet him.


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What duke should that be comes so secretly? I hear\nnot of him in the court. Let me speak with the\ngentlemen: they speak English?


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They shall have my horses; but I'll make them pay;\nI'll sauce them: they have had my house a week at\ncommand; I have turned away my other guests: they\nmust come off; I'll sauce them. Come.


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Pardon me, wife. Henceforth do what thou wilt;\nI rather will suspect the sun with cold\nThan thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour stand\nIn him that was of late an heretic,\nAs firm as faith.


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'Tis well, 'tis well; no more:\nBe not as extreme in submission\nAs in offence.\nBut let our plot go forward: let our wives\nYet once again, to make us public sport,\nAppoint a meeting with this old fat fellow,\nWhere we may take him and disgrace him for it.


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You say he has been thrown in the rivers and has\nbeen grievously peaten as an old 'oman: methinks\nthere should be terrors in him that he should not\ncome; methinks his flesh is punished, he shall have\nno desires.


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There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter,\nSometime a keeper here in Windsor forest,\nDoth all the winter-time, at still midnight,\nWalk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns;\nAnd there he blasts the tree and takes the cattle\nAnd makes milch-kine yield blood and shakes a chain\nIn a most hideous and dreadful manner:\nYou have heard of such a spirit, and well you know\nThe superstitious idle-headed eld\nReceived and did deliver to our age\nThis tale of Herne the hunter for a truth.


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Why, yet there want not many that do fear\nIn deep of night to walk by this Herne's oak:\nBut what of this?


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Well, let it not be doubted but he'll come:\nAnd in this shape when you have brought him thither,\nWhat shall be done with him? what is your plot?


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That likewise have we thought upon, and thus:\nNan Page my daughter and my little son\nAnd three or four more of their growth we'll dress\nLike urchins, ouphes and fairies, green and white,\nWith rounds of waxen tapers on their heads,\nAnd rattles in their hands: upon a sudden,\nAs Falstaff, she and I, are newly met,\nLet them from forth a sawpit rush at once\nWith some diffused song: upon their sight,\nWe two in great amazedness will fly:\nThen let them all encircle him about\nAnd, fairy-like, to-pinch the unclean knight,\nAnd ask him why, that hour of fairy revel,\nIn their so sacred paths he dares to tread\nIn shape profane.


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And till he tell the truth,\nLet the supposed fairies pinch him sound\nAnd burn him with their tapers.


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The truth being known,\nWe'll all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit,\nAnd mock him home to Windsor.


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I will teach the children their behaviors; and I\nwill be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the\nknight with my taber.


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That silk will I go buy.\n[Aside]\nAnd in that time\nShall Master Slender steal my Nan away\nAnd marry her at Eton. Go send to Falstaff straight.


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Go, Mistress Ford,\nSend quickly to Sir John, to know his mind.\n[Exit MISTRESS FORD]\nI'll to the doctor: he hath my good will,\nAnd none but he, to marry with Nan Page.\nThat Slender, though well landed, is an idiot;\nAnd he my husband best of all affects.\nThe doctor is well money'd, and his friends\nPotent at court: he, none but he, shall have her,\nThough twenty thousand worthier come to crave her.


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What wouldst thou have, boor? what: thick-skin?\nspeak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, snap.


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There's his chamber, his house, his castle, his\nstanding-bed and truckle-bed; 'tis painted about\nwith the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go\nknock and call; hell speak like an Anthropophaginian\nunto thee: knock, I say.


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There's an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his\nchamber: I'll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come\ndown; I come to speak with her, indeed.


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Ha! a fat woman! the knight may be robbed: I'll\ncall. Bully knight! bully Sir John! speak from\nthy lungs military: art thou there? it is thine\nhost, thine Ephesian, calls.


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Here's a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of\nthy fat woman. Let her descend, bully, let her\ndescend; my chambers are honourable: fie! privacy?\nfie!


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My master, sir, Master Slender, sent to her, seeing\nher go through the streets, to know, sir, whether\none Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the\nchain or no.


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Marry, she says that the very same man that\nbeguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him of\nit.


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I would I could have spoken with the woman herself;\nI had other things to have spoken with her too from\nhim.


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Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress Anne\nPage; to know if it were my master's fortune to\nhave her or no.


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Ay, that there was, mine host; one that hath taught\nme more wit than ever I learned before in my life;\nand I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for\nmy learning.


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Run away with the cozeners; for so soon as I came\nbeyond Eton, they threw me off from behind one of\nthem, in a slough of mire; and set spurs and away,\nlike three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses.


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Have a care of your entertainments: there is a\nfriend of mine come to town tells me there is three\ncozen-germans that has cozened all the hosts of\nReadins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and\nmoney. I tell you for good will, look you: you\nare wise and full of gibes and vlouting-stocks, and\n'tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare you well.


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I cannot tell vat is dat: but it is tell-a me dat\nyou make grand preparation for a duke de Jamany: by\nmy trot, dere is no duke dat the court is know to\ncome. I tell you for good vill: adieu.


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Hue and cry, villain, go! Assist me, knight. I am\nundone! Fly, run, hue and cry, villain! I am undone!


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I would all the world might be cozened; for I have\nbeen cozened and beaten too. If it should come to\nthe ear of the court, how I have been transformed\nand how my transformation hath been washed and\ncudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat drop by\ndrop and liquor fishermen's boots with me; I warrant\nthey would whip me with their fine wits till I were\nas crest-fallen as a dried pear. I never prospered\nsince I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my\nwind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would repent.\n[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY]\nNow, whence come you?


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The devil take one party and his dam the other! and\nso they shall be both bestowed. I have suffered more\nfor their sakes, more than the villanous inconstancy\nof man's disposition is able to bear.


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And have not they suffered? Yes, I warrant;\nspeciously one of them; Mistress Ford, good heart,\nis beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a\nwhite spot about her.


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What tellest thou me of black and blue? I was\nbeaten myself into all the colours of the rainbow;\nand I was like to be apprehended for the witch of\nBrentford: but that my admirable dexterity of wit,\nmy counterfeiting the action of an old woman,\ndelivered me, the knave constable had set me i' the\nstocks, i' the common stocks, for a witch.


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Sir, let me speak with you in your chamber: you\nshall hear how things go; and, I warrant, to your\ncontent. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good\nhearts, what ado here is to bring you together!\nSure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that\nyou are so crossed.


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Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose,\nAnd, as I am a gentleman, I'll give thee\nA hundred pound in gold more than your loss.


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From time to time I have acquainted you\nWith the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page;\nWho mutually hath answer'd my affection,\nSo far forth as herself might be her chooser,\nEven to my wish: I have a letter from her\nOf such contents as you will wonder at;\nThe mirth whereof so larded with my matter,\nThat neither singly can be manifested,\nWithout the show of both; fat Falstaff\nHath a great scene: the image of the jest\nI'll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host.\nTo-night at Herne's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one,\nMust my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen;\nThe purpose why, is here: in which disguise,\nWhile other jests are something rank on foot,\nHer father hath commanded her to slip\nAway with Slender and with him at Eton\nImmediately to marry: she hath consented: Now, sir,\nHer mother, ever strong against that match\nAnd firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed\nThat he shall likewise shuffle her away,\nWhile other sports are tasking of their minds,\nAnd at the deanery, where a priest attends,\nStraight marry her: to this her mother's plot\nShe seemingly obedient likewise hath\nMade promise to the doctor. Now, thus it rests:\nHer father means she shall be all in white,\nAnd in that habit, when Slender sees his time\nTo take her by the hand and bid her go,\nShe shall go with him: her mother hath intended,\nThe better to denote her to the doctor,\nFor they must all be mask'd and vizarded,\nThat quaint in green she shall be loose enrobed,\nWith ribands pendent, flaring 'bout her head;\nAnd when the doctor spies his vantage ripe,\nTo pinch her by the hand, and, on that token,\nThe maid hath given consent to go with him.


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Both, my good host, to go along with me:\nAnd here it rests, that you'll procure the vicar\nTo stay for me at church 'twixt twelve and one,\nAnd, in the lawful name of marrying,\nTo give our hearts united ceremony.


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Prithee, no more prattling; go. I'll hold. This is\nthe third time; I hope good luck lies in odd\nnumbers. Away I go. They say there is divinity in\nodd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away!


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Away, I say; time wears: hold up your head, and mince.\n[Exit MISTRESS QUICKLY]\n[Enter FORD]\nHow now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter\nwill be known to-night, or never. Be you in the\nPark about midnight, at Herne's oak, and you shall\nsee wonders.


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I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like a poor\nold man: but I came from her, Master Brook, like a\npoor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband,\nhath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him,\nMaster Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell\nyou: he beat me grievously, in the shape of a\nwoman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear\nnot Goliath with a weaver's beam; because I know\nalso life is a shuttle. I am in haste; go along\nwith me: I'll tell you all, Master Brook. Since I\nplucked geese, played truant and whipped top, I knew\nnot what 'twas to be beaten till lately. Follow\nme: I'll tell you strange things of this knave\nFord, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I\nwill deliver his wife into your hand. Follow.\nStrange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow.


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Come, come; we'll couch i' the castle-ditch till we\nsee the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender,\nmy daughter.


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Ay, forsooth; I have spoke with her and we have a\nnay-word how to know one another: I come to her in\nwhite, and cry 'mum;' she cries 'budget;' and by\nthat we know one another.


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That's good too: but what needs either your 'mum'\nor her 'budget?' the white will decipher her well\nenough. It hath struck ten o'clock.


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The night is dark; light and spirits will become it\nwell. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil\nbut the devil, and we shall know him by his horns.\nLet's away; follow me.


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Master doctor, my daughter is in green: when you\nsee your time, take her by the band, away with her\nto the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before\ninto the Park: we two must go together.


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Fare you well, sir.\n[Exit DOCTOR CAIUS]\nMy husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of\nFalstaff as he will chafe at the doctor's marrying\nmy daughter: but 'tis no matter; better a little\nchiding than a great deal of heart-break.


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They are all couched in a pit hard by Herne's oak,\nwith obscured lights; which, at the very instant of\nFalstaff's and our meeting, they will at once\ndisplay to the night.


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Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember your parts:\nbe pold, I pray you; follow me into the pit; and\nwhen I give the watch-'ords, do as I pid you:\ncome, come; trib, trib.


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The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute\ndraws on. Now, the hot-blooded gods assist me!\nRemember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love\nset on thy horns. O powerful love! that, in some\nrespects, makes a beast a man, in some other, a man\na beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan for the love\nof Leda. O omnipotent Love! how near the god drew\nto the complexion of a goose! A fault done first in\nthe form of a beast. O Jove, a beastly fault! And\nthen another fault in the semblance of a fowl; think\non 't, Jove; a foul fault! When gods have hot\nbacks, what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a\nWindsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i' the\nforest. Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can\nblame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? my\ndoe?


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My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain\npotatoes; let it thunder to the tune of Green\nSleeves, hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let\nthere come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here.


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Divide me like a bribe buck, each a haunch: I will\nkeep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow\nof this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands.\nAm I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Herne the hunter?\nWhy, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes\nrestitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome!


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I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the\noil that's in me should set hell on fire; he would\nnever else cross me thus.\n[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS, disguised as before; PISTOL,]\nas Hobgoblin; MISTRESS QUICKLY, ANNE PAGE, and\nothers, as Fairies, with tapers]


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Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,\nYou moonshine revellers and shades of night,\nYou orphan heirs of fixed destiny,\nAttend your office and your quality.\nCrier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes.


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Elves, list your names; silence, you airy toys.\nCricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap:\nWhere fires thou find'st unraked and hearths unswept,\nThere pinch the maids as blue as bilberry:\nOur radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery.


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They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die:\nI'll wink and couch: no man their works must eye.


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Where's Bede? Go you, and where you find a maid\nThat, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said,\nRaise up the organs of her fantasy;\nSleep she as sound as careless infancy:\nBut those as sleep and think not on their sins,\nPinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides and shins.


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About, about;\nSearch Windsor Castle, elves, within and out:\nStrew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room:. That it may stand till the perpetual doom,\nIn state as wholesome as in state 'tis fit,\nWorthy the owner, and the owner it.\nThe several chairs of order look you scour\nWith juice of balm and every precious flower:\nEach fair instalment, coat, and several crest,\nWith loyal blazon, evermore be blest!\nAnd nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing,\nLike to the Garter's compass, in a ring:\nThe expressure that it bears, green let it be,\nMore fertile-fresh than all the field to see;\nAnd 'Honi soit qui mal y pense' write\nIn emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue and white;\nLet sapphire, pearl and rich embroidery,\nBuckled below fair knighthood's bending knee:\nFairies use flowers for their charactery.\nAway; disperse: but till 'tis one o'clock,\nOur dance of custom round about the oak\nOf Herne the hunter, let us not forget.


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Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves in order set\nAnd twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be,\nTo guide our measure round about the tree.\nBut, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth.


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With trial-fire touch me his finger-end:\nIf he be chaste, the flame will back descend\nAnd turn him to no pain; but if he start,\nIt is the flesh of a corrupted heart.


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Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire!\nAbout him, fairies; sing a scornful rhyme;\nAnd, as you trip, still pinch him to your time.\nSONG.\nFie on sinful fantasy!\nFie on lust and luxury!\nLust is but a bloody fire,\nKindled with unchaste desire,\nFed in heart, whose flames aspire\nAs thoughts do blow them, higher and higher.\nPinch him, fairies, mutually;\nPinch him for his villany;\nPinch him, and burn him, and turn him about,\nTill candles and starlight and moonshine be out.\n[During this song they pinch FALSTAFF. DOCTOR CAIUS]\ncomes one way, and steals away a boy in green;\nSLENDER another way, and takes off a boy in white;\nand FENTON comes and steals away ANN PAGE.\nA noise of hunting is heard within. All the\nFairies run away. FALSTAFF pulls off his buck's\nhead, and rises]


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I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher\nNow, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives?\nSee you these, husband? do not these fair yokes\nBecome the forest better than the town?


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Now, sir, who's a cuckold now? Master Brook,\nFalstaff's a knave, a cuckoldly knave; here are his\nhorns, Master Brook: and, Master Brook, he hath\nenjoyed nothing of Ford's but his buck-basket, his\ncudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must be\npaid to Master Brook; his horses are arrested for\nit, Master Brook.


