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To prove thou hast a true-divining heart,\nAaron and thou look down into this den,\nAnd see a fearful sight of blood and death.


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Aaron is gone; and my compassionate heart\nWill not permit mine eyes once to behold\nThe thing whereat it trembles by surmise;\nO, tell me how it is; for ne'er till now\nWas I a child to fear I know not what.


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Lord Bassianus lies embrewed here,\nAll on a heap, like to a slaughter'd lamb,\nIn this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit.


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Upon his bloody finger he doth wear\nA precious ring, that lightens all the hole,\nWhich, like a taper in some monument,\nDoth shine upon the dead man's earthy cheeks,\nAnd shows the ragged entrails of the pit:\nSo pale did shine the moon on Pyramus\nWhen he by night lay bathed in maiden blood.\nO brother, help me with thy fainting hand--\nIf fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath--\nOut of this fell devouring receptacle,\nAs hateful as Cocytus' misty mouth.


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Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee out;\nOr, wanting strength to do thee so much good,\nI may be pluck'd into the swallowing womb\nOf this deep pit, poor Bassianus' grave.\nI have no strength to pluck thee to the brink.


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Thy hand once more; I will not loose again,\nTill thou art here aloft, or I below:\nThou canst not come to me: I come to thee.


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Along with me: I'll see what hole is here,\nAnd what he is that now is leap'd into it.\nSay who art thou that lately didst descend\nInto this gaping hollow of the earth?


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The unhappy son of old Andronicus:\nBrought hither in a most unlucky hour,\nTo find thy brother Bassianus dead.


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My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest:\nHe and his lady both are at the lodge\nUpon the north side of this pleasant chase;\n'Tis not an hour since I left him there.


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We know not where you left him all alive;\nBut, out, alas! here have we found him dead.\n[Re-enter TAMORA, with Attendants; TITUS]\nANDRONICUS, and Lucius]


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Then all too late I bring this fatal writ,\nThe complot of this timeless tragedy;\nAnd wonder greatly that man's face can fold\nIn pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny.


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[Reads] 'An if we miss to meet him handsomely--\nSweet huntsman, Bassianus 'tis we mean--\nDo thou so much as dig the grave for him:\nThou know'st our meaning. Look for thy reward\nAmong the nettles at the elder-tree\nWhich overshades the mouth of that same pit\nWhere we decreed to bury Bassianus.\nDo this, and purchase us thy lasting friends.'\nO Tamora! was ever heard the like?\nThis is the pit, and this the elder-tree.\nLook, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out\nThat should have murdered Bassianus here.


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[To TITUS] Two of thy whelps, fell curs of\nbloody kind,\nHave here bereft my brother of his life.\nSirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison:\nThere let them bide until we have devised\nSome never-heard-of torturing pain for them.


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High emperor, upon my feeble knee\nI beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed,\nThat this fell fault of my accursed sons,\nAccursed if the fault be proved in them,--


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I did, my lord: yet let me be their bail;\nFor, by my father's reverend tomb, I vow\nThey shall be ready at your highness' will\nTo answer their suspicion with their lives.


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Thou shalt not bail them: see thou follow me.\nSome bring the murder'd body, some the murderers:\nLet them not speak a word; the guilt is plain;\nFor, by my soul, were there worse end than death,\nThat end upon them should be executed.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON with LAVINIA, ravished;]\nher hands cut off, and her tongue cut out]


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Who is this? my niece, that flies away so fast!\nCousin, a word; where is your husband?\nIf I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me!\nIf I do wake, some planet strike me down,\nThat I may slumber in eternal sleep!\nSpeak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands\nHave lopp'd and hew'd and made thy body bare\nOf her two branches, those sweet ornaments,\nWhose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in,\nAnd might not gain so great a happiness\nAs have thy love? Why dost not speak to me?\nAlas, a crimson river of warm blood,\nLike to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind,\nDoth rise and fall between thy rosed lips,\nComing and going with thy honey breath.\nBut, sure, some Tereus hath deflowered thee,\nAnd, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue.\nAh, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame!\nAnd, notwithstanding all this loss of blood,\nAs from a conduit with three issuing spouts,\nYet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face\nBlushing to be encountered with a cloud.\nShall I speak for thee? shall I say 'tis so?\nO, that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast,\nThat I might rail at him, to ease my mind!\nSorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd,\nDoth burn the heart to cinders where it is.\nFair Philomela, she but lost her tongue,\nAnd in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind:\nBut, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee;\nA craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met,\nAnd he hath cut those pretty fingers off,\nThat could have better sew'd than Philomel.\nO, had the monster seen those lily hands\nTremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute,\nAnd make the silken strings delight to kiss them,\nHe would not then have touch'd them for his life!\nOr, had he heard the heavenly harmony\nWhich that sweet tongue hath made,\nHe would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep\nAs Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.\nCome, let us go, and make thy father blind;\nFor such a sight will blind a father's eye:\nOne hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads;\nWhat will whole months of tears thy father's eyes?\nDo not draw back, for we will mourn with thee\nO, could our mourning ease thy misery!


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter Judges, Senators and Tribunes, with MARTIUS]\nand QUINTUS, bound, passing on to the place of\nexecution; TITUS going before, pleading]


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Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay!\nFor pity of mine age, whose youth was spent\nIn dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept;\nFor all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed;\nFor all the frosty nights that I have watch'd;\nAnd for these bitter tears, which now you see\nFilling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks;\nBe pitiful to my condemned sons,\nWhose souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought.\nFor two and twenty sons I never wept,\nBecause they died in honour's lofty bed.\n[Lieth down; the Judges, &c., pass by him, and Exeunt]\nFor these, these, tribunes, in the dust I write\nMy heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears:\nLet my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite;\nMy sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush.\nO earth, I will befriend thee more with rain,\nThat shall distil from these two ancient urns,\nThan youthful April shall with all his showers:\nIn summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still;\nIn winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow\nAnd keep eternal spring-time on thy face,\nSo thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.\n[Enter LUCIUS, with his sword drawn]\nO reverend tribunes! O gentle, aged men!\nUnbind my sons, reverse the doom of death;\nAnd let me say, that never wept before,\nMy tears are now prevailing orators.


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O noble father, you lament in vain:\nThe tribunes hear you not; no man is by;\nAnd you recount your sorrows to a stone.


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Why, tis no matter, man; if they did hear,\nThey would not mark me, or if they did mark,\nThey would not pity me, yet plead I must;\nAnd bootless unto them [--]\nTherefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;\nWho, though they cannot answer my distress,\nYet in some sort they are better than the tribunes,\nFor that they will not intercept my tale:\nWhen I do weep, they humbly at my feet\nReceive my tears and seem to weep with me;\nAnd, were they but attired in grave weeds,\nRome could afford no tribune like to these.\nA stone is soft as wax,--tribunes more hard than stones;\nA stone is silent, and offendeth not,\nAnd tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.\n[Rises]\nBut wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?


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To rescue my two brothers from their death:\nFor which attempt the judges have pronounced\nMy everlasting doom of banishment.


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O happy man! they have befriended thee.\nWhy, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive\nThat Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?\nTigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey\nBut me and mine: how happy art thou, then,\nFrom these devourers to be banished!\nBut who comes with our brother Marcus here?


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Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep;\nOr, if not so, thy noble heart to break:\nI bring consuming sorrow to thine age.


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Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.\nSpeak, Lavinia, what accursed hand\nHath made thee handless in thy father's sight?\nWhat fool hath added water to the sea,\nOr brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?\nMy grief was at the height before thou camest,\nAnd now like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds.\nGive me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too;\nFor they have fought for Rome, and all in vain;\nAnd they have nursed this woe, in feeding life;\nIn bootless prayer have they been held up,\nAnd they have served me to effectless use:\nNow all the service I require of them\nIs that the one will help to cut the other.\n'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands;\nFor hands, to do Rome service, are but vain.


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O, that delightful engine of her thoughts\nThat blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence,\nIs torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,\nWhere, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung\nSweet varied notes, enchanting every ear!


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O, thus I found her, straying in the park,\nSeeking to hide herself, as doth the deer\nThat hath received some unrecuring wound.


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It was my deer; and he that wounded her\nHath hurt me more than had he killed me dead:\nFor now I stand as one upon a rock\nEnvironed with a wilderness of sea,\nWho marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,\nExpecting ever when some envious surge\nWill in his brinish bowels swallow him.\nThis way to death my wretched sons are gone;\nHere stands my other son, a banished man,\nAnd here my brother, weeping at my woes.\nBut that which gives my soul the greatest spurn,\nIs dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.\nHad I but seen thy picture in this plight,\nIt would have madded me: what shall I do\nNow I behold thy lively body so?\nThou hast no hands, to wipe away thy tears:\nNor tongue, to tell me who hath martyr'd thee:\nThy husband he is dead: and for his death\nThy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.\nLook, Marcus! ah, son Lucius, look on her!\nWhen I did name her brothers, then fresh tears\nStood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew\nUpon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.


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If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful\nBecause the law hath ta'en revenge on them.\nNo, no, they would not do so foul a deed;\nWitness the sorrow that their sister makes.\nGentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips.\nOr make some sign how I may do thee ease:\nShall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,\nAnd thou, and I, sit round about some fountain,\nLooking all downwards to behold our cheeks\nHow they are stain'd, as meadows, yet not dry,\nWith miry slime left on them by a flood?\nAnd in the fountain shall we gaze so long\nTill the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,\nAnd made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?\nOr shall we cut away our hands, like thine?\nOr shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows\nPass the remainder of our hateful days?\nWhat shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,\nPlot some deuce of further misery,\nTo make us wonder'd at in time to come.


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Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot\nThy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,\nFor thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own.


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Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs:\nHad she a tongue to speak, now would she say\nThat to her brother which I said to thee:\nHis napkin, with his true tears all bewet,\nCan do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.\nO, what a sympathy of woe is this,\nAs far from help as Limbo is from bliss!


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Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor\nSends thee this word,--that, if thou love thy sons,\nLet Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus,\nOr any one of you, chop off your hand,\nAnd send it to the king: he for the same\nWill send thee hither both thy sons alive;\nAnd that shall be the ransom for their fault.


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O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron!\nDid ever raven sing so like a lark,\nThat gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?\nWith all my heart, I'll send the emperor My hand:\nGood Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?


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Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine,\nThat hath thrown down so many enemies,\nShall not be sent: my hand will serve the turn:\nMy youth can better spare my blood than you;\nAnd therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives.


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Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,\nAnd rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe,\nWriting destruction on the enemy's castle?\nO, none of both but are of high desert:\nMy hand hath been but idle; let it serve\nTo ransom my two nephews from their death;\nThen have I kept it to a worthy end.


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[Aside] If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest,\nAnd never, whilst I live, deceive men so:\nBut I'll deceive you in another sort,\nAnd that you'll say, ere half an hour pass.


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Now stay your strife: what shall be is dispatch'd.\nGood Aaron, give his majesty my hand:\nTell him it was a hand that warded him\nFrom thousand dangers; bid him bury it\nMore hath it merited; that let it have.\nAs for my sons, say I account of them\nAs jewels purchased at an easy price;\nAnd yet dear too, because I bought mine own.


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I go, Andronicus: and for thy hand\nLook by and by to have thy sons with thee.\n[Aside]\nTheir heads, I mean. O, how this villany\nDoth fat me with the very thoughts of it!\nLet fools do good, and fair men call for grace.\nAaron will have his soul black like his face.


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O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven,\nAnd bow this feeble ruin to the earth:\nIf any power pities wretched tears,\nTo that I call!\n[To LAVINIA]\nWhat, wilt thou kneel with me?\nDo, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers;\nOr with our sighs we'll breathe the welkin dim,\nAnd stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds\nWhen they do hug him in their melting bosoms.


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But yet let reason govern thy lament.TITUS ANDRONICUS. If there were reason for these miseries,\nThen into limits could I bind my woes:\nWhen heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow?\nIf the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,\nThreatening the welkin with his big-swoln face?\nAnd wilt thou have a reason for this coil?\nI am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow!\nShe is the weeping welkin, I the earth:\nThen must my sea be moved with her sighs;\nThen must my earth with her continual tears\nBecome a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd;\nFor why my bowels cannot hide her woes,\nBut like a drunkard must I vomit them.\nThen give me leave, for losers will have leave\nTo ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.


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Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid\nFor that good hand thou sent'st the emperor.\nHere are the heads of thy two noble sons;\nAnd here's thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back;\nThy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock'd;\nThat woe is me to think upon thy woes\nMore than remembrance of my father's death.


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Now let hot AEtna cool in Sicily,\nAnd be my heart an ever-burning hell!\nThese miseries are more than may be borne.\nTo weep with them that weep doth ease some deal;\nBut sorrow flouted at is double death.


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Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound,\nAnd yet detested life not shrink thereat!\nThat ever death should let life bear his name,\nWhere life hath no more interest but to breathe!


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Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus;\nThou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons' heads,\nThy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here:\nThy other banish'd son, with this dear sight\nStruck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I,\nEven like a stony image, cold and numb.\nAh, now no more will I control thy griefs:\nRend off thy silver hair, thy other hand\nGnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight\nThe closing up of our most wretched eyes;\nNow is a time to storm; why art thou still?


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Why, I have not another tear to shed:\nBesides, this sorrow is an enemy,\nAnd would usurp upon my watery eyes\nAnd make them blind with tributary tears:\nThen which way shall I find Revenge's cave?\nFor these two heads do seem to speak to me,\nAnd threat me I shall never come to bliss\nTill all these mischiefs be return'd again\nEven in their throats that have committed them.\nCome, let me see what task I have to do.\nYou heavy people, circle me about,\nThat I may turn me to each one of you,\nAnd swear unto my soul to right your wrongs.\nThe vow is made. Come, brother, take a head;\nAnd in this hand the other I will bear.\nLavinia, thou shalt be employ'd: these arms!\nBear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth.\nAs for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight;\nThou art an exile, and thou must not stay:\nHie to the Goths, and raise an army there:\nAnd, if you love me, as I think you do,\nLet's kiss and part, for we have much to do.


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Farewell Andronicus, my noble father,\nThe wofull'st man that ever lived in Rome:\nFarewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again,\nHe leaves his pledges dearer than his life:\nFarewell, Lavinia, my noble sister;\nO, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been!\nBut now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives\nBut in oblivion and hateful griefs.\nIf Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs;\nAnd make proud Saturnine and his empress\nBeg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen.\nNow will I to the Goths, and raise a power,\nTo be revenged on Rome and Saturnine.


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So, so; now sit: and look you eat no more\nThan will preserve just so much strength in us\nAs will revenge these bitter woes of ours.\nMarcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot:\nThy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,\nAnd cannot passionate our tenfold grief\nWith folded arms. This poor right hand of mine\nIs left to tyrannize upon my breast;\nWho, when my heart, all mad with misery,\nBeats in this hollow prison of my flesh,\nThen thus I thump it down.\n[To LAVINIA]\nThou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!\nWhen thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,\nThou canst not strike it thus to make it still.\nWound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;\nOr get some little knife between thy teeth,\nAnd just against thy heart make thou a hole;\nThat all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall\nMay run into that sink, and soaking in\nDrown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.


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How now! has sorrow made thee dote already?\nWhy, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.\nWhat violent hands can she lay on her life?\nAh, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands;\nTo bid AEneas tell the tale twice o'er,\nHow Troy was burnt and he made miserable?\nO, handle not the theme, to talk of hands,\nLest we remember still that we have none.\nFie, fie, how franticly I square my talk,\nAs if we should forget we had no hands,\nIf Marcus did not name the word of hands!\nCome, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this:\nHere is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what she says;\nI can interpret all her martyr'd signs;\nShe says she drinks no other drink but tears,\nBrew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks:\nSpeechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;\nIn thy dumb action will I be as perfect\nAs begging hermits in their holy prayers:\nThou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,\nNor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,\nBut I of these will wrest an alphabet\nAnd by still practise learn to know thy meaning.


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Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears,\nAnd tears will quickly melt thy life away.\n[MARCUS strikes the dish with a knife]\nWhat dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?


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Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st my heart;\nMine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:\nA deed of death done on the innocent\nBecomes not Titus' brother: get thee gone:\nI see thou art not for my company.


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But how, if that fly had a father and mother?\nHow would he hang his slender gilded wings,\nAnd buzz lamenting doings in the air!\nPoor harmless fly,\nThat, with his pretty buzzing melody,\nCame here to make us merry! and thou hast\nkill'd him.


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O, O, O,\nThen pardon me for reprehending thee,\nFor thou hast done a charitable deed.\nGive me thy knife, I will insult on him;\nFlattering myself, as if it were the Moor\nCome hither purposely to poison me.--\nThere's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.\nAh, sirrah!\nYet, I think, we are not brought so low,\nBut that between us we can kill a fly\nThat comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.


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Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me:\nI'll to thy closet; and go read with thee\nSad stories chanced in the times of old.\nCome, boy, and go with me: thy sight is young,\nAnd thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter young LUCIUS, and LAVINIA running after him,]\nand the boy flies from her, with books under his\narm. Then enter TITUS and MARCUS]


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Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia\nFollows me every where, I know not why:\nGood uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes.\nAlas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.


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Fear her not, Lucius: somewhat doth she mean:\nSee, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee:\nSomewhither would she have thee go with her.\nAh, boy, Cornelia never with more care\nRead to her sons than she hath read to thee\nSweet poetry and Tully's Orator.


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My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,\nUnless some fit or frenzy do possess her:\nFor I have heard my grandsire say full oft,\nExtremity of griefs would make men mad;\nAnd I have read that Hecuba of Troy\nRan mad through sorrow: that made me to fear;\nAlthough, my lord, I know my noble aunt\nLoves me as dear as e'er my mother did,\nAnd would not, but in fury, fright my youth:\nWhich made me down to throw my books, and fly--\nCauseless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt:\nAnd, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,\nI will most willingly attend your ladyship.


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How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this?\nSome book there is that she desires to see.\nWhich is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy.\nBut thou art deeper read, and better skill'd\nCome, and take choice of all my library,\nAnd so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens\nReveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.\nWhy lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?


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I think she means that there was more than one\nConfederate in the fact: ay, more there was;\nOr else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.


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Soft! see how busily she turns the leaves!\n[Helping her]\nWhat would she find? Lavinia, shall I read?\nThis is the tragic tale of Philomel,\nAnd treats of Tereus' treason and his rape:\nAnd rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.


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Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet girl,\nRavish'd and wrong'd, as Philomela was,\nForced in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods? See, see!\nAy, such a place there is, where we did hunt--\nO, had we never, never hunted there!--\nPattern'd by that the poet here describes,\nBy nature made for murders and for rapes.


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Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none\nbut friends,\nWhat Roman lord it was durst do the deed:\nOr slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,\nThat left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed?


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Sit down, sweet niece: brother, sit down by me.\nApollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,\nInspire me, that I may this treason find!\nMy lord, look here: look here, Lavinia:\nThis sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst\nThis after me, when I have writ my name\nWithout the help of any hand at all.\n[He writes his name with his staff, and guides it]\nwith feet and mouth]\nCursed be that heart that forced us to this shift!\nWrite thou good niece; and here display, at last,\nWhat God will have discover'd for revenge;\nHeaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,\nThat we may know the traitors and the truth!\n[She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it]\nwith her stumps, and writes]


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O, calm thee, gentle lord; although I know\nThere is enough written upon this earth\nTo stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts\nAnd arm the minds of infants to exclaims.\nMy lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;\nAnd kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;\nAnd swear with me, as, with the woful fere\nAnd father of that chaste dishonour'd dame,\nLord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape,\nThat we will prosecute by good advice\nMortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,\nAnd see their blood, or die with this reproach.


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'Tis sure enough, an you knew how.\nBut if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:\nThe dam will wake; and, if she wind you once,\nShe's with the lion deeply still in league,\nAnd lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,\nAnd when he sleeps will she do what she list.\nYou are a young huntsman, Marcus; let it alone;\nAnd, come, I will go get a leaf of brass,\nAnd with a gad of steel will write these words,\nAnd lay it by: the angry northern wind\nWill blow these sands, like Sibyl's leaves, abroad,\nAnd where's your lesson, then? Boy, what say you?


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I say, my lord, that if I were a man,\nTheir mother's bed-chamber should not be safe\nFor these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome.


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Come, go with me into mine armoury;\nLucius, I'll fit thee; and withal, my boy,\nShalt carry from me to the empress' sons\nPresents that I intend to send them both:\nCome, come; thou'lt do thy message, wilt thou not?


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No, boy, not so; I'll teach thee another course.\nLavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house:\nLucius and I'll go brave it at the court:\nAy, marry, will we, sir; and we'll be waited on.


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O heavens, can you hear a good man groan,\nAnd not relent, or not compassion him?\nMarcus, attend him in his ecstasy,\nThat hath more scars of sorrow in his heart\nThan foemen's marks upon his batter'd shield;\nBut yet so just that he will not revenge.\nRevenge, ye heavens, for old Andronicus!


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[Exit]\n[Enter, from one side, AARON, DEMETRIUS, and]\nCHIRON; from the other side, Young LUCIUS, and an\nAttendant, with a bundle of weapons, and verses\nwrit upon them]


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My lords, with all the humbleness I may,\nI greet your honours from Andronicus.\n[Aside]\nAnd pray the Roman gods confound you both!


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[Aside] That you are both decipher'd, that's the news,\nFor villains mark'd with rape.--May it please you,\nMy grandsire, well advised, hath sent by me\nThe goodliest weapons of his armoury\nTo gratify your honourable youth,\nThe hope of Rome; for so he bade me say;\nAnd so I do, and with his gifts present\nYour lordships, that, whenever you have need,\nYou may be armed and appointed well:\nAnd so I leave you both:\n[Aside]\nlike bloody villains.


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What's here? A scroll; and written round about?\nLet's see;\n[Reads]\n'Integer vitae, scelerisque purus,\nNon eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu.'


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Ay, just; a verse in Horace; right, you have it.\n[Aside]\nNow, what a thing it is to be an ass!\nHere's no sound jest! the old man hath found their guilt;\nAnd sends them weapons wrapped about with lines,\nThat wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick.\nBut were our witty empress well afoot,\nShe would applaud Andronicus' conceit:\nBut let her rest in her unrest awhile.\nAnd now, young lords, was't not a happy star\nLed us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,\nCaptives, to be advanced to this height?\nIt did me good, before the palace gate\nTo brave the tribune in his brother's hearing.


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O, that which I would hide from heaven's eye,\nOur empress' shame, and stately Rome's disgrace!\nShe is deliver'd, lords; she is deliver'd.


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A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue:\nHere is the babe, as loathsome as a toad\nAmongst the fairest breeders of our clime:\nThe empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal,\nAnd bids thee christen it with thy dagger's point.


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And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone.\nWoe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choice!\nAccursed the offspring of so foul a fiend!


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Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up.\n[Takes the Child from the Nurse, and draws]\nStay, murderous villains! will you kill your brother?\nNow, by the burning tapers of the sky,\nThat shone so brightly when this boy was got,\nHe dies upon my scimitar's sharp point\nThat touches this my first-born son and heir!\nI tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,\nWith all his threatening band of Typhon's brood,\nNor great Alcides, nor the god of war,\nShall seize this prey out of his father's hands.\nWhat, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys!\nYe white-limed walls! ye alehouse painted signs!\nCoal-black is better than another hue,\nIn that it scorns to bear another hue;\nFor all the water in the ocean\nCan never turn the swan's black legs to white,\nAlthough she lave them hourly in the flood.\nTell the empress from me, I am of age\nTo keep mine own, excuse it how she can.


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My mistress is my mistress; this myself,\nThe vigour and the picture of my youth:\nThis before all the world do I prefer;\nThis maugre all the world will I keep safe,\nOr some of you shall smoke for it in Rome.


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Why, there's the privilege your beauty bears:\nFie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing\nThe close enacts and counsels of the heart!\nHere's a young lad framed of another leer:\nLook, how the black slave smiles upon the father,\nAs who should say 'Old lad, I am thine own.'\nHe is your brother, lords, sensibly fed\nOf that self-blood that first gave life to you,\nAnd from that womb where you imprison'd were\nHe is enfranchised and come to light:\nNay, he is your brother by the surer side,\nAlthough my seal be stamped in his face.


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Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done,\nAnd we will all subscribe to thy advice:\nSave thou the child, so we may all be safe.


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Then sit we down, and let us all consult.\nMy son and I will have the wind of you:\nKeep there: now talk at pleasure of your safety.


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Why, so, brave lords! when we join in league,\nI am a lamb: but if you brave the Moor,\nThe chafed boar, the mountain lioness,\nThe ocean swells not so as Aaron storms.\nBut say, again; how many saw the child?


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The empress, the midwife, and yourself:\nTwo may keep counsel when the third's away:\nGo to the empress, tell her this I said.\n[He kills the nurse]\nWeke, weke! so cries a pig prepared to the spit.


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O Lord, sir, 'tis a deed of policy:\nShall she live to betray this guilt of ours,\nA long-tongued babbling gossip? no, lords, no:\nAnd now be it known to you my full intent.\nNot far, one Muli lives, my countryman;\nHis wife but yesternight was brought to bed;\nHis child is like to her, fair as you are:\nGo pack with him, and give the mother gold,\nAnd tell them both the circumstance of all;\nAnd how by this their child shall be advanced,\nAnd be received for the emperor's heir,\nAnd substituted in the place of mine,\nTo calm this tempest whirling in the court;\nAnd let the emperor dandle him for his own.\nHark ye, lords; ye see I have given her physic,\n[Pointing to the nurse]\nAnd you must needs bestow her funeral;\nThe fields are near, and you are gallant grooms:\nThis done, see that you take no longer days,\nBut send the midwife presently to me.\nThe midwife and the nurse well made away,\nThen let the ladies tattle what they please.


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For this care of Tamora,\nHerself and hers are highly bound to thee.\n[Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON bearing off the]\nNurse's body]


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Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies;\nThere to dispose this treasure in mine arms,\nAnd secretly to greet the empress' friends.\nCome on, you thick lipp'd slave, I'll bear you hence;\nFor it is you that puts us to our shifts:\nI'll make you feed on berries and on roots,\nAnd feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat,\nAnd cabin in a cave, and bring you up\nTo be a warrior, and command a camp.


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[Exit]\n[Enter TITUS, bearing arrows with letters at the]\nends of them; with him, MARCUS, Young LUCIUS,\nPUBLIUS, SEMPRONIUS, CAIUS, and other Gentlemen,\nwith bows]


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Come, Marcus; come, kinsmen; this is the way.\nSir boy, now let me see your archery;\nLook ye draw home enough, and 'tis there straight.\nTerras Astraea reliquit:\nBe you remember'd, Marcus, she's gone, she's fled.\nSirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall\nGo sound the ocean, and cast your nets;\nHappily you may catch her in the sea;\nYet there's as little justice as at land:\nNo; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it;\n'Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade,\nAnd pierce the inmost centre of the earth:\nThen, when you come to Pluto's region,\nI pray you, deliver him this petition;\nTell him, it is for justice and for aid,\nAnd that it comes from old Andronicus,\nShaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.\nAh, Rome! Well, well; I made thee miserable\nWhat time I threw the people's suffrages\nOn him that thus doth tyrannize o'er me.\nGo, get you gone; and pray be careful all,\nAnd leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd:\nThis wicked emperor may have shipp'd her hence;\nAnd, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.


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Therefore, my lord, it highly us concerns\nBy day and night to attend him carefully,\nAnd feed his humour kindly as we may,\nTill time beget some careful remedy.


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Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy.\nJoin with the Goths; and with revengeful war\nTake wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,\nAnd vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.


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No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word,\nIf you will have Revenge from hell, you shall:\nMarry, for Justice, she is so employ'd,\nHe thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else,\nSo that perforce you must needs stay a time.


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He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.\nI'll dive into the burning lake below,\nAnd pull her out of Acheron by the heels.\nMarcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we\nNo big-boned men framed of the Cyclops' size;\nBut metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,\nYet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear:\nAnd, sith there's no justice in earth nor hell,\nWe will solicit heaven and move the gods\nTo send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs.\nCome, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus;\n[He gives them the arrows]\n'Ad Jovem,' that's for you: here, 'Ad Apollinem:'\n'Ad Martem,' that's for myself:\nHere, boy, to Pallas: here, to Mercury:\nTo Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine;\nYou were as good to shoot against the wind.\nTo it, boy! Marcus, loose when I bid.\nOf my word, I have written to effect;\nThere's not a god left unsolicited.


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This was the sport, my lord: when Publius shot,\nThe Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock\nThat down fell both the Ram's horns in the court;\nAnd who should find them but the empress' villain?\nShe laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not choose\nBut give them to his master for a present.


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Why, there it goes: God give his lordship joy!\n[Enter a Clown, with a basket, and two pigeons in]\nit]\nNews, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come.\nSirrah, what tidings? have you any letters?\nShall I have justice? what says Jupiter?


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O, the gibbet-maker! he says that he hath taken\nthem down again, for the man must not be hanged till\nthe next week.


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From heaven! alas, sir, I never came there God\nforbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my\nyoung days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the\ntribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl\nbetwixt my uncle and one of the emperial's men.


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Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for\nyour oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to\nthe emperor from you.


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Sirrah, come hither: make no more ado,\nBut give your pigeons to the emperor:\nBy me thou shalt have justice at his hands.\nHold, hold; meanwhile here's money for thy charges.\nGive me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace\ndeliver a supplication?


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Then here is a supplication for you. And when you\ncome to him, at the first approach you must kneel,\nthen kiss his foot, then deliver up your pigeons, and\nthen look for your reward. I'll be at hand, sir; see\nyou do it bravely.


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Sirrah, hast thou a knife? come, let me see it.\nHere, Marcus, fold it in the oration;\nFor thou hast made it like an humble suppliant.\nAnd when thou hast given it the emperor,\nKnock at my door, and tell me what he says.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter SATURNINUS, TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON,]\nLords, and others; SATURNINUS with the arrows in\nhis hand that TITUS shot]


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Why, lords, what wrongs are these! was ever seen\nAn emperor in Rome thus overborne,\nTroubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent\nOf egal justice, used in such contempt?\nMy lords, you know, as know the mightful gods,\nHowever these disturbers of our peace\nBuz in the people's ears, there nought hath pass'd,\nBut even with law, against the willful sons\nOf old Andronicus. And what an if\nHis sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits,\nShall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,\nHis fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness?\nAnd now he writes to heaven for his redress:\nSee, here's to Jove, and this to Mercury;\nThis to Apollo; this to the god of war;\nSweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome!\nWhat's this but libelling against the senate,\nAnd blazoning our injustice every where?\nA goodly humour, is it not, my lords?\nAs who would say, in Rome no justice were.\nBut if I live, his feigned ecstasies\nShall be no shelter to these outrages:\nBut he and his shall know that justice lives\nIn Saturninus' health, whom, if she sleep,\nHe'll so awake as she in fury shall\nCut off the proud'st conspirator that lives.


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My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,\nLord of my life, commander of my thoughts,\nCalm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age,\nThe effects of sorrow for his valiant sons,\nWhose loss hath pierced him deep and scarr'd his heart;\nAnd rather comfort his distressed plight\nThan prosecute the meanest or the best\nFor these contempts.\n[Aside]\nWhy, thus it shall become\nHigh-witted Tamora to gloze with all:\nBut, Titus, I have touched thee to the quick,\nThy life-blood out: if Aaron now be wise,\nThen is all safe, the anchor's in the port.\n[Enter Clown]\nHow now, good fellow! wouldst thou speak with us?


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'Tis he. God and Saint Stephen give you good den:\nI have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.


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Despiteful and intolerable wrongs!\nShall I endure this monstrous villany?\nI know from whence this same device proceeds:\nMay this be borne?--as if his traitorous sons,\nThat died by law for murder of our brother,\nHave by my means been butcher'd wrongfully!\nGo, drag the villain hither by the hair;\nNor age nor honour shall shape privilege:\nFor this proud mock I'll be thy slaughterman;\nSly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great,\nIn hope thyself should govern Rome and me.\n[Enter AEMILIUS]\nWhat news with thee, AEmilius?


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Arm, arm, my lord;--Rome never had more cause.\nThe Goths have gather'd head; and with a power\nhigh-resolved men, bent to the spoil,\nThey hither march amain, under conduct\nOf Lucius, son to old Andronicus;\nWho threats, in course of this revenge, to do\nAs much as ever Coriolanus did.


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Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths?\nThese tidings nip me, and I hang the head\nAs flowers with frost or grass beat down with storms:\nAy, now begin our sorrows to approach:\n'Tis he the common people love so much;\nMyself hath often over-heard them say,\nWhen I have walked like a private man,\nThat Lucius' banishment was wrongfully,\nAnd they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor.


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King, be thy thoughts imperious, like thy name.\nIs the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it?\nThe eagle suffers little birds to sing,\nAnd is not careful what they mean thereby,\nKnowing that with the shadow of his wings\nHe can at pleasure stint their melody:\nEven so mayst thou the giddy men of Rome.\nThen cheer thy spirit : for know, thou emperor,\nI will enchant the old Andronicus\nWith words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,\nThan baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep,\nWhen as the one is wounded with the bait,\nThe other rotted with delicious feed.


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If Tamora entreat him, then he will:\nFor I can smooth and fill his aged ear\nWith golden promises; that, were his heart\nAlmost impregnable, his old ears deaf,\nYet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.\n[To AEmilius]\nGo thou before, be our ambassador:\nSay that the emperor requests a parley\nOf warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting\nEven at his father's house, the old Andronicus.


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AEmilius, do this message honourably:\nAnd if he stand on hostage for his safety,\nBid him demand what pledge will please him best.


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Now will I to that old Andronicus;\nAnd temper him with all the art I have,\nTo pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths.\nAnd now, sweet emperor, be blithe again,\nAnd bury all thy fear in my devices.


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Approved warriors, and my faithful friends,\nI have received letters from great Rome,\nWhich signify what hate they bear their emperor\nAnd how desirous of our sight they are.\nTherefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness,\nImperious and impatient of your wrongs,\nAnd wherein Rome hath done you any scath,\nLet him make treble satisfaction.


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Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus,\nWhose name was once our terror, now our comfort;\nWhose high exploits and honourable deeds\nIngrateful Rome requites with foul contempt,\nBe bold in us: we'll follow where thou lead'st,\nLike stinging bees in hottest summer's day\nLed by their master to the flowered fields,\nAnd be avenged on cursed Tamora.


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Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray'd\nTo gaze upon a ruinous monastery;\nAnd, as I earnestly did fix mine eye\nUpon the wasted building, suddenly\nI heard a child cry underneath a wall.\nI made unto the noise; when soon I heard\nThe crying babe controll'd with this discourse:\n'Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam!\nDid not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art,\nHad nature lent thee but thy mother's look,\nVillain, thou mightst have been an emperor:\nBut where the bull and cow are both milk-white,\nThey never do beget a coal-black calf.\nPeace, villain, peace!'--even thus he rates\nthe babe,--\n'For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth;\nWho, when he knows thou art the empress' babe,\nWill hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake.'\nWith this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him,\nSurprised him suddenly, and brought him hither,\nTo use as you think needful of the man.


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O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil\nThat robb'd Andronicus of his good hand;\nThis is the pearl that pleased your empress' eye,\nAnd here's the base fruit of his burning lust.\nSay, wall-eyed slave, whither wouldst thou convey\nThis growing image of thy fiend-like face?\nWhy dost not speak? what, deaf? not a word?\nA halter, soldiers! hang him on this tree.\nAnd by his side his fruit of bastardy.


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Too like the sire for ever being good.\nFirst hang the child, that he may see it sprawl;\nA sight to vex the father's soul withal.\nGet me a ladder.


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Lucius, save the child,\nAnd bear it from me to the empress.\nIf thou do this, I'll show thee wondrous things,\nThat highly may advantage thee to hear:\nIf thou wilt not, befall what may befall,\nI'll speak no more but 'Vengeance rot you all!'


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An if it please thee! why, assure thee, Lucius,\n'Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak;\nFor I must talk of murders, rapes and massacres,\nActs of black night, abominable deeds,\nComplots of mischief, treason, villanies\nRuthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd:\nAnd this shall all be buried by my death,\nUnless thou swear to me my child shall live.


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What if I do not? as, indeed, I do not;\nYet, for I know thou art religious\nAnd hast a thing within thee called conscience,\nWith twenty popish tricks and ceremonies,\nWhich I have seen thee careful to observe,\nTherefore I urge thy oath; for that I know\nAn idiot holds his bauble for a god\nAnd keeps the oath which by that god he swears,\nTo that I'll urge him: therefore thou shalt vow\nBy that same god, what god soe'er it be,\nThat thou adorest and hast in reverence,\nTo save my boy, to nourish and bring him up;\nOr else I will discover nought to thee.


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Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity\nTo that which thou shalt hear of me anon.\n'Twas her two sons that murder'd Bassianus;\nThey cut thy sister's tongue and ravish'd her\nAnd cut her hands and trimm'd her as thou saw'st.


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Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them:\nThat codding spirit had they from their mother,\nAs sure a card as ever won the set;\nThat bloody mind, I think, they learn'd of me,\nAs true a dog as ever fought at head.\nWell, let my deeds be witness of my worth.\nI train'd thy brethren to that guileful hole\nWhere the dead corpse of Bassianus lay:\nI wrote the letter that thy father found\nAnd hid the gold within the letter mention'd,\nConfederate with the queen and her two sons:\nAnd what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,\nWherein I had no stroke of mischief in it?\nI play'd the cheater for thy father's hand,\nAnd, when I had it, drew myself apart\nAnd almost broke my heart with extreme laughter:\nI pry'd me through the crevice of a wall\nWhen, for his hand, he had his two sons' heads;\nBeheld his tears, and laugh'd so heartily,\nThat both mine eyes were rainy like to his :\nAnd when I told the empress of this sport,\nShe swooned almost at my pleasing tale,\nAnd for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.


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Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.\nEven now I curse the day--and yet, I think,\nFew come within the compass of my curse,--\nWherein I did not some notorious ill,\nAs kill a man, or else devise his death,\nRavish a maid, or plot the way to do it,\nAccuse some innocent and forswear myself,\nSet deadly enmity between two friends,\nMake poor men's cattle break their necks;\nSet fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,\nAnd bid the owners quench them with their tears.\nOft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,\nAnd set them upright at their dear friends' doors,\nEven when their sorrows almost were forgot;\nAnd on their skins, as on the bark of trees,\nHave with my knife carved in Roman letters,\n'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'\nTut, I have done a thousand dreadful things\nAs willingly as one would kill a fly,\nAnd nothing grieves me heartily indeed\nBut that I cannot do ten thousand more.


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If there be devils, would I were a devil,\nTo live and burn in everlasting fire,\nSo I might have your company in hell,\nBut to torment you with my bitter tongue!


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Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths,\nThe Roman emperor greets you all by me;\nAnd, for he understands you are in arms,\nHe craves a parley at your father's house,\nWilling you to demand your hostages,\nAnd they shall be immediately deliver'd.


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AEmilius, let the emperor give his pledges\nUnto my father and my uncle Marcus,\nAnd we will come. March away.


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Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment,\nI will encounter with Andronicus,\nAnd say I am Revenge, sent from below\nTo join with him and right his heinous wrongs.\nKnock at his study, where, they say, he keeps,\nTo ruminate strange plots of dire revenge;\nTell him Revenge is come to join with him,\nAnd work confusion on his enemies.


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Who doth molest my contemplation?\nIs it your trick to make me ope the door,\nThat so my sad decrees may fly away,\nAnd all my study be to no effect?\nYou are deceived: for what I mean to do\nSee here in bloody lines I have set down;\nAnd what is written shall be executed.


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No, not a word; how can I grace my talk,\nWanting a hand to give it action?\nThou hast the odds of me; therefore no more.


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I am not mad; I know thee well enough:\nWitness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines;\nWitness these trenches made by grief and care,\nWitness the tiring day and heavy night;\nWitness all sorrow, that I know thee well\nFor our proud empress, mighty Tamora:\nIs not thy coming for my other hand?


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Know, thou sad man, I am not Tamora;\nShe is thy enemy, and I thy friend:\nI am Revenge: sent from the infernal kingdom,\nTo ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind,\nBy working wreakful vengeance on thy foes.\nCome down, and welcome me to this world's light;\nConfer with me of murder and of death:\nThere's not a hollow cave or lurking-place,\nNo vast obscurity or misty vale,\nWhere bloody murder or detested rape\nCan couch for fear, but I will find them out;\nAnd in their ears tell them my dreadful name,\nRevenge, which makes the foul offender quake.


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Do me some service, ere I come to thee.\nLo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands;\nNow give me some surance that thou art Revenge,\nStab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels;\nAnd then I'll come and be thy waggoner,\nAnd whirl along with thee about the globe.\nProvide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet,\nTo hale thy vengeful waggon swift away,\nAnd find out murderers in their guilty caves:\nAnd when thy car is loaden with their heads,\nI will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel\nTrot, like a servile footman, all day long,\nEven from Hyperion's rising in the east\nUntil his very downfall in the sea:\nAnd day by day I'll do this heavy task,\nSo thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.


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Good Lord, how like the empress' sons they are!\nAnd you, the empress! but we worldly men\nHave miserable, mad, mistaking eyes.\nO sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee;\nAnd, if one arm's embracement will content thee,\nI will embrace thee in it by and by.


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This closing with him fits his lunacy\nWhate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick fits,\nDo you uphold and maintain in your speeches,\nFor now he firmly takes me for Revenge;\nAnd, being credulous in this mad thought,\nI'll make him send for Lucius his son;\nAnd, whilst I at a banquet hold him sure,\nI'll find some cunning practise out of hand,\nTo scatter and disperse the giddy Goths,\nOr, at the least, make them his enemies.\nSee, here he comes, and I must ply my theme.


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Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee:\nWelcome, dread Fury, to my woful house:\nRapine and Murder, you are welcome too.\nHow like the empress and her sons you are!\nWell are you fitted, had you but a Moor:\nCould not all hell afford you such a devil?\nFor well I wot the empress never wags\nBut in her company there is a Moor;\nAnd, would you represent our queen aright,\nIt were convenient you had such a devil:\nBut welcome, as you are. What shall we do?


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Look round about the wicked streets of Rome;\nAnd when thou find'st a man that's like thyself.\nGood Murder, stab him; he's a murderer.\nGo thou with him; and when it is thy hap\nTo find another that is like to thee,\nGood Rapine, stab him; he's a ravisher.\nGo thou with them; and in the emperor's court\nThere is a queen, attended by a Moor;\nWell mayst thou know her by thy own proportion,\nfor up and down she doth resemble thee:\nI pray thee, do on them some violent death;\nThey have been violent to me and mine.


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Well hast thou lesson'd us; this shall we do.\nBut would it please thee, good Andronicus,\nTo send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son,\nWho leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths,\nAnd bid him come and banquet at thy house;\nWhen he is here, even at thy solemn feast,\nI will bring in the empress and her sons,\nThe emperor himself and all thy foes;\nAnd at thy mercy shalt they stoop and kneel,\nAnd on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart.\nWhat says Andronicus to this device?


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Marcus, my brother! 'tis sad Titus calls.\n[Enter MARCUS]\nGo, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius;\nThou shalt inquire him out among the Goths:\nBid him repair to me, and bring with him\nSome of the chiefest princes of the Goths;\nBid him encamp his soldiers where they are:\nTell him the emperor and the empress too\nFeast at my house, and he shall feast with them.\nThis do thou for my love; and so let him,\nAs he regards his aged father's life.


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Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me;\nOr else I'll call my brother back again,\nAnd cleave to no revenge but Lucius.


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[Aside to her sons] What say you, boys? will you\nbide with him,\nWhiles I go tell my lord the emperor\nHow I have govern'd our determined jest?\nYield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair,\nAnd tarry with him till I turn again.


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[Aside] I know them all, though they suppose me mad,\nAnd will o'erreach them in their own devices:\nA pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam!


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Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much deceived;\nThe one is Murder, Rape is the other's name;\nAnd therefore bind them, gentle Publius.\nCaius and Valentine, lay hands on them.\nOft have you heard me wish for such an hour,\nAnd now I find it; therefore bind them sure,\nAnd stop their mouths, if they begin to cry.


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And therefore do we what we are commanded.\nStop close their mouths, let them not speak a word.\nIs he sure bound? look that you bind them fast.\n[Re-enter TITUS, with LAVINIA; he bearing a knife,]\nand she a basin]


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Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound.\nSirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me;\nBut let them hear what fearful words I utter.\nO villains, Chiron and Demetrius!\nHere stands the spring whom you have stain'd with mud,\nThis goodly summer with your winter mix'd.\nYou kill'd her husband, and for that vile fault\nTwo of her brothers were condemn'd to death,\nMy hand cut off and made a merry jest;\nBoth her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear\nThan hands or tongue, her spotless chastity,\nInhuman traitors, you constrain'd and forced.\nWhat would you say, if I should let you speak?\nVillains, for shame you could not beg for grace.\nHark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you.\nThis one hand yet is left to cut your throats,\nWhilst that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold\nThe basin that receives your guilty blood.\nYou know your mother means to feast with me,\nAnd calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad:\nHark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust\nAnd with your blood and it I'll make a paste,\nAnd of the paste a coffin I will rear\nAnd make two pasties of your shameful heads,\nAnd bid that strumpet, your unhallow'd dam,\nLike to the earth swallow her own increase.\nThis is the feast that I have bid her to,\nAnd this the banquet she shall surfeit on;\nFor worse than Philomel you used my daughter,\nAnd worse than Progne I will be revenged:\nAnd now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come,\n[He cuts their throats]\nReceive the blood: and when that they are dead,\nLet me go grind their bones to powder small\nAnd with this hateful liquor temper it;\nAnd in that paste let their vile heads be baked.\nCome, come, be every one officious\nTo make this banquet; which I wish may prove\nMore stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast.\nSo, now bring them in, for I'll play the cook,\nAnd see them ready 'gainst their mother comes.


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Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor,\nThis ravenous tiger, this accursed devil;\nLet him receive no sustenance, fetter him\nTill he be brought unto the empress' face,\nFor testimony of her foul proceedings:\nAnd see the ambush of our friends be strong;\nI fear the emperor means no good to us.


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Some devil whisper curses in mine ear,\nAnd prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth\nThe venomous malice of my swelling heart!


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Away, inhuman dog! unhallow'd slave!\nSirs, help our uncle to convey him in.\n[Exeunt Goths, with AARON. Flourish within]\nThe trumpets show the emperor is at hand.\n[Enter SATURNINUS and TAMORA, with AEMILIUS,]\nTribunes, Senators, and others]


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Rome's emperor, and nephew, break the parle;\nThese quarrels must be quietly debated.\nThe feast is ready, which the careful Titus\nHath ordain'd to an honourable end,\nFor peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome:\nPlease you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your places.


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Marcus, we will.\n[Hautboys sound. The Company sit down at table]\n[Enter TITUS dressed like a Cook, LAVINIA veiled,]\nYoung LUCIUS, and others. TITUS places the dishes\non the table]


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Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome, dread queen;\nWelcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius;\nAnd welcome, all: although the cheer be poor,\n'Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it.


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An if your highness knew my heart, you were.\nMy lord the emperor, resolve me this:\nWas it well done of rash Virginius\nTo slay his daughter with his own right hand,\nBecause she was enforced, stain'd, and deflower'd?


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A reason mighty, strong, and effectual;\nA pattern, precedent, and lively warrant,\nFor me, most wretched, to perform the like.\nDie, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee;\n[Kills LAVINIA]\nAnd, with thy shame, thy father's sorrow die!


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Kill'd her, for whom my tears have made me blind.\nI am as woful as Virginius was,\nAnd have a thousand times more cause than he\nTo do this outrage: and it now is done.


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Not I; 'twas Chiron and Demetrius:\nThey ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue;\nAnd they, 'twas they, that did her all this wrong.


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Why, there they are both, baked in that pie;\nWhereof their mother daintily hath fed,\nEating the flesh that she herself hath bred.\n'Tis true, 'tis true; witness my knife's sharp point.


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Can the son's eye behold his father bleed?\nThere's meed for meed, death for a deadly deed!\n[Kills SATURNINUS. A great tumult. LUCIUS, MARCUS,]\nand others go up into the balcony]


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You sad-faced men, people and sons of Rome,\nBy uproar sever'd, like a flight of fowl\nScatter'd by winds and high tempestuous gusts,\nO, let me teach you how to knit again\nThis scatter'd corn into one mutual sheaf,\nThese broken limbs again into one body;\nLest Rome herself be bane unto herself,\nAnd she whom mighty kingdoms court'sy to,\nLike a forlorn and desperate castaway,\nDo shameful execution on herself.\nBut if my frosty signs and chaps of age,\nGrave witnesses of true experience,\nCannot induce you to attend my words,\n[To LUCIUS]\nSpeak, Rome's dear friend, as erst our ancestor,\nWhen with his solemn tongue he did discourse\nTo love-sick Dido's sad attending ear\nThe story of that baleful burning night\nWhen subtle Greeks surprised King Priam's Troy,\nTell us what Sinon hath bewitch'd our ears,\nOr who hath brought the fatal engine in\nThat gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound.\nMy heart is not compact of flint nor steel;\nNor can I utter all our bitter grief,\nBut floods of tears will drown my oratory,\nAnd break my utterance, even in the time\nWhen it should move you to attend me most,\nLending your kind commiseration.\nHere is a captain, let him tell the tale;\nYour hearts will throb and weep to hear him speak.


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Then, noble auditory, be it known to you,\nThat cursed Chiron and Demetrius\nWere they that murdered our emperor's brother;\nAnd they it were that ravished our sister:\nFor their fell faults our brothers were beheaded;\nOur father's tears despised, and basely cozen'd\nOf that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out,\nAnd sent her enemies unto the grave.\nLastly, myself unkindly banished,\nThe gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out,\nTo beg relief among Rome's enemies:\nWho drown'd their enmity in my true tears.\nAnd oped their arms to embrace me as a friend.\nI am the turned forth, be it known to you,\nThat have preserved her welfare in my blood;\nAnd from her bosom took the enemy's point,\nSheathing the steel in my adventurous body.\nAlas, you know I am no vaunter, I;\nMy scars can witness, dumb although they are,\nThat my report is just and full of truth.\nBut, soft! methinks I do digress too much,\nCiting my worthless praise: O, pardon me;\nFor when no friends are by, men praise themselves.


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Now is my turn to speak. Behold this child:\n[Pointing to the Child in the arms of an Attendant]\nOf this was Tamora delivered;\nThe issue of an irreligious Moor,\nChief architect and plotter of these woes:\nThe villain is alive in Titus' house,\nAnd as he is, to witness this is true.\nNow judge what cause had Titus to revenge\nThese wrongs, unspeakable, past patience,\nOr more than any living man could bear.\nNow you have heard the truth, what say you, Romans?\nHave we done aught amiss,--show us wherein,\nAnd, from the place where you behold us now,\nThe poor remainder of Andronici\nWill, hand in hand, all headlong cast us down.\nAnd on the ragged stones beat forth our brains,\nAnd make a mutual closure of our house.\nSpeak, Romans, speak; and if you say we shall,\nLo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall.


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Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome,\nAnd bring our emperor gently in thy hand,\nLucius our emperor; for well I know\nThe common voice do cry it shall be so.


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Go, go into old Titus' sorrowful house,\n[To Attendants]\nAnd hither hale that misbelieving Moor,\nTo be adjudged some direful slaughtering death,\nAs punishment for his most wicked life.


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Thanks, gentle Romans: may I govern so,\nTo heal Rome's harms, and wipe away her woe!\nBut, gentle people, give me aim awhile,\nFor nature puts me to a heavy task:\nStand all aloof: but, uncle, draw you near,\nTo shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.\nO, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips,\n[Kissing TITUS]\nThese sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain'd face,\nThe last true duties of thy noble son!


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Tear for tear, and loving kiss for kiss,\nThy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips:\nO were the sum of these that I should pay\nCountless and infinite, yet would I pay them!


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Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us\nTo melt in showers: thy grandsire loved thee well:\nMany a time he danced thee on his knee,\nSung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow:\nMany a matter hath he told to thee,\nMeet and agreeing with thine infancy;\nIn that respect, then, like a loving child,\nShed yet some small drops from thy tender spring,\nBecause kind nature doth require it so:\nFriends should associate friends in grief and woe:\nBid him farewell; commit him to the grave;\nDo him that kindness, and take leave of him.


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O grandsire, grandsire! even with all my heart\nWould I were dead, so you did live again!\nO Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping;\nMy tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth.


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You sad Andronici, have done with woes:\nGive sentence on this execrable wretch,\nThat hath been breeder of these dire events.


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Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him;\nThere let him stand, and rave, and cry for food;\nIf any one relieves or pities him,\nFor the offence he dies. This is our doom:\nSome stay to see him fasten'd in the earth.


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O, why should wrath be mute, and fury dumb?\nI am no baby, I, that with base prayers\nI should repent the evils I have done:\nTen thousand worse than ever yet I did\nWould I perform, if I might have my will;\nIf one good deed in all my life I did,\nI do repent it from my very soul.


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Some loving friends convey the emperor hence,\nAnd give him burial in his father's grave:\nMy father and Lavinia shall forthwith\nBe closed in our household's monument.\nAs for that heinous tiger, Tamora,\nNo funeral rite, nor man m mourning weeds,\nNo mournful bell shall ring her burial;\nBut throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey:\nHer life was beast-like, and devoid of pity;\nAnd, being so, shall have like want of pity.\nSee justice done on Aaron, that damn'd Moor,\nBy whom our heavy haps had their beginning:\nThen, afterwards, to order well the state,\nThat like events may ne'er it ruinate.


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In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece\nThe princes orgulous, their high blood chafed,\nHave to the port of Athens sent their ships,\nFraught with the ministers and instruments\nOf cruel war: sixty and nine, that wore\nTheir crownets regal, from the Athenian bay\nPut forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made\nTo ransack Troy, within whose strong immures\nThe ravish'd Helen, Menelaus' queen,\nWith wanton Paris sleeps; and that's the quarrel.\nTo Tenedos they come;\nAnd the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge\nTheir warlike fraughtage: now on Dardan plains\nThe fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch\nTheir brave pavilions: Priam's six-gated city,\nDardan, and Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien,\nAnd Antenorides, with massy staples\nAnd corresponsive and fulfilling bolts,\nSperr up the sons of Troy.\nNow expectation, tickling skittish spirits,\nOn one and other side, Trojan and Greek,\nSets all on hazard: and hither am I come\nA prologue arm'd, but not in confidence\nOf author's pen or actor's voice, but suited\nIn like conditions as our argument,\nTo tell you, fair beholders, that our play\nLeaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils,\nBeginning in the middle, starting thence away\nTo what may be digested in a play.\nLike or find fault; do as your pleasures are:\nNow good or bad, 'tis but the chance of war.


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Call here my varlet; I'll unarm again:\nWhy should I war without the walls of Troy,\nThat find such cruel battle here within?\nEach Trojan that is master of his heart,\nLet him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none.


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The Greeks are strong and skilful to their strength,\nFierce to their skill and to their fierceness valiant;\nBut I am weaker than a woman's tear,\nTamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance,\nLess valiant than the virgin in the night\nAnd skilless as unpractised infancy.


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Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part,\nI'll not meddle nor make no further. He that will\nhave a cake out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding.


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Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word\n'hereafter' the kneading, the making of the cake, the\nheating of the oven and the baking; nay, you must\nstay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips.


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Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be,\nDoth lesser blench at sufferance than I do.\nAt Priam's royal table do I sit;\nAnd when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,--\nSo, traitor! 'When she comes!' When is she thence?


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I was about to tell thee:--when my heart,\nAs wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain,\nLest Hector or my father should perceive me,\nI have, as when the sun doth light a storm,\nBuried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile:\nBut sorrow, that is couch'd in seeming gladness,\nIs like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.


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An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's--\nwell, go to--there were no more comparison between\nthe women: but, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I\nwould not, as they term it, praise her: but I would\nsomebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I\nwill not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit, but--


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O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,--\nWhen I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd,\nReply not in how many fathoms deep\nThey lie indrench'd. I tell thee I am mad\nIn Cressid's love: thou answer'st 'she is fair;'\nPour'st in the open ulcer of my heart\nHer eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,\nHandlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand,\nIn whose comparison all whites are ink,\nWriting their own reproach, to whose soft seizure\nThe cygnet's down is harsh and spirit of sense\nHard as the palm of ploughman: this thou tell'st me,\nAs true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her;\nBut, saying thus, instead of oil and balm,\nThou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me\nThe knife that made it.


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Faith, I'll not meddle in't. Let her be as she is:\nif she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be\nnot, she has the mends in her own hands.


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I have had my labour for my travail; ill-thought on of\nher and ill-thought on of you; gone between and\nbetween, but small thanks for my labour.


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Because she's kin to me, therefore she's not so fair\nas Helen: an she were not kin to me, she would be as\nfair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care\nI? I care not an she were a black-a-moor; 'tis all one to me.


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I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to\nstay behind her father; let her to the Greeks; and so\nI'll tell her the next time I see her: for my part,\nI'll meddle nor make no more i' the matter.


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Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds!\nFools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair,\nWhen with your blood you daily paint her thus.\nI cannot fight upon this argument;\nIt is too starved a subject for my sword.\nBut Pandarus,--O gods, how do you plague me!\nI cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar;\nAnd he's as tetchy to be woo'd to woo.\nAs she is stubborn-chaste against all suit.\nTell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love,\nWhat Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we?\nHer bed is India; there she lies, a pearl:\nBetween our Ilium and where she resides,\nLet it be call'd the wild and wandering flood,\nOurself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar\nOur doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark.


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Because not there: this woman's answer sorts,\nFor womanish it is to be from thence.\nWhat news, AEneas, from the field to-day?


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Up to the eastern tower,\nWhose height commands as subject all the vale,\nTo see the battle. Hector, whose patience\nIs, as a virtue, fix'd, to-day was moved:\nHe chid Andromache and struck his armourer,\nAnd, like as there were husbandry in war,\nBefore the sun rose he was harness'd light,\nAnd to the field goes he; where every flower\nDid, as a prophet, weep what it foresaw\nIn Hector's wrath.


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The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks\nA lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector;\nThey call him Ajax.


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This man, lady, hath robbed many beasts of their\nparticular additions; he is as valiant as the lion,\nchurlish as the bear, slow as the elephant: a man\ninto whom nature hath so crowded humours that his\nvalour is crushed into folly, his folly sauced with\ndiscretion: there is no man hath a virtue that he\nhath not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he\ncarries some stain of it: he is melancholy without\ncause, and merry against the hair: he hath the\njoints of every thing, but everything so out of joint\nthat he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use,\nor purblind Argus, all eyes and no sight.


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They say he yesterday coped Hector in the battle and\nstruck him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath\never since kept Hector fasting and waking.


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Good morrow, cousin Cressid: what do you talk of?\nGood morrow, Alexander. How do you, cousin? When\nwere you at Ilium?


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What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector\narmed and gone ere ye came to Ilium? Helen was not\nup, was she?


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True, he was so: I know the cause too: he'll lay\nabout him to-day, I can tell them that: and there's\nTroilus will not come far behind him: let them take\nheed of Troilus, I can tell them that too.


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Himself! no, he's not himself: would a' were\nhimself! Well, the gods are above; time must friend\nor end: well, Troilus, well: I would my heart were\nin her body. No, Hector is not a better man than Troilus.


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Th' other's not come to't; you shall tell me another\ntale, when th' other's come to't. Hector shall not\nhave his wit this year.


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You have no judgment, niece: Helen\nherself swore th' other day, that Troilus, for\na brown favour--for so 'tis, I must confess,--\nnot brown neither,--


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Then Troilus should have too much: if she praised\nhim above, his complexion is higher than his; he\nhaving colour enough, and the other higher, is too\nflaming a praise for a good complexion. I had as\nlief Helen's golden tongue had commended Troilus for\na copper nose.


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Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th' other\nday into the compassed window,--and, you know, he\nhas not past three or four hairs on his chin,--


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I cannot choose but laugh, to think how she tickled\nhis chin: indeed, she has a marvellous white hand, I\nmust needs confess,--


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That's true; make no question of that. 'Two and\nfifty hairs' quoth he, 'and one white: that white\nhair is my father, and all the rest are his sons.'\n'Jupiter!' quoth she, 'which of these hairs is Paris,\nmy husband? 'The forked one,' quoth he, 'pluck't\nout, and give it him.' But there was such laughing!\nand Helen so blushed, an Paris so chafed, and all the\nrest so laughed, that it passed.


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Hark! they are coming from the field: shall we\nstand up here, and see them as they pass toward\nIlium? good niece, do, sweet niece Cressida.


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Here, here, here's an excellent place; here we may\nsee most bravely: I'll tell you them all by their\nnames as they pass by; but mark Troilus above the rest.


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That's AEneas: is not that a brave man? he's one of\nthe flowers of Troy, I can tell you: but mark\nTroilus; you shall see anon.


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That's Antenor: he has a shrewd wit, I can tell you;\nand he's a man good enough, he's one o' the soundest\njudgments in whosoever, and a proper man of person.\nWhen comes Troilus? I'll show you Troilus anon: if\nhe see me, you shall see him nod at me.


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That's Hector, that, that, look you, that; there's a\nfellow! Go thy way, Hector! There's a brave man,\nniece. O brave Hector! Look how he looks! there's\na countenance! is't not a brave man?


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Is a' not? it does a man's heart good. Look you\nwhat hacks are on his helmet! look you yonder, do\nyou see? look you there: there's no jesting;\nthere's laying on, take't off who will, as they say:\nthere be hacks!


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Swords! any thing, he cares not; an the devil come\nto him, it's all one: by God's lid, it does one's\nheart good. Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes Paris.\n[PARIS passes]\nLook ye yonder, niece; is't not a gallant man too,\nis't not? Why, this is brave now. Who said he came\nhurt home to-day? he's not hurt: why, this will do\nHelen's heart good now, ha! Would I could see\nTroilus now! You shall see Troilus anon.


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That's Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That's\nHelenus. I think he went not forth to-day. That's Helenus.


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Helenus? no. Yes, he'll fight indifferent well. I\nmarvel where Troilus is. Hark! do you not hear the\npeople cry 'Troilus'? Helenus is a priest.


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Where? yonder? that's Deiphobus. 'Tis Troilus!\nthere's a man, niece! Hem! Brave Troilus! the\nprince of chivalry!


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Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! Look well upon\nhim, niece: look you how his sword is bloodied, and\nhis helm more hacked than Hector's, and how he looks,\nand how he goes! O admirable youth! he ne'er saw\nthree and twenty. Go thy way, Troilus, go thy way!\nHad I a sister were a grace, or a daughter a goddess,\nhe should take his choice. O admirable man! Paris?\nParis is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen, to\nchange, would give an eye to boot.


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Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran!\nporridge after meat! I could live and die i' the\neyes of Troilus. Ne'er look, ne'er look: the eagles\nare gone: crows and daws, crows and daws! I had\nrather be such a man as Troilus than Agamemnon and\nall Greece.


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'Well, well!' why, have you any discretion? have\nyou any eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is not\nbirth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood,\nlearning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality,\nand such like, the spice and salt that season a man?


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Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my wit, to\ndefend my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine\nhonesty; my mask, to defend my beauty; and you, to\ndefend all these: and at all these wards I lie, at a\nthousand watches.


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Nay, I'll watch you for that; and that's one of the\nchiefest of them too: if I cannot ward what I would\nnot have hit, I can watch you for telling how I took\nthe blow; unless it swell past hiding, and then it's\npast watching.


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By the same token, you are a bawd.\n[Exit PANDARUS]\nWords, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice,\nHe offers in another's enterprise;\nBut more in Troilus thousand fold I see\nThan in the glass of Pandar's praise may be;\nYet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing:\nThings won are done; joy's soul lies in the doing.\nThat she beloved knows nought that knows not this:\nMen prize the thing ungain'd more than it is:\nThat she was never yet that ever knew\nLove got so sweet as when desire did sue.\nTherefore this maxim out of love I teach:\nAchievement is command; ungain'd, beseech:\nThen though my heart's content firm love doth bear,\nNothing of that shall from mine eyes appear.


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Princes,\nWhat grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks?\nThe ample proposition that hope makes\nIn all designs begun on earth below\nFails in the promised largeness: cheques and disasters\nGrow in the veins of actions highest rear'd,\nAs knots, by the conflux of meeting sap,\nInfect the sound pine and divert his grain\nTortive and errant from his course of growth.\nNor, princes, is it matter new to us\nThat we come short of our suppose so far\nThat after seven years' siege yet Troy walls stand;\nSith every action that hath gone before,\nWhereof we have record, trial did draw\nBias and thwart, not answering the aim,\nAnd that unbodied figure of the thought\nThat gave't surmised shape. Why then, you princes,\nDo you with cheeks abash'd behold our works,\nAnd call them shames? which are indeed nought else\nBut the protractive trials of great Jove\nTo find persistive constancy in men:\nThe fineness of which metal is not found\nIn fortune's love; for then the bold and coward,\nThe wise and fool, the artist and unread,\nThe hard and soft seem all affined and kin:\nBut, in the wind and tempest of her frown,\nDistinction, with a broad and powerful fan,\nPuffing at all, winnows the light away;\nAnd what hath mass or matter, by itself\nLies rich in virtue and unmingled.


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With due observance of thy godlike seat,\nGreat Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply\nThy latest words. In the reproof of chance\nLies the true proof of men: the sea being smooth,\nHow many shallow bauble boats dare sail\nUpon her patient breast, making their way\nWith those of nobler bulk!\nBut let the ruffian Boreas once enrage\nThe gentle Thetis, and anon behold\nThe strong-ribb'd bark through liquid mountains cut,\nBounding between the two moist elements,\nLike Perseus' horse: where's then the saucy boat\nWhose weak untimber'd sides but even now\nCo-rivall'd greatness? Either to harbour fled,\nOr made a toast for Neptune. Even so\nDoth valour's show and valour's worth divide\nIn storms of fortune; for in her ray and brightness\nThe herd hath more annoyance by the breeze\nThan by the tiger; but when the splitting wind\nMakes flexible the knees of knotted oaks,\nAnd flies fled under shade, why, then the thing of courage\nAs roused with rage with rage doth sympathize,\nAnd with an accent tuned in selfsame key\nRetorts to chiding fortune.


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Agamemnon,\nThou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece,\nHeart of our numbers, soul and only spirit.\nIn whom the tempers and the minds of all\nShould be shut up, hear what Ulysses speaks.\nBesides the applause and approbation To which,\n[To AGAMEMNON]\nmost mighty for thy place and sway,\n[To NESTOR]\nAnd thou most reverend for thy stretch'd-out life\nI give to both your speeches, which were such\nAs Agamemnon and the hand of Greece\nShould hold up high in brass, and such again\nAs venerable Nestor, hatch'd in silver,\nShould with a bond of air, strong as the axle-tree\nOn which heaven rides, knit all the Greekish ears\nTo his experienced tongue, yet let it please both,\nThou great, and wise, to hear Ulysses speak.


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Speak, prince of Ithaca; and be't of less expect\nThat matter needless, of importless burden,\nDivide thy lips, than we are confident,\nWhen rank Thersites opes his mastic jaws,\nWe shall hear music, wit and oracle.


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Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down,\nAnd the great Hector's sword had lack'd a master,\nBut for these instances.\nThe specialty of rule hath been neglected:\nAnd, look, how many Grecian tents do stand\nHollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions.\nWhen that the general is not like the hive\nTo whom the foragers shall all repair,\nWhat honey is expected? Degree being vizarded,\nThe unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask.\nThe heavens themselves, the planets and this centre\nObserve degree, priority and place,\nInsisture, course, proportion, season, form,\nOffice and custom, in all line of order;\nAnd therefore is the glorious planet Sol\nIn noble eminence enthroned and sphered\nAmidst the other; whose medicinable eye\nCorrects the ill aspects of planets evil,\nAnd posts, like the commandment of a king,\nSans cheque to good and bad: but when the planets\nIn evil mixture to disorder wander,\nWhat plagues and what portents! what mutiny!\nWhat raging of the sea! shaking of earth!\nCommotion in the winds! frights, changes, horrors,\nDivert and crack, rend and deracinate\nThe unity and married calm of states\nQuite from their fixure! O, when degree is shaked,\nWhich is the ladder to all high designs,\nThen enterprise is sick! How could communities,\nDegrees in schools and brotherhoods in cities,\nPeaceful commerce from dividable shores,\nThe primogenitive and due of birth,\nPrerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels,\nBut by degree, stand in authentic place?\nTake but degree away, untune that string,\nAnd, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets\nIn mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters\nShould lift their bosoms higher than the shores\nAnd make a sop of all this solid globe:\nStrength should be lord of imbecility,\nAnd the rude son should strike his father dead:\nForce should be right; or rather, right and wrong,\nBetween whose endless jar justice resides,\nShould lose their names, and so should justice too.\nThen every thing includes itself in power,\nPower into will, will into appetite;\nAnd appetite, an universal wolf,\nSo doubly seconded with will and power,\nMust make perforce an universal prey,\nAnd last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon,\nThis chaos, when degree is suffocate,\nFollows the choking.\nAnd this neglection of degree it is\nThat by a pace goes backward, with a purpose\nIt hath to climb. The general's disdain'd\nBy him one step below, he by the next,\nThat next by him beneath; so every step,\nExampled by the first pace that is sick\nOf his superior, grows to an envious fever\nOf pale and bloodless emulation:\nAnd 'tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot,\nNot her own sinews. To end a tale of length,\nTroy in our weakness stands, not in her strength.


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The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns\nThe sinew and the forehand of our host,\nHaving his ear full of his airy fame,\nGrows dainty of his worth, and in his tent\nLies mocking our designs: with him Patroclus\nUpon a lazy bed the livelong day\nBreaks scurril jests;\nAnd with ridiculous and awkward action,\nWhich, slanderer, he imitation calls,\nHe pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon,\nThy topless deputation he puts on,\nAnd, like a strutting player, whose conceit\nLies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich\nTo hear the wooden dialogue and sound\n'Twixt his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldage,--\nSuch to-be-pitied and o'er-wrested seeming\nHe acts thy greatness in: and when he speaks,\n'Tis like a chime a-mending; with terms unsquared,\nWhich, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp'd\nWould seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff\nThe large Achilles, on his press'd bed lolling,\nFrom his deep chest laughs out a loud applause;\nCries 'Excellent! 'tis Agamemnon just.\nNow play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard,\nAs he being drest to some oration.'\nThat's done, as near as the extremest ends\nOf parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife:\nYet god Achilles still cries 'Excellent!\n'Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus,\nArming to answer in a night alarm.'\nAnd then, forsooth, the faint defects of age\nMust be the scene of mirth; to cough and spit,\nAnd, with a palsy-fumbling on his gorget,\nShake in and out the rivet: and at this sport\nSir Valour dies; cries 'O, enough, Patroclus;\nOr give me ribs of steel! I shall split all\nIn pleasure of my spleen.' And in this fashion,\nAll our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes,\nSeverals and generals of grace exact,\nAchievements, plots, orders, preventions,\nExcitements to the field, or speech for truce,\nSuccess or loss, what is or is not, serves\nAs stuff for these two to make paradoxes.


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And in the imitation of these twain--\nWho, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns\nWith an imperial voice--many are infect.\nAjax is grown self-will'd, and bears his head\nIn such a rein, in full as proud a place\nAs broad Achilles; keeps his tent like him;\nMakes factious feasts; rails on our state of war,\nBold as an oracle, and sets Thersites,\nA slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint,\nTo match us in comparisons with dirt,\nTo weaken and discredit our exposure,\nHow rank soever rounded in with danger.


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They tax our policy, and call it cowardice,\nCount wisdom as no member of the war,\nForestall prescience, and esteem no act\nBut that of hand: the still and mental parts,\nThat do contrive how many hands shall strike,\nWhen fitness calls them on, and know by measure\nOf their observant toil the enemies' weight,--\nWhy, this hath not a finger's dignity:\nThey call this bed-work, mappery, closet-war;\nSo that the ram that batters down the wall,\nFor the great swing and rudeness of his poise,\nThey place before his hand that made the engine,\nOr those that with the fineness of their souls\nBy reason guide his execution.


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With surety stronger than Achilles' arm\n'Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice\nCall Agamemnon head and general.


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Fair leave and large security. How may\nA stranger to those most imperial looks\nKnow them from eyes of other mortals?


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Ay;\nI ask, that I might waken reverence,\nAnd bid the cheek be ready with a blush\nModest as morning when she coldly eyes\nThe youthful Phoebus:\nWhich is that god in office, guiding men?\nWhich is the high and mighty Agamemnon?


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Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm'd,\nAs bending angels; that's their fame in peace:\nBut when they would seem soldiers, they have galls,\nGood arms, strong joints, true swords; and,\nJove's accord,\nNothing so full of heart. But peace, AEneas,\nPeace, Trojan; lay thy finger on thy lips!\nThe worthiness of praise distains his worth,\nIf that the praised himself bring the praise forth:\nBut what the repining enemy commends,\nThat breath fame blows; that praise, sole sure,\ntranscends.


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Nor I from Troy come not to whisper him:\nI bring a trumpet to awake his ear,\nTo set his sense on the attentive bent,\nAnd then to speak.


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Speak frankly as the wind;\nIt is not Agamemnon's sleeping hour:\nThat thou shalt know. Trojan, he is awake,\nHe tells thee so himself.


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Trumpet, blow loud,\nSend thy brass voice through all these lazy tents;\nAnd every Greek of mettle, let him know,\nWhat Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud.\n[Trumpet sounds]\nWe have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy\nA prince call'd Hector,--Priam is his father,--\nWho in this dull and long-continued truce\nIs rusty grown: he bade me take a trumpet,\nAnd to this purpose speak. Kings, princes, lords!\nIf there be one among the fair'st of Greece\nThat holds his honour higher than his ease,\nThat seeks his praise more than he fears his peril,\nThat knows his valour, and knows not his fear,\nThat loves his mistress more than in confession,\nWith truant vows to her own lips he loves,\nAnd dare avow her beauty and her worth\nIn other arms than hers,--to him this challenge.\nHector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks,\nShall make it good, or do his best to do it,\nHe hath a lady, wiser, fairer, truer,\nThan ever Greek did compass in his arms,\nAnd will to-morrow with his trumpet call\nMidway between your tents and walls of Troy,\nTo rouse a Grecian that is true in love:\nIf any come, Hector shall honour him;\nIf none, he'll say in Troy when he retires,\nThe Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth\nThe splinter of a lance. Even so much.


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This shall be told our lovers, Lord AEneas;\nIf none of them have soul in such a kind,\nWe left them all at home: but we are soldiers;\nAnd may that soldier a mere recreant prove,\nThat means not, hath not, or is not in love!\nIf then one is, or hath, or means to be,\nThat one meets Hector; if none else, I am he.


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Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man\nWhen Hector's grandsire suck'd: he is old now;\nBut if there be not in our Grecian host\nOne noble man that hath one spark of fire,\nTo answer for his love, tell him from me\nI'll hide my silver beard in a gold beaver\nAnd in my vantbrace put this wither'd brawn,\nAnd meeting him will tell him that my lady\nWas fairer than his grandam and as chaste\nAs may be in the world: his youth in flood,\nI'll prove this truth with my three drops of blood.


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Fair Lord AEneas, let me touch your hand;\nTo our pavilion shall I lead you, sir.\nAchilles shall have word of this intent;\nSo shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent:\nYourself shall feast with us before you go\nAnd find the welcome of a noble foe.


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This 'tis:\nBlunt wedges rive hard knots: the seeded pride\nThat hath to this maturity blown up\nIn rank Achilles must or now be cropp'd,\nOr, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil,\nTo overbulk us all.


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This challenge that the gallant Hector sends,\nHowever it is spread in general name,\nRelates in purpose only to Achilles.


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The purpose is perspicuous even as substance,\nWhose grossness little characters sum up:\nAnd, in the publication, make no strain,\nBut that Achilles, were his brain as barren\nAs banks of Libya,--though, Apollo knows,\n'Tis dry enough,--will, with great speed of judgment,\nAy, with celerity, find Hector's purpose\nPointing on him.


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Yes, 'tis most meet: whom may you else oppose,\nThat can from Hector bring his honour off,\nIf not Achilles? Though't be a sportful combat,\nYet in the trial much opinion dwells;\nFor here the Trojans taste our dear'st repute\nWith their finest palate: and trust to me, Ulysses,\nOur imputation shall be oddly poised\nIn this wild action; for the success,\nAlthough particular, shall give a scantling\nOf good or bad unto the general;\nAnd in such indexes, although small pricks\nTo their subsequent volumes, there is seen\nThe baby figure of the giant mass\nOf things to come at large. It is supposed\nHe that meets Hector issues from our choice\nAnd choice, being mutual act of all our souls,\nMakes merit her election, and doth boil,\nAs 'twere from us all, a man distill'd\nOut of our virtues; who miscarrying,\nWhat heart receives from hence the conquering part,\nTo steel a strong opinion to themselves?\nWhich entertain'd, limbs are his instruments,\nIn no less working than are swords and bows\nDirective by the limbs.


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Give pardon to my speech:\nTherefore 'tis meet Achilles meet not Hector.\nLet us, like merchants, show our foulest wares,\nAnd think, perchance, they'll sell; if not,\nThe lustre of the better yet to show,\nShall show the better. Do not consent\nThat ever Hector and Achilles meet;\nFor both our honour and our shame in this\nAre dogg'd with two strange followers.


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What glory our Achilles shares from Hector,\nWere he not proud, we all should share with him:\nBut he already is too insolent;\nAnd we were better parch in Afric sun\nThan in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes,\nShould he 'scape Hector fair: if he were foil'd,\nWhy then, we did our main opinion crush\nIn taint of our best man. No, make a lottery;\nAnd, by device, let blockish Ajax draw\nThe sort to fight with Hector: among ourselves\nGive him allowance for the better man;\nFor that will physic the great Myrmidon\nWho broils in loud applause, and make him fall\nHis crest that prouder than blue Iris bends.\nIf the dull brainless Ajax come safe off,\nWe'll dress him up in voices: if he fail,\nYet go we under our opinion still\nThat we have better men. But, hit or miss,\nOur project's life this shape of sense assumes:\nAjax employ'd plucks down Achilles' plumes.


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Ulysses,\nNow I begin to relish thy advice;\nAnd I will give a taste of it forthwith\nTo Agamemnon: go we to him straight.\nTwo curs shall tame each other: pride alone\nMust tarre the mastiffs on, as 'twere their bone.


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I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness: but,\nI think, thy horse will sooner con an oration than\nthou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst strike,\ncanst thou? a red murrain o' thy jade's tricks!


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I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had\nthe scratching of thee; I would make thee the\nloathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in\nthe incursions, thou strikest as slow as another.


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Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles,\nand thou art as full of envy at his greatness as\nCerberus is at Proserpine's beauty, ay, that thou\nbarkest at him.


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Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no\nmore brain than I have in mine elbows; an assinego\nmay tutor thee: thou scurvy-valiant ass! thou art\nhere but to thrash Trojans; and thou art bought and\nsold among those of any wit, like a barbarian slave.\nIf thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel, and\ntell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no\nbowels, thou!


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Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! his\nevasions have ears thus long. I have bobbed his\nbrain more than he has beat my bones: I will buy\nnine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not\nworth the nineth part of a sparrow. This lord,\nAchilles, Ajax, who wears his wit in his belly and\nhis guts in his head, I'll tell you what I say of\nhim.


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Your last service was sufferance, 'twas not\nvoluntary: no man is beaten voluntary: Ajax was\nhere the voluntary, and you as under an impress.


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E'en so; a great deal of your wit, too, lies in your\nsinews, or else there be liars. Hector have a great\ncatch, if he knock out either of your brains: a'\nwere as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel.


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There's Ulysses and old Nestor, whose wit was mouldy\nere your grandsires had nails on their toes, yoke you\nlike draught-oxen and make you plough up the wars.


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I will see you hanged, like clotpoles, ere I come\nany more to your tents: I will keep where there is\nwit stirring and leave the faction of fools.


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Marry, this, sir, is proclaim'd through all our host:\nThat Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun,\nWill with a trumpet 'twixt our tents and Troy\nTo-morrow morning call some knight to arms\nThat hath a stomach; and such a one that dare\nMaintain--I know not what: 'tis trash. Farewell.


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After so many hours, lives, speeches spent,\nThus once again says Nestor from the Greeks:\n'Deliver Helen, and all damage else--\nAs honour, loss of time, travail, expense,\nWounds, friends, and what else dear that is consumed\nIn hot digestion of this cormorant war--\nShall be struck off.' Hector, what say you to't?


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Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I\nAs far as toucheth my particular,\nYet, dread Priam,\nThere is no lady of more softer bowels,\nMore spongy to suck in the sense of fear,\nMore ready to cry out 'Who knows what follows?'\nThan Hector is: the wound of peace is surety,\nSurety secure; but modest doubt is call'd\nThe beacon of the wise, the tent that searches\nTo the bottom of the worst. Let Helen go:\nSince the first sword was drawn about this question,\nEvery tithe soul, 'mongst many thousand dismes,\nHath been as dear as Helen; I mean, of ours:\nIf we have lost so many tenths of ours,\nTo guard a thing not ours nor worth to us,\nHad it our name, the value of one ten,\nWhat merit's in that reason which denies\nThe yielding of her up?


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Fie, fie, my brother!\nWeigh you the worth and honour of a king\nSo great as our dread father in a scale\nOf common ounces? will you with counters sum\nThe past proportion of his infinite?\nAnd buckle in a waist most fathomless\nWith spans and inches so diminutive\nAs fears and reasons? fie, for godly shame!


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No marvel, though you bite so sharp at reasons,\nYou are so empty of them. Should not our father\nBear the great sway of his affairs with reasons,\nBecause your speech hath none that tells him so?


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You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest;\nYou fur your gloves with reason. Here are\nyour reasons:\nYou know an enemy intends you harm;\nYou know a sword employ'd is perilous,\nAnd reason flies the object of all harm:\nWho marvels then, when Helenus beholds\nA Grecian and his sword, if he do set\nThe very wings of reason to his heels\nAnd fly like chidden Mercury from Jove,\nOr like a star disorb'd? Nay, if we talk of reason,\nLet's shut our gates and sleep: manhood and honour\nShould have hare-hearts, would they but fat\ntheir thoughts\nWith this cramm'd reason: reason and respect\nMake livers pale and lustihood deject.


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But value dwells not in particular will;\nIt holds his estimate and dignity\nAs well wherein 'tis precious of itself\nAs in the prizer: 'tis mad idolatry\nTo make the service greater than the god\nAnd the will dotes that is attributive\nTo what infectiously itself affects,\nWithout some image of the affected merit.


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I take to-day a wife, and my election\nIs led on in the conduct of my will;\nMy will enkindled by mine eyes and ears,\nTwo traded pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores\nOf will and judgment: how may I avoid,\nAlthough my will distaste what it elected,\nThe wife I chose? there can be no evasion\nTo blench from this and to stand firm by honour:\nWe turn not back the silks upon the merchant,\nWhen we have soil'd them, nor the remainder viands\nWe do not throw in unrespective sieve,\nBecause we now are full. It was thought meet\nParis should do some vengeance on the Greeks:\nYour breath of full consent bellied his sails;\nThe seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce\nAnd did him service: he touch'd the ports desired,\nAnd for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive,\nHe brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and freshness\nWrinkles Apollo's, and makes stale the morning.\nWhy keep we her? the Grecians keep our aunt:\nIs she worth keeping? why, she is a pearl,\nWhose price hath launch'd above a thousand ships,\nAnd turn'd crown'd kings to merchants.\nIf you'll avouch 'twas wisdom Paris went--\nAs you must needs, for you all cried 'Go, go,'--\nIf you'll confess he brought home noble prize--\nAs you must needs, for you all clapp'd your hands\nAnd cried 'Inestimable!'--why do you now\nThe issue of your proper wisdoms rate,\nAnd do a deed that fortune never did,\nBeggar the estimation which you prized\nRicher than sea and land? O, theft most base,\nThat we have stol'n what we do fear to keep!\nBut, thieves, unworthy of a thing so stol'n,\nThat in their country did them that disgrace,\nWe fear to warrant in our native place!


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Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld,\nSoft infancy, that nothing canst but cry,\nAdd to my clamours! let us pay betimes\nA moiety of that mass of moan to come.\nCry, Trojans, cry! practise your eyes with tears!\nTroy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand;\nOur firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all.\nCry, Trojans, cry! a Helen and a woe:\nCry, cry! Troy burns, or else let Helen go.


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Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains\nOf divination in our sister work\nSome touches of remorse? or is your blood\nSo madly hot that no discourse of reason,\nNor fear of bad success in a bad cause,\nCan qualify the same?


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Why, brother Hector,\nWe may not think the justness of each act\nSuch and no other than event doth form it,\nNor once deject the courage of our minds,\nBecause Cassandra's mad: her brain-sick raptures\nCannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel\nWhich hath our several honours all engaged\nTo make it gracious. For my private part,\nI am no more touch'd than all Priam's sons:\nAnd Jove forbid there should be done amongst us\nSuch things as might offend the weakest spleen\nTo fight for and maintain!


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Else might the world convince of levity\nAs well my undertakings as your counsels:\nBut I attest the gods, your full consent\nGave wings to my propension and cut off\nAll fears attending on so dire a project.\nFor what, alas, can these my single arms?\nWhat Propugnation is in one man's valour,\nTo stand the push and enmity of those\nThis quarrel would excite? Yet, I protest,\nWere I alone to pass the difficulties\nAnd had as ample power as I have will,\nParis should ne'er retract what he hath done,\nNor faint in the pursuit.


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Paris, you speak\nLike one besotted on your sweet delights:\nYou have the honey still, but these the gall;\nSo to be valiant is no praise at all.


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Sir, I propose not merely to myself\nThe pleasures such a beauty brings with it;\nBut I would have the soil of her fair rape\nWiped off, in honourable keeping her.\nWhat treason were it to the ransack'd queen,\nDisgrace to your great worths and shame to me,\nNow to deliver her possession up\nOn terms of base compulsion! Can it be\nThat so degenerate a strain as this\nShould once set footing in your generous bosoms?\nThere's not the meanest spirit on our party\nWithout a heart to dare or sword to draw\nWhen Helen is defended, nor none so noble\nWhose life were ill bestow'd or death unfamed\nWhere Helen is the subject; then, I say,\nWell may we fight for her whom, we know well,\nThe world's large spaces cannot parallel.


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Paris and Troilus, you have both said well,\nAnd on the cause and question now in hand\nHave glozed, but superficially: not much\nUnlike young men, whom Aristotle thought\nUnfit to hear moral philosophy:\nThe reasons you allege do more conduce\nTo the hot passion of distemper'd blood\nThan to make up a free determination\n'Twixt right and wrong, for pleasure and revenge\nHave ears more deaf than adders to the voice\nOf any true decision. Nature craves\nAll dues be render'd to their owners: now,\nWhat nearer debt in all humanity\nThan wife is to the husband? If this law\nOf nature be corrupted through affection,\nAnd that great minds, of partial indulgence\nTo their benumbed wills, resist the same,\nThere is a law in each well-order'd nation\nTo curb those raging appetites that are\nMost disobedient and refractory.\nIf Helen then be wife to Sparta's king,\nAs it is known she is, these moral laws\nOf nature and of nations speak aloud\nTo have her back return'd: thus to persist\nIn doing wrong extenuates not wrong,\nBut makes it much more heavy. Hector's opinion\nIs this in way of truth; yet ne'ertheless,\nMy spritely brethren, I propend to you\nIn resolution to keep Helen still,\nFor 'tis a cause that hath no mean dependance\nUpon our joint and several dignities.


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Why, there you touch'd the life of our design:\nWere it not glory that we more affected\nThan the performance of our heaving spleens,\nI would not wish a drop of Trojan blood\nSpent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector,\nShe is a theme of honour and renown,\nA spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds,\nWhose present courage may beat down our foes,\nAnd fame in time to come canonize us;\nFor, I presume, brave Hector would not lose\nSo rich advantage of a promised glory\nAs smiles upon the forehead of this action\nFor the wide world's revenue.


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I am yours,\nYou valiant offspring of great Priamus.\nI have a roisting challenge sent amongst\nThe dun and factious nobles of the Greeks\nWill strike amazement to their drowsy spirits:\nI was advertised their great general slept,\nWhilst emulation in the army crept:\nThis, I presume, will wake him.


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How now, Thersites! what lost in the labyrinth of\nthy fury! Shall the elephant Ajax carry it thus? He\nbeats me, and I rail at him: O, worthy satisfaction!\nwould it were otherwise; that I could beat him,\nwhilst he railed at me. 'Sfoot, I'll learn to\nconjure and raise devils, but I'll see some issue of\nmy spiteful execrations. Then there's Achilles, a\nrare enginer! If Troy be not taken till these two\nundermine it, the walls will stand till they fall of\nthemselves. O thou great thunder-darter of Olympus,\nforget that thou art Jove, the king of gods and,\nMercury, lose all the serpentine craft of thy\ncaduceus, if ye take not that little, little less\nthan little wit from them that they have! which\nshort-armed ignorance itself knows is so abundant\nscarce, it will not in circumvention deliver a fly\nfrom a spider, without drawing their massy irons and\ncutting the web. After this, the vengeance on the\nwhole camp! or rather, the bone-ache! for that,\nmethinks, is the curse dependent on those that war\nfor a placket. I have said my prayers and devil Envy\nsay Amen. What ho! my Lord Achilles!


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If I could have remembered a gilt counterfeit, thou\nwouldst not have slipped out of my contemplation: but\nit is no matter; thyself upon thyself! The common\ncurse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in\ngreat revenue! heaven bless thee from a tutor, and\ndiscipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy\ndirection till thy death! then if she that lays thee\nout says thou art a fair corse, I'll be sworn and\nsworn upon't she never shrouded any but lazars.\nAmen. Where's Achilles?


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Where, where? Art thou come? why, my cheese, my\ndigestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to\nmy table so many meals? Come, what's Agamemnon?


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I'll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands\nAchilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus'\nknower, and Patroclus is a fool.


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Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites\nis a fool, and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool.


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Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles;\nAchilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon;\nThersites is a fool to serve such a fool, and\nPatroclus is a fool positive.


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Here is such patchery, such juggling and such\nknavery! all the argument is a cuckold and a\nwhore; a good quarrel to draw emulous factions\nand bleed to death upon. Now, the dry serpigo on\nthe subject! and war and lechery confound all!


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Let it be known to him that we are here.\nHe shent our messengers; and we lay by\nOur appertainments, visiting of him:\nLet him be told so; lest perchance he think\nWe dare not move the question of our place,\nOr know not what we are.


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Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart: you may call it\nmelancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by my\nhead, 'tis pride: but why, why? let him show us the\ncause. A word, my lord.


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All the better; their fraction is more our wish than\ntheir faction: but it was a strong composure a fool\ncould disunite.


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Achilles bids me say, he is much sorry,\nIf any thing more than your sport and pleasure\nDid move your greatness and this noble state\nTo call upon him; he hopes it is no other\nBut for your health and your digestion sake,\nAnd after-dinner's breath.


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Hear you, Patroclus:\nWe are too well acquainted with these answers:\nBut his evasion, wing'd thus swift with scorn,\nCannot outfly our apprehensions.\nMuch attribute he hath, and much the reason\nWhy we ascribe it to him; yet all his virtues,\nNot virtuously on his own part beheld,\nDo in our eyes begin to lose their gloss,\nYea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish,\nAre like to rot untasted. Go and tell him,\nWe come to speak with him; and you shall not sin,\nIf you do say we think him over-proud\nAnd under-honest, in self-assumption greater\nThan in the note of judgment; and worthier\nthan himself\nHere tend the savage strangeness he puts on,\nDisguise the holy strength of their command,\nAnd underwrite in an observing kind\nHis humorous predominance; yea, watch\nHis pettish lunes, his ebbs, his flows, as if\nThe passage and whole carriage of this action\nRode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add,\nThat if he overhold his price so much,\nWe'll none of him; but let him, like an engine\nNot portable, lie under this report:\n'Bring action hither, this cannot go to war:\nA stirring dwarf we do allowance give\nBefore a sleeping giant.' Tell him so.


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No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as\nwise, no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether\nmore tractable.


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Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the\nfairer. He that is proud eats up himself: pride is\nhis own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle;\nand whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours\nthe deed in the praise.


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He doth rely on none,\nBut carries on the stream of his dispose\nWithout observance or respect of any,\nIn will peculiar and in self-admission.


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Things small as nothing, for request's sake only,\nHe makes important: possess'd he is with greatness,\nAnd speaks not to himself but with a pride\nThat quarrels at self-breath: imagined worth\nHolds in his blood such swoln and hot discourse\nThat 'twixt his mental and his active parts\nKingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages\nAnd batters down himself: what should I say?\nHe is so plaguy proud that the death-tokens of it\nCry 'No recovery.'AGAMEMNON. Let Ajax go to him.\nDear lord, go you and greet him in his tent:\n'Tis said he holds you well, and will be led\nAt your request a little from himself.


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O Agamemnon, let it not be so!\nWe'll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes\nWhen they go from Achilles: shall the proud lord\nThat bastes his arrogance with his own seam\nAnd never suffers matter of the world\nEnter his thoughts, save such as do revolve\nAnd ruminate himself, shall he be worshipp'd\nOf that we hold an idol more than he?\nNo, this thrice worthy and right valiant lord\nMust not so stale his palm, nobly acquired;\nNor, by my will, assubjugate his merit,\nAs amply titled as Achilles is,\nBy going to Achilles:\nThat were to enlard his fat already pride\nAnd add more coals to Cancer when he burns\nWith entertaining great Hyperion.\nThis lord go to him! Jupiter forbid,\nAnd say in thunder 'Achilles go to him.'


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Why, 'tis this naming of him does him harm.\nHere is a man--but 'tis before his face;\nI will be silent.


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Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure;\nPraise him that got thee, she that gave thee suck:\nFamed be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature\nThrice famed, beyond all erudition:\nBut he that disciplined thy arms to fight,\nLet Mars divide eternity in twain,\nAnd give him half: and, for thy vigour,\nBull-bearing Milo his addition yield\nTo sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom,\nWhich, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines\nThy spacious and dilated parts: here's Nestor;\nInstructed by the antiquary times,\nHe must, he is, he cannot but be wise:\nPut pardon, father Nestor, were your days\nAs green as Ajax' and your brain so temper'd,\nYou should not have the eminence of him,\nBut be as Ajax.


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There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles\nKeeps thicket. Please it our great general\nTo call together all his state of war;\nFresh kings are come to Troy: to-morrow\nWe must with all our main of power stand fast:\nAnd here's a lord,--come knights from east to west,\nAnd cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best.


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Friend, we understand not one another: I am too\ncourtly and thou art too cunning. At whose request\ndo these men play?


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That's to 't indeed, sir: marry, sir, at the request\nof Paris my lord, who's there in person; with him,\nthe mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love's\ninvisible soul,--


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It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the\nLady Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the\nPrince Troilus: I will make a complimental assault\nupon him, for my business seethes.


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Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair\ncompany! fair desires, in all fair measure,\nfairly guide them! especially to you, fair queen!\nfair thoughts be your fair pillow!


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You have broke it, cousin: and, by my life, you\nshall make it whole again; you shall piece it out\nwith a piece of your performance. Nell, he is full\nof harmony.


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Well, sweet queen. you are pleasant with me. But,\nmarry, thus, my lord: my dear lord and most esteemed\nfriend, your brother Troilus,--


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Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall not,\nin truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words; no,\nno. And, my lord, he desires you, that if the king\ncall for him at supper, you will make his excuse.


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In good troth, it begins so.\n[Sings]\nLove, love, nothing but love, still more!\nFor, O, love's bow\nShoots buck and doe:\nThe shaft confounds,\nNot that it wounds,\nBut tickles still the sore.\nThese lovers cry Oh! oh! they die!\nYet that which seems the wound to kill,\nDoth turn oh! oh! to ha! ha! he!\nSo dying love lives still:\nOh! oh! a while, but ha! ha! ha!\nOh! oh! groans out for ha! ha! ha!\nHeigh-ho!


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He eats nothing but doves, love, and that breeds hot\nblood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot\nthoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.


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Is this the generation of love? hot blood, hot\nthoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers:\nis love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who's\na-field to-day?


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Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the\ngallantry of Troy: I would fain have armed to-day,\nbut my Nell would not have it so. How chance my\nbrother Troilus went not?


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Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they\nsped to-day. You'll remember your brother's excuse?


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They're come from field: let us to Priam's hall,\nTo greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you\nTo help unarm our Hector: his stubborn buckles,\nWith these your white enchanting fingers touch'd,\nShall more obey than to the edge of steel\nOr force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more\nThan all the island kings,--disarm great Hector.


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'Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris;\nYea, what he shall receive of us in duty\nGives us more palm in beauty than we have,\nYea, overshines ourself.


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No, Pandarus: I stalk about her door,\nLike a strange soul upon the Stygian banks\nStaying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon,\nAnd give me swift transportance to those fields\nWhere I may wallow in the lily-beds\nProposed for the deserver! O gentle Pandarus,\nFrom Cupid's shoulder pluck his painted wings\nAnd fly with me to Cressid!


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I am giddy; expectation whirls me round.\nThe imaginary relish is so sweet\nThat it enchants my sense: what will it be,\nWhen that the watery palate tastes indeed\nLove's thrice repured nectar? death, I fear me,\nSwooning destruction, or some joy too fine,\nToo subtle-potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness,\nFor the capacity of my ruder powers:\nI fear it much; and I do fear besides,\nThat I shall lose distinction in my joys;\nAs doth a battle, when they charge on heaps\nThe enemy flying.


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She's making her ready, she'll come straight: you\nmust be witty now. She does so blush, and fetches\nher wind so short, as if she were frayed with a\nsprite: I'll fetch her. It is the prettiest\nvillain: she fetches her breath as short as a\nnew-ta'en sparrow.


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Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom:\nMy heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse;\nAnd all my powers do their bestowing lose,\nLike vassalage at unawares encountering\nThe eye of majesty.


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Come, come, what need you blush? shame's a baby.\nHere she is now: swear the oaths now to her that\nyou have sworn to me. What, are you gone again?\nyou must be watched ere you be made tame, must you?\nCome your ways, come your ways; an you draw backward,\nwe'll put you i' the fills. Why do you not speak to\nher? Come, draw this curtain, and let's see your\npicture. Alas the day, how loath you are to offend\ndaylight! an 'twere dark, you'ld close sooner.\nSo, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress. How now!\na kiss in fee-farm! build there, carpenter; the air\nis sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere\nI part you. The falcon as the tercel, for all the\nducks i' the river: go to, go to.


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Words pay no debts, give her deeds: but she'll\nbereave you o' the deeds too, if she call your\nactivity in question. What, billing again? Here's\n'In witness whereof the parties interchangeably'--\nCome in, come in: I'll go get a fire.


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What should they grant? what makes this pretty\nabruption? What too curious dreg espies my sweet\nlady in the fountain of our love?


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Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer\nfooting than blind reason stumbling without fear: to\nfear the worst oft cures the worse.


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Nothing, but our undertakings; when we vow to weep\nseas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers; thinking\nit harder for our mistress to devise imposition\nenough than for us to undergo any difficulty imposed.\nThis is the monstruosity in love, lady, that the will\nis infinite and the execution confined, that the\ndesire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.


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They say all lovers swear more performance than they\nare able and yet reserve an ability that they never\nperform, vowing more than the perfection of ten and\ndischarging less than the tenth part of one. They\nthat have the voice of lions and the act of hares,\nare they not monsters?


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Are there such? such are not we: praise us as we\nare tasted, allow us as we prove; our head shall go\nbare till merit crown it: no perfection in reversion\nshall have a praise in present: we will not name\ndesert before his birth, and, being born, his addition\nshall be humble. Few words to fair faith: Troilus\nshall be such to Cressid as what envy can say worst\nshall be a mock for his truth, and what truth can\nspeak truest not truer than Troilus.


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I thank you for that: if my lord get a boy of you,\nyou'll give him me. Be true to my lord: if he\nflinch, chide me for it.


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Nay, I'll give my word for her too: our kindred,\nthough they be long ere they are wooed, they are\nconstant being won: they are burs, I can tell you;\nthey'll stick where they are thrown.


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Boldness comes to me now, and brings me heart.\nPrince Troilus, I have loved you night and day\nFor many weary months.


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Hard to seem won: but I was won, my lord,\nWith the first glance that ever--pardon me--\nIf I confess much, you will play the tyrant.\nI love you now; but not, till now, so much\nBut I might master it: in faith, I lie;\nMy thoughts were like unbridled children, grown\nToo headstrong for their mother. See, we fools!\nWhy have I blabb'd? who shall be true to us,\nWhen we are so unsecret to ourselves?\nBut, though I loved you well, I woo'd you not;\nAnd yet, good faith, I wish'd myself a man,\nOr that we women had men's privilege\nOf speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue,\nFor in this rapture I shall surely speak\nThe thing I shall repent. See, see, your silence,\nCunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws\nMy very soul of counsel! stop my mouth.


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My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me;\n'Twas not my purpose, thus to beg a kiss:\nI am ashamed. O heavens! what have I done?\nFor this time will I take my leave, my lord.


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Let me go and try:\nI have a kind of self resides with you;\nBut an unkind self, that itself will leave,\nTo be another's fool. I would be gone:\nWhere is my wit? I know not what I speak.


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Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than love;\nAnd fell so roundly to a large confession,\nTo angle for your thoughts: but you are wise,\nOr else you love not, for to be wise and love\nExceeds man's might; that dwells with gods above.


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O that I thought it could be in a woman--\nAs, if it can, I will presume in you--\nTo feed for aye her ramp and flames of love;\nTo keep her constancy in plight and youth,\nOutliving beauty's outward, with a mind\nThat doth renew swifter than blood decays!\nOr that persuasion could but thus convince me,\nThat my integrity and truth to you\nMight be affronted with the match and weight\nOf such a winnow'd purity in love;\nHow were I then uplifted! but, alas!\nI am as true as truth's simplicity\nAnd simpler than the infancy of truth.


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O virtuous fight,\nWhen right with right wars who shall be most right!\nTrue swains in love shall in the world to come\nApprove their truths by Troilus: when their rhymes,\nFull of protest, of oath and big compare,\nWant similes, truth tired with iteration,\nAs true as steel, as plantage to the moon,\nAs sun to day, as turtle to her mate,\nAs iron to adamant, as earth to the centre,\nYet, after all comparisons of truth,\nAs truth's authentic author to be cited,\n'As true as Troilus' shall crown up the verse,\nAnd sanctify the numbers.


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Prophet may you be!\nIf I be false, or swerve a hair from truth,\nWhen time is old and hath forgot itself,\nWhen waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy,\nAnd blind oblivion swallow'd cities up,\nAnd mighty states characterless are grated\nTo dusty nothing, yet let memory,\nFrom false to false, among false maids in love,\nUpbraid my falsehood! when they've said 'as false\nAs air, as water, wind, or sandy earth,\nAs fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer's calf,\nPard to the hind, or stepdame to her son,'\n'Yea,' let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood,\n'As false as Cressid.'


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Go to, a bargain made: seal it, seal it; I'll be the\nwitness. Here I hold your hand, here my cousin's.\nIf ever you prove false one to another, since I have\ntaken such pains to bring you together, let all\npitiful goers-between be called to the world's end\nafter my name; call them all Pandars; let all\nconstant men be Troiluses, all false women Cressids,\nand all brokers-between Pandars! say, amen.


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Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber with a\nbed; which bed, because it shall not speak of your\npretty encounters, press it to death: away!\nAnd Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here\nBed, chamber, Pandar to provide this gear!


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Now, princes, for the service I have done you,\nThe advantage of the time prompts me aloud\nTo call for recompense. Appear it to your mind\nThat, through the sight I bear in things to love,\nI have abandon'd Troy, left my possession,\nIncurr'd a traitor's name; exposed myself,\nFrom certain and possess'd conveniences,\nTo doubtful fortunes; sequestering from me all\nThat time, acquaintance, custom and condition\nMade tame and most familiar to my nature,\nAnd here, to do you service, am become\nAs new into the world, strange, unacquainted:\nI do beseech you, as in way of taste,\nTo give me now a little benefit,\nOut of those many register'd in promise,\nWhich, you say, live to come in my behalf.


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You have a Trojan prisoner, call'd Antenor,\nYesterday took: Troy holds him very dear.\nOft have you--often have you thanks therefore--\nDesired my Cressid in right great exchange,\nWhom Troy hath still denied: but this Antenor,\nI know, is such a wrest in their affairs\nThat their negotiations all must slack,\nWanting his manage; and they will almost\nGive us a prince of blood, a son of Priam,\nIn change of him: let him be sent, great princes,\nAnd he shall buy my daughter; and her presence\nShall quite strike off all service I have done,\nIn most accepted pain.


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Let Diomedes bear him,\nAnd bring us Cressid hither: Calchas shall have\nWhat he requests of us. Good Diomed,\nFurnish you fairly for this interchange:\nWithal bring word if Hector will to-morrow\nBe answer'd in his challenge: Ajax is ready.


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Achilles stands i' the entrance of his tent:\nPlease it our general to pass strangely by him,\nAs if he were forgot; and, princes all,\nLay negligent and loose regard upon him:\nI will come last. 'Tis like he'll question me\nWhy such unplausive eyes are bent on him:\nIf so, I have derision medicinable,\nTo use between your strangeness and his pride,\nWhich his own will shall have desire to drink:\nIt may be good: pride hath no other glass\nTo show itself but pride, for supple knees\nFeed arrogance and are the proud man's fees.


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We'll execute your purpose, and put on\nA form of strangeness as we pass along:\nSo do each lord, and either greet him not,\nOr else disdainfully, which shall shake him more\nThan if not look'd on. I will lead the way.


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They pass by strangely: they were used to bend\nTo send their smiles before them to Achilles;\nTo come as humbly as they used to creep\nTo holy altars.


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What, am I poor of late?\n'Tis certain, greatness, once fall'n out with fortune,\nMust fall out with men too: what the declined is\nHe shall as soon read in the eyes of others\nAs feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies,\nShow not their mealy wings but to the summer,\nAnd not a man, for being simply man,\nHath any honour, but honour for those honours\nThat are without him, as place, riches, favour,\nPrizes of accident as oft as merit:\nWhich when they fall, as being slippery standers,\nThe love that lean'd on them as slippery too,\nDo one pluck down another and together\nDie in the fall. But 'tis not so with me:\nFortune and I are friends: I do enjoy\nAt ample point all that I did possess,\nSave these men's looks; who do, methinks, find out\nSomething not worth in me such rich beholding\nAs they have often given. Here is Ulysses;\nI'll interrupt his reading.\nHow now Ulysses!


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A strange fellow here\nWrites me: 'That man, how dearly ever parted,\nHow much in having, or without or in,\nCannot make boast to have that which he hath,\nNor feels not what he owes, but by reflection;\nAs when his virtues shining upon others\nHeat them and they retort that heat again\nTo the first giver.'


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This is not strange, Ulysses.\nThe beauty that is borne here in the face\nThe bearer knows not, but commends itself\nTo others' eyes; nor doth the eye itself,\nThat most pure spirit of sense, behold itself,\nNot going from itself; but eye to eye opposed\nSalutes each other with each other's form;\nFor speculation turns not to itself,\nTill it hath travell'd and is mirror'd there\nWhere it may see itself. This is not strange at all.


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I do not strain at the position,--\nIt is familiar,--but at the author's drift;\nWho, in his circumstance, expressly proves\nThat no man is the lord of any thing,\nThough in and of him there be much consisting,\nTill he communicate his parts to others:\nNor doth he of himself know them for aught\nTill he behold them form'd in the applause\nWhere they're extended; who, like an arch,\nreverberates\nThe voice again, or, like a gate of steel\nFronting the sun, receives and renders back\nHis figure and his heat. I was much wrapt in this;\nAnd apprehended here immediately\nThe unknown Ajax.\nHeavens, what a man is there! a very horse,\nThat has he knows not what. Nature, what things there are\nMost abject in regard and dear in use!\nWhat things again most dear in the esteem\nAnd poor in worth! Now shall we see to-morrow--\nAn act that very chance doth throw upon him--\nAjax renown'd. O heavens, what some men do,\nWhile some men leave to do!\nHow some men creep in skittish fortune's hall,\nWhiles others play the idiots in her eyes!\nHow one man eats into another's pride,\nWhile pride is fasting in his wantonness!\nTo see these Grecian lords!--why, even already\nThey clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder,\nAs if his foot were on brave Hector's breast\nAnd great Troy shrieking.


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I do believe it; for they pass'd by me\nAs misers do by beggars, neither gave to me\nGood word nor look: what, are my deeds forgot?


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Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,\nWherein he puts alms for oblivion,\nA great-sized monster of ingratitudes:\nThose scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd\nAs fast as they are made, forgot as soon\nAs done: perseverance, dear my lord,\nKeeps honour bright: to have done is to hang\nQuite out of fashion, like a rusty mail\nIn monumental mockery. Take the instant way;\nFor honour travels in a strait so narrow,\nWhere one but goes abreast: keep then the path;\nFor emulation hath a thousand sons\nThat one by one pursue: if you give way,\nOr hedge aside from the direct forthright,\nLike to an enter'd tide, they all rush by\nAnd leave you hindmost;\nOr like a gallant horse fall'n in first rank,\nLie there for pavement to the abject rear,\nO'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in present,\nThough less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours;\nFor time is like a fashionable host\nThat slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,\nAnd with his arms outstretch'd, as he would fly,\nGrasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles,\nAnd farewell goes out sighing. O, let not\nvirtue seek\nRemuneration for the thing it was;\nFor beauty, wit,\nHigh birth, vigour of bone, desert in service,\nLove, friendship, charity, are subjects all\nTo envious and calumniating time.\nOne touch of nature makes the whole world kin,\nThat all with one consent praise new-born gawds,\nThough they are made and moulded of things past,\nAnd give to dust that is a little gilt\nMore laud than gilt o'er-dusted.\nThe present eye praises the present object.\nThen marvel not, thou great and complete man,\nThat all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax;\nSince things in motion sooner catch the eye\nThan what not stirs. The cry went once on thee,\nAnd still it might, and yet it may again,\nIf thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive\nAnd case thy reputation in thy tent;\nWhose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late,\nMade emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves\nAnd drave great Mars to faction.


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But 'gainst your privacy\nThe reasons are more potent and heroical:\n'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love\nWith one of Priam's daughters.


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Is that a wonder?\nThe providence that's in a watchful state\nKnows almost every grain of Plutus' gold,\nFinds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps,\nKeeps place with thought and almost, like the gods,\nDoes thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles.\nThere is a mystery--with whom relation\nDurst never meddle--in the soul of state;\nWhich hath an operation more divine\nThan breath or pen can give expressure to:\nAll the commerce that you have had with Troy\nAs perfectly is ours as yours, my lord;\nAnd better would it fit Achilles much\nTo throw down Hector than Polyxena:\nBut it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home,\nWhen fame shall in our islands sound her trump,\nAnd all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing,\n'Great Hector's sister did Achilles win,\nBut our great Ajax bravely beat down him.'\nFarewell, my lord: I as your lover speak;\nThe fool slides o'er the ice that you should break.


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To this effect, Achilles, have I moved you:\nA woman impudent and mannish grown\nIs not more loathed than an effeminate man\nIn time of action. I stand condemn'd for this;\nThey think my little stomach to the war\nAnd your great love to me restrains you thus:\nSweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid\nShall from your neck unloose his amorous fold,\nAnd, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane,\nBe shook to air.


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O, then, beware;\nThose wounds heal ill that men do give themselves:\nOmission to do what is necessary\nSeals a commission to a blank of danger;\nAnd danger, like an ague, subtly taints\nEven then when we sit idly in the sun.


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Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus:\nI'll send the fool to Ajax and desire him\nTo invite the Trojan lords after the combat\nTo see us here unarm'd: I have a woman's longing,\nAn appetite that I am sick withal,\nTo see great Hector in his weeds of peace,\nTo talk with him and to behold his visage,\nEven to my full of view.\n[Enter THERSITES]\nA labour saved!


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He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector, and is so\nprophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he\nraves in saying nothing.


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Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock,--a stride\nand a stand: ruminates like an hostess that hath no\narithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning:\nbites his lip with a politic regard, as who should\nsay 'There were wit in this head, an 'twould out;'\nand so there is, but it lies as coldly in him as fire\nin a flint, which will not show without knocking.\nThe man's undone forever; for if Hector break not his\nneck i' the combat, he'll break 't himself in\nvain-glory. He knows not me: I said 'Good morrow,\nAjax;' and he replies 'Thanks, Agamemnon.' What think\nyou of this man that takes me for the general? He's\ngrown a very land-fish, language-less, a monster.\nA plague of opinion! a man may wear it on both\nsides, like a leather jerkin.


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Who, I? why, he'll answer nobody; he professes not\nanswering: speaking is for beggars; he wears his\ntongue in's arms. I will put on his presence: let\nPatroclus make demands to me, you shall see the\npageant of Ajax.


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To him, Patroclus; tell him I humbly desire the\nvaliant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector\nto come unarmed to my tent, and to procure\nsafe-conduct for his person of the magnanimous\nand most illustrious six-or-seven-times-honoured\ncaptain-general of the Grecian army, Agamemnon,\net cetera. Do this.


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If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o'clock it will\ngo one way or other: howsoever, he shall pay for me\nere he has me.


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No, but he's out o' tune thus. What music will be in\nhim when Hector has knocked out his brains, I know\nnot; but, I am sure, none, unless the fiddler Apollo\nget his sinews to make catlings on.


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Would the fountain of your mind were clear again,\nthat I might water an ass at it! I had rather be a\ntick in a sheep than such a valiant ignorance.


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[Exit]\n[Enter, from one side, AENEAS, and Servant with a]\ntorch; from the other, PARIS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR,\nDIOMEDES, and others, with torches]


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Is the prince there in person?\nHad I so good occasion to lie long\nAs you, prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business\nShould rob my bed-mate of my company.


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A valiant Greek, AEneas,--take his hand,--\nWitness the process of your speech, wherein\nYou told how Diomed, a whole week by days,\nDid haunt you in the field.


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Health to you, valiant sir,\nDuring all question of the gentle truce;\nBut when I meet you arm'd, as black defiance\nAs heart can think or courage execute.


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The one and other Diomed embraces.\nOur bloods are now in calm; and, so long, health!\nBut when contention and occasion meet,\nBy Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life\nWith all my force, pursuit and policy.


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And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly\nWith his face backward. In humane gentleness,\nWelcome to Troy! now, by Anchises' life,\nWelcome, indeed! By Venus' hand I swear,\nNo man alive can love in such a sort\nThe thing he means to kill more excellently.


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We sympathize: Jove, let AEneas live,\nIf to my sword his fate be not the glory,\nA thousand complete courses of the sun!\nBut, in mine emulous honour, let him die,\nWith every joint a wound, and that to-morrow!


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This is the most despiteful gentle greeting,\nThe noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of.\nWhat business, lord, so early?


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His purpose meets you: 'twas to bring this Greek\nTo Calchas' house, and there to render him,\nFor the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid:\nLet's have your company, or, if you please,\nHaste there before us: I constantly do think--\nOr rather, call my thought a certain knowledge--\nMy brother Troilus lodges there to-night:\nRouse him and give him note of our approach.\nWith the whole quality wherefore: I fear\nWe shall be much unwelcome.


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And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tell me true,\nEven in the soul of sound good-fellowship,\nWho, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen best,\nMyself or Menelaus?


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Both alike:\nHe merits well to have her, that doth seek her,\nNot making any scruple of her soilure,\nWith such a hell of pain and world of charge,\nAnd you as well to keep her, that defend her,\nNot palating the taste of her dishonour,\nWith such a costly loss of wealth and friends:\nHe, like a puling cuckold, would drink up\nThe lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece;\nYou, like a lecher, out of whorish loins\nAre pleased to breed out your inheritors:\nBoth merits poised, each weighs nor less nor more;\nBut he as he, the heavier for a whore.


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She's bitter to her country: hear me, Paris:\nFor every false drop in her bawdy veins\nA Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple\nOf her contaminated carrion weight,\nA Trojan hath been slain: since she could speak,\nShe hath not given so many good words breath\nAs for her Greeks and Trojans suffer'd death.


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Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do,\nDispraise the thing that you desire to buy:\nBut we in silence hold this virtue well,\nWe'll but commend what we intend to sell.\nHere lies our way.


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Trouble him not;\nTo bed, to bed: sleep kill those pretty eyes,\nAnd give as soft attachment to thy senses\nAs infants' empty of all thought!


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O Cressida! but that the busy day,\nWaked by the lark, hath roused the ribald crows,\nAnd dreaming night will hide our joys no longer,\nI would not from thee.


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Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays\nAs tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love\nWith wings more momentary-swift than thought.\nYou will catch cold, and curse me.


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Prithee, tarry:\nYou men will never tarry.\nO foolish Cressid! I might have still held off,\nAnd then you would have tarried. Hark!\nthere's one up.


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Ha! ha! Alas, poor wretch! ah, poor capocchia!\nhast not slept to-night? would he not, a naughty\nman, let it sleep? a bugbear take him!


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Did not I tell you? Would he were knock'd i' the head!\n[Knocking within]\nWho's that at door? good uncle, go and see.\nMy lord, come you again into my chamber:\nYou smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.


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Come, you are deceived, I think of no such thing.\n[Knocking within]\nHow earnestly they knock! Pray you, come in:\nI would not for half Troy have you seen here.


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Is he here, say you? 'tis more than I know, I'll\nbe sworn: for my own part, I came in late. What\nshould he do here?


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Who!--nay, then: come, come, you'll do him wrong\nere you're ware: you'll be so true to him, to be\nfalse to him: do not you know of him, but yet go\nfetch him hither; go.


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My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,\nMy matter is so rash: there is at hand\nParis your brother, and Deiphobus,\nThe Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor\nDeliver'd to us; and for him forthwith,\nEre the first sacrifice, within this hour,\nWe must give up to Diomedes' hand\nThe Lady Cressida.


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How my achievements mock me!\nI will go meet them: and, my Lord AEneas,\nWe met by chance; you did not find me here.


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Is't possible? no sooner got but lost? The devil\ntake Antenor! the young prince will go mad: a\nplague upon Antenor! I would they had broke 's neck!


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Prithee, get thee in: would thou hadst ne'er been\nborn! I knew thou wouldst be his death. O, poor\ngentleman! A plague upon Antenor!


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Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou\nart changed for Antenor: thou must to thy father,\nand be gone from Troilus: 'twill be his death;\n'twill be his bane; he cannot bear it.


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I will not, uncle: I have forgot my father;\nI know no touch of consanguinity;\nNo kin no love, no blood, no soul so near me\nAs the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine!\nMake Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood,\nIf ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death,\nDo to this body what extremes you can;\nBut the strong base and building of my love\nIs as the very centre of the earth,\nDrawing all things to it. I'll go in and weep,--


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Tear my bright hair and scratch my praised cheeks,\nCrack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart\nWith sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy.


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It is great morning, and the hour prefix'd\nOf her delivery to this valiant Greek\nComes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus,\nTell you the lady what she is to do,\nAnd haste her to the purpose.


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Walk into her house;\nI'll bring her to the Grecian presently:\nAnd to his hand when I deliver her,\nThink it an altar, and thy brother Troilus\nA priest there offering to it his own heart.


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Why tell you me of moderation?\nThe grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste,\nAnd violenteth in a sense as strong\nAs that which causeth it: how can I moderate it?\nIf I could temporize with my affection,\nOr brew it to a weak and colder palate,\nThe like allayment could I give my grief.\nMy love admits no qualifying dross;\nNo more my grief, in such a precious loss.


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What a pair of spectacles is here!\nLet me embrace too. 'O heart,' as the goodly saying is,\n'--O heart, heavy heart,\nWhy sigh'st thou without breaking?\nwhere he answers again,\n'Because thou canst not ease thy smart\nBy friendship nor by speaking.'\nThere was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast away\nnothing, for we may live to have need of such a\nverse: we see it, we see it. How now, lambs?


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Cressid, I love thee in so strain'd a purity,\nThat the bless'd gods, as angry with my fancy,\nMore bright in zeal than the devotion which\nCold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me.


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And suddenly; where injury of chance\nPuts back leave-taking, justles roughly by\nAll time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips\nOf all rejoindure, forcibly prevents\nOur lock'd embrasures, strangles our dear vows\nEven in the birth of our own labouring breath:\nWe two, that with so many thousand sighs\nDid buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves\nWith the rude brevity and discharge of one.\nInjurious time now with a robber's haste\nCrams his rich thievery up, he knows not how:\nAs many farewells as be stars in heaven,\nWith distinct breath and consign'd kisses to them,\nHe fumbles up into a lose adieu,\nAnd scants us with a single famish'd kiss,\nDistasted with the salt of broken tears.


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Hark! you are call'd: some say the Genius so\nCries 'come' to him that instantly must die.\nBid them have patience; she shall come anon.


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Nay, we must use expostulation kindly,\nFor it is parting from us:\nI speak not 'be thou true,' as fearing thee,\nFor I will throw my glove to Death himself,\nThat there's no maculation in thy heart:\nBut 'be thou true,' say I, to fashion in\nMy sequent protestation; be thou true,\nAnd I will see thee.


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Hear while I speak it, love:\nThe Grecian youths are full of quality;\nThey're loving, well composed with gifts of nature,\nFlowing and swelling o'er with arts and exercise:\nHow novelty may move, and parts with person,\nAlas, a kind of godly jealousy--\nWhich, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin--\nMakes me afeard.


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Die I a villain, then!\nIn this I do not call your faith in question\nSo mainly as my merit: I cannot sing,\nNor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk,\nNor play at subtle games; fair virtues all,\nTo which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant:\nBut I can tell that in each grace of these\nThere lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil\nThat tempts most cunningly: but be not tempted.


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No.\nBut something may be done that we will not:\nAnd sometimes we are devils to ourselves,\nWhen we will tempt the frailty of our powers,\nPresuming on their changeful potency.


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Who, I? alas, it is my vice, my fault:\nWhiles others fish with craft for great opinion,\nI with great truth catch mere simplicity;\nWhilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns,\nWith truth and plainness I do wear mine bare.\nFear not my truth: the moral of my wit\nIs 'plain and true;' there's all the reach of it.\n[Enter AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, DEIPHOBUS,]\nand DIOMEDES]\nWelcome, Sir Diomed! here is the lady\nWhich for Antenor we deliver you:\nAt the port, lord, I'll give her to thy hand,\nAnd by the way possess thee what she is.\nEntreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek,\nIf e'er thou stand at mercy of my sword,\nName Cressida and thy life shall be as safe\nAs Priam is in Ilion.


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Fair Lady Cressid,\nSo please you, save the thanks this prince expects:\nThe lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek,\nPleads your fair usage; and to Diomed\nYou shall be mistress, and command him wholly.


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Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously,\nTo shame the zeal of my petition to thee\nIn praising her: I tell thee, lord of Greece,\nShe is as far high-soaring o'er thy praises\nAs thou unworthy to be call'd her servant.\nI charge thee use her well, even for my charge;\nFor, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not,\nThough the great bulk Achilles be thy guard,\nI'll cut thy throat.


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O, be not moved, Prince Troilus:\nLet me be privileged by my place and message,\nTo be a speaker free; when I am hence\nI'll answer to my lust: and know you, lord,\nI'll nothing do on charge: to her own worth\nShe shall be prized; but that you say 'be't so,'\nI'll speak it in my spirit and honour, 'no.'


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Come, to the port. I'll tell thee, Diomed,\nThis brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head.\nLady, give me your hand, and, as we walk,\nTo our own selves bend we our needful talk.


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How have we spent this morning!\nThe prince must think me tardy and remiss,\nThat sore to ride before him to the field.


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Yea, with a bridegroom's fresh alacrity,\nLet us address to tend on Hector's heels:\nThe glory of our Troy doth this day lie\nOn his fair worth and single chivalry.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter AJAX, armed; AGAMEMNON, ACHILLES, PATROCLUS,]\nMENELAUS, ULYSSES, NESTOR, and others]


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Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair,\nAnticipating time with starting courage.\nGive with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy,\nThou dreadful Ajax; that the appalled air\nMay pierce the head of the great combatant\nAnd hale him hither.


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Thou, trumpet, there's my purse.\nNow crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe:\nBlow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek\nOutswell the colic of puff'd Aquilon:\nCome, stretch thy chest and let thy eyes spout blood;\nThou blow'st for Hector.


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'Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait;\nHe rises on the toe: that spirit of his\nIn aspiration lifts him from the earth.


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But that's no argument for kissing now;\nFor this popp'd Paris in his hardiment,\nAnd parted thus you and your argument.


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Fie, fie upon her!\nThere's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,\nNay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out\nAt every joint and motive of her body.\nO, these encounterers, so glib of tongue,\nThat give accosting welcome ere it comes,\nAnd wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts\nTo every ticklish reader! set them down\nFor sluttish spoils of opportunity\nAnd daughters of the game.


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Yonder comes the troop.\n[Enter HECTOR, armed; AENEAS, TROILUS, and other]\nTrojans, with Attendants]


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Hail, all you state of Greece! what shall be done\nTo him that victory commands? or do you purpose\nA victor shall be known? will you the knights\nShall to the edge of all extremity\nPursue each other, or shall be divided\nBy any voice or order of the field?\nHector bade ask.


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'Tis done like Hector; but securely done,\nA little proudly, and great deal misprizing\nThe knight opposed.


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Therefore Achilles: but, whate'er, know this:\nIn the extremity of great and little,\nValour and pride excel themselves in Hector;\nThe one almost as infinite as all,\nThe other blank as nothing. Weigh him well,\nAnd that which looks like pride is courtesy.\nThis Ajax is half made of Hector's blood:\nIn love whereof, half Hector stays at home;\nHalf heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek\nThis blended knight, half Trojan and half Greek.


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Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight,\nStand by our Ajax: as you and Lord AEneas\nConsent upon the order of their fight,\nSo be it; either to the uttermost,\nOr else a breath: the combatants being kin\nHalf stints their strife before their strokes begin.


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The youngest son of Priam, a true knight,\nNot yet mature, yet matchless, firm of word,\nSpeaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue;\nNot soon provoked nor being provoked soon calm'd:\nHis heart and hand both open and both free;\nFor what he has he gives, what thinks he shows;\nYet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty,\nNor dignifies an impure thought with breath;\nManly as Hector, but more dangerous;\nFor Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes\nTo tender objects, but he in heat of action\nIs more vindicative than jealous love:\nThey call him Troilus, and on him erect\nA second hope, as fairly built as Hector.\nThus says AEneas; one that knows the youth\nEven to his inches, and with private soul\nDid in great Ilion thus translate him to me.


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Why, then will I no more:\nThou art, great lord, my father's sister's son,\nA cousin-german to great Priam's seed;\nThe obligation of our blood forbids\nA gory emulation 'twixt us twain:\nWere thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so\nThat thou couldst say 'This hand is Grecian all,\nAnd this is Trojan; the sinews of this leg\nAll Greek, and this all Troy; my mother's blood\nRuns on the dexter cheek, and this sinister\nBounds in my father's;' by Jove multipotent,\nThou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member\nWherein my sword had not impressure made\nOf our rank feud: but the just gods gainsay\nThat any drop thou borrow'dst from thy mother,\nMy sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword\nBe drain'd! Let me embrace thee, Ajax:\nBy him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms;\nHector would have them fall upon him thus:\nCousin, all honour to thee!


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I thank thee, Hector\nThou art too gentle and too free a man:\nI came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence\nA great addition earned in thy death.


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Not Neoptolemus so mirable,\nOn whose bright crest Fame with her loud'st Oyes\nCries 'This is he,' could promise to himself\nA thought of added honour torn from Hector.


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If I might in entreaties find success--\nAs seld I have the chance--I would desire\nMy famous cousin to our Grecian tents.


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AEneas, call my brother Troilus to me,\nAnd signify this loving interview\nTo the expecters of our Trojan part;\nDesire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin;\nI will go eat with thee and see your knights.


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The worthiest of them tell me name by name;\nBut for Achilles, mine own searching eyes\nShall find him by his large and portly size.


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Worthy of arms! as welcome as to one\nThat would be rid of such an enemy;\nBut that's no welcome: understand more clear,\nWhat's past and what's to come is strew'd with husks\nAnd formless ruin of oblivion;\nBut in this extant moment, faith and troth,\nStrain'd purely from all hollow bias-drawing,\nBids thee, with most divine integrity,\nFrom heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome.


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O, you, my lord? by Mars his gauntlet, thanks!\nMock not, that I affect the untraded oath;\nYour quondam wife swears still by Venus' glove:\nShe's well, but bade me not commend her to you.


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I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft\nLabouring for destiny make cruel way\nThrough ranks of Greekish youth, and I have seen thee,\nAs hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed,\nDespising many forfeits and subduements,\nWhen thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' the air,\nNot letting it decline on the declined,\nThat I have said to some my standers by\n'Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!'\nAnd I have seen thee pause and take thy breath,\nWhen that a ring of Greeks have hemm'd thee in,\nLike an Olympian wrestling: this have I seen;\nBut this thy countenance, still lock'd in steel,\nI never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire,\nAnd once fought with him: he was a soldier good;\nBut, by great Mars, the captain of us all,\nNever saw like thee. Let an old man embrace thee;\nAnd, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents.


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Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle,\nThat hast so long walk'd hand in hand with time:\nMost reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee.


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Ha!\nBy this white beard, I'ld fight with thee to-morrow.\nWell, welcome, welcome! I have seen the time.


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I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well.\nAh, sir, there's many a Greek and Trojan dead,\nSince first I saw yourself and Diomed\nIn Ilion, on your Greekish embassy.


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Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue:\nMy prophecy is but half his journey yet;\nFor yonder walls, that pertly front your town,\nYond towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds,\nMust kiss their own feet.


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I must not believe you:\nThere they stand yet, and modestly I think,\nThe fall of every Phrygian stone will cost\nA drop of Grecian blood: the end crowns all,\nAnd that old common arbitrator, Time,\nWill one day end it.


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So to him we leave it.\nMost gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome:\nAfter the general, I beseech you next\nTo feast with me and see me at my tent.


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I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou!\nNow, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee;\nI have with exact view perused thee, Hector,\nAnd quoted joint by joint.


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O, like a book of sport thou'lt read me o'er;\nBut there's more in me than thou understand'st.\nWhy dost thou so oppress me with thine eye?


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Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body\nShall I destroy him? whether there, or there, or there?\nThat I may give the local wound a name\nAnd make distinct the very breach whereout\nHector's great spirit flew: answer me, heavens!


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It would discredit the blest gods, proud man,\nTo answer such a question: stand again:\nThink'st thou to catch my life so pleasantly\nAs to prenominate in nice conjecture\nWhere thou wilt hit me dead?


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Wert thou an oracle to tell me so,\nI'd not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well;\nFor I'll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there;\nBut, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm,\nI'll kill thee every where, yea, o'er and o'er.\nYou wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag;\nHis insolence draws folly from my lips;\nBut I'll endeavour deeds to match these words,\nOr may I never--


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Do not chafe thee, cousin:\nAnd you, Achilles, let these threats alone,\nTill accident or purpose bring you to't:\nYou may have every day enough of Hector\nIf you have stomach; the general state, I fear,\nCan scarce entreat you to be odd with him.


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I pray you, let us see you in the field:\nWe have had pelting wars, since you refused\nThe Grecians' cause.


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First, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent;\nThere in the full convive we: afterwards,\nAs Hector's leisure and your bounties shall\nConcur together, severally entreat him.\nBeat loud the tabourines, let the trumpets blow,\nThat this great soldier may his welcome know.


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At Menelaus' tent, most princely Troilus:\nThere Diomed doth feast with him to-night;\nWho neither looks upon the heaven nor earth,\nBut gives all gaze and bent of amorous view\nOn the fair Cressid.


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Shall sweet lord, be bound to you so much,\nAfter we part from Agamemnon's tent,\nTo bring me thither?


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You shall command me, sir.\nAs gentle tell me, of what honour was\nThis Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there\nThat wails her absence?


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O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars\nA mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord?\nShe was beloved, she loved; she is, and doth:\nBut still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth.


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I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night,\nWhich with my scimitar I'll cool to-morrow.\nPatroclus, let us feast him to the height.


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Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases\nof the south, the guts-griping, ruptures, catarrhs,\nloads o' gravel i' the back, lethargies, cold\npalsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing\nlungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas,\nlimekilns i' the palm, incurable bone-ache, and the\nrivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take\nagain such preposterous discoveries!


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No! why art thou then exasperate, thou idle\nimmaterial skein of sleave-silk, thou green sarcenet\nflap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal's\npurse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pestered\nwith such waterflies, diminutives of nature!


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My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite\nFrom my great purpose in to-morrow's battle.\nHere is a letter from Queen Hecuba,\nA token from her daughter, my fair love,\nBoth taxing me and gaging me to keep\nAn oath that I have sworn. I will not break it:\nFall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay;\nMy major vow lies here, this I'll obey.\nCome, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent:\nThis night in banqueting must all be spent.\nAway, Patroclus!


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With too much blood and too little brain, these two\nmay run mad; but, if with too much brain and too\nlittle blood they do, I'll be a curer of madmen.\nHere's Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough and one\nthat loves quails; but he has not so much brain as\nearwax: and the goodly transformation of Jupiter\nthere, his brother, the bull,--the primitive statue,\nand oblique memorial of cuckolds; a thrifty\nshoeing-horn in a chain, hanging at his brother's\nleg,--to what form but that he is, should wit larded\nwith malice and malice forced with wit turn him to?\nTo an ass, were nothing; he is both ass and ox: to\nan ox, were nothing; he is both ox and ass. To be a\ndog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad, a lizard, an\nowl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would\nnot care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire\nagainst destiny. Ask me not, what I would be, if I\nwere not Thersites; for I care not to be the louse\nof a lazar, so I were not Menelaus! Hey-day!\nspirits and fires!\n[Enter HECTOR, TROILUS, AJAX, AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES,]\nNESTOR, MENELAUS, and DIOMEDES, with lights]


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That same Diomed's a false-hearted rogue, a most\nunjust knave; I will no more trust him when he leers\nthan I will a serpent when he hisses: he will spend\nhis mouth, and promise, like Brabbler the hound:\nbut when he performs, astronomers foretell it; it\nis prodigious, there will come some change; the sun\nborrows of the moon, when Diomed keeps his\nword. I will rather leave to see Hector, than\nnot to dog him: they say he keeps a Trojan\ndrab, and uses the traitor Calchas' tent: I'll\nafter. Nothing but lechery! all incontinent varlets!


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You are moved, prince; let us depart, I pray you,\nLest your displeasure should enlarge itself\nTo wrathful terms: this place is dangerous;\nThe time right deadly; I beseech you, go.


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Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word:\nThere is between my will and all offences\nA guard of patience: stay a little while.


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How the devil Luxury, with his fat rump and\npotato-finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!


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Fear me not, sweet lord;\nI will not be myself, nor have cognition\nOf what I feel: I am all patience.


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It is no matter, now I have't again.\nI will not meet with you to-morrow night:\nI prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.


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O, all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge!\nThy master now lies thinking in his bed\nOf thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove,\nAnd gives memorial dainty kisses to it,\nAs I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me;\nHe that takes that doth take my heart withal.


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Good night: I prithee, come.\n[Exit DIOMEDES]\nTroilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee\nBut with my heart the other eye doth see.\nAh, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,\nThe error of our eye directs our mind:\nWhat error leads must err; O, then conclude\nMinds sway'd by eyes are full of turpitude.


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To make a recordation to my soul\nOf every syllable that here was spoke.\nBut if I tell how these two did co-act,\nShall I not lie in publishing a truth?\nSith yet there is a credence in my heart,\nAn esperance so obstinately strong,\nThat doth invert the attest of eyes and ears,\nAs if those organs had deceptious functions,\nCreated only to calumniate.\nWas Cressid here?


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Let it not be believed for womanhood!\nThink, we had mothers; do not give advantage\nTo stubborn critics, apt, without a theme,\nFor depravation, to square the general sex\nBy Cressid's rule: rather think this not Cressid.


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This she? no, this is Diomed's Cressida:\nIf beauty have a soul, this is not she;\nIf souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies,\nIf sanctimony be the gods' delight,\nIf there be rule in unity itself,\nThis is not she. O madness of discourse,\nThat cause sets up with and against itself!\nBi-fold authority! where reason can revolt\nWithout perdition, and loss assume all reason\nWithout revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid.\nWithin my soul there doth conduce a fight\nOf this strange nature that a thing inseparate\nDivides more wider than the sky and earth,\nAnd yet the spacious breadth of this division\nAdmits no orifex for a point as subtle\nAs Ariachne's broken woof to enter.\nInstance, O instance! strong as Pluto's gates;\nCressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven:\nInstance, O instance! strong as heaven itself;\nThe bonds of heaven are slipp'd, dissolved, and loosed;\nAnd with another knot, five-finger-tied,\nThe fractions of her faith, orts of her love,\nThe fragments, scraps, the bits and greasy relics\nOf her o'er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed.


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Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well\nIn characters as red as Mars his heart\nInflamed with Venus: never did young man fancy\nWith so eternal and so fix'd a soul.\nHark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love,\nSo much by weight hate I her Diomed:\nThat sleeve is mine that he'll bear on his helm;\nWere it a casque composed by Vulcan's skill,\nMy sword should bite it: not the dreadful spout\nWhich shipmen do the hurricano call,\nConstringed in mass by the almighty sun,\nShall dizzy with more clamour Neptune's ear\nIn his descent than shall my prompted sword\nFalling on Diomed.


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O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false!\nLet all untruths stand by thy stained name,\nAnd they'll seem glorious.


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I have been seeking you this hour, my lord:\nHector, by this, is arming him in Troy;\nAjax, your guard, stays to conduct you home.


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Have with you, prince. My courteous lord, adieu.\nFarewell, revolted fair! and, Diomed,\nStand fast, and wear a castle on thy head!


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Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would\ncroak like a raven; I would bode, I would bode.\nPatroclus will give me any thing for the\nintelligence of this whore: the parrot will not\ndo more for an almond than he for a commodious drab.\nLechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery; nothing\nelse holds fashion: a burning devil take them!


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When was my lord so much ungently temper'd,\nTo stop his ears against admonishment?\nUnarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day.


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Here, sister; arm'd, and bloody in intent.\nConsort with me in loud and dear petition,\nPursue we him on knees; for I have dream'd\nOf bloody turbulence, and this whole night\nHath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.


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The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows:\nThey are polluted offerings, more abhorr'd\nThan spotted livers in the sacrifice.


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O, be persuaded! do not count it holy\nTo hurt by being just: it is as lawful,\nFor we would give much, to use violent thefts,\nAnd rob in the behalf of charity.


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It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;\nBut vows to every purpose must not hold:\nUnarm, sweet Hector.


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Hold you still, I say;\nMine honour keeps the weather of my fate:\nLie every man holds dear; but the brave man\nHolds honour far more precious-dear than life.\n[Enter TROILUS]\nHow now, young man! mean'st thou to fight to-day?


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No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth;\nI am to-day i' the vein of chivalry:\nLet grow thy sinews till their knots be strong,\nAnd tempt not yet the brushes of the war.\nUnarm thee, go, and doubt thou not, brave boy,\nI'll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy.


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When many times the captive Grecian falls,\nEven in the fan and wind of your fair sword,\nYou bid them rise, and live.


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For the love of all the gods,\nLet's leave the hermit pity with our mothers,\nAnd when we have our armours buckled on,\nThe venom'd vengeance ride upon our swords,\nSpur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth.


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Who should withhold me?\nNot fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars\nBeckoning with fiery truncheon my retire;\nNot Priamus and Hecuba on knees,\nTheir eyes o'ergalled with recourse of tears;\nNot you, my brother, with your true sword drawn,\nOpposed to hinder me, should stop my way,\nBut by my ruin.


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Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast:\nHe is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay,\nThou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,\nFall all together.


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Come, Hector, come, go back:\nThy wife hath dream'd; thy mother hath had visions;\nCassandra doth foresee; and I myself\nAm like a prophet suddenly enrapt\nTo tell thee that this day is ominous:\nTherefore, come back.


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AEneas is a-field;\nAnd I do stand engaged to many Greeks,\nEven in the faith of valour, to appear\nThis morning to them.


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I must not break my faith.\nYou know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir,\nLet me not shame respect; but give me leave\nTo take that course by your consent and voice,\nWhich you do here forbid me, royal Priam.


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O, farewell, dear Hector!\nLook, how thou diest! look, how thy eye turns pale!\nLook, how thy wounds do bleed at many vents!\nHark, how Troy roars! how Hecuba cries out!\nHow poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth!\nBehold, distraction, frenzy and amazement,\nLike witless antics, one another meet,\nAnd all cry, Hector! Hector's dead! O Hector!


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You are amazed, my liege, at her exclaim:\nGo in and cheer the town: we'll forth and fight,\nDo deeds worth praise and tell you them at night.


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A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick so\ntroubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl;\nand what one thing, what another, that I shall\nleave you one o' these days: and I have a rheum\nin mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones\nthat, unless a man were cursed, I cannot tell what\nto think on't. What says she there?


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Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart:\nThe effect doth operate another way.\n[Tearing the letter]\nGo, wind, to wind, there turn and change together.\nMy love with words and errors still she feeds;\nBut edifies another with her deeds.


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Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I'll go\nlook on. That dissembling abominable varlets Diomed,\nhas got that same scurvy doting foolish young knave's\nsleeve of Troy there in his helm: I would fain see\nthem meet; that that same young Trojan ass, that\nloves the whore there, might send that Greekish\nwhore-masterly villain, with the sleeve, back to the\ndissembling luxurious drab, of a sleeveless errand.\nO' the t'other side, the policy of those crafty\nswearing rascals, that stale old mouse-eaten dry\ncheese, Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses, is\nnot proved worthy a blackberry: they set me up, in\npolicy, that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of\nas bad a kind, Achilles: and now is the cur Ajax\nprouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm\nto-day; whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim\nbarbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion.\nSoft! here comes sleeve, and t'other.


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Thou dost miscall retire:\nI do not fly, but advantageous care\nWithdrew me from the odds of multitude:\nHave at thee!


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God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a\nplague break thy neck for frightening me! What's\nbecome of the wenching rogues? I think they have\nswallowed one another: I would laugh at that\nmiracle: yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself.\nI'll seek them.


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Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus' horse;\nPresent the fair steed to my lady Cressid:\nFellow, commend my service to her beauty;\nTell her I have chastised the amorous Trojan,\nAnd am her knight by proof.


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Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas\nHath beat down Menon: bastard Margarelon\nHath Doreus prisoner,\nAnd stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,\nUpon the pashed corses of the kings\nEpistrophus and Cedius: Polyxenes is slain,\nAmphimachus and Thoas deadly hurt,\nPatroclus ta'en or slain, and Palamedes\nSore hurt and bruised: the dreadful Sagittary\nAppals our numbers: haste we, Diomed,\nTo reinforcement, or we perish all.


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Go, bear Patroclus' body to Achilles;\nAnd bid the snail-paced Ajax arm for shame.\nThere is a thousand Hectors in the field:\nNow here he fights on Galathe his horse,\nAnd there lacks work; anon he's there afoot,\nAnd there they fly or die, like scaled sculls\nBefore the belching whale; then is he yonder,\nAnd there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge,\nFall down before him, like the mower's swath:\nHere, there, and every where, he leaves and takes,\nDexterity so obeying appetite\nThat what he will he does, and does so much\nThat proof is call'd impossibility.


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O, courage, courage, princes! great Achilles\nIs arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance:\nPatroclus' wounds have roused his drowsy blood,\nTogether with his mangled Myrmidons,\nThat noseless, handless, hack'd and chipp'd, come to him,\nCrying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend\nAnd foams at mouth, and he is arm'd and at it,\nRoaring for Troilus, who hath done to-day\nMad and fantastic execution,\nEngaging and redeeming of himself\nWith such a careless force and forceless care\nAs if that luck, in very spite of cunning,\nBade him win all.


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Where is this Hector?\nCome, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face;\nKnow what it is to meet Achilles angry:\nHector? where's Hector? I will none but Hector.


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Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office\nEre that correction. Troilus, I say! what, Troilus!


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I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan:\nBe happy that my arms are out of use:\nMy rest and negligence befriends thee now,\nBut thou anon shalt hear of me again;\nTill when, go seek thy fortune.


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Fare thee well:\nI would have been much more a fresher man,\nHad I expected thee. How now, my brother!


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Ajax hath ta'en AEneas: shall it be?\nNo, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,\nHe shall not carry him: I'll be ta'en too,\nOr bring him off: fate, hear me what I say!\nI reck not though I end my life to-day.


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Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark:\nNo? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well;\nI'll frush it and unlock the rivets all,\nBut I'll be master of it: wilt thou not,\nbeast, abide?\nWhy, then fly on, I'll hunt thee for thy hide.


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Come here about me, you my Myrmidons;\nMark what I say. Attend me where I wheel:\nStrike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath:\nAnd when I have the bloody Hector found,\nEmpale him with your weapons round about;\nIn fellest manner execute your aims.\nFollow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye:\nIt is decreed Hector the great must die.\n[Exeunt]\n[Enter MENELAUS and PARIS, fighting:]\nthen THERSITES]


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The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now,\nbull! now, dog! 'Loo, Paris, 'loo! now my double-\nhenned sparrow! 'loo, Paris, 'loo! The bull has the\ngame: ware horns, ho!


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I am a bastard too; I love bastards: I am a bastard\nbegot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard\nin valour, in every thing illegitimate. One bear will\nnot bite another, and wherefore should one bastard?\nTake heed, the quarrel's most ominous to us: if the\nson of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgment:\nfarewell, bastard.


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Most putrefied core, so fair without,\nThy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.\nNow is my day's work done; I'll take good breath:\nRest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death.\n[Puts off his helmet and hangs his shield]\nbehind him]


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Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set;\nHow ugly night comes breathing at his heels:\nEven with the vail and darking of the sun,\nTo close the day up, Hector's life is done.


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Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.\n[HECTOR falls]\nSo, Ilion, fall thou next! now, Troy, sink down!\nHere lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone.\nOn, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain,\n'Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.'\n[A retreat sounded]\nHark! a retire upon our Grecian part.


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The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth,\nAnd, stickler-like, the armies separates.\nMy half-supp'd sword, that frankly would have fed,\nPleased with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.\n[Sheathes his sword]\nCome, tie his body to my horse's tail;\nAlong the field I will the Trojan trail.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter AGAMEMNON, AJAX, MENELAUS, NESTOR, DIOMEDES,]\nand others, marching. Shouts within]


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March patiently along: let one be sent\nTo pray Achilles see us at our tent.\nIf in his death the gods have us befriended,\nGreat Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.


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He's dead; and at the murderer's horse's tail,\nIn beastly sort, dragg'd through the shameful field.\nFrown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed!\nSit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy!\nI say, at once let your brief plagues be mercy,\nAnd linger not our sure destructions on!


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You understand me not that tell me so:\nI do not speak of flight, of fear, of death,\nBut dare all imminence that gods and men\nAddress their dangers in. Hector is gone:\nWho shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?\nLet him that will a screech-owl aye be call'd,\nGo in to Troy, and say there, Hector's dead:\nThere is a word will Priam turn to stone;\nMake wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,\nCold statues of the youth, and, in a word,\nScare Troy out of itself. But, march away:\nHector is dead; there is no more to say.\nStay yet. You vile abominable tents,\nThus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,\nLet Titan rise as early as he dare,\nI'll through and through you! and, thou great-sized coward,\nNo space of earth shall sunder our two hates:\nI'll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,\nThat mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy's thoughts.\nStrike a free march to Troy! with comfort go:\nHope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.\n[Exeunt AENEAS and Trojans]\n[As TROILUS is going out, enter, from the other]\nside, PANDARUS]


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A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world!\nworld! world! thus is the poor agent despised!\nO traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set\na-work, and how ill requited! why should our\nendeavour be so loved and the performance so loathed?\nwhat verse for it? what instance for it? Let me see:\nFull merrily the humble-bee doth sing,\nTill he hath lost his honey and his sting;\nAnd being once subdued in armed tail,\nSweet honey and sweet notes together fail.\nGood traders in the flesh, set this in your\npainted cloths.\nAs many as be here of pander's hall,\nYour eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar's fall;\nOr if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,\nThough not for me, yet for your aching bones.\nBrethren and sisters of the hold-door trade,\nSome two months hence my will shall here be made:\nIt should be now, but that my fear is this,\nSome galled goose of Winchester would hiss:\nTill then I'll sweat and seek about for eases,\nAnd at that time bequeathe you my diseases.


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Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus:\nHome-keeping youth have ever homely wits.\nWere't not affection chains thy tender days\nTo the sweet glances of thy honour'd love,\nI rather would entreat thy company\nTo see the wonders of the world abroad,\nThan, living dully sluggardized at home,\nWear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.\nBut since thou lovest, love still and thrive therein,\nEven as I would when I to love begin.


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Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu!\nThink on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest\nSome rare note-worthy object in thy travel:\nWish me partaker in thy happiness\nWhen thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger,\nIf ever danger do environ thee,\nCommend thy grievance to my holy prayers,\nFor I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.


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To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans;\nCoy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth\nWith twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights:\nIf haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;\nIf lost, why then a grievous labour won;\nHowever, but a folly bought with wit,\nOr else a wit by folly vanquished.


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Love is your master, for he masters you:\nAnd he that is so yoked by a fool,\nMethinks, should not be chronicled for wise.


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Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud\nThe eating canker dwells, so eating love\nInhabits in the finest wits of all.


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And writers say, as the most forward bud\nIs eaten by the canker ere it blow,\nEven so by love the young and tender wit\nIs turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud,\nLosing his verdure even in the prime\nAnd all the fair effects of future hopes.\nBut wherefore waste I time to counsel thee,\nThat art a votary to fond desire?\nOnce more adieu! my father at the road\nExpects my coming, there to see me shipp'd.


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Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave.\nTo Milan let me hear from thee by letters\nOf thy success in love, and what news else\nBetideth here in absence of thy friend;\nAnd likewise will visit thee with mine.


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He after honour hunts, I after love:\nHe leaves his friends to dignify them more,\nI leave myself, my friends and all, for love.\nThou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me,\nMade me neglect my studies, lose my time,\nWar with good counsel, set the world at nought;\nMade wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.


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The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the\nshepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks\nnot me: therefore I am no sheep.


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The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the\nshepherd for food follows not the sheep: thou for\nwages followest thy master; thy master for wages\nfollows not thee: therefore thou art a sheep.


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Ay sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her,\na laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a\nlost mutton, nothing for my labour.


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From a pound to a pin? fold it over and over,\n'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to\nyour lover.


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Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no,\nnot so much as a ducat for delivering your letter:\nand being so hard to me that brought your mind, I\nfear she'll prove as hard to you in telling your\nmind. Give her no token but stones; for she's as\nhard as steel.


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No, not so much as 'Take this for thy pains.' To\ntestify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned\nme; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your\nletters yourself: and so, sir, I'll commend you to my master.


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Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck,\nWhich cannot perish having thee aboard,\nBeing destined to a drier death on shore.\n[Exit SPEED]\nI must go send some better messenger:\nI fear my Julia would not deign my lines,\nReceiving them from such a worthless post.


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Of all the fair resort of gentlemen\nThat every day with parle encounter me,\nIn thy opinion which is worthiest love?


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Pardon, dear madam: 'tis a passing shame\nThat I, unworthy body as I am,\nShould censure thus on lovely gentlemen.


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Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from Proteus.\nHe would have given it you; but I, being in the way,\nDid in your name receive it: pardon the\nfault I pray.


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Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!\nDare you presume to harbour wanton lines?\nTo whisper and conspire against my youth?\nNow, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth\nAnd you an officer fit for the place.\nOr else return no more into my sight.


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And yet I would I had o'erlooked the letter:\nIt were a shame to call her back again\nAnd pray her to a fault for which I chid her.\nWhat a fool is she, that knows I am a maid,\nAnd would not force the letter to my view!\nSince maids, in modesty, say 'no' to that\nWhich they would have the profferer construe 'ay.'\nFie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love\nThat, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse\nAnd presently all humbled kiss the rod!\nHow churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,\nWhen willingly I would have had her here!\nHow angerly I taught my brow to frown,\nWhen inward joy enforced my heart to smile!\nMy penance is to call Lucetta back\nAnd ask remission for my folly past.\nWhat ho! Lucetta!


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Nay, now you are too flat\nAnd mar the concord with too harsh a descant:\nThere wanteth but a mean to fill your song.


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This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.\nHere is a coil with protestation!\n[Tears the letter]\nGo get you gone, and let the papers lie:\nYou would be fingering them, to anger me.


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Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same!\nO hateful hands, to tear such loving words!\nInjurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey\nAnd kill the bees that yield it with your stings!\nI'll kiss each several paper for amends.\nLook, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia!\nAs in revenge of thy ingratitude,\nI throw thy name against the bruising stones,\nTrampling contemptuously on thy disdain.\nAnd here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.'\nPoor wounded name! my bosom as a bed\nShall lodge thee till thy wound be thoroughly heal'd;\nAnd thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.\nBut twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.\nBe calm, good wind, blow not a word away\nTill I have found each letter in the letter,\nExcept mine own name: that some whirlwind bear\nUnto a ragged fearful-hanging rock\nAnd throw it thence into the raging sea!\nLo, here in one line is his name twice writ,\n'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,\nTo the sweet Julia:' that I'll tear away.\nAnd yet I will not, sith so prettily\nHe couples it to his complaining names.\nThus will I fold them one on another:\nNow kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.


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He wonder'd that your lordship\nWould suffer him to spend his youth at home,\nWhile other men, of slender reputation,\nPut forth their sons to seek preferment out:\nSome to the wars, to try their fortune there;\nSome to discover islands far away;\nSome to the studious universities.\nFor any or for all these exercises,\nHe said that Proteus your son was meet,\nAnd did request me to importune you\nTo let him spend his time no more at home,\nWhich would be great impeachment to his age,\nIn having known no travel in his youth.


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Nor need'st thou much importune me to that\nWhereon this month I have been hammering.\nI have consider'd well his loss of time\nAnd how he cannot be a perfect man,\nNot being tried and tutor'd in the world:\nExperience is by industry achieved\nAnd perfected by the swift course of time.\nThen tell me, whither were I best to send him?


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I think your lordship is not ignorant\nHow his companion, youthful Valentine,\nAttends the emperor in his royal court.


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'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither:\nThere shall he practise tilts and tournaments,\nHear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen.\nAnd be in eye of every exercise\nWorthy his youth and nobleness of birth.


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I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised:\nAnd that thou mayst perceive how well I like it,\nThe execution of it shall make known.\nEven with the speediest expedition\nI will dispatch him to the emperor's court.


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To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso,\nWith other gentlemen of good esteem,\nAre journeying to salute the emperor\nAnd to commend their service to his will.


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Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life!\nHere is her hand, the agent of her heart;\nHere is her oath for love, her honour's pawn.\nO, that our fathers would applaud our loves,\nTo seal our happiness with their consents!\nO heavenly Julia!


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May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two\nOf commendations sent from Valentine,\nDeliver'd by a friend that came from him.


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There is no news, my lord, but that he writes\nHow happily he lives, how well beloved\nAnd daily graced by the emperor;\nWishing me with him, partner of his fortune.


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My will is something sorted with his wish.\nMuse not that I thus suddenly proceed;\nFor what I will, I will, and there an end.\nI am resolved that thou shalt spend some time\nWith Valentinus in the emperor's court:\nWhat maintenance he from his friends receives,\nLike exhibition thou shalt have from me.\nTo-morrow be in readiness to go:\nExcuse it not, for I am peremptory.


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Look, what thou want'st shall be sent after thee:\nNo more of stay! to-morrow thou must go.\nCome on, Panthino: you shall be employ'd\nTo hasten on his expedition.


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Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning,\nAnd drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd.\nI fear'd to show my father Julia's letter,\nLest he should take exceptions to my love;\nAnd with the vantage of mine own excuse\nHath he excepted most against my love.\nO, how this spring of love resembleth\nThe uncertain glory of an April day,\nWhich now shows all the beauty of the sun,\nAnd by and by a cloud takes all away!


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Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it's mine:\nSweet ornament that decks a thing divine!\nAh, Silvia, Silvia!


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Marry, by these special marks: first, you have\nlearned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms,\nlike a malecontent; to relish a love-song, like a\nrobin-redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had\nthe pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had\nlost his A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had\nburied her grandam; to fast, like one that takes\ndiet; to watch like one that fears robbing; to\nspeak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were\nwont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you\nwalked, to walk like one of the lions; when you\nfasted, it was presently after dinner; when you\nlooked sadly, it was for want of money: and now you\nare metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look\non you, I can hardly think you my master.


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Without you? nay, that's certain, for, without you\nwere so simple, none else would: but you are so\nwithout these follies, that these follies are within\nyou and shine through you like the water in an\nurinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a\nphysician to comment on your malady.


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Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes;\nor your own eyes had the lights they were wont to\nhave when you chid at Sir Proteus for going\nungartered!


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Your own present folly and her passing deformity:\nfor he, being in love, could not see to garter his\nhose, and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose.


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True, sir; I was in love with my bed: I thank you,\nyou swinged me for my love, which makes me the\nbolder to chide you for yours.


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As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter\nUnto the secret nameless friend of yours;\nWhich I was much unwilling to proceed in\nBut for my duty to your ladyship.


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Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off;\nFor being ignorant to whom it goes\nI writ at random, very doubtfully.


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A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel;\nAnd yet I will not name it; and yet I care not;\nAnd yet take this again; and yet I thank you,\nMeaning henceforth to trouble you no more.


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Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ;\nBut since unwillingly, take them again.\nNay, take them.


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Ay, ay: you writ them, sir, at my request;\nBut I will none of them; they are for you;\nI would have had them writ more movingly.


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O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,\nAs a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple!\nMy master sues to her, and she hath\ntaught her suitor,\nHe being her pupil, to become her tutor.\nO excellent device! was there ever heard a better,\nThat my master, being scribe, to himself should write\nthe letter?


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I'll warrant you, 'tis as well:\nFor often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty,\nOr else for want of idle time, could not again reply;\nOr fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover,\nHerself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.\nAll this I speak in print, for in print I found it.\nWhy muse you, sir? 'tis dinner-time.


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Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can\nfeed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my\nvictuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like\nyour mistress; be moved, be moved.


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Here is my hand for my true constancy;\nAnd when that hour o'erslips me in the day\nWherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake,\nThe next ensuing hour some foul mischance\nTorment me for my love's forgetfulness!\nMy father stays my coming; answer not;\nThe tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears;\nThat tide will stay me longer than I should.\nJulia, farewell!\n[Exit JULIA]\nWhat, gone without a word?\nAy, so true love should do: it cannot speak;\nFor truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.


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Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping;\nall the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I\nhave received my proportion, like the prodigious\nson, and am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial's\ncourt. I think Crab, my dog, be the sourest-natured\ndog that lives: my mother weeping, my father\nwailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat\nwringing her hands, and all our house in a great\nperplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed\none tear: he is a stone, a very pebble stone, and\nhas no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew would have\nwept to have seen our parting; why, my grandam,\nhaving no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my\nparting. Nay, I'll show you the manner of it. This\nshoe is my father: no, this left shoe is my father:\nno, no, this left shoe is my mother: nay, that\ncannot be so neither: yes, it is so, it is so, it\nhath the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in\nit, is my mother, and this my father; a vengeance\non't! there 'tis: now, sit, this staff is my\nsister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily and\nas small as a wand: this hat is Nan, our maid: I\nam the dog: no, the dog is himself, and I am the\ndog--Oh! the dog is me, and I am myself; ay, so,\nso. Now come I to my father; Father, your blessing:\nnow should not the shoe speak a word for weeping:\nnow should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now\ncome I to my mother: O, that she could speak now\nlike a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; why, there\n'tis; here's my mother's breath up and down. Now\ncome I to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now\nthe dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a\nword; but see how I lay the dust with my tears.


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Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped\nand thou art to post after with oars. What's the\nmatter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! You'll\nlose the tide, if you tarry any longer.


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Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood, and, in\nlosing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing\nthy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy\nmaster, lose thy service, and, in losing thy\nservice,--Why dost thou stop my mouth?


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Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and\nthe service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river\nwere dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the\nwind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs.


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Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir\nThurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks,\nand spends what he borrows kindly in your company.


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I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words,\nand, I think, no other treasure to give your\nfollowers, for it appears by their bare liveries,\nthat they live by your bare words.


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Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.\nSir Valentine, your father's in good health:\nWhat say you to a letter from your friends\nOf much good news?


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Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman\nTo be of worth and worthy estimation\nAnd not without desert so well reputed.


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I know him as myself; for from our infancy\nWe have conversed and spent our hours together:\nAnd though myself have been an idle truant,\nOmitting the sweet benefit of time\nTo clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,\nYet hath Sir Proteus, for that's his name,\nMade use and fair advantage of his days;\nHis years but young, but his experience old;\nHis head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe;\nAnd, in a word, for far behind his worth\nComes all the praises that I now bestow,\nHe is complete in feature and in mind\nWith all good grace to grace a gentleman.


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Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good,\nHe is as worthy for an empress' love\nAs meet to be an emperor's counsellor.\nWell, sir, this gentleman is come to me,\nWith commendation from great potentates;\nAnd here he means to spend his time awhile:\nI think 'tis no unwelcome news to you.


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Welcome him then according to his worth.\nSilvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio;\nFor Valentine, I need not cite him to it:\nI will send him hither to you presently.


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This is the gentleman I told your ladyship\nHad come along with me, but that his mistress\nDid hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks.


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I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio,\nGo with me. Once more, new servant, welcome:\nI'll leave you to confer of home affairs;\nWhen you have done, we look to hear from you.


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Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now:\nI have done penance for contemning Love,\nWhose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me\nWith bitter fasts, with penitential groans,\nWith nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs;\nFor in revenge of my contempt of love,\nLove hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes\nAnd made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow.\nO gentle Proteus, Love's a mighty lord,\nAnd hath so humbled me, as, I confess,\nThere is no woe to his correction,\nNor to his service no such joy on earth.\nNow no discourse, except it be of love;\nNow can I break my fast, dine, sup and sleep,\nUpon the very naked name of love.


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Then speak the truth by her; if not divine,\nYet let her be a principality,\nSovereign to all the creatures on the earth.


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And I will help thee to prefer her too:\nShe shall be dignified with this high honour--\nTo bear my lady's train, lest the base earth\nShould from her vesture chance to steal a kiss\nAnd, of so great a favour growing proud,\nDisdain to root the summer-swelling flower\nAnd make rough winter everlastingly.


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Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing\nTo her whose worth makes other worthies nothing;\nShe is alone.


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Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,\nAnd I as rich in having such a jewel\nAs twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,\nThe water nectar and the rocks pure gold.\nForgive me that I do not dream on thee,\nBecause thou see'st me dote upon my love.\nMy foolish rival, that her father likes\nOnly for his possessions are so huge,\nIs gone with her along, and I must after,\nFor love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy.


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Ay, and we are betroth'd: nay, more, our,\nmarriage-hour,\nWith all the cunning manner of our flight,\nDetermined of; how I must climb her window,\nThe ladder made of cords, and all the means\nPlotted and 'greed on for my happiness.\nGood Proteus, go with me to my chamber,\nIn these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.


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Go on before; I shall inquire you forth:\nI must unto the road, to disembark\nSome necessaries that I needs must use,\nAnd then I'll presently attend you.


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I will.\n[Exit VALENTINE]\nEven as one heat another heat expels,\nOr as one nail by strength drives out another,\nSo the remembrance of my former love\nIs by a newer object quite forgotten.\nIs it mine, or Valentine's praise,\nHer true perfection, or my false transgression,\nThat makes me reasonless to reason thus?\nShe is fair; and so is Julia that I love--\nThat I did love, for now my love is thaw'd;\nWhich, like a waxen image, 'gainst a fire,\nBears no impression of the thing it was.\nMethinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,\nAnd that I love him not as I was wont.\nO, but I love his lady too too much,\nAnd that's the reason I love him so little.\nHow shall I dote on her with more advice,\nThat thus without advice begin to love her!\n'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,\nAnd that hath dazzled my reason's light;\nBut when I look on her perfections,\nThere is no reason but I shall be blind.\nIf I can cheque my erring love, I will;\nIf not, to compass her I'll use my skill.


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Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not\nwelcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never\nundone till he be hanged, nor never welcome to a\nplace till some certain shot be paid and the hostess\nsay 'Welcome!'


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Come on, you madcap, I'll to the alehouse with you\npresently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou\nshalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how\ndid thy master part with Madam Julia?


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Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will! if he say no,\nit will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.


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'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how sayest\nthou, that my master is become a notable lover?


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Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself\nin love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse;\nif not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the\nname of a Christian.


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To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;\nTo love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;\nTo wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn;\nAnd even that power which gave me first my oath\nProvokes me to this threefold perjury;\nLove bade me swear and Love bids me forswear.\nO sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinned,\nTeach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it!\nAt first I did adore a twinkling star,\nBut now I worship a celestial sun.\nUnheedful vows may heedfully be broken,\nAnd he wants wit that wants resolved will\nTo learn his wit to exchange the bad for better.\nFie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad,\nWhose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd\nWith twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.\nI cannot leave to love, and yet I do;\nBut there I leave to love where I should love.\nJulia I lose and Valentine I lose:\nIf I keep them, I needs must lose myself;\nIf I lose them, thus find I by their loss\nFor Valentine myself, for Julia Silvia.\nI to myself am dearer than a friend,\nFor love is still most precious in itself;\nAnd Silvia--witness Heaven, that made her fair!--\nShows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.\nI will forget that Julia is alive,\nRemembering that my love to her is dead;\nAnd Valentine I'll hold an enemy,\nAiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend.\nI cannot now prove constant to myself,\nWithout some treachery used to Valentine.\nThis night he meaneth with a corded ladder\nTo climb celestial Silvia's chamber-window,\nMyself in counsel, his competitor.\nNow presently I'll give her father notice\nOf their disguising and pretended flight;\nWho, all enraged, will banish Valentine;\nFor Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter;\nBut, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross\nBy some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding.\nLove, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,\nAs thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!


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Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me;\nAnd even in kind love I do conjure thee,\nWho art the table wherein all my thoughts\nAre visibly character'd and engraved,\nTo lesson me and tell me some good mean\nHow, with my honour, I may undertake\nA journey to my loving Proteus.


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A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary\nTo measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;\nMuch less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly,\nAnd when the flight is made to one so dear,\nOf such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.


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O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?\nPity the dearth that I have pined in,\nBy longing for that food so long a time.\nDidst thou but know the inly touch of love,\nThou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow\nAs seek to quench the fire of love with words.


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I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,\nBut qualify the fire's extreme rage,\nLest it should burn above the bounds of reason.


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The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns.\nThe current that with gentle murmur glides,\nThou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;\nBut when his fair course is not hindered,\nHe makes sweet music with the enamell'ed stones,\nGiving a gentle kiss to every sedge\nHe overtaketh in his pilgrimage,\nAnd so by many winding nooks he strays\nWith willing sport to the wild ocean.\nThen let me go and hinder not my course\nI'll be as patient as a gentle stream\nAnd make a pastime of each weary step,\nTill the last step have brought me to my love;\nAnd there I'll rest, as after much turmoil\nA blessed soul doth in Elysium.


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Not like a woman; for I would prevent\nThe loose encounters of lascivious men:\nGentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds\nAs may beseem some well-reputed page.


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No, girl, I'll knit it up in silken strings\nWith twenty odd-conceited true-love knots.\nTo be fantastic may become a youth\nOf greater time than I shall show to be.


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That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord,\nWhat compass will you wear your farthingale?'\nWhy even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta.


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Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have\nWhat thou thinkest meet and is most mannerly.\nBut tell me, wench, how will the world repute me\nFor undertaking so unstaid a journey?\nI fear me, it will make me scandalized.


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Then never dream on infamy, but go.\nIf Proteus like your journey when you come,\nNo matter who's displeased when you are gone:\nI fear me, he will scarce be pleased withal.


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That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:\nA thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears\nAnd instances of infinite of love\nWarrant me welcome to my Proteus.


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Base men, that use them to so base effect!\nBut truer stars did govern Proteus' birth\nHis words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,\nHis love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,\nHis tears pure messengers sent from his heart,\nHis heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.


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Now, as thou lovest me, do him not that wrong\nTo bear a hard opinion of his truth:\nOnly deserve my love by loving him;\nAnd presently go with me to my chamber,\nTo take a note of what I stand in need of,\nTo furnish me upon my longing journey.\nAll that is mine I leave at thy dispose,\nMy goods, my lands, my reputation;\nOnly, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.\nCome, answer not, but to it presently!\nI am impatient of my tarriance.


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Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;\nWe have some secrets to confer about.\n[Exit THURIO]\nNow, tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me?


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My gracious lord, that which I would discover\nThe law of friendship bids me to conceal;\nBut when I call to mind your gracious favours\nDone to me, undeserving as I am,\nMy duty pricks me on to utter that\nWhich else no worldly good should draw from me.\nKnow, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend,\nThis night intends to steal away your daughter:\nMyself am one made privy to the plot.\nI know you have determined to bestow her\nOn Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;\nAnd should she thus be stol'n away from you,\nIt would be much vexation to your age.\nThus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose\nTo cross my friend in his intended drift\nThan, by concealing it, heap on your head\nA pack of sorrows which would press you down,\nBeing unprevented, to your timeless grave.


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Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care;\nWhich to requite, command me while I live.\nThis love of theirs myself have often seen,\nHaply when they have judged me fast asleep,\nAnd oftentimes have purposed to forbid\nSir Valentine her company and my court:\nBut fearing lest my jealous aim might err\nAnd so unworthily disgrace the man,\nA rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd,\nI gave him gentle looks, thereby to find\nThat which thyself hast now disclosed to me.\nAnd, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this,\nKnowing that tender youth is soon suggested,\nI nightly lodge her in an upper tower,\nThe key whereof myself have ever kept;\nAnd thence she cannot be convey'd away.


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Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean\nHow he her chamber-window will ascend\nAnd with a corded ladder fetch her down;\nFor which the youthful lover now is gone\nAnd this way comes he with it presently;\nWhere, if it please you, you may intercept him.\nBut, good my Lord, do it so cunningly\nThat my discovery be not aimed at;\nFor love of you, not hate unto my friend,\nHath made me publisher of this pretence.


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Please it your grace, there is a messenger\nThat stays to bear my letters to my friends,\nAnd I am going to deliver them.


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Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile;\nI am to break with thee of some affairs\nThat touch me near, wherein thou must be secret.\n'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought\nTo match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.


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I know it well, my Lord; and, sure, the match\nWere rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman\nIs full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities\nBeseeming such a wife as your fair daughter:\nCannot your Grace win her to fancy him?


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No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward,\nProud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty,\nNeither regarding that she is my child\nNor fearing me as if I were her father;\nAnd, may I say to thee, this pride of hers,\nUpon advice, hath drawn my love from her;\nAnd, where I thought the remnant of mine age\nShould have been cherish'd by her child-like duty,\nI now am full resolved to take a wife\nAnd turn her out to who will take her in:\nThen let her beauty be her wedding-dower;\nFor me and my possessions she esteems not.


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There is a lady in Verona here\nWhom I affect; but she is nice and coy\nAnd nought esteems my aged eloquence:\nNow therefore would I have thee to my tutor--\nFor long agone I have forgot to court;\nBesides, the fashion of the time is changed--\nHow and which way I may bestow myself\nTo be regarded in her sun-bright eye.


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Win her with gifts, if she respect not words:\nDumb jewels often in their silent kind\nMore than quick words do move a woman's mind.


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A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her.\nSend her another; never give her o'er;\nFor scorn at first makes after-love the more.\nIf she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you,\nBut rather to beget more love in you:\nIf she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone;\nFor why, the fools are mad, if left alone.\nTake no repulse, whatever she doth say;\nFor 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away!'\nFlatter and praise, commend, extol their graces;\nThough ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces.\nThat man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,\nIf with his tongue he cannot win a woman.


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But she I mean is promised by her friends\nUnto a youthful gentleman of worth,\nAnd kept severely from resort of men,\nThat no man hath access by day to her.


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Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground,\nAnd built so shelving that one cannot climb it\nWithout apparent hazard of his life.


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Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords,\nTo cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks,\nWould serve to scale another Hero's tower,\nSo bold Leander would adventure it.


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How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak?\nI pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me.\nWhat letter is this same? What's here? 'To Silvia'!\nAnd here an engine fit for my proceeding.\nI'll be so bold to break the seal for once.\n[Reads]\n'My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly,\nAnd slaves they are to me that send them flying:\nO, could their master come and go as lightly,\nHimself would lodge where senseless they are lying!\nMy herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them:\nWhile I, their king, that hither them importune,\nDo curse the grace that with such grace hath bless'd them,\nBecause myself do want my servants' fortune:\nI curse myself, for they are sent by me,\nThat they should harbour where their lord would be.'\nWhat's here?\n'Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.'\n'Tis so; and here's the ladder for the purpose.\nWhy, Phaeton,--for thou art Merops' son,--\nWilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car\nAnd with thy daring folly burn the world?\nWilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee?\nGo, base intruder! overweening slave!\nBestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates,\nAnd think my patience, more than thy desert,\nIs privilege for thy departure hence:\nThank me for this more than for all the favours\nWhich all too much I have bestow'd on thee.\nBut if thou linger in my territories\nLonger than swiftest expedition\nWill give thee time to leave our royal court,\nBy heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love\nI ever bore my daughter or thyself.\nBe gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse;\nBut, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence.


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And why not death rather than living torment?\nTo die is to be banish'd from myself;\nAnd Silvia is myself: banish'd from her\nIs self from self: a deadly banishment!\nWhat light is light, if Silvia be not seen?\nWhat joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?\nUnless it be to think that she is by\nAnd feed upon the shadow of perfection\nExcept I be by Silvia in the night,\nThere is no music in the nightingale;\nUnless I look on Silvia in the day,\nThere is no day for me to look upon;\nShe is my essence, and I leave to be,\nIf I be not by her fair influence\nFoster'd, illumined, cherish'd, kept alive.\nI fly not death, to fly his deadly doom:\nTarry I here, I but attend on death:\nBut, fly I hence, I fly away from life.


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O, I have fed upon this woe already,\nAnd now excess of it will make me surfeit.\nDoth Silvia know that I am banished?


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Ay, ay; and she hath offer'd to the doom--\nWhich, unreversed, stands in effectual force--\nA sea of melting pearl, which some call tears:\nThose at her father's churlish feet she tender'd;\nWith them, upon her knees, her humble self;\nWringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them\nAs if but now they waxed pale for woe:\nBut neither bended knees, pure hands held up,\nSad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears,\nCould penetrate her uncompassionate sire;\nBut Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.\nBesides, her intercession chafed him so,\nWhen she for thy repeal was suppliant,\nThat to close prison he commanded her,\nWith many bitter threats of biding there.


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No more; unless the next word that thou speak'st\nHave some malignant power upon my life:\nIf so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear,\nAs ending anthem of my endless dolour.


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Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,\nAnd study help for that which thou lament'st.\nTime is the nurse and breeder of all good.\nHere if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love;\nBesides, thy staying will abridge thy life.\nHope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that\nAnd manage it against despairing thoughts.\nThy letters may be here, though thou art hence;\nWhich, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd\nEven in the milk-white bosom of thy love.\nThe time now serves not to expostulate:\nCome, I'll convey thee through the city-gate;\nAnd, ere I part with thee, confer at large\nOf all that may concern thy love-affairs.\nAs thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself,\nRegard thy danger, and along with me!


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I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to\nthink my master is a kind of a knave: but that's\nall one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now\nthat knows me to be in love; yet I am in love; but a\nteam of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor who\n'tis I love; and yet 'tis a woman; but what woman, I\nwill not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet\n'tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis\na maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for\nwages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel;\nwhich is much in a bare Christian.\n[Pulling out a paper]\nHere is the cate-log of her condition.\n'Imprimis: She can fetch and carry.' Why, a horse\ncan do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only\ncarry; therefore is she better than a jade. 'Item:\nShe can milk;' look you, a sweet virtue in a maid\nwith clean hands.


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That's as much as to say, bastard virtues; that,\nindeed, know not their fathers and therefore have no names.


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O villain, that set this down among her vices! To\nbe slow in words is a woman's only virtue: I pray\nthee, out with't, and place it for her chief virtue.


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Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down she\nis slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that\nI'll keep shut: now, of another thing she may, and\nthat cannot I help. Well, proceed.


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Stop there; I'll have her: she was mine, and not\nmine, twice or thrice in that last article.\nRehearse that once more.


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More hair than wit? It may be; I'll prove it. The\ncover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it\nis more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit\nis more than the wit, for the greater hides the\nless. What's next?


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Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well,\nI'll have her; and if it be a match, as nothing is\nimpossible,--


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Now will he be swinged for reading my letter; an\nunmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into\nsecrets! I'll after, to rejoice in the boy's correction.


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Since his exile she hath despised me most,\nForsworn my company and rail'd at me,\nThat I am desperate of obtaining her.


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This weak impress of love is as a figure\nTrenched in ice, which with an hour's heat\nDissolves to water and doth lose his form.\nA little time will melt her frozen thoughts\nAnd worthless Valentine shall be forgot.\n[Enter PROTEUS]\nHow now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman\nAccording to our proclamation gone?


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So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so.\nProteus, the good conceit I hold of thee--\nFor thou hast shown some sign of good desert--\nMakes me the better to confer with thee.


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Ay, and perversely she persevers so.\nWhat might we do to make the girl forget\nThe love of Valentine and love Sir Thurio?


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The best way is to slander Valentine\nWith falsehood, cowardice and poor descent,\nThree things that women highly hold in hate.


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Ay, if his enemy deliver it:\nTherefore it must with circumstance be spoken\nBy one whom she esteemeth as his friend.


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And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do:\n'Tis an ill office for a gentleman,\nEspecially against his very friend.


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Where your good word cannot advantage him,\nYour slander never can endamage him;\nTherefore the office is indifferent,\nBeing entreated to it by your friend.


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You have prevail'd, my lord; if I can do it\nBy ought that I can speak in his dispraise,\nShe shall not long continue love to him.\nBut say this weed her love from Valentine,\nIt follows not that she will love Sir Thurio.


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Therefore, as you unwind her love from him,\nLest it should ravel and be good to none,\nYou must provide to bottom it on me;\nWhich must be done by praising me as much\nAs you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine.


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And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind,\nBecause we know, on Valentine's report,\nYou are already Love's firm votary\nAnd cannot soon revolt and change your mind.\nUpon this warrant shall you have access\nWhere you with Silvia may confer at large;\nFor she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy,\nAnd, for your friend's sake, will be glad of you;\nWhere you may temper her by your persuasion\nTo hate young Valentine and love my friend.


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As much as I can do, I will effect:\nBut you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough;\nYou must lay lime to tangle her desires\nBy wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes\nShould be full-fraught with serviceable vows.


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Say that upon the altar of her beauty\nYou sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart:\nWrite till your ink be dry, and with your tears\nMoist it again, and frame some feeling line\nThat may discover such integrity:\nFor Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews,\nWhose golden touch could soften steel and stones,\nMake tigers tame and huge leviathans\nForsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.\nAfter your dire-lamenting elegies,\nVisit by night your lady's chamber-window\nWith some sweet concert; to their instruments\nTune a deploring dump: the night's dead silence\nWill well become such sweet-complaining grievance.\nThis, or else nothing, will inherit her.


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And thy advice this night I'll put in practise.\nTherefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver,\nLet us into the city presently\nTo sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music.\nI have a sonnet that will serve the turn\nTo give the onset to thy good advice.


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Then know that I have little wealth to lose:\nA man I am cross'd with adversity;\nMy riches are these poor habiliments,\nOf which if you should here disfurnish me,\nYou take the sum and substance that I have.


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For that which now torments me to rehearse:\nI kill'd a man, whose death I much repent;\nBut yet I slew him manfully in fight,\nWithout false vantage or base treachery.


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Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen,\nSuch as the fury of ungovern'd youth\nThrust from the company of awful men:\nMyself was from Verona banished\nFor practising to steal away a lady,\nAn heir, and near allied unto the duke.


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And I for such like petty crimes as these,\nBut to the purpose--for we cite our faults,\nThat they may hold excus'd our lawless lives;\nAnd partly, seeing you are beautified\nWith goodly shape and by your own report\nA linguist and a man of such perfection\nAs we do in our quality much want--


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Indeed, because you are a banish'd man,\nTherefore, above the rest, we parley to you:\nAre you content to be our general?\nTo make a virtue of necessity\nAnd live, as we do, in this wilderness?


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What say'st thou? wilt thou be of our consort?\nSay ay, and be the captain of us all:\nWe'll do thee homage and be ruled by thee,\nLove thee as our commander and our king.


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I take your offer and will live with you,\nProvided that you do no outrages\nOn silly women or poor passengers.


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No, we detest such vile base practises.\nCome, go with us, we'll bring thee to our crews,\nAnd show thee all the treasure we have got,\nWhich, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose.


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Already have I been false to Valentine\nAnd now I must be as unjust to Thurio.\nUnder the colour of commending him,\nI have access my own love to prefer:\nBut Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy,\nTo be corrupted with my worthless gifts.\nWhen I protest true loyalty to her,\nShe twits me with my falsehood to my friend;\nWhen to her beauty I commend my vows,\nShe bids me think how I have been forsworn\nIn breaking faith with Julia whom I loved:\nAnd notwithstanding all her sudden quips,\nThe least whereof would quell a lover's hope,\nYet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love,\nThe more it grows and fawneth on her still.\nBut here comes Thurio: now must we to her window,\nAnd give some evening music to her ear.


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Come, we'll have you merry: I'll bring you where\nyou shall hear music and see the gentleman that you asked for.


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Ay: but, peace! let's hear 'em.\nSONG.\nWho is Silvia? what is she,\nThat all our swains commend her?\nHoly, fair and wise is she;\nThe heaven such grace did lend her,\nThat she might admired be.\nIs she kind as she is fair?\nFor beauty lives with kindness.\nLove doth to her eyes repair,\nTo help him of his blindness,\nAnd, being help'd, inhabits there.\nThen to Silvia let us sing,\nThat Silvia is excelling;\nShe excels each mortal thing\nUpon the dull earth dwelling:\nTo her let us garlands bring.


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I would always have one play but one thing.\nBut, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on\nOften resort unto this gentlewoman?


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Gone to seek his dog; which tomorrow, by his\nmaster's command, he must carry for a present to his lady.


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You have your wish; my will is even this:\nThat presently you hie you home to bed.\nThou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man!\nThink'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,\nTo be seduced by thy flattery,\nThat hast deceived so many with thy vows?\nReturn, return, and make thy love amends.\nFor me, by this pale queen of night I swear,\nI am so far from granting thy request\nThat I despise thee for thy wrongful suit,\nAnd by and by intend to chide myself\nEven for this time I spend in talking to thee.


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Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend\nSurvives; to whom, thyself art witness,\nI am betroth'd: and art thou not ashamed\nTo wrong him with thy importunacy?


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Madam, if your heart be so obdurate,\nVouchsafe me yet your picture for my love,\nThe picture that is hanging in your chamber;\nTo that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep:\nFor since the substance of your perfect self\nIs else devoted, I am but a shadow;\nAnd to your shadow will I make true love.


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I am very loath to be your idol, sir;\nBut since your falsehood shall become you well\nTo worship shadows and adore false shapes,\nSend to me in the morning and I'll send it:\nAnd so, good rest.


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This is the hour that Madam Silvia\nEntreated me to call and know her mind:\nThere's some great matter she'ld employ me in.\nMadam, madam!


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As many, worthy lady, to yourself:\nAccording to your ladyship's impose,\nI am thus early come to know what service\nIt is your pleasure to command me in.


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O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman--\nThink not I flatter, for I swear I do not--\nValiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish'd:\nThou art not ignorant what dear good will\nI bear unto the banish'd Valentine,\nNor how my father would enforce me marry\nVain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors.\nThyself hast loved; and I have heard thee say\nNo grief did ever come so near thy heart\nAs when thy lady and thy true love died,\nUpon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity.\nSir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,\nTo Mantua, where I hear he makes abode;\nAnd, for the ways are dangerous to pass,\nI do desire thy worthy company,\nUpon whose faith and honour I repose.\nUrge not my father's anger, Eglamour,\nBut think upon my grief, a lady's grief,\nAnd on the justice of my flying hence,\nTo keep me from a most unholy match,\nWhich heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.\nI do desire thee, even from a heart\nAs full of sorrows as the sea of sands,\nTo bear me company and go with me:\nIf not, to hide what I have said to thee,\nThat I may venture to depart alone.


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Madam, I pity much your grievances;\nWhich since I know they virtuously are placed,\nI give consent to go along with you,\nRecking as little what betideth me\nAs much I wish all good befortune you.\nWhen will you go?


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When a man's servant shall play the cur with him,\nlook you, it goes hard: one that I brought up of a\npuppy; one that I saved from drowning, when three or\nfour of his blind brothers and sisters went to it.\nI have taught him, even as one would say precisely,\n'thus I would teach a dog.' I was sent to deliver\nhim as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master;\nand I came no sooner into the dining-chamber but he\nsteps me to her trencher and steals her capon's leg:\nO, 'tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself\nin all companies! I would have, as one should say,\none that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be,\nas it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had\nmore wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did,\nI think verily he had been hanged for't; sure as I\nlive, he had suffered for't; you shall judge. He\nthrusts me himself into the company of three or four\ngentlemanlike dogs under the duke's table: he had\nnot been there--bless the mark!--a pissing while, but\nall the chamber smelt him. 'Out with the dog!' says\none: 'What cur is that?' says another: 'Whip him\nout' says the third: 'Hang him up' says the duke.\nI, having been acquainted with the smell before,\nknew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that\nwhips the dogs: 'Friend,' quoth I, 'you mean to whip\nthe dog?' 'Ay, marry, do I,' quoth he. 'You do him\nthe more wrong,' quoth I; ''twas I did the thing you\nwot of.' He makes me no more ado, but whips me out\nof the chamber. How many masters would do this for\nhis servant? Nay, I'll be sworn, I have sat in the\nstocks for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had\nbeen executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese\nhe hath killed, otherwise he had suffered for't.\nThou thinkest not of this now. Nay, I remember the\ntrick you served me when I took my leave of Madam\nSilvia: did not I bid thee still mark me and do as I\ndo? when didst thou see me heave up my leg and make\nwater against a gentlewoman's farthingale? didst\nthou ever see me do such a trick?


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I hope thou wilt.\n[To LAUNCE]\nHow now, you whoreson peasant!\nWhere have you been these two days loitering?


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Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you\ncurrish thanks is good enough for such a present.


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Ay, sir: the other squirrel was stolen from me by\nthe hangman boys in the market-place: and then I\noffered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of\nyours, and therefore the gift the greater.


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Go get thee hence, and find my dog again,\nOr ne'er return again into my sight.\nAway, I say! stay'st thou to vex me here?\n[Exit LAUNCE]\nA slave, that still an end turns me to shame!\nSebastian, I have entertained thee,\nPartly that I have need of such a youth\nThat can with some discretion do my business,\nFor 'tis no trusting to yond foolish lout,\nBut chiefly for thy face and thy behavior,\nWhich, if my augury deceive me not,\nWitness good bringing up, fortune and truth:\nTherefore know thou, for this I entertain thee.\nGo presently and take this ring with thee,\nDeliver it to Madam Silvia:\nShe loved me well deliver'd it to me.


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Because methinks that she loved you as well\nAs you do love your lady Silvia:\nShe dreams of him that has forgot her love;\nYou dote on her that cares not for your love.\n'Tis pity love should be so contrary;\nAnd thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!'


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Well, give her that ring and therewithal\nThis letter. That's her chamber. Tell my lady\nI claim the promise for her heavenly picture.\nYour message done, hie home unto my chamber,\nWhere thou shalt find me, sad and solitary.


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How many women would do such a message?\nAlas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertain'd\nA fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.\nAlas, poor fool! why do I pity him\nThat with his very heart despiseth me?\nBecause he loves her, he despiseth me;\nBecause I love him I must pity him.\nThis ring I gave him when he parted from me,\nTo bind him to remember my good will;\nAnd now am I, unhappy messenger,\nTo plead for that which I would not obtain,\nTo carry that which I would have refused,\nTo praise his faith which I would have dispraised.\nI am my master's true-confirmed love;\nBut cannot be true servant to my master,\nUnless I prove false traitor to myself.\nYet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly\nAs, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed.\n[Enter SILVIA, attended]\nGentlewoman, good day! I pray you, be my mean\nTo bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia.


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Ursula, bring my picture here.\nGo give your master this: tell him from me,\nOne Julia, that his changing thoughts forget,\nWould better fit his chamber than this shadow.


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Madam, please you peruse this letter.--\nPardon me, madam; I have unadvised\nDeliver'd you a paper that I should not:\nThis is the letter to your ladyship.


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There, hold!\nI will not look upon your master's lines:\nI know they are stuff'd with protestations\nAnd full of new-found oaths; which he will break\nAs easily as I do tear his paper.


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The more shame for him that he sends it me;\nFor I have heard him say a thousand times\nHis Julia gave it him at his departure.\nThough his false finger have profaned the ring,\nMine shall not do his Julia so much wrong.


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Almost as well as I do know myself:\nTo think upon her woes I do protest\nThat I have wept a hundred several times.


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She hath been fairer, madam, than she is:\nWhen she did think my master loved her well,\nShe, in my judgment, was as fair as you:\nBut since she did neglect her looking-glass\nAnd threw her sun-expelling mask away,\nThe air hath starved the roses in her cheeks\nAnd pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face,\nThat now she is become as black as I.


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About my stature; for at Pentecost,\nWhen all our pageants of delight were play'd,\nOur youth got me to play the woman's part,\nAnd I was trimm'd in Madam Julia's gown,\nWhich served me as fit, by all men's judgments,\nAs if the garment had been made for me:\nTherefore I know she is about my height.\nAnd at that time I made her weep agood,\nFor I did play a lamentable part:\nMadam, 'twas Ariadne passioning\nFor Theseus' perjury and unjust flight;\nWhich I so lively acted with my tears\nThat my poor mistress, moved therewithal,\nWept bitterly; and would I might be dead\nIf I in thought felt not her very sorrow!


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She is beholding to thee, gentle youth.\nAlas, poor lady, desolate and left!\nI weep myself to think upon thy words.\nHere, youth, there is my purse; I give thee this\nFor thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lovest her.\nFarewell.


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And she shall thank you for't, if e'er you know her.\nA virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful\nI hope my master's suit will be but cold,\nSince she respects my mistress' love so much.\nAlas, how love can trifle with itself!\nHere is her picture: let me see; I think,\nIf I had such a tire, this face of mine\nWere full as lovely as is this of hers:\nAnd yet the painter flatter'd her a little,\nUnless I flatter with myself too much.\nHer hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow:\nIf that be all the difference in his love,\nI'll get me such a colour'd periwig.\nHer eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine:\nAy, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high.\nWhat should it be that he respects in her\nBut I can make respective in myself,\nIf this fond Love were not a blinded god?\nCome, shadow, come and take this shadow up,\nFor 'tis thy rival. O thou senseless form,\nThou shalt be worshipp'd, kiss'd, loved and adored!\nAnd, were there sense in his idolatry,\nMy substance should be statue in thy stead.\nI'll use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake,\nThat used me so; or else, by Jove I vow,\nI should have scratch'd out your unseeing eyes\nTo make my master out of love with thee!


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The sun begins to gild the western sky;\nAnd now it is about the very hour\nThat Silvia, at Friar Patrick's cell, should meet me.\nShe will not fail, for lovers break not hours,\nUnless it be to come before their time;\nSo much they spur their expedition.\nSee where she comes.\n[Enter SILVIA]\nLady, a happy evening!


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Amen, amen! Go on, good Eglamour,\nOut at the postern by the abbey-wall:\nI fear I am attended by some spies.


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Why then,\nShe's fled unto that peasant Valentine;\nAnd Eglamour is in her company.\n'Tis true; for Friar Laurence met them both,\nAs he in penance wander'd through the forest;\nHim he knew well, and guess'd that it was she,\nBut, being mask'd, he was not sure of it;\nBesides, she did intend confession\nAt Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not;\nThese likelihoods confirm her flight from hence.\nTherefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse,\nBut mount you presently and meet with me\nUpon the rising of the mountain-foot\nThat leads towards Mantua, whither they are fled:\nDispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me.


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Why, this it is to be a peevish girl,\nThat flies her fortune when it follows her.\nI'll after, more to be revenged on Eglamour\nThan for the love of reckless Silvia.


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Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us,\nBut Moyses and Valerius follow him.\nGo thou with her to the west end of the wood;\nThere is our captain: we'll follow him that's fled;\nThe thicket is beset; he cannot 'scape.


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Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave:\nFear not; he bears an honourable mind,\nAnd will not use a woman lawlessly.


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How use doth breed a habit in a man!\nThis shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,\nI better brook than flourishing peopled towns:\nHere can I sit alone, unseen of any,\nAnd to the nightingale's complaining notes\nTune my distresses and record my woes.\nO thou that dost inhabit in my breast,\nLeave not the mansion so long tenantless,\nLest, growing ruinous, the building fall\nAnd leave no memory of what it was!\nRepair me with thy presence, Silvia;\nThou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain!\nWhat halloing and what stir is this to-day?\nThese are my mates, that make their wills their law,\nHave some unhappy passenger in chase.\nThey love me well; yet I have much to do\nTo keep them from uncivil outrages.\nWithdraw thee, Valentine: who's this comes here?


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Madam, this service I have done for you,\nThough you respect not aught your servant doth,\nTo hazard life and rescue you from him\nThat would have forced your honour and your love;\nVouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look;\nA smaller boon than this I cannot beg\nAnd less than this, I am sure, you cannot give.


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Had I been seized by a hungry lion,\nI would have been a breakfast to the beast,\nRather than have false Proteus rescue me.\nO, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine,\nWhose life's as tender to me as my soul!\nAnd full as much, for more there cannot be,\nI do detest false perjured Proteus.\nTherefore be gone; solicit me no more.


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What dangerous action, stood it next to death,\nWould I not undergo for one calm look!\nO, 'tis the curse in love, and still approved,\nWhen women cannot love where they're beloved!


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When Proteus cannot love where he's beloved.\nRead over Julia's heart, thy first best love,\nFor whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith\nInto a thousand oaths; and all those oaths\nDescended into perjury, to love me.\nThou hast no faith left now, unless thou'dst two;\nAnd that's far worse than none; better have none\nThan plural faith which is too much by one:\nThou counterfeit to thy true friend!


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Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words\nCan no way change you to a milder form,\nI'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end,\nAnd love you 'gainst the nature of love,--force ye.


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Thou common friend, that's without faith or love,\nFor such is a friend now; treacherous man!\nThou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye\nCould have persuaded me: now I dare not say\nI have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me.\nWho should be trusted, when one's own right hand\nIs perjured to the bosom? Proteus,\nI am sorry I must never trust thee more,\nBut count the world a stranger for thy sake.\nThe private wound is deepest: O time most accurst,\n'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!


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My shame and guilt confounds me.\nForgive me, Valentine: if hearty sorrow\nBe a sufficient ransom for offence,\nI tender 't here; I do as truly suffer\nAs e'er I did commit.


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Then I am paid;\nAnd once again I do receive thee honest.\nWho by repentance is not satisfied\nIs nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased.\nBy penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeased:\nAnd, that my love may appear plain and free,\nAll that was mine in Silvia I give thee.


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O good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring\nto Madam Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never done.


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Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths,\nAnd entertain'd 'em deeply in her heart.\nHow oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!\nO Proteus, let this habit make thee blush!\nBe thou ashamed that I have took upon me\nSuch an immodest raiment, if shame live\nIn a disguise of love:\nIt is the lesser blot, modesty finds,\nWomen to change their shapes than men their minds.


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Than men their minds! 'tis true.\nO heaven! were man\nBut constant, he were perfect. That one error\nFills him with faults; makes him run through all the sins:\nInconstancy falls off ere it begins.\nWhat is in Silvia's face, but I may spy\nMore fresh in Julia's with a constant eye?


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Come, come, a hand from either:\nLet me be blest to make this happy close;\n'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.


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Forbear, forbear, I say! it is my lord the duke.\nYour grace is welcome to a man disgraced,\nBanished Valentine.


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Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death;\nCome not within the measure of my wrath;\nDo not name Silvia thine; if once again,\nVerona shall not hold thee. Here she stands;\nTake but possession of her with a touch:\nI dare thee but to breathe upon my love.


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Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I;\nI hold him but a fool that will endanger\nHis body for a girl that loves him not:\nI claim her not, and therefore she is thine.


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The more degenerate and base art thou,\nTo make such means for her as thou hast done\nAnd leave her on such slight conditions.\nNow, by the honour of my ancestry,\nI do applaud thy spirit, Valentine,\nAnd think thee worthy of an empress' love:\nKnow then, I here forget all former griefs,\nCancel all grudge, repeal thee home again,\nPlead a new state in thy unrivall'd merit,\nTo which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine,\nThou art a gentleman and well derived;\nTake thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her.


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I thank your grace; the gift hath made me happy.\nI now beseech you, for your daughter's sake,\nTo grant one boom that I shall ask of you.


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These banish'd men that I have kept withal\nAre men endued with worthy qualities:\nForgive them what they have committed here\nAnd let them be recall'd from their exile:\nThey are reformed, civil, full of good\nAnd fit for great employment, worthy lord.


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Thou hast prevail'd; I pardon them and thee:\nDispose of them as thou know'st their deserts.\nCome, let us go: we will include all jars\nWith triumphs, mirth and rare solemnity.


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And, as we walk along, I dare be bold\nWith our discourse to make your grace to smile.\nWhat think you of this page, my lord?


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Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along,\nThat you will wonder what hath fortuned.\nCome, Proteus; 'tis your penance but to hear\nThe story of your loves discovered:\nThat done, our day of marriage shall be yours;\nOne feast, one house, one mutual happiness.


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RIGHT HONORABLE,\nI KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my\nunpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will\ncensure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a\nburden only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account\nmyself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle\nhours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if\nthe first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be\nsorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after ear so\nbarren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest.\nI leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your\nheart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish\nand the world's hopeful expectation.


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Your honour's in all duty,\nWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.\nPoet. Even as the sun with purple-colour'd face\nHad ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,\nRose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;\nHunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn;\nSick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,\nAnd like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.


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'Thrice-fairer than myself,' thus she began,\n'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,\nStain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,\nMore white and red than doves or roses are;\nNature that made thee, with herself at strife,\nSaith that the world hath ending with thy life.


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'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,\nAnd rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;\nIf thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed\nA thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:\nHere come and sit, where never serpent hisses,\nAnd being set, I'll smother thee with kisses;


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'And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,\nBut rather famish them amid their plenty,\nMaking them red and pale with fresh variety,\nTen kisses short as one, one long as twenty:\nA summer's day will seem an hour but short,\nBeing wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'


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With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,\nThe precedent of pith and livelihood,\nAnd trembling in her passion, calls it balm,\nEarth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:\nBeing so enraged, desire doth lend her force\nCourageously to pluck him from his horse.


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Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,\nUnder her other was the tender boy,\nWho blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,\nWith leaden appetite, unapt to toy;\nShe red and hot as coals of glowing fire,\nHe red for shame, but frosty in desire.


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The studded bridle on a ragged bough\nNimbly she fastens:--O, how quick is love!--\nThe steed is stalled up, and even now\nTo tie the rider she begins to prove:\nBackward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,\nAnd govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.


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So soon was she along as he was down,\nEach leaning on their elbows and their hips:\nNow doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,\nAnd 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;\nAnd kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,\n'If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.'


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He burns with bashful shame: she with her tears\nDoth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;\nThen with her windy sighs and golden hairs\nTo fan and blow them dry again she seeks:\nHe saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss;\nWhat follows more she murders with a kiss.


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Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,\nTires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,\nShaking her wings, devouring all in haste,\nTill either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone;\nEven so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,\nAnd where she ends she doth anew begin.


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Forced to content, but never to obey,\nPanting he lies and breatheth in her face;\nShe feedeth on the steam as on a prey,\nAnd calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace;\nWishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,\nSo they were dew'd with such distilling showers.


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Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net,\nSo fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies;\nPure shame and awed resistance made him fret,\nWhich bred more beauty in his angry eyes:\nRain added to a river that is rank\nPerforce will force it overflow the bank.


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Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,\nFor to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;\nStill is he sullen, still he lours and frets,\n'Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale:\nBeing red, she loves him best; and being white,\nHer best is better'd with a more delight.


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Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;\nAnd by her fair immortal hand she swears,\nFrom his soft bosom never to remove,\nTill he take truce with her contending tears,\nWhich long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet;\nAnd one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.


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Upon this promise did he raise his chin,\nLike a dive-dapper peering through a wave,\nWho, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in;\nSo offers he to give what she did crave;\nBut when her lips were ready for his pay,\nHe winks, and turns his lips another way.


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Never did passenger in summer's heat\nMore thirst for drink than she for this good turn.\nHer help she sees, but help she cannot get;\nShe bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:\n'O, pity,' 'gan she cry, 'flint-hearted boy!\n'Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?


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'I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now,\nEven by the stern and direful god of war,\nWhose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow,\nWho conquers where he comes in every jar;\nYet hath he been my captive and my slave,\nAnd begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have.


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'Over my altars hath he hung his lance,\nHis batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest,\nAnd for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance,\nTo toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest,\nScorning his churlish drum and ensign red,\nMaking my arms his field, his tent my bed.


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'Thus he that overruled I oversway'd,\nLeading him prisoner in a red-rose chain:\nStrong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey'd,\nYet was he servile to my coy disdain.\nO, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,\nFor mastering her that foil'd the god of fight!


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'Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,--\nThough mine be not so fair, yet are they red--\nThe kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.\nWhat seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head:\nLook in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies;\nThen why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?\n'Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again,\nAnd I will wink; so shall the day seem night;\nLove keeps his revels where they are but twain;\nBe bold to play, our sport is not in sight:\nThese blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean\nNever can blab, nor know not what we mean.


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'The tender spring upon thy tempting lip\nShows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted:\nMake use of time, let not advantage slip;\nBeauty within itself should not be wasted:\nFair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime\nRot and consume themselves in little time.


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'Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old,\nIll-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,\nO'erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold,\nThick-sighted, barren, lean and lacking juice,\nThen mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee\nBut having no defects, why dost abhor me?


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'Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow;\nMine eyes are gray and bright and quick in turning:\nMy beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,\nMy flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;\nMy smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,\nWould in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.


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'Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,\nOr, like a fairy, trip upon the green,\nOr, like a nymph, with long dishevell'd hair,\nDance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:\nLove is a spirit all compact of fire,\nNot gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.


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'Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie;\nThese forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;\nTwo strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,\nFrom morn till night, even where I list to sport me:\nIs love so light, sweet boy, and may it be\nThat thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?


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'Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?\nCan thy right hand seize love upon thy left?\nThen woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,\nSteal thine own freedom and complain on theft.\nNarcissus so himself himself forsook,\nAnd died to kiss his shadow in the brook.


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'Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,\nDainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,\nHerbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear:\nThings growing to themselves are growth's abuse:\nSeeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty;\nThou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.


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'Upon the earth's increase why shouldst thou feed,\nUnless the earth with thy increase be fed?\nBy law of nature thou art bound to breed,\nThat thine may live when thou thyself art dead;\nAnd so, in spite of death, thou dost survive,\nIn that thy likeness still is left alive.'


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By this the love-sick queen began to sweat,\nFor where they lay the shadow had forsook them,\nAnd Titan, tired in the mid-day heat,\nWith burning eye did hotly overlook them;\nWishing Adonis had his team to guide,\nSo he were like him and by Venus' side.


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And now Adonis, with a lazy spright,\nAnd with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,\nHis louring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight,\nLike misty vapours when they blot the sky,\nSouring his cheeks cries 'Fie, no more of love!\nThe sun doth burn my face: I must remove.'


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'Ay me,' quoth Venus, 'young, and so unkind?\nWhat bare excuses makest thou to be gone!\nI'll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind\nShall cool the heat of this descending sun:\nI'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;\nIf they burn too, I'll quench them with my tears.


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'The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,\nAnd, lo, I lie between that sun and thee:\nThe heat I have from thence doth little harm,\nThine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;\nAnd were I not immortal, life were done\nBetween this heavenly and earthly sun.


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'Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel,\nNay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth?\nArt thou a woman's son, and canst not feel\nWhat 'tis to love? how want of love tormenteth?\nO, had thy mother borne so hard a mind,\nShe had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.


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'What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this?\nOr what great danger dwells upon my suit?\nWhat were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?\nSpeak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:\nGive me one kiss, I'll give it thee again,\nAnd one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.


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'Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,\nWell-painted idol, image dun and dead,\nStatue contenting but the eye alone,\nThing like a man, but of no woman bred!\nThou art no man, though of a man's complexion,\nFor men will kiss even by their own direction.'


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This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,\nAnd swelling passion doth provoke a pause;\nRed cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth he wrong;\nBeing judge in love, she cannot right her cause:\nAnd now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,\nAnd now her sobs do her intendments break.


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Sometimes she shakes her head and then his hand,\nNow gazeth she on him, now on the ground;\nSometimes her arms infold him like a band:\nShe would, he will not in her arms be bound;\nAnd when from thence he struggles to be gone,\nShe locks her lily fingers one in one.


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'Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here\nWithin the circuit of this ivory pale,\nI'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;\nFeed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:\nGraze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,\nStray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.


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Within this limit is relief enough,\nSweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,\nRound rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,\nTo shelter thee from tempest and from rain\nThen be my deer, since I am such a park;\nNo dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.'


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At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,\nThat in each cheek appears a pretty dimple:\nLove made those hollows, if himself were slain,\nHe might be buried in a tomb so simple;\nForeknowing well, if there he came to lie,\nWhy, there Love lived and there he could not die.


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These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,\nOpen'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking.\nBeing mad before, how doth she now for wits?\nStruck dead at first, what needs a second striking?\nPoor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,\nTo love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!


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Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say?\nHer words are done, her woes are more increasing;\nThe time is spent, her object will away,\nAnd from her twining arms doth urge releasing.\n'Pity,' she cries, 'some favour, some remorse!'\nAway he springs and hasteth to his horse.


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But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbors by,\nA breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,\nAdonis' trampling courser doth espy,\nAnd forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:\nThe strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,\nBreaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.


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Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,\nAnd now his woven girths he breaks asunder;\nThe bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,\nWhose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder;\nThe iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth,\nControlling what he was controlled with.


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His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane\nUpon his compass'd crest now stand on end;\nHis nostrils drink the air, and forth again,\nAs from a furnace, vapours doth he send:\nHis eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,\nShows his hot courage and his high desire.


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Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,\nWith gentle majesty and modest pride;\nAnon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,\nAs who should say 'Lo, thus my strength is tried,\nAnd this I do to captivate the eye\nOf the fair breeder that is standing by.'


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What recketh he his rider's angry stir,\nHis flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say'?\nWhat cares he now for curb or pricking spur?\nFor rich caparisons or trapping gay?\nHe sees his love, and nothing else he sees,\nFor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.


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Look, when a painter would surpass the life,\nIn limning out a well-proportion'd steed,\nHis art with nature's workmanship at strife,\nAs if the dead the living should exceed;\nSo did this horse excel a common one\nIn shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.


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Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,\nBroad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide,\nHigh crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,\nThin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:\nLook, what a horse should have he did not lack,\nSave a proud rider on so proud a back.


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Sometime he scuds far off and there he stares;\nAnon he starts at stirring of a feather;\nTo bid the wind a base he now prepares,\nAnd whether he run or fly they know not whether;\nFor through his mane and tail the high wind sings,\nFanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.


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He looks upon his love and neighs unto her;\nShe answers him as if she knew his mind:\nBeing proud, as females are, to see him woo her,\nShe puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,\nSpurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,\nBeating his kind embracements with her heels.


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Then, like a melancholy malcontent,\nHe veils his tail that, like a falling plume,\nCool shadow to his melting buttock lent:\nHe stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume.\nHis love, perceiving how he is enraged,\nGrew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.


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His testy master goeth about to take him;\nWhen, lo, the unback'd breeder, full of fear,\nJealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,\nWith her the horse, and left Adonis there:\nAs they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,\nOut-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.


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All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,\nBanning his boisterous and unruly beast:\nAnd now the happy season once more fits,\nThat love-sick Love by pleading may be blest;\nFor lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong\nWhen it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.


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An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd,\nBurneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:\nSo of concealed sorrow may be said;\nFree vent of words love's fire doth assuage;\nBut when the heart's attorney once is mute,\nThe client breaks, as desperate in his suit.


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He sees her coming, and begins to glow,\nEven as a dying coal revives with wind,\nAnd with his bonnet hides his angry brow;\nLooks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,\nTaking no notice that she is so nigh,\nFor all askance he holds her in his eye.


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O, what a sight it was, wistly to view\nHow she came stealing to the wayward boy!\nTo note the fighting conflict of her hue,\nHow white and red each other did destroy!\nBut now her cheek was pale, and by and by\nIt flash'd forth fire, as lightning from the sky.


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Now was she just before him as he sat,\nAnd like a lowly lover down she kneels;\nWith one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,\nHer other tender hand his fair cheek feels:\nHis tenderer cheek receives her soft hand's print,\nAs apt as new-fall'n snow takes any dint.


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O, what a war of looks was then between them!\nHer eyes petitioners to his eyes suing;\nHis eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;\nHer eyes woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing:\nAnd all this dumb play had his acts made plain\nWith tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.


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Full gently now she takes him by the hand,\nA lily prison'd in a gaol of snow,\nOr ivory in an alabaster band;\nSo white a friend engirts so white a foe:\nThis beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,\nShow'd like two silver doves that sit a-billing.


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Once more the engine of her thoughts began:\n'O fairest mover on this mortal round,\nWould thou wert as I am, and I a man,\nMy heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound;\nFor one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,\nThough nothing but my body's bane would cure thee!


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'Give me my hand,' saith he, 'why dost thou feel it?'\n'Give me my heart,' saith she, 'and thou shalt have it:\nO, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,\nAnd being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it:\nThen love's deep groans I never shall regard,\nBecause Adonis' heart hath made mine hard.'


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'For shame,' he cries, 'let go, and let me go;\nMy day's delight is past, my horse is gone,\nAnd 'tis your fault I am bereft him so:\nI pray you hence, and leave me here alone;\nFor all my mind, my thought, my busy care,\nIs how to get my palfrey from the mare.'


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Thus she replies: 'Thy palfrey, as he should,\nWelcomes the warm approach of sweet desire:\nAffection is a coal that must be cool'd;\nElse, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire:\nThe sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;\nTherefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.


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'How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree,\nServilely master'd with a leathern rein!\nBut when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee,\nHe held such petty bondage in disdain;\nThrowing the base thong from his bending crest,\nEnfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.


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'Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,\nTeaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,\nBut, when his glutton eye so full hath fed,\nHis other agents aim at like delight?\nWho is so faint, that dare not be so bold\nTo touch the fire, the weather being cold?


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'Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy;\nAnd learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,\nTo take advantage on presented joy;\nThough I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee;\nO, learn to love; the lesson is but plain,\nAnd once made perfect, never lost again.'


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I know not love,' quoth he, 'nor will not know it,\nUnless it be a boar, and then I chase it;\n'Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;\nMy love to love is love but to disgrace it;\nFor I have heard it is a life in death,\nThat laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.


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'Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish'd?\nWho plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?\nIf springing things be any jot diminish'd,\nThey wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:\nThe colt that's back'd and burden'd being young\nLoseth his pride and never waxeth strong.


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'You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,\nAnd leave this idle theme, this bootless chat:\nRemove your siege from my unyielding heart;\nTo love's alarms it will not ope the gate:\nDismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery;\nFor where a heart is hard they make no battery.'


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'What! canst thou talk?' quoth she, 'hast thou a tongue?\nO, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing!\nThy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong;\nI had my load before, now press'd with bearing:\nMelodious discord, heavenly tune harshsounding,\nEar's deep-sweet music, and heart's deep-sore wounding.


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'Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love\nThat inward beauty and invisible;\nOr were I deaf, thy outward parts would move\nEach part in me that were but sensible:\nThough neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,\nYet should I be in love by touching thee.


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'Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me,\nAnd that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,\nAnd nothing but the very smell were left me,\nYet would my love to thee be still as much;\nFor from the stillitory of thy face excelling\nComes breath perfumed that breedeth love by\nsmelling.


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'But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste,\nBeing nurse and feeder of the other four!\nWould they not wish the feast might ever last,\nAnd bid Suspicion double-lock the door,\nLest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,\nShould, by his stealing in, disturb the feast?'


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Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd,\nWhich to his speech did honey passage yield;\nLike a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd\nWreck to the seaman, tempest to the field,\nSorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,\nGusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.


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This ill presage advisedly she marketh:\nEven as the wind is hush'd before it raineth,\nOr as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,\nOr as the berry breaks before it staineth,\nOr like the deadly bullet of a gun,\nHis meaning struck her ere his words begun.


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And at his look she flatly falleth down,\nFor looks kill love and love by looks reviveth;\nA smile recures the wounding of a frown;\nBut blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth!\nThe silly boy, believing she is dead,\nClaps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;


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And all amazed brake off his late intent,\nFor sharply he did think to reprehend her,\nWhich cunning love did wittily prevent:\nFair fall the wit that can so well defend her!\nFor on the grass she lies as she were slain,\nTill his breath breatheth life in her again.


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He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,\nHe bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,\nHe chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks\nTo mend the hurt that his unkindness marr'd:\nHe kisses her; and she, by her good will,\nWill never rise, so he will kiss her still.


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The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day:\nHer two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,\nLike the fair sun, when in his fresh array\nHe cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth;\nAnd as the bright sun glorifies the sky,\nSo is her face illumined with her eye;


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Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd,\nAs if from thence they borrow'd all their shine.\nWere never four such lamps together mix'd,\nHad not his clouded with his brow's repine;\nBut hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,\nShone like the moon in water seen by night.


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'O, where am I?' quoth she, 'in earth or heaven,\nOr in the ocean drench'd, or in the fire?\nWhat hour is this? or morn or weary even?\nDo I delight to die, or life desire?\nBut now I lived, and life was death's annoy;\nBut now I died, and death was lively joy.


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'O, thou didst kill me: kill me once again:\nThy eyes' shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine,\nHath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain\nThat they have murder'd this poor heart of mine;\nAnd these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,\nBut for thy piteous lips no more had seen.


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'Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!\nO, never let their crimson liveries wear!\nAnd as they last, their verdure still endure,\nTo drive infection from the dangerous year!\nThat the star-gazers, having writ on death,\nMay say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath.


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'Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,\nWhat bargains may I make, still to be sealing?\nTo sell myself I can be well contented,\nSo thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing;\nWhich purchase if thou make, for fear of slips\nSet thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.


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'A thousand kisses buys my heart from me;\nAnd pay them at thy leisure, one by one.\nWhat is ten hundred touches unto thee?\nAre they not quickly told and quickly gone?\nSay, for non-payment that the debt should double,\nIs twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?


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'Fair queen,' quoth he, 'if any love you owe me,\nMeasure my strangeness with my unripe years:\nBefore I know myself, seek not to know me;\nNo fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:\nThe mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,\nOr being early pluck'd is sour to taste.


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'Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait,\nHis day's hot task hath ended in the west;\nThe owl, night's herald, shrieks, ''Tis very late;'\nThe sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,\nAnd coal-black clouds that shadow heaven's light\nDo summon us to part and bid good night.


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'Now let me say 'Good night,' and so say you;\nIf you will say so, you shall have a kiss.'\n'Good night,' quoth she, and, ere he says 'Adieu,'\nThe honey fee of parting tender'd is:\nHer arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;\nIncorporate then they seem; face grows to face.


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Till, breathless, he disjoin'd, and backward drew\nThe heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,\nWhose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,\nWhereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth:\nHe with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth\nTheir lips together glued, fall to the earth.


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Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,\nAnd glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;\nHer lips are conquerors, his lips obey,\nPaying what ransom the insulter willeth;\nWhose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,\nThat she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry:


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And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,\nWith blindfold fury she begins to forage;\nHer face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,\nAnd careless lust stirs up a desperate courage,\nPlanting oblivion, beating reason back,\nForgetting shame's pure blush and honour's wrack.


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Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,\nLike a wild bird being tamed with too much handling,\nOr as the fleet-foot roe that's tired with chasing,\nOr like the froward infant still'd with dandling,\nHe now obeys, and now no more resisteth,\nWhile she takes all she can, not all she listeth.


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What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,\nAnd yields at last to every light impression?\nThings out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing,\nChiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:\nAffection faints not like a pale-faced coward,\nBut then woos best when most his choice is froward.


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When he did frown, O, had she then gave over,\nSuch nectar from his lips she had not suck'd.\nFoul words and frowns must not repel a lover;\nWhat though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd:\nWere beauty under twenty locks kept fast,\nYet love breaks through and picks them all at last.


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For pity now she can no more detain him;\nThe poor fool prays her that he may depart:\nShe is resolved no longer to restrain him;\nBids him farewell, and look well to her heart,\nThe which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest,\nHe carries thence incaged in his breast.


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'Sweet boy,' she says, 'this night I'll waste in sorrow,\nFor my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.\nTell me, Love's master, shall we meet to-morrow?\nSay, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?'\nHe tells her, no; to-morrow he intends\nTo hunt the boar with certain of his friends.


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'The boar!' quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,\nLike lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,\nUsurps her cheek; she trembles at his tale,\nAnd on his neck her yoking arms she throws:\nShe sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,\nHe on her belly falls, she on her back.


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Now is she in the very lists of love,\nHer champion mounted for the hot encounter:\nAll is imaginary she doth prove,\nHe will not manage her, although he mount her;\nThat worse than Tantalus' is her annoy,\nTo clip Elysium and to lack her joy.


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Even as poor birds, deceived with painted grapes,\nDo surfeit by the eye and pine the maw,\nEven so she languisheth in her mishaps,\nAs those poor birds that helpless berries saw.\nThe warm effects which she in him finds missing\nShe seeks to kindle with continual kissing.


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But all in vain; good queen, it will not be:\nShe hath assay'd as much as may be proved;\nHer pleading hath deserved a greater fee;\nShe's Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved.\n'Fie, fie,' he says, 'you crush me; let me go;\nYou have no reason to withhold me so.'


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'Thou hadst been gone,' quoth she, 'sweet boy, ere this,\nBut that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.\nO, be advised! thou know'st not what it is\nWith javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,\nWhose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still,\nLike to a mortal butcher bent to kill.


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'On his bow-back he hath a battle set\nOf bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;\nHis eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret;\nHis snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;\nBeing moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way,\nAnd whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.


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'His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,\nAre better proof than thy spear's point can enter;\nHis short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd;\nBeing ireful, on the lion he will venture:\nThe thorny brambles and embracing bushes,\nAs fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.


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'Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,\nTo which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes;\nNor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne,\nWhose full perfection all the world amazes;\nBut having thee at vantage,--wondrous dread!--\nWould root these beauties as he roots the mead.


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'O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still;\nBeauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:\nCome not within his danger by thy will;\nThey that thrive well take counsel of their friends.\nWhen thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,\nI fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.


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'Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white?\nSaw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?\nGrew I not faint? and fell I not downright?\nWithin my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,\nMy boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,\nBut, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.


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'For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy\nDoth call himself Affection's sentinel;\nGives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,\nAnd in a peaceful hour doth cry 'Kill, kill!'\nDistempering gentle Love in his desire,\nAs air and water do abate the fire.


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'This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,\nThis canker that eats up Love's tender spring,\nThis carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy,\nThat sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,\nKnocks at my heat and whispers in mine ear\nThat if I love thee, I thy death should fear:


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'And more than so, presenteth to mine eye\nThe picture of an angry-chafing boar,\nUnder whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie\nAn image like thyself, all stain'd with gore;\nWhose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed\nDoth make them droop with grief and hang the head.


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'What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,\nThat tremble at the imagination?\nThe thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,\nAnd fear doth teach it divination:\nI prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,\nIf thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.


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'But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me;\nUncouple at the timorous flying hare,\nOr at the fox which lives by subtlety,\nOr at the roe which no encounter dare:\nPursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,\nAnd on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy\nhounds.


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'And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,\nMark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles\nHow he outruns the wind and with what care\nHe cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:\nThe many musets through the which he goes\nAre like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.


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'Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,\nTo make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,\nAnd sometime where earth-delving conies keep,\nTo stop the loud pursuers in their yell,\nAnd sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:\nDanger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:


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'For there his smell with others being mingled,\nThe hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,\nCeasing their clamorous cry till they have singled\nWith much ado the cold fault cleanly out;\nThen do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,\nAs if another chase were in the skies.


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'By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,\nStands on his hinder legs with listening ear,\nTo harken if his foes pursue him still:\nAnon their loud alarums he doth hear;\nAnd now his grief may be compared well\nTo one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.


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'Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch\nTurn, and return, indenting with the way;\nEach envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,\nEach shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:\nFor misery is trodden on by many,\nAnd being low never relieved by any.


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'Lie quietly, and hear a little more;\nNay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:\nTo make thee hate the hunting of the boar,\nUnlike myself thou hear'st me moralize,\nApplying this to that, and so to so;\nFor love can comment upon every woe.


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'Where did I leave?' 'No matter where,' quoth he,\n'Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:\nThe night is spent.' 'Why, what of that?' quoth she.\n'I am,' quoth he, 'expected of my friends;\nAnd now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.'\n'In night,' quoth she, 'desire sees best of all


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'But if thou fall, O, then imagine this,\nThe earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,\nAnd all is but to rob thee of a kiss.\nRich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips\nMake modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,\nLest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.


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'Now of this dark night I perceive the reason:\nCynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,\nTill forging Nature be condemn'd of treason,\nFor stealing moulds from heaven that were divine;\nWherein she framed thee in high heaven's despite,\nTo shame the sun by day and her by night.


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'And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies\nTo cross the curious workmanship of nature,\nTo mingle beauty with infirmities,\nAnd pure perfection with impure defeature,\nMaking it subject to the tyranny\nOf mad mischances and much misery;


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'As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,\nLife-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood,\nThe marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint\nDisorder breeds by heating of the blood:\nSurfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair,\nSwear nature's death for framing thee so fair.


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'And not the least of all these maladies\nBut in one minute's fight brings beauty under:\nBoth favour, savour, hue and qualities,\nWhereat the impartial gazer late did wonder,\nAre on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done,\nAs mountain-snow melts with the midday sun.


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'Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,\nLove-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,\nThat on the earth would breed a scarcity\nAnd barren dearth of daughters and of sons,\nBe prodigal: the lamp that burns by night\nDries up his oil to lend the world his light.


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'What is thy body but a swallowing grave,\nSeeming to bury that posterity\nWhich by the rights of time thou needs must have,\nIf thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?\nIf so, the world will hold thee in disdain,\nSith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.


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'So in thyself thyself art made away;\nA mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,\nOr theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,\nOr butcher-sire that reaves his son of life.\nFoul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,\nBut gold that's put to use more gold begets.'


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'Nay, then,' quoth Adon, 'you will fall again\nInto your idle over-handled theme:\nThe kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,\nAnd all in vain you strive against the stream;\nFor, by this black-faced night, desire's foul nurse,\nYour treatise makes me like you worse and worse.


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'If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,\nAnd every tongue more moving than your own,\nBewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs,\nYet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown\nFor know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,\nAnd will not let a false sound enter there;


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'Lest the deceiving harmony should run\nInto the quiet closure of my breast;\nAnd then my little heart were quite undone,\nIn his bedchamber to be barr'd of rest.\nNo, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,\nBut soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.


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'What have you urged that I cannot reprove?\nThe path is smooth that leadeth on to danger:\nI hate not love, but your device in love,\nThat lends embracements unto every stranger.\nYou do it for increase: O strange excuse,\nWhen reason is the bawd to lust's abuse!


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'Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,\nSince sweating Lust on earth usurp'd his name;\nUnder whose simple semblance he hath fed\nUpon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;\nWhich the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,\nAs caterpillars do the tender leaves.


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'Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,\nBut Lust's effect is tempest after sun;\nLove's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,\nLust's winter comes ere summer half be done;\nLove surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;\nLove is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.


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'More I could tell, but more I dare not say;\nThe text is old, the orator too green.\nTherefore, in sadness, now I will away;\nMy face is full of shame, my heart of teen:\nMine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,\nDo burn themselves for having so offended.'


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With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace,\nOf those fair arms which bound him to her breast,\nAnd homeward through the dark laund runs apace;\nLeaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd.\nLook, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,\nSo glides he in the night from Venus' eye.


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Which after him she darts, as one on shore\nGazing upon a late-embarked friend,\nTill the wild waves will have him seen no more,\nWhose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:\nSo did the merciless and pitchy night\nFold in the object that did feed her sight.


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Whereat amazed, as one that unaware\nHath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,\nOr stonish'd as night-wanderers often are,\nTheir light blown out in some mistrustful wood,\nEven so confounded in the dark she lay,\nHaving lost the fair discovery of her way.


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And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,\nThat all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,\nMake verbal repetition of her moans;\nPassion on passion deeply is redoubled:\n'Ay me!' she cries, and twenty times 'Woe, woe!'\nAnd twenty echoes twenty times cry so.


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She marking them begins a wailing note\nAnd sings extemporally a woeful ditty;\nHow love makes young men thrall and old men dote;\nHow love is wise in folly, foolish-witty:\nHer heavy anthem still concludes in woe,\nAnd still the choir of echoes answer so.


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Her song was tedious and outwore the night,\nFor lovers' hours are long, though seeming short:\nIf pleased themselves, others, they think, delight\nIn such-like circumstance, with suchlike sport:\nTheir copious stories oftentimes begun\nEnd without audience and are never done.


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For who hath she to spend the night withal\nBut idle sounds resembling parasites,\nLike shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call,\nSoothing the humour of fantastic wits?\nShe says ''Tis so:' they answer all ''Tis so;'\nAnd would say after her, if she said 'No.'


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Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,\nFrom his moist cabinet mounts up on high,\nAnd wakes the morning, from whose silver breast\nThe sun ariseth in his majesty;\nWho doth the world so gloriously behold\nThat cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.


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Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow:\n'O thou clear god, and patron of all light,\nFrom whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow\nThe beauteous influence that makes him bright,\nThere lives a son that suck'd an earthly mother,\nMay lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.'


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This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,\nMusing the morning is so much o'erworn,\nAnd yet she hears no tidings of her love:\nShe hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:\nAnon she hears them chant it lustily,\nAnd all in haste she coasteth to the cry.


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And as she runs, the bushes in the way\nSome catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,\nSome twine about her thigh to make her stay:\nShe wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,\nLike a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,\nHasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.


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By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay;\nWhereat she starts, like one that spies an adder\nWreathed up in fatal folds just in his way,\nThe fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;\nEven so the timorous yelping of the hounds\nAppals her senses and her spirit confounds.


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For now she knows it is no gentle chase,\nBut the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,\nBecause the cry remaineth in one place,\nWhere fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:\nFinding their enemy to be so curst,\nThey all strain courtesy who shall cope him first.


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This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,\nThrough which it enters to surprise her heart;\nWho, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,\nWith cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part:\nLike soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,\nThey basely fly and dare not stay the field.


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Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy;\nTill, cheering up her senses all dismay'd,\nShe tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,\nAnd childish error, that they are afraid;\nBids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:--\nAnd with that word she spied the hunted boar,


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Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,\nLike milk and blood being mingled both together,\nA second fear through all her sinews spread,\nWhich madly hurries her she knows not whither:\nThis way runs, and now she will no further,\nBut back retires to rate the boar for murther.


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A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;\nShe treads the path that she untreads again;\nHer more than haste is mated with delays,\nLike the proceedings of a drunken brain,\nFull of respects, yet nought at all respecting;\nIn hand with all things, nought at all effecting.


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Here kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound,\nAnd asks the weary caitiff for his master,\nAnd there another licking of his wound,\n'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster;\nAnd here she meets another sadly scowling,\nTo whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.


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When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise,\nAnother flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,\nAgainst the welkin volleys out his voice;\nAnother and another answer him,\nClapping their proud tails to the ground below,\nShaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.


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Look, how the world's poor people are amazed\nAt apparitions, signs and prodigies,\nWhereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,\nInfusing them with dreadful prophecies;\nSo she at these sad signs draws up her breath\nAnd sighing it again, exclaims on Death.


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'Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,\nHateful divorce of love,'--thus chides she Death,--\n'Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean\nTo stifle beauty and to steal his breath,\nWho when he lived, his breath and beauty set\nGloss on the rose, smell to the violet?


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'If he be dead,--O no, it cannot be,\nSeeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it:--\nO yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,\nBut hatefully at random dost thou hit.\nThy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart\nMistakes that aim and cleaves an infant's heart.


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'Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,\nAnd, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.\nThe Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;\nThey bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower:\nLove's golden arrow at him should have fled,\nAnd not Death's ebon dart, to strike dead.


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'Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such weeping?\nWhat may a heavy groan advantage thee?\nWhy hast thou cast into eternal sleeping\nThose eyes that taught all other eyes to see?\nNow Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,\nSince her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.'


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Here overcome, as one full of despair,\nShe vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt\nThe crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair\nIn the sweet channel of her bosom dropt;\nBut through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,\nAnd with his strong course opens them again.


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O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!\nHer eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;\nBoth crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,\nSorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;\nBut like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,\nSighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.


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Variable passions throng her constant woe,\nAs striving who should best become her grief;\nAll entertain'd, each passion labours so,\nThat every present sorrow seemeth chief,\nBut none is best: then join they all together,\nLike many clouds consulting for foul weather.


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By this, far off she hears some huntsman hollo;\nA nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well:\nThe dire imagination she did follow\nThis sound of hope doth labour to expel;\nFor now reviving joy bids her rejoice,\nAnd flatters her it is Adonis' voice.


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Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,\nBeing prison'd in her eye like pearls in glass;\nYet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,\nWhich her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass,\nTo wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,\nWho is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.


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O hard-believing love, how strange it seems\nNot to believe, and yet too credulous!\nThy weal and woe are both of them extremes;\nDespair and hope makes thee ridiculous:\nThe one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,\nIn likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.


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Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought;\nAdonis lives, and Death is not to blame;\nIt was not she that call'd him, all-to naught:\nNow she adds honours to his hateful name;\nShe clepes him king of graves and grave for kings,\nImperious supreme of all mortal things.


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'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest;\nYet pardon me I felt a kind of fear\nWhen as I met the boar, that bloody beast,\nWhich knows no pity, but is still severe;\nThen, gentle shadow,--truth I must confess,--\nI rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.


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''Tis not my fault: the boar provoked my tongue;\nBe wreak'd on him, invisible commander;\n'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;\nI did but act, he's author of thy slander:\nGrief hath two tongues, and never woman yet\nCould rule them both without ten women's wit.'


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Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,\nHer rash suspect she doth extenuate;\nAnd that his beauty may the better thrive,\nWith Death she humbly doth insinuate;\nTells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories\nHis victories, his triumphs and his glories.


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'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I\nTo be of such a weak and silly mind\nTo wail his death who lives and must not die\nTill mutual overthrow of mortal kind!\nFor he being dead, with him is beauty slain,\nAnd, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.


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'Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear\nAs one with treasure laden, hemm'd thieves;\nTrifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,\nThy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.'\nEven at this word she hears a merry horn,\nWhereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.


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As falcon to the lure, away she flies;\nThe grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;\nAnd in her haste unfortunately spies\nThe foul boar's conquest on her fair delight;\nWhich seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,\nLike stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew;


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Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,\nShrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,\nAnd there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit,\nLong after fearing to creep forth again;\nSo, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled\nInto the deep dark cabins of her head:


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Where they resign their office and their light\nTo the disposing of her troubled brain;\nWho bids them still consort with ugly night,\nAnd never wound the heart with looks again;\nWho like a king perplexed in his throne,\nBy their suggestion gives a deadly groan,


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Whereat each tributary subject quakes;\nAs when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,\nStruggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes,\nWhich with cold terror doth men's minds confound.\nThis mutiny each part doth so surprise\nThat from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;


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And, being open'd, threw unwilling light\nUpon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd\nIn his soft flank; whose wonted lily white\nWith purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd:\nNo flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,\nBut stole his blood and seem'd with him to bleed.


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This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth;\nOver one shoulder doth she hang her head;\nDumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;\nShe thinks he could not die, he is not dead:\nHer voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow;\nHer eyes are mad that they have wept til now.


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Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,\nThat her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three;\nAnd then she reprehends her mangling eye,\nThat makes more gashes where no breach should be:\nHis face seems twain, each several limb is doubled;\nFor oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.


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'My tongue cannot express my grief for one,\nAnd yet,' quoth she, 'behold two Adons dead!\nMy sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,\nMine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead:\nHeavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire!\nSo shall I die by drops of hot desire.


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'Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!\nWhat face remains alive that's worth the viewing?\nWhose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast\nOf things long since, or any thing ensuing?\nThe flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;\nBut true-sweet beauty lived and died with him.


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'Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear!\nNor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:\nHaving no fair to lose, you need not fear;\nThe sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you:\nBut when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air\nLurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair:


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'And therefore would he put his bonnet on,\nUnder whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;\nThe wind would blow it off and, being gone,\nPlay with his locks: then would Adonis weep;\nAnd straight, in pity of his tender years,\nThey both would strive who first should dry his tears.


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'To see his face the lion walk'd along\nBehind some hedge, because he would not fear him;\nTo recreate himself when he hath sung,\nThe tiger would be tame and gently hear him;\nIf he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey\nAnd never fright the silly lamb that day.


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'When he beheld his shadow in the brook,\nThe fishes spread on it their golden gills;\nWhen he was by, the birds such pleasure took,\nThat some would sing, some other in their bills\nWould bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries;\nHe fed them with his sight, they him with berries.


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'But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,\nWhose downward eye still looketh for a grave,\nNe'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;\nWitness the entertainment that he gave:\nIf he did see his face, why then I know\nHe thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.


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''Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain:\nHe ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,\nWho did not whet his teeth at him again,\nBut by a kiss thought to persuade him there;\nAnd nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine\nSheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.


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'Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,\nWith kissing him I should have kill'd him first;\nBut he is dead, and never did he bless\nMy youth with his; the more am I accurst.'\nWith this, she falleth in the place she stood,\nAnd stains her face with his congealed blood.


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She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;\nShe takes him by the hand, and that is cold;\nShe whispers in his ears a heavy tale,\nAs if they heard the woeful words she told;\nShe lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,\nWhere, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;


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Two glasses, where herself herself beheld\nA thousand times, and now no more reflect;\nTheir virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,\nAnd every beauty robb'd of his effect:\n'Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite,\nThat, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.


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'Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy:\nSorrow on love hereafter shall attend:\nIt shall be waited on with jealousy,\nFind sweet beginning, but unsavoury end,\nNe'er settled equally, but high or low,\nThat all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.


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'It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud,\nBud and be blasted in a breathing-while;\nThe bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd\nWith sweets that shall the truest sight beguile:\nThe strongest body shall it make most weak,\nStrike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.


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'It shall be sparing and too full of riot,\nTeaching decrepit age to tread the measures;\nThe staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,\nPluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;\nIt shall be raging-mad and silly-mild,\nMake the young old, the old become a child.


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'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;\nIt shall not fear where it should most mistrust;\nIt shall be merciful and too severe,\nAnd most deceiving when it seems most just;\nPerverse it shall be where it shows most toward,\nPut fear to valour, courage to the coward.


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'It shall be cause of war and dire events,\nAnd set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;\nSubject and servile to all discontents,\nAs dry combustious matter is to fire:\nSith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,\nThey that love best their loves shall not enjoy.'


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By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd\nWas melted like a vapour from her sight,\nAnd in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd,\nA purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white,\nResembling well his pale cheeks and the blood\nWhich in round drops upon their whiteness stood.


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She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,\nComparing it to her Adonis' breath,\nAnd says, within her bosom it shall dwell,\nSince he himself is reft from her by death:\nShe crops the stalk, and in the breach appears\nGreen dropping sap, which she compares to tears.


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'Poor flower,' quoth she, 'this was thy fathers guise--\nSweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire--\nFor every little grief to wet his eyes:\nTo grow unto himself was his desire,\nAnd so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good\nTo wither in my breast as in his blood.


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'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;\nThou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:\nLo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest,\nMy throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:\nThere shall not be one minute in an hour\nWherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.'


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Thus weary of the world, away she hies,\nAnd yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid\nTheir mistress mounted through the empty skies\nIn her light chariot quickly is convey'd;\nHolding their course to Paphos, where their queen\nMeans to immure herself and not be seen.


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If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia, on\nthe like occasion whereon my services are now on\nfoot, you shall see, as I have said, great\ndifference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia.


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I think, this coming summer, the King of Sicilia\nmeans to pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him.


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Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my knowledge:\nwe cannot with such magnificence--in so rare--I know\nnot what to say. We will give you sleepy drinks,\nthat your senses, unintelligent of our insufficience,\nmay, though they cannot praise us, as little accuse\nus.


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Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to Bohemia.\nThey were trained together in their childhoods; and\nthere rooted betwixt them then such an affection,\nwhich cannot choose but branch now. Since their\nmore mature dignities and royal necessities made\nseparation of their society, their encounters,\nthough not personal, have been royally attorneyed\nwith interchange of gifts, letters, loving\nembassies; that they have seemed to be together,\nthough absent, shook hands, as over a vast, and\nembraced, as it were, from the ends of opposed\nwinds. The heavens continue their loves!


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I think there is not in the world either malice or\nmatter to alter it. You have an unspeakable\ncomfort of your young prince Mamillius: it is a\ngentleman of the greatest promise that ever came\ninto my note.


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I very well agree with you in the hopes of him: it\nis a gallant child; one that indeed physics the\nsubject, makes old hearts fresh: they that went on\ncrutches ere he was born desire yet their life to\nsee him a man.


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Nine changes of the watery star hath been\nThe shepherd's note since we have left our throne\nWithout a burthen: time as long again\nWould be find up, my brother, with our thanks;\nAnd yet we should, for perpetuity,\nGo hence in debt: and therefore, like a cipher,\nYet standing in rich place, I multiply\nWith one 'We thank you' many thousands moe\nThat go before it.


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Sir, that's to-morrow.\nI am question'd by my fears, of what may chance\nOr breed upon our absence; that may blow\nNo sneaping winds at home, to make us say\n'This is put forth too truly:' besides, I have stay'd\nTo tire your royalty.


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Press me not, beseech you, so.\nThere is no tongue that moves, none, none i' the world,\nSo soon as yours could win me: so it should now,\nWere there necessity in your request, although\n'Twere needful I denied it. My affairs\nDo even drag me homeward: which to hinder\nWere in your love a whip to me; my stay\nTo you a charge and trouble: to save both,\nFarewell, our brother.


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I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until\nYou have drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir,\nCharge him too coldly. Tell him, you are sure\nAll in Bohemia's well; this satisfaction\nThe by-gone day proclaim'd: say this to him,\nHe's beat from his best ward.


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To tell, he longs to see his son, were strong:\nBut let him say so then, and let him go;\nBut let him swear so, and he shall not stay,\nWe'll thwack him hence with distaffs.\nYet of your royal presence I'll adventure\nThe borrow of a week. When at Bohemia\nYou take my lord, I'll give him my commission\nTo let him there a month behind the gest\nPrefix'd for's parting: yet, good deed, Leontes,\nI love thee not a jar o' the clock behind\nWhat lady-she her lord. You'll stay?


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Verily!\nYou put me off with limber vows; but I,\nThough you would seek to unsphere the\nstars with oaths,\nShould yet say 'Sir, no going.' Verily,\nYou shall not go: a lady's 'Verily' 's\nAs potent as a lord's. Will you go yet?\nForce me to keep you as a prisoner,\nNot like a guest; so you shall pay your fees\nWhen you depart, and save your thanks. How say you?\nMy prisoner? or my guest? by your dread 'Verily,'\nOne of them you shall be.


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Your guest, then, madam:\nTo be your prisoner should import offending;\nWhich is for me less easy to commit\nThan you to punish.


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Not your gaoler, then,\nBut your kind hostess. Come, I'll question you\nOf my lord's tricks and yours when you were boys:\nYou were pretty lordings then?


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We were, fair queen,\nTwo lads that thought there was no more behind\nBut such a day to-morrow as to-day,\nAnd to be boy eternal.


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We were as twinn'd lambs that did frisk i' the sun,\nAnd bleat the one at the other: what we changed\nWas innocence for innocence; we knew not\nThe doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream'd\nThat any did. Had we pursued that life,\nAnd our weak spirits ne'er been higher rear'd\nWith stronger blood, we should have answer'd heaven\nBoldly 'not guilty;' the imposition clear'd\nHereditary ours.


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O my most sacred lady!\nTemptations have since then been born to's; for\nIn those unfledged days was my wife a girl;\nYour precious self had then not cross'd the eyes\nOf my young play-fellow.


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Grace to boot!\nOf this make no conclusion, lest you say\nYour queen and I are devils: yet go on;\nThe offences we have made you do we'll answer,\nIf you first sinn'd with us and that with us\nYou did continue fault and that you slipp'd not\nWith any but with us.


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What! have I twice said well? when was't before?\nI prithee tell me; cram's with praise, and make's\nAs fat as tame things: one good deed dying tongueless\nSlaughters a thousand waiting upon that.\nOur praises are our wages: you may ride's\nWith one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere\nWith spur we beat an acre. But to the goal:\nMy last good deed was to entreat his stay:\nWhat was my first? it has an elder sister,\nOr I mistake you: O, would her name were Grace!\nBut once before I spoke to the purpose: when?\nNay, let me have't; I long.


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Why, that was when\nThree crabbed months had sour'd themselves to death,\nEre I could make thee open thy white hand\nAnd clap thyself my love: then didst thou utter\n'I am yours for ever.'


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'Tis grace indeed.\nWhy, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice:\nThe one for ever earn'd a royal husband;\nThe other for some while a friend.


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[Aside]. Too hot, too hot!\nTo mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.\nI have tremor cordis on me: my heart dances;\nBut not for joy; not joy. This entertainment\nMay a free face put on, derive a liberty\nFrom heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,\nAnd well become the agent; 't may, I grant;\nBut to be paddling palms and pinching fingers,\nAs now they are, and making practised smiles,\nAs in a looking-glass, and then to sigh, as 'twere\nThe mort o' the deer; O, that is entertainment\nMy bosom likes not, nor my brows! Mamillius,\nArt thou my boy?


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I' fecks!\nWhy, that's my bawcock. What, hast\nsmutch'd thy nose?\nThey say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain,\nWe must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain:\nAnd yet the steer, the heifer and the calf\nAre all call'd neat.--Still virginalling\nUpon his palm!--How now, you wanton calf!\nArt thou my calf?


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Thou want'st a rough pash and the shoots that I have,\nTo be full like me: yet they say we are\nAlmost as like as eggs; women say so,\nThat will say anything but were they false\nAs o'er-dyed blacks, as wind, as waters, false\nAs dice are to be wish'd by one that fixes\nNo bourn 'twixt his and mine, yet were it true\nTo say this boy were like me. Come, sir page,\nLook on me with your welkin eye: sweet villain!\nMost dear'st! my collop! Can thy dam?--may't be?--\nAffection! thy intention stabs the centre:\nThou dost make possible things not so held,\nCommunicatest with dreams;--how can this be?--\nWith what's unreal thou coactive art,\nAnd fellow'st nothing: then 'tis very credent\nThou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost,\nAnd that beyond commission, and I find it,\nAnd that to the infection of my brains\nAnd hardening of my brows.


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No, in good earnest.\nHow sometimes nature will betray its folly,\nIts tenderness, and make itself a pastime\nTo harder bosoms! Looking on the lines\nOf my boy's face, methoughts I did recoil\nTwenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech'd,\nIn my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzled,\nLest it should bite its master, and so prove,\nAs ornaments oft do, too dangerous:\nHow like, methought, I then was to this kernel,\nThis squash, this gentleman. Mine honest friend,\nWill you take eggs for money?


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You will! why, happy man be's dole! My brother,\nAre you so fond of your young prince as we\nDo seem to be of ours?


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If at home, sir,\nHe's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter,\nNow my sworn friend and then mine enemy,\nMy parasite, my soldier, statesman, all:\nHe makes a July's day short as December,\nAnd with his varying childness cures in me\nThoughts that would thick my blood.


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So stands this squire\nOfficed with me: we two will walk, my lord,\nAnd leave you to your graver steps. Hermione,\nHow thou lovest us, show in our brother's welcome;\nLet what is dear in Sicily be cheap:\nNext to thyself and my young rover, he's\nApparent to my heart.


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To your own bents dispose you: you'll be found,\nBe you beneath the sky.\n[Aside]\nI am angling now,\nThough you perceive me not how I give line.\nGo to, go to!\nHow she holds up the neb, the bill to him!\nAnd arms her with the boldness of a wife\nTo her allowing husband!\n[Exeunt POLIXENES, HERMIONE, and Attendants]\nGone already!\nInch-thick, knee-deep, o'er head and\nears a fork'd one!\nGo, play, boy, play: thy mother plays, and I\nPlay too, but so disgraced a part, whose issue\nWill hiss me to my grave: contempt and clamour\nWill be my knell. Go, play, boy, play.\nThere have been,\nOr I am much deceived, cuckolds ere now;\nAnd many a man there is, even at this present,\nNow while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm,\nThat little thinks she has been sluiced in's absence\nAnd his pond fish'd by his next neighbour, by\nSir Smile, his neighbour: nay, there's comfort in't\nWhiles other men have gates and those gates open'd,\nAs mine, against their will. Should all despair\nThat have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind\nWould hang themselves. Physic for't there is none;\nIt is a bawdy planet, that will strike\nWhere 'tis predominant; and 'tis powerful, think it,\nFrom east, west, north and south: be it concluded,\nNo barricado for a belly; know't;\nIt will let in and out the enemy\nWith bag and baggage: many thousand on's\nHave the disease, and feel't not. How now, boy!


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Go play, Mamillius; thou'rt an honest man.\n[Exit MAMILLIUS]\nCamillo, this great sir will yet stay longer.


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Didst perceive it?\n[Aside]\nThey're here with me already, whispering, rounding\n'Sicilia is a so-forth:' 'tis far gone,\nWhen I shall gust it last. How came't, Camillo,\nThat he did stay?


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At the queen's be't: 'good' should be pertinent\nBut, so it is, it is not. Was this taken\nBy any understanding pate but thine?\nFor thy conceit is soaking, will draw in\nMore than the common blocks: not noted, is't,\nBut of the finer natures? by some severals\nOf head-piece extraordinary? lower messes\nPerchance are to this business purblind? say.


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Satisfy!\nThe entreaties of your mistress! satisfy!\nLet that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo,\nWith all the nearest things to my heart, as well\nMy chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou\nHast cleansed my bosom, I from thee departed\nThy penitent reform'd: but we have been\nDeceived in thy integrity, deceived\nIn that which seems so.


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To bide upon't, thou art not honest, or,\nIf thou inclinest that way, thou art a coward,\nWhich hoxes honesty behind, restraining\nFrom course required; or else thou must be counted\nA servant grafted in my serious trust\nAnd therein negligent; or else a fool\nThat seest a game play'd home, the rich stake drawn,\nAnd takest it all for jest.


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My gracious lord,\nI may be negligent, foolish and fearful;\nIn every one of these no man is free,\nBut that his negligence, his folly, fear,\nAmong the infinite doings of the world,\nSometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord,\nIf ever I were wilful-negligent,\nIt was my folly; if industriously\nI play'd the fool, it was my negligence,\nNot weighing well the end; if ever fearful\nTo do a thing, where I the issue doubted,\nWhere of the execution did cry out\nAgainst the non-performance, 'twas a fear\nWhich oft infects the wisest: these, my lord,\nAre such allow'd infirmities that honesty\nIs never free of. But, beseech your grace,\nBe plainer with me; let me know my trespass\nBy its own visage: if I then deny it,\n'Tis none of mine.


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Ha' not you seen, Camillo,--\nBut that's past doubt, you have, or your eye-glass\nIs thicker than a cuckold's horn,--or heard,--\nFor to a vision so apparent rumour\nCannot be mute,--or thought,--for cogitation\nResides not in that man that does not think,--\nMy wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess,\nOr else be impudently negative,\nTo have nor eyes nor ears nor thought, then say\nMy wife's a hobby-horse, deserves a name\nAs rank as any flax-wench that puts to\nBefore her troth-plight: say't and justify't.


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I would not be a stander-by to hear\nMy sovereign mistress clouded so, without\nMy present vengeance taken: 'shrew my heart,\nYou never spoke what did become you less\nThan this; which to reiterate were sin\nAs deep as that, though true.


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Is whispering nothing?\nIs leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?\nKissing with inside lip? stopping the career\nOf laughing with a sigh?--a note infallible\nOf breaking honesty--horsing foot on foot?\nSkulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift?\nHours, minutes? noon, midnight? and all eyes\nBlind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only,\nThat would unseen be wicked? is this nothing?\nWhy, then the world and all that's in't is nothing;\nThe covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing;\nMy wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,\nIf this be nothing.


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It is; you lie, you lie:\nI say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee,\nPronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave,\nOr else a hovering temporizer, that\nCanst with thine eyes at once see good and evil,\nInclining to them both: were my wife's liver\nInfected as her life, she would not live\nThe running of one glass.


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Why, he that wears her like a medal, hanging\nAbout his neck, Bohemia: who, if I\nHad servants true about me, that bare eyes\nTo see alike mine honour as their profits,\nTheir own particular thrifts, they would do that\nWhich should undo more doing: ay, and thou,\nHis cupbearer,--whom I from meaner form\nHave benched and reared to worship, who mayst see\nPlainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven,\nHow I am galled,--mightst bespice a cup,\nTo give mine enemy a lasting wink;\nWhich draught to me were cordial.


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Sir, my lord,\nI could do this, and that with no rash potion,\nBut with a lingering dram that should not work\nMaliciously like poison: but I cannot\nBelieve this crack to be in my dread mistress,\nSo sovereignly being honourable.\nI have loved thee,--


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Make that thy question, and go rot!\nDost think I am so muddy, so unsettled,\nTo appoint myself in this vexation, sully\nThe purity and whiteness of my sheets,\nWhich to preserve is sleep, which being spotted\nIs goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps,\nGive scandal to the blood o' the prince my son,\nWho I do think is mine and love as mine,\nWithout ripe moving to't? Would I do this?\nCould man so blench?


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I must believe you, sir:\nI do; and will fetch off Bohemia for't;\nProvided that, when he's removed, your highness\nWill take again your queen as yours at first,\nEven for your son's sake; and thereby for sealing\nThe injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms\nKnown and allied to yours.


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Thou dost advise me\nEven so as I mine own course have set down:\nI'll give no blemish to her honour, none.


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My lord,\nGo then; and with a countenance as clear\nAs friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia\nAnd with your queen. I am his cupbearer:\nIf from me he have wholesome beverage,\nAccount me not your servant.


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O miserable lady! But, for me,\nWhat case stand I in? I must be the poisoner\nOf good Polixenes; and my ground to do't\nIs the obedience to a master, one\nWho in rebellion with himself will have\nAll that are his so too. To do this deed,\nPromotion follows. If I could find example\nOf thousands that had struck anointed kings\nAnd flourish'd after, I'ld not do't; but since\nNor brass nor stone nor parchment bears not one,\nLet villany itself forswear't. I must\nForsake the court: to do't, or no, is certain\nTo me a break-neck. Happy star, reign now!\nHere comes Bohemia.


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The king hath on him such a countenance\nAs he had lost some province and a region\nLoved as he loves himself: even now I met him\nWith customary compliment; when he,\nWafting his eyes to the contrary and falling\nA lip of much contempt, speeds from me and\nSo leaves me to consider what is breeding\nThat changeth thus his manners.


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How! dare not! do not. Do you know, and dare not?\nBe intelligent to me: 'tis thereabouts;\nFor, to yourself, what you do know, you must.\nAnd cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo,\nYour changed complexions are to me a mirror\nWhich shows me mine changed too; for I must be\nA party in this alteration, finding\nMyself thus alter'd with 't.


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There is a sickness\nWhich puts some of us in distemper, but\nI cannot name the disease; and it is caught\nOf you that yet are well.


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How! caught of me!\nMake me not sighted like the basilisk:\nI have look'd on thousands, who have sped the better\nBy my regard, but kill'd none so. Camillo,--\nAs you are certainly a gentleman, thereto\nClerk-like experienced, which no less adorns\nOur gentry than our parents' noble names,\nIn whose success we are gentle,--I beseech you,\nIf you know aught which does behove my knowledge\nThereof to be inform'd, imprison't not\nIn ignorant concealment.


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A sickness caught of me, and yet I well!\nI must be answer'd. Dost thou hear, Camillo,\nI conjure thee, by all the parts of man\nWhich honour does acknowledge, whereof the least\nIs not this suit of mine, that thou declare\nWhat incidency thou dost guess of harm\nIs creeping toward me; how far off, how near;\nWhich way to be prevented, if to be;\nIf not, how best to bear it.


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Sir, I will tell you;\nSince I am charged in honour and by him\nThat I think honourable: therefore mark my counsel,\nWhich must be even as swiftly follow'd as\nI mean to utter it, or both yourself and me\nCry lost, and so good night!


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He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears,\nAs he had seen't or been an instrument\nTo vice you to't, that you have touch'd his queen\nForbiddenly.


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O, then my best blood turn\nTo an infected jelly and my name\nBe yoked with his that did betray the Best!\nTurn then my freshest reputation to\nA savour that may strike the dullest nostril\nWhere I arrive, and my approach be shunn'd,\nNay, hated too, worse than the great'st infection\nThat e'er was heard or read!


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Swear his thought over\nBy each particular star in heaven and\nBy all their influences, you may as well\nForbid the sea for to obey the moon\nAs or by oath remove or counsel shake\nThe fabric of his folly, whose foundation\nIs piled upon his faith and will continue\nThe standing of his body.


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I know not: but I am sure 'tis safer to\nAvoid what's grown than question how 'tis born.\nIf therefore you dare trust my honesty,\nThat lies enclosed in this trunk which you\nShall bear along impawn'd, away to-night!\nYour followers I will whisper to the business,\nAnd will by twos and threes at several posterns\nClear them o' the city. For myself, I'll put\nMy fortunes to your service, which are here\nBy this discovery lost. Be not uncertain;\nFor, by the honour of my parents, I\nHave utter'd truth: which if you seek to prove,\nI dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer\nThan one condemn'd by the king's own mouth, thereon\nHis execution sworn.


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I do believe thee:\nI saw his heart in 's face. Give me thy hand:\nBe pilot to me and thy places shall\nStill neighbour mine. My ships are ready and\nMy people did expect my hence departure\nTwo days ago. This jealousy\nIs for a precious creature: as she's rare,\nMust it be great, and as his person's mighty,\nMust it be violent, and as he does conceive\nHe is dishonour'd by a man which ever\nProfess'd to him, why, his revenges must\nIn that be made more bitter. Fear o'ershades me:\nGood expedition be my friend, and comfort\nThe gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing\nOf his ill-ta'en suspicion! Come, Camillo;\nI will respect thee as a father if\nThou bear'st my life off hence: let us avoid.


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It is in mine authority to command\nThe keys of all the posterns: please your highness\nTo take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away.


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Not for because\nYour brows are blacker; yet black brows, they say,\nBecome some women best, so that there be not\nToo much hair there, but in a semicircle\nOr a half-moon made with a pen.


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Hark ye;\nThe queen your mother rounds apace: we shall\nPresent our services to a fine new prince\nOne of these days; and then you'ld wanton with us,\nIf we would have you.


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What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, sir, now\nI am for you again: pray you, sit by us,\nAnd tell 's a tale.


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Let's have that, good sir.\nCome on, sit down: come on, and do your best\nTo fright me with your sprites; you're powerful at it.


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Behind the tuft of pines I met them; never\nSaw I men scour so on their way: I eyed them\nEven to their ships.


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How blest am I\nIn my just censure, in my true opinion!\nAlack, for lesser knowledge! how accursed\nIn being so blest! There may be in the cup\nA spider steep'd, and one may drink, depart,\nAnd yet partake no venom, for his knowledge\nIs not infected: but if one present\nThe abhorr'd ingredient to his eye, make known\nHow he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides,\nWith violent hefts. I have drunk,\nand seen the spider.\nCamillo was his help in this, his pander:\nThere is a plot against my life, my crown;\nAll's true that is mistrusted: that false villain\nWhom I employ'd was pre-employ'd by him:\nHe has discover'd my design, and I\nRemain a pinch'd thing; yea, a very trick\nFor them to play at will. How came the posterns\nSo easily open?


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I know't too well.\nGive me the boy: I am glad you did not nurse him:\nThough he does bear some signs of me, yet you\nHave too much blood in him.


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Bear the boy hence; he shall not come about her;\nAway with him! and let her sport herself\nWith that she's big with; for 'tis Polixenes\nHas made thee swell thus.


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But I'ld say he had not,\nAnd I'll be sworn you would believe my saying,\nHowe'er you lean to the nayward.


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You, my lords,\nLook on her, mark her well; be but about\nTo say 'she is a goodly lady,' and\nThe justice of your bearts will thereto add\n'Tis pity she's not honest, honourable:'\nPraise her but for this her without-door form,\nWhich on my faith deserves high speech, and straight\nThe shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands\nThat calumny doth use--O, I am out--\nThat mercy does, for calumny will sear\nVirtue itself: these shrugs, these hums and ha's,\nWhen you have said 'she's goodly,' come between\nEre you can say 'she's honest:' but be 't known,\nFrom him that has most cause to grieve it should be,\nShe's an adulteress.


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Should a villain say so,\nThe most replenish'd villain in the world,\nHe were as much more villain: you, my lord,\nDo but mistake.


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You have mistook, my lady,\nPolixenes for Leontes: O thou thing!\nWhich I'll not call a creature of thy place,\nLest barbarism, making me the precedent,\nShould a like language use to all degrees\nAnd mannerly distinguishment leave out\nBetwixt the prince and beggar: I have said\nShe's an adulteress; I have said with whom:\nMore, she's a traitor and Camillo is\nA federary with her, and one that knows\nWhat she should shame to know herself\nBut with her most vile principal, that she's\nA bed-swerver, even as bad as those\nThat vulgars give bold'st titles, ay, and privy\nTo this their late escape.


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No, by my life.\nPrivy to none of this. How will this grieve you,\nWhen you shall come to clearer knowledge, that\nYou thus have publish'd me! Gentle my lord,\nYou scarce can right me throughly then to say\nYou did mistake.


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No; if I mistake\nIn those foundations which I build upon,\nThe centre is not big enough to bear\nA school-boy's top. Away with her! to prison!\nHe who shall speak for her is afar off guilty\nBut that he speaks.


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There's some ill planet reigns:\nI must be patient till the heavens look\nWith an aspect more favourable. Good my lords,\nI am not prone to weeping, as our sex\nCommonly are; the want of which vain dew\nPerchance shall dry your pities: but I have\nThat honourable grief lodged here which burns\nWorse than tears drown: beseech you all, my lords,\nWith thoughts so qualified as your charities\nShall best instruct you, measure me; and so\nThe king's will be perform'd!


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Who is't that goes with me? Beseech your highness,\nMy women may be with me; for you see\nMy plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools;\nThere is no cause: when you shall know your mistress\nHas deserved prison, then abound in tears\nAs I come out: this action I now go on\nIs for my better grace. Adieu, my lord:\nI never wish'd to see you sorry; now\nI trust I shall. My women, come; you have leave.


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Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice\nProve violence; in the which three great ones suffer,\nYourself, your queen, your son.


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For her, my lord,\nI dare my life lay down and will do't, sir,\nPlease you to accept it, that the queen is spotless\nI' the eyes of heaven and to you; I mean,\nIn this which you accuse her.


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If it prove\nShe's otherwise, I'll keep my stables where\nI lodge my wife; I'll go in couples with her;\nThan when I feel and see her no farther trust her;\nFor every inch of woman in the world,\nAy, every dram of woman's flesh is false, If she be.


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It is for you we speak, not for ourselves:\nYou are abused and by some putter-on\nThat will be damn'd for't; would I knew the villain,\nI would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw'd,\nI have three daughters; the eldest is eleven\nThe second and the third, nine, and some five;\nIf this prove true, they'll pay for't:\nby mine honour,\nI'll geld 'em all; fourteen they shall not see,\nTo bring false generations: they are co-heirs;\nAnd I had rather glib myself than they\nShould not produce fair issue.


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Cease; no more.\nYou smell this business with a sense as cold\nAs is a dead man's nose: but I do see't and feel't\nAs you feel doing thus; and see withal\nThe instruments that feel.


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If it be so,\nWe need no grave to bury honesty:\nThere's not a grain of it the face to sweeten\nOf the whole dungy earth.


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I had rather you did lack than I, my lord,\nUpon this ground; and more it would content me\nTo have her honour true than your suspicion,\nBe blamed for't how you might.


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Why, what need we\nCommune with you of this, but rather follow\nOur forceful instigation? Our prerogative\nCalls not your counsels, but our natural goodness\nImparts this; which if you, or stupefied\nOr seeming so in skill, cannot or will not\nRelish a truth like us, inform yourselves\nWe need no more of your advice: the matter,\nThe loss, the gain, the ordering on't, is all\nProperly ours.


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How could that be?\nEither thou art most ignorant by age,\nOr thou wert born a fool. Camillo's flight,\nAdded to their familiarity,\nWhich was as gross as ever touch'd conjecture,\nThat lack'd sight only, nought for approbation\nBut only seeing, all other circumstances\nMade up to the deed, doth push on this proceeding:\nYet, for a greater confirmation,\nFor in an act of this importance 'twere\nMost piteous to be wild, I have dispatch'd in post\nTo sacred Delphos, to Apollo's temple,\nCleomenes and Dion, whom you know\nOf stuff'd sufficiency: now from the oracle\nThey will bring all; whose spiritual counsel had,\nShall stop or spur me. Have I done well?


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Though I am satisfied and need no more\nThan what I know, yet shall the oracle\nGive rest to the minds of others, such as he\nWhose ignorant credulity will not\nCome up to the truth. So have we thought it good\nFrom our free person she should be confined,\nLest that the treachery of the two fled hence\nBe left her to perform. Come, follow us;\nWe are to speak in public; for this business\nWill raise us all.


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The keeper of the prison, call to him;\nlet him have knowledge who I am.\n[Exit Gentleman]\nGood lady,\nNo court in Europe is too good for thee;\nWhat dost thou then in prison?\n[Re-enter Gentleman, with the Gaoler]\nNow, good sir,\nYou know me, do you not?


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Here's ado,\nTo lock up honesty and honour from\nThe access of gentle visitors!\nIs't lawful, pray you,\nTo see her women? any of them? Emilia?


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Well, be't so, prithee.\n[Exit Gaoler]\nHere's such ado to make no stain a stain\nAs passes colouring.\n[Re-enter Gaoler, with EMILIA]\nDear gentlewoman,\nHow fares our gracious lady?


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As well as one so great and so forlorn\nMay hold together: on her frights and griefs,\nWhich never tender lady hath born greater,\nShe is something before her time deliver'd.


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A daughter, and a goodly babe,\nLusty and like to live: the queen receives\nMuch comfort in't; says 'My poor prisoner,\nI am innocent as you.'


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I dare be sworn\nThese dangerous unsafe lunes i' the king,\nbeshrew them!\nHe must be told on't, and he shall: the office\nBecomes a woman best; I'll take't upon me:\nIf I prove honey-mouth'd let my tongue blister\nAnd never to my red-look'd anger be\nThe trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia,\nCommend my best obedience to the queen:\nIf she dares trust me with her little babe,\nI'll show't the king and undertake to be\nHer advocate to the loud'st. We do not know\nHow he may soften at the sight o' the child:\nThe silence often of pure innocence\nPersuades when speaking fails.


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Most worthy madam,\nYour honour and your goodness is so evident\nThat your free undertaking cannot miss\nA thriving issue: there is no lady living\nSo meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship\nTo visit the next room, I'll presently\nAcquaint the queen of your most noble offer;\nWho but to-day hammer'd of this design,\nBut durst not tempt a minister of honour,\nLest she should be denied.


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Tell her, Emilia.\nI'll use that tongue I have: if wit flow from't\nAs boldness from my bosom, let 't not be doubted\nI shall do good.


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Madam, if't please the queen to send the babe,\nI know not what I shall incur to pass it,\nHaving no warrant.


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You need not fear it, sir:\nThis child was prisoner to the womb and is\nBy law and process of great nature thence\nFreed and enfranchised, not a party to\nThe anger of the king nor guilty of,\nIf any be, the trespass of the queen.


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Nor night nor day no rest: it is but weakness\nTo bear the matter thus; mere weakness. If\nThe cause were not in being,--part o' the cause,\nShe the adulteress; for the harlot king\nIs quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank\nAnd level of my brain, plot-proof; but she\nI can hook to me: say that she were gone,\nGiven to the fire, a moiety of my rest\nMight come to me again. Who's there?


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To see his nobleness!\nConceiving the dishonour of his mother,\nHe straight declined, droop'd, took it deeply,\nFasten'd and fix'd the shame on't in himself,\nThrew off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep,\nAnd downright languish'd. Leave me solely: go,\nSee how he fares.\n[Exit Servant]\nFie, fie! no thought of him:\nThe thought of my revenges that way\nRecoil upon me: in himself too mighty,\nAnd in his parties, his alliance; let him be\nUntil a time may serve: for present vengeance,\nTake it on her. Camillo and Polixenes\nLaugh at me, make their pastime at my sorrow:\nThey should not laugh if I could reach them, nor\nShall she within my power.


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Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me:\nFear you his tyrannous passion more, alas,\nThan the queen's life? a gracious innocent soul,\nMore free than he is jealous.


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Not so hot, good sir:\nI come to bring him sleep. 'Tis such as you,\nThat creep like shadows by him and do sigh\nAt each his needless heavings, such as you\nNourish the cause of his awaking: I\nDo come with words as medicinal as true,\nHonest as either, to purge him of that humour\nThat presses him from sleep.


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How!\nAway with that audacious lady! Antigonus,\nI charged thee that she should not come about me:\nI knew she would.


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From all dishonesty he can: in this,\nUnless he take the course that you have done,\nCommit me for committing honour, trust it,\nHe shall not rule me.


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Good my liege, I come;\nAnd, I beseech you, hear me, who profess\nMyself your loyal servant, your physician,\nYour most obedient counsellor, yet that dare\nLess appear so in comforting your evils,\nThan such as most seem yours: I say, I come\nFrom your good queen.


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Good queen, my lord,\nGood queen; I say good queen;\nAnd would by combat make her good, so were I\nA man, the worst about you.


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Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes\nFirst hand me: on mine own accord I'll off;\nBut first I'll do my errand. The good queen,\nFor she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter;\nHere 'tis; commends it to your blessing.


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Not so:\nI am as ignorant in that as you\nIn so entitling me, and no less honest\nThan you are mad; which is enough, I'll warrant,\nAs this world goes, to pass for honest.


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Traitors!\nWill you not push her out? Give her the bastard.\nThou dotard! thou art woman-tired, unroosted\nBy thy dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard;\nTake't up, I say; give't to thy crone.


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For ever\nUnvenerable be thy hands, if thou\nTakest up the princess by that forced baseness\nWhich he has put upon't!


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Nor I, nor any\nBut one that's here, and that's himself, for he\nThe sacred honour of himself, his queen's,\nHis hopeful son's, his babe's, betrays to slander,\nWhose sting is sharper than the sword's;\nand will not--\nFor, as the case now stands, it is a curse\nHe cannot be compell'd to't--once remove\nThe root of his opinion, which is rotten\nAs ever oak or stone was sound.


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A callat\nOf boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband\nAnd now baits me! This brat is none of mine;\nIt is the issue of Polixenes:\nHence with it, and together with the dam\nCommit them to the fire!


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It is yours;\nAnd, might we lay the old proverb to your charge,\nSo like you, 'tis the worse. Behold, my lords,\nAlthough the print be little, the whole matter\nAnd copy of the father, eye, nose, lip,\nThe trick of's frown, his forehead, nay, the valley,\nThe pretty dimples of his chin and cheek,\nHis smiles,\nThe very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger:\nAnd thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it\nSo like to him that got it, if thou hast\nThe ordering of the mind too, 'mongst all colours\nNo yellow in't, lest she suspect, as he does,\nHer children not her husband's!


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I care not:\nIt is an heretic that makes the fire,\nNot she which burns in't. I'll not call you tyrant;\nBut this most cruel usage of your queen,\nNot able to produce more accusation\nThan your own weak-hinged fancy, something savours\nOf tyranny and will ignoble make you,\nYea, scandalous to the world.


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On your allegiance,\nOut of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant,\nWhere were her life? she durst not call me so,\nIf she did know me one. Away with her!


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I pray you, do not push me; I'll be gone.\nLook to your babe, my lord; 'tis yours:\nJove send her\nA better guiding spirit! What needs these hands?\nYou, that are thus so tender o'er his follies,\nWill never do him good, not one of you.\nSo, so: farewell; we are gone.


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Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this.\nMy child? away with't! Even thou, that hast\nA heart so tender o'er it, take it hence\nAnd see it instantly consumed with fire;\nEven thou and none but thou. Take it up straight:\nWithin this hour bring me word 'tis done,\nAnd by good testimony, or I'll seize thy life,\nWith what thou else call'st thine. If thou refuse\nAnd wilt encounter with my wrath, say so;\nThe bastard brains with these my proper hands\nShall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire;\nFor thou set'st on thy wife.


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Beseech your highness, give us better credit:\nWe have always truly served you, and beseech you\nSo to esteem of us, and on our knees we beg,\nAs recompense of our dear services\nPast and to come, that you do change this purpose,\nWhich being so horrible, so bloody, must\nLead on to some foul issue: we all kneel.


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I am a feather for each wind that blows:\nShall I live on to see this bastard kneel\nAnd call me father? better burn it now\nThan curse it then. But be it; let it live.\nIt shall not neither. You, sir, come you hither;\nYou that have been so tenderly officious\nWith Lady Margery, your midwife there,\nTo save this bastard's life,--for 'tis a bastard,\nSo sure as this beard's grey,\n--what will you adventure\nTo save this brat's life?


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Any thing, my lord,\nThat my ability may undergo\nAnd nobleness impose: at least thus much:\nI'll pawn the little blood which I have left\nTo save the innocent: any thing possible.


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Mark and perform it, see'st thou! for the fail\nOf any point in't shall not only be\nDeath to thyself but to thy lewd-tongued wife,\nWhom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee,\nAs thou art liege-man to us, that thou carry\nThis female bastard hence and that thou bear it\nTo some remote and desert place quite out\nOf our dominions, and that there thou leave it,\nWithout more mercy, to its own protection\nAnd favour of the climate. As by strange fortune\nIt came to us, I do in justice charge thee,\nOn thy soul's peril and thy body's torture,\nThat thou commend it strangely to some place\nWhere chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.


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I swear to do this, though a present death\nHad been more merciful. Come on, poor babe:\nSome powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens\nTo be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say\nCasting their savageness aside have done\nLike offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous\nIn more than this deed does require! And blessing\nAgainst this cruelty fight on thy side,\nPoor thing, condemn'd to loss!


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Please your highness, posts\nFrom those you sent to the oracle are come\nAn hour since: Cleomenes and Dion,\nBeing well arrived from Delphos, are both landed,\nHasting to the court.


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Twenty-three days\nThey have been absent: 'tis good speed; foretells\nThe great Apollo suddenly will have\nThe truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords;\nSummon a session, that we may arraign\nOur most disloyal lady, for, as she hath\nBeen publicly accused, so shall she have\nA just and open trial. While she lives\nMy heart will be a burthen to me. Leave me,\nAnd think upon my bidding.


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The climate's delicate, the air most sweet,\nFertile the isle, the temple much surpassing\nThe common praise it bears.


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I shall report,\nFor most it caught me, the celestial habits,\nMethinks I so should term them, and the reverence\nOf the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice!\nHow ceremonious, solemn and unearthly\nIt was i' the offering!


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But of all, the burst\nAnd the ear-deafening voice o' the oracle,\nKin to Jove's thunder, so surprised my sense.\nThat I was nothing.


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If the event o' the journey\nProve as successful to the queen,--O be't so!--\nAs it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy,\nThe time is worth the use on't.


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Great Apollo\nTurn all to the best! These proclamations,\nSo forcing faults upon Hermione,\nI little like.


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The violent carriage of it\nWill clear or end the business: when the oracle,\nThus by Apollo's great divine seal'd up,\nShall the contents discover, something rare\nEven then will rush to knowledge. Go: fresh horses!\nAnd gracious be the issue!


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This sessions, to our great grief we pronounce,\nEven pushes 'gainst our heart: the party tried\nThe daughter of a king, our wife, and one\nOf us too much beloved. Let us be clear'd\nOf being tyrannous, since we so openly\nProceed in justice, which shall have due course,\nEven to the guilt or the purgation.\nProduce the prisoner.


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It is his highness' pleasure that the queen\nAppear in person here in court. Silence!\n[Enter HERMIONE guarded;]\nPAULINA and Ladies attending]


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[Reads] Hermione, queen to the worthy\nLeontes, king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and\narraigned of high treason, in committing adultery\nwith Polixenes, king of Bohemia, and conspiring\nwith Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign\nlord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence\nwhereof being by circumstances partly laid open,\nthou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance\nof a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for\ntheir better safety, to fly away by night.


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Since what I am to say must be but that\nWhich contradicts my accusation and\nThe testimony on my part no other\nBut what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me\nTo say 'not guilty:' mine integrity\nBeing counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,\nBe so received. But thus: if powers divine\nBehold our human actions, as they do,\nI doubt not then but innocence shall make\nFalse accusation blush and tyranny\nTremble at patience. You, my lord, best know,\nWho least will seem to do so, my past life\nHath been as continent, as chaste, as true,\nAs I am now unhappy; which is more\nThan history can pattern, though devised\nAnd play'd to take spectators. For behold me\nA fellow of the royal bed, which owe\nA moiety of the throne a great king's daughter,\nThe mother to a hopeful prince, here standing\nTo prate and talk for life and honour 'fore\nWho please to come and hear. For life, I prize it\nAs I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour,\n'Tis a derivative from me to mine,\nAnd only that I stand for. I appeal\nTo your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes\nCame to your court, how I was in your grace,\nHow merited to be so; since he came,\nWith what encounter so uncurrent I\nHave strain'd to appear thus: if one jot beyond\nThe bound of honour, or in act or will\nThat way inclining, harden'd be the hearts\nOf all that hear me, and my near'st of kin\nCry fie upon my grave!


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I ne'er heard yet\nThat any of these bolder vices wanted\nLess impudence to gainsay what they did\nThan to perform it first.


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More than mistress of\nWhich comes to me in name of fault, I must not\nAt all acknowledge. For Polixenes,\nWith whom I am accused, I do confess\nI loved him as in honour he required,\nWith such a kind of love as might become\nA lady like me, with a love even such,\nSo and no other, as yourself commanded:\nWhich not to have done I think had been in me\nBoth disobedience and ingratitude\nTo you and toward your friend, whose love had spoke,\nEven since it could speak, from an infant, freely\nThat it was yours. Now, for conspiracy,\nI know not how it tastes; though it be dish'd\nFor me to try how: all I know of it\nIs that Camillo was an honest man;\nAnd why he left your court, the gods themselves,\nWotting no more than I, are ignorant.


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Sir,\nYou speak a language that I understand not:\nMy life stands in the level of your dreams,\nWhich I'll lay down.


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Your actions are my dreams;\nYou had a bastard by Polixenes,\nAnd I but dream'd it. As you were past all shame,--\nThose of your fact are so--so past all truth:\nWhich to deny concerns more than avails; for as\nThy brat hath been cast out, like to itself,\nNo father owning it,--which is, indeed,\nMore criminal in thee than it,--so thou\nShalt feel our justice, in whose easiest passage\nLook for no less than death.


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Sir, spare your threats:\nThe bug which you would fright me with I seek.\nTo me can life be no commodity:\nThe crown and comfort of my life, your favour,\nI do give lost; for I do feel it gone,\nBut know not how it went. My second joy\nAnd first-fruits of my body, from his presence\nI am barr'd, like one infectious. My third comfort\nStarr'd most unluckily, is from my breast,\nThe innocent milk in its most innocent mouth,\nHaled out to murder: myself on every post\nProclaimed a strumpet: with immodest hatred\nThe child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs\nTo women of all fashion; lastly, hurried\nHere to this place, i' the open air, before\nI have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,\nTell me what blessings I have here alive,\nThat I should fear to die? Therefore proceed.\nBut yet hear this: mistake me not; no life,\nI prize it not a straw, but for mine honour,\nWhich I would free, if I shall be condemn'd\nUpon surmises, all proofs sleeping else\nBut what your jealousies awake, I tell you\n'Tis rigor and not law. Your honours all,\nI do refer me to the oracle:\nApollo be my judge!


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The Emperor of Russia was my father:\nO that he were alive, and here beholding\nHis daughter's trial! that he did but see\nThe flatness of my misery, yet with eyes\nOf pity, not revenge!


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You here shall swear upon this sword of justice,\nThat you, Cleomenes and Dion, have\nBeen both at Delphos, and from thence have brought\nThe seal'd-up oracle, by the hand deliver'd\nOf great Apollo's priest; and that, since then,\nYou have not dared to break the holy seal\nNor read the secrets in't.


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[Reads]. Hermione is chaste;\nPolixenes blameless; Camillo a true subject; Leontes\na jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begotten;\nand the king shall live without an heir, if that\nwhich is lost be not found.


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O sir, I shall be hated to report it!\nThe prince your son, with mere conceit and fear\nOf the queen's speed, is gone.


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Apollo's angry; and the heavens themselves\nDo strike at my injustice.\n[HERMIONE swoons]\nHow now there!


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Take her hence:\nHer heart is but o'ercharged; she will recover:\nI have too much believed mine own suspicion:\nBeseech you, tenderly apply to her\nSome remedies for life.\n[Exeunt PAULINA and Ladies, with HERMIONE]\nApollo, pardon\nMy great profaneness 'gainst thine oracle!\nI'll reconcile me to Polixenes,\nNew woo my queen, recall the good Camillo,\nWhom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy;\nFor, being transported by my jealousies\nTo bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose\nCamillo for the minister to poison\nMy friend Polixenes: which had been done,\nBut that the good mind of Camillo tardied\nMy swift command, though I with death and with\nReward did threaten and encourage him,\nNot doing 't and being done: he, most humane\nAnd fill'd with honour, to my kingly guest\nUnclasp'd my practise, quit his fortunes here,\nWhich you knew great, and to the hazard\nOf all encertainties himself commended,\nNo richer than his honour: how he glisters\nThorough my rust! and how his pity\nDoes my deeds make the blacker!


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What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me?\nWhat wheels? racks? fires? what flaying? boiling?\nIn leads or oils? what old or newer torture\nMust I receive, whose every word deserves\nTo taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny\nTogether working with thy jealousies,\nFancies too weak for boys, too green and idle\nFor girls of nine, O, think what they have done\nAnd then run mad indeed, stark mad! for all\nThy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.\nThat thou betray'dst Polixenes,'twas nothing;\nThat did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant\nAnd damnable ingrateful: nor was't much,\nThou wouldst have poison'd good Camillo's honour,\nTo have him kill a king: poor trespasses,\nMore monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon\nThe casting forth to crows thy baby-daughter\nTo be or none or little; though a devil\nWould have shed water out of fire ere done't:\nNor is't directly laid to thee, the death\nOf the young prince, whose honourable thoughts,\nThoughts high for one so tender, cleft the heart\nThat could conceive a gross and foolish sire\nBlemish'd his gracious dam: this is not, no,\nLaid to thy answer: but the last,--O lords,\nWhen I have said, cry 'woe!' the queen, the queen,\nThe sweet'st, dear'st creature's dead,\nand vengeance for't\nNot dropp'd down yet.


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I say she's dead; I'll swear't. If word nor oath\nPrevail not, go and see: if you can bring\nTincture or lustre in her lip, her eye,\nHeat outwardly or breath within, I'll serve you\nAs I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant!\nDo not repent these things, for they are heavier\nThan all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee\nTo nothing but despair. A thousand knees\nTen thousand years together, naked, fasting,\nUpon a barren mountain and still winter\nIn storm perpetual, could not move the gods\nTo look that way thou wert.


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I am sorry for't:\nAll faults I make, when I shall come to know them,\nI do repent. Alas! I have show'd too much\nThe rashness of a woman: he is touch'd\nTo the noble heart. What's gone and what's past help\nShould be past grief: do not receive affliction\nAt my petition; I beseech you, rather\nLet me be punish'd, that have minded you\nOf what you should forget. Now, good my liege\nSir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman:\nThe love I bore your queen--lo, fool again!--\nI'll speak of her no more, nor of your children;\nI'll not remember you of my own lord,\nWho is lost too: take your patience to you,\nAnd I'll say nothing.


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Thou didst speak but well\nWhen most the truth; which I receive much better\nThan to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me\nTo the dead bodies of my queen and son:\nOne grave shall be for both: upon them shall\nThe causes of their death appear, unto\nOur shame perpetual. Once a day I'll visit\nThe chapel where they lie, and tears shed there\nShall be my recreation: so long as nature\nWill bear up with this exercise, so long\nI daily vow to use it. Come and lead me\nUnto these sorrows.


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Ay, my lord: and fear\nWe have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly\nAnd threaten present blusters. In my conscience,\nThe heavens with that we have in hand are angry\nAnd frown upon 's.


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Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard;\nLook to thy bark: I'll not be long before\nI call upon thee.


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Make your best haste, and go not\nToo far i' the land: 'tis like to be loud weather;\nBesides, this place is famous for the creatures\nOf prey that keep upon't.


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Come, poor babe:\nI have heard, but not believed,\nthe spirits o' the dead\nMay walk again: if such thing be, thy mother\nAppear'd to me last night, for ne'er was dream\nSo like a waking. To me comes a creature,\nSometimes her head on one side, some another;\nI never saw a vessel of like sorrow,\nSo fill'd and so becoming: in pure white robes,\nLike very sanctity, she did approach\nMy cabin where I lay; thrice bow'd before me,\nAnd gasping to begin some speech, her eyes\nBecame two spouts: the fury spent, anon\nDid this break-from her: 'Good Antigonus,\nSince fate, against thy better disposition,\nHath made thy person for the thrower-out\nOf my poor babe, according to thine oath,\nPlaces remote enough are in Bohemia,\nThere weep and leave it crying; and, for the babe\nIs counted lost for ever, Perdita,\nI prithee, call't. For this ungentle business\nPut on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see\nThy wife Paulina more.' And so, with shrieks\nShe melted into air. Affrighted much,\nI did in time collect myself and thought\nThis was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys:\nYet for this once, yea, superstitiously,\nI will be squared by this. I do believe\nHermione hath suffer'd death, and that\nApollo would, this being indeed the issue\nOf King Polixenes, it should here be laid,\nEither for life or death, upon the earth\nOf its right father. Blossom, speed thee well!\nThere lie, and there thy character: there these;\nWhich may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,\nAnd still rest thine. The storm begins; poor wretch,\nThat for thy mother's fault art thus exposed\nTo loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot,\nBut my heart bleeds; and most accursed am I\nTo be by oath enjoin'd to this. Farewell!\nThe day frowns more and more: thou'rt like to have\nA lullaby too rough: I never saw\nThe heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour!\nWell may I get aboard! This is the chase:\nI am gone for ever.


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I would there were no age between sixteen and\nthree-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the\nrest; for there is nothing in the between but\ngetting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry,\nstealing, fighting--Hark you now! Would any but\nthese boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty\nhunt this weather? They have scared away two of my\nbest sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find\nthan the master: if any where I have them, 'tis by\nthe seaside, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an't be thy\nwill what have we here! Mercy on 's, a barne a very\npretty barne! A boy or a child, I wonder? A\npretty one; a very pretty one: sure, some 'scape:\nthough I am not bookish, yet I can read\nwaiting-gentlewoman in the 'scape. This has been\nsome stair-work, some trunk-work, some\nbehind-door-work: they were warmer that got this\nthan the poor thing is here. I'll take it up for\npity: yet I'll tarry till my son come; he hallooed\nbut even now. Whoa, ho, hoa!


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What, art so near? If thou'lt see a thing to talk\non when thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What\nailest thou, man?


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I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land!\nbut I am not to say it is a sea, for it is now the\nsky: betwixt the firmament and it you cannot thrust\na bodkin's point.


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I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages,\nhow it takes up the shore! but that's not the\npoint. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls!\nsometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em; now the\nship boring the moon with her main-mast, and anon\nswallowed with yest and froth, as you'ld thrust a\ncork into a hogshead. And then for the\nland-service, to see how the bear tore out his\nshoulder-bone; how he cried to me for help and said\nhis name was Antigonus, a nobleman. But to make an\nend of the ship, to see how the sea flap-dragoned\nit: but, first, how the poor souls roared, and the\nsea mocked them; and how the poor gentleman roared\nand the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than\nthe sea or weather.


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Now, now: I have not winked since I saw these\nsights: the men are not yet cold under water, nor\nthe bear half dined on the gentleman: he's at it\nnow.


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I would you had been by the ship side, to have\nhelped her: there your charity would have lacked footing.


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Heavy matters! heavy matters! but look thee here,\nboy. Now bless thyself: thou mettest with things\ndying, I with things newborn. Here's a sight for\nthee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire's\nchild! look thee here; take up, take up, boy;\nopen't. So, let's see: it was told me I should be\nrich by the fairies. This is some changeling:\nopen't. What's within, boy?


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You're a made old man: if the sins of your youth\nare forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold! all gold!


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This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so: up\nwith't, keep it close: home, home, the next way.\nWe are lucky, boy; and to be so still requires\nnothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go: come, good\nboy, the next way home.


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Go you the next way with your findings. I'll go see\nif the bear be gone from the gentleman and how much\nhe hath eaten: they are never curst but when they\nare hungry: if there be any of him left, I'll bury\nit.


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That's a good deed. If thou mayest discern by that\nwhich is left of him what he is, fetch me to the\nsight of him.


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I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror\nOf good and bad, that makes and unfolds error,\nNow take upon me, in the name of Time,\nTo use my wings. Impute it not a crime\nTo me or my swift passage, that I slide\nO'er sixteen years and leave the growth untried\nOf that wide gap, since it is in my power\nTo o'erthrow law and in one self-born hour\nTo plant and o'erwhelm custom. Let me pass\nThe same I am, ere ancient'st order was\nOr what is now received: I witness to\nThe times that brought them in; so shall I do\nTo the freshest things now reigning and make stale\nThe glistering of this present, as my tale\nNow seems to it. Your patience this allowing,\nI turn my glass and give my scene such growing\nAs you had slept between: Leontes leaving,\nThe effects of his fond jealousies so grieving\nThat he shuts up himself, imagine me,\nGentle spectators, that I now may be\nIn fair Bohemia, and remember well,\nI mentioned a son o' the king's, which Florizel\nI now name to you; and with speed so pace\nTo speak of Perdita, now grown in grace\nEqual with wondering: what of her ensues\nI list not prophecy; but let Time's news\nBe known when 'tis brought forth.\nA shepherd's daughter,\nAnd what to her adheres, which follows after,\nIs the argument of Time. Of this allow,\nIf ever you have spent time worse ere now;\nIf never, yet that Time himself doth say\nHe wishes earnestly you never may.


plain_text:
I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate:\n'tis a sickness denying thee any thing; a death to\ngrant this.


plain_text:
It is fifteen years since I saw my country: though\nI have for the most part been aired abroad, I\ndesire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent\nking, my master, hath sent for me; to whose feeling\nsorrows I might be some allay, or I o'erween to\nthink so, which is another spur to my departure.


plain_text:
As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of\nthy services by leaving me now: the need I have of\nthee thine own goodness hath made; better not to\nhave had thee than thus to want thee: thou, having\nmade me businesses which none without thee can\nsufficiently manage, must either stay to execute\nthem thyself or take away with thee the very\nservices thou hast done; which if I have not enough\nconsidered, as too much I cannot, to be more\nthankful to thee shall be my study, and my profit\ntherein the heaping friendships. Of that fatal\ncountry, Sicilia, prithee speak no more; whose very\nnaming punishes me with the remembrance of that\npenitent, as thou callest him, and reconciled king,\nmy brother; whose loss of his most precious queen\nand children are even now to be afresh lamented.\nSay to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my\nson? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not\nbeing gracious, than they are in losing them when\nthey have approved their virtues.


plain_text:
Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince. What\nhis happier affairs may be, are to me unknown: but I\nhave missingly noted, he is of late much retired\nfrom court and is less frequent to his princely\nexercises than formerly he hath appeared.


plain_text:
I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some\ncare; so far that I have eyes under my service which\nlook upon his removedness; from whom I have this\nintelligence, that he is seldom from the house of a\nmost homely shepherd; a man, they say, that from\nvery nothing, and beyond the imagination of his\nneighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate.


plain_text:
I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a\ndaughter of most rare note: the report of her is\nextended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage.


plain_text:
That's likewise part of my intelligence; but, I\nfear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou\nshalt accompany us to the place; where we will, not\nappearing what we are, have some question with the\nshepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not\nuneasy to get the cause of my son's resort thither.\nPrithee, be my present partner in this business, and\nlay aside the thoughts of Sicilia.


plain_text:
When daffodils begin to peer,\nWith heigh! the doxy over the dale,\nWhy, then comes in the sweet o' the year;\nFor the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.\nThe white sheet bleaching on the hedge,\nWith heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!\nDoth set my pugging tooth on edge;\nFor a quart of ale is a dish for a king.\nThe lark, that tirra-lyra chants,\nWith heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,\nAre summer songs for me and my aunts,\nWhile we lie tumbling in the hay.\nI have served Prince Florizel and in my time\nwore three-pile; but now I am out of service:\nBut shall I go mourn for that, my dear?\nThe pale moon shines by night:\nAnd when I wander here and there,\nI then do most go right.\nIf tinkers may have leave to live,\nAnd bear the sow-skin budget,\nThen my account I well may, give,\nAnd in the stocks avouch it.\nMy traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to\nlesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who\nbeing, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise\na snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and\ndrab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is\nthe silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful\non the highway: beating and hanging are terrors to\nme: for the life to come, I sleep out the thought\nof it. A prize! a prize!


plain_text:
Let me see: every 'leven wether tods; every tod\nyields pound and odd shilling; fifteen hundred\nshorn. what comes the wool to?


plain_text:
I cannot do't without counters. Let me see; what am\nI to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound\nof sugar, five pound of currants, rice,--what will\nthis sister of mine do with rice? But my father\nhath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it\non. She hath made me four and twenty nose-gays for\nthe shearers, three-man-song-men all, and very good\nones; but they are most of them means and bases; but\none puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to\nhorn-pipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden\npies; mace; dates?--none, that's out of my note;\nnutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I\nmay beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of\nraisins o' the sun.


plain_text:
O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more\nthan the stripes I have received, which are mighty\nones and millions.


plain_text:
I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel\nta'en from me, and these detestable things put upon\nme.


plain_text:
Indeed, he should be a footman by the garments he\nhas left with thee: if this be a horseman's coat,\nit hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand,\nI'll help thee: come, lend me thy hand.


plain_text:
No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir: I have\na kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence,\nunto whom I was going; I shall there have money, or\nany thing I want: offer me no money, I pray you;\nthat kills my heart.


plain_text:
A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with\ntroll-my-dames; I knew him once a servant of the\nprince: I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his\nvirtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.


plain_text:
His vices, you would say; there's no virtue whipped\nout of the court: they cherish it to make it stay\nthere; and yet it will no more but abide.


plain_text:
Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well: he\nhath been since an ape-bearer; then a\nprocess-server, a bailiff; then he compassed a\nmotion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker's\nwife within a mile where my land and living lies;\nand, having flown over many knavish professions, he\nsettled only in rogue: some call him Autolycus.


plain_text:
Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia: if you had\nbut looked big and spit at him, he'ld have run.


plain_text:
I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter: I am\nfalse of heart that way; and that he knew, I warrant\nhim.


plain_text:
Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can stand and\nwalk: I will even take my leave of you, and pace\nsoftly towards my kinsman's.


plain_text:
Prosper you, sweet sir!\n[Exit Clown]\nYour purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice.\nI'll be with you at your sheep-shearing too: if I\nmake not this cheat bring out another and the\nshearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled and my name\nput in the book of virtue!\n[Sings]\nJog on, jog on, the foot-path way,\nAnd merrily hent the stile-a:\nA merry heart goes all the day,\nYour sad tires in a mile-a.


plain_text:
These your unusual weeds to each part of you\nDo give a life: no shepherdess, but Flora\nPeering in April's front. This your sheep-shearing\nIs as a meeting of the petty gods,\nAnd you the queen on't.


plain_text:
Sir, my gracious lord,\nTo chide at your extremes it not becomes me:\nO, pardon, that I name them! Your high self,\nThe gracious mark o' the land, you have obscured\nWith a swain's wearing, and me, poor lowly maid,\nMost goddess-like prank'd up: but that our feasts\nIn every mess have folly and the feeders\nDigest it with a custom, I should blush\nTo see you so attired, sworn, I think,\nTo show myself a glass.


plain_text:
Now Jove afford you cause!\nTo me the difference forges dread; your greatness\nHath not been used to fear. Even now I tremble\nTo think your father, by some accident,\nShould pass this way as you did: O, the Fates!\nHow would he look, to see his work so noble\nVilely bound up? What would he say? Or how\nShould I, in these my borrow'd flaunts, behold\nThe sternness of his presence?


plain_text:
Apprehend\nNothing but jollity. The gods themselves,\nHumbling their deities to love, have taken\nThe shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter\nBecame a bull, and bellow'd; the green Neptune\nA ram, and bleated; and the fire-robed god,\nGolden Apollo, a poor humble swain,\nAs I seem now. Their transformations\nWere never for a piece of beauty rarer,\nNor in a way so chaste, since my desires\nRun not before mine honour, nor my lusts\nBurn hotter than my faith.


plain_text:
O, but, sir,\nYour resolution cannot hold, when 'tis\nOpposed, as it must be, by the power of the king:\nOne of these two must be necessities,\nWhich then will speak, that you must\nchange this purpose,\nOr I my life.


plain_text:
Thou dearest Perdita,\nWith these forced thoughts, I prithee, darken not\nThe mirth o' the feast. Or I'll be thine, my fair,\nOr not my father's. For I cannot be\nMine own, nor any thing to any, if\nI be not thine. To this I am most constant,\nThough destiny say no. Be merry, gentle;\nStrangle such thoughts as these with any thing\nThat you behold the while. Your guests are coming:\nLift up your countenance, as it were the day\nOf celebration of that nuptial which\nWe two have sworn shall come.


plain_text:
See, your guests approach:\nAddress yourself to entertain them sprightly,\nAnd let's be red with mirth.\n[Enter Shepherd, Clown, MOPSA, DORCAS, and]\nothers, with POLIXENES and CAMILLO disguised]


plain_text:
Fie, daughter! when my old wife lived, upon\nThis day she was both pantler, butler, cook,\nBoth dame and servant; welcomed all, served all;\nWould sing her song and dance her turn; now here,\nAt upper end o' the table, now i' the middle;\nOn his shoulder, and his; her face o' fire\nWith labour and the thing she took to quench it,\nShe would to each one sip. You are retired,\nAs if you were a feasted one and not\nThe hostess of the meeting: pray you, bid\nThese unknown friends to's welcome; for it is\nA way to make us better friends, more known.\nCome, quench your blushes and present yourself\nThat which you are, mistress o' the feast: come on,\nAnd bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,\nAs your good flock shall prosper.


plain_text:
[To POLIXENES] Sir, welcome:\nIt is my father's will I should take on me\nThe hostess-ship o' the day.\n[To CAMILLO]\nYou're welcome, sir.\nGive me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs,\nFor you there's rosemary and rue; these keep\nSeeming and savour all the winter long:\nGrace and remembrance be to you both,\nAnd welcome to our shearing!


plain_text:
Sir, the year growing ancient,\nNot yet on summer's death, nor on the birth\nOf trembling winter, the fairest\nflowers o' the season\nAre our carnations and streak'd gillyvors,\nWhich some call nature's bastards: of that kind\nOur rustic garden's barren; and I care not\nTo get slips of them.


plain_text:
For I have heard it said\nThere is an art which in their piedness shares\nWith great creating nature.


plain_text:
Say there be;\nYet nature is made better by no mean\nBut nature makes that mean: so, over that art\nWhich you say adds to nature, is an art\nThat nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry\nA gentler scion to the wildest stock,\nAnd make conceive a bark of baser kind\nBy bud of nobler race: this is an art\nWhich does mend nature, change it rather, but\nThe art itself is nature.


plain_text:
I'll not put\nThe dibble in earth to set one slip of them;\nNo more than were I painted I would wish\nThis youth should say 'twere well and only therefore\nDesire to breed by me. Here's flowers for you;\nHot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram;\nThe marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun\nAnd with him rises weeping: these are flowers\nOf middle summer, and I think they are given\nTo men of middle age. You're very welcome.


plain_text:
Out, alas!\nYou'd be so lean, that blasts of January\nWould blow you through and through.\nNow, my fair'st friend,\nI would I had some flowers o' the spring that might\nBecome your time of day; and yours, and yours,\nThat wear upon your virgin branches yet\nYour maidenheads growing: O Proserpina,\nFor the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall\nFrom Dis's waggon! daffodils,\nThat come before the swallow dares, and take\nThe winds of March with beauty; violets dim,\nBut sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes\nOr Cytherea's breath; pale primroses\nThat die unmarried, ere they can behold\nBight Phoebus in his strength--a malady\nMost incident to maids; bold oxlips and\nThe crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,\nThe flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack,\nTo make you garlands of, and my sweet friend,\nTo strew him o'er and o'er!


plain_text:
No, like a bank for love to lie and play on;\nNot like a corse; or if, not to be buried,\nBut quick and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers:\nMethinks I play as I have seen them do\nIn Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine\nDoes change my disposition.


plain_text:
What you do\nStill betters what is done. When you speak, sweet.\nI'ld have you do it ever: when you sing,\nI'ld have you buy and sell so, so give alms,\nPray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,\nTo sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you\nA wave o' the sea, that you might ever do\nNothing but that; move still, still so,\nAnd own no other function: each your doing,\nSo singular in each particular,\nCrowns what you are doing in the present deed,\nThat all your acts are queens.


plain_text:
O Doricles,\nYour praises are too large: but that your youth,\nAnd the true blood which peepeth fairly through't,\nDo plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd,\nWith wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,\nYou woo'd me the false way.


plain_text:
I think you have\nAs little skill to fear as I have purpose\nTo put you to't. But come; our dance, I pray:\nYour hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair,\nThat never mean to part.


plain_text:
This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever\nRan on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems\nBut smacks of something greater than herself,\nToo noble for this place.


plain_text:
He tells her something\nThat makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is\nThe queen of curds and cream.


plain_text:
Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners.\nCome, strike up!\n[Music. Here a dance of Shepherds and]\nShepherdesses]


plain_text:
They call him Doricles; and boasts himself\nTo have a worthy feeding: but I have it\nUpon his own report and I believe it;\nHe looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter:\nI think so too; for never gazed the moon\nUpon the water as he'll stand and read\nAs 'twere my daughter's eyes: and, to be plain.\nI think there is not half a kiss to choose\nWho loves another best.


plain_text:
So she does any thing; though I report it,\nThat should be silent: if young Doricles\nDo light upon her, she shall bring him that\nWhich he not dreams of.


plain_text:
O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the\ndoor, you would never dance again after a tabour and\npipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you: he sings\nseveral tunes faster than you'll tell money; he\nutters them as he had eaten ballads and all men's\nears grew to his tunes.


plain_text:
He could never come better; he shall come in. I\nlove a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful\nmatter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing\nindeed and sung lamentably.


plain_text:
He hath songs for man or woman, of all sizes; no\nmilliner can so fit his customers with gloves: he\nhas the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without\nbawdry, which is strange; with such delicate\nburthens of dildos and fadings, 'jump her and thump\nher;' and where some stretch-mouthed rascal would,\nas it were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into\nthe matter, he makes the maid to answer 'Whoop, do me\nno harm, good man;' puts him off, slights him, with\n'Whoop, do me no harm, good man.'


plain_text:
He hath ribbons of an the colours i' the rainbow;\npoints more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can\nlearnedly handle, though they come to him by the\ngross: inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns: why, he\nsings 'em over as they were gods or goddesses; you\nwould think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants\nto the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on't.


plain_text:
Lawn as white as driven snow;\nCyprus black as e'er was crow;\nGloves as sweet as damask roses;\nMasks for faces and for noses;\nBugle bracelet, necklace amber,\nPerfume for a lady's chamber;\nGolden quoifs and stomachers,\nFor my lads to give their dears:\nPins and poking-sticks of steel,\nWhat maids lack from head to heel:\nCome buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;\nBuy lads, or else your lasses cry: Come buy.


plain_text:
If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take\nno money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it\nwill also be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.


plain_text:
He hath paid you all he promised you; may be, he has\npaid you more, which will shame you to give him again.


plain_text:
Is there no manners left among maids? will they\nwear their plackets where they should bear their\nfaces? Is there not milking-time, when you are\ngoing to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these\nsecrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all\nour guests? 'tis well they are whispering: clamour\nyour tongues, and not a word more.


plain_text:
Here's one to a very doleful tune, how a usurer's\nwife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a\nburthen and how she longed to eat adders' heads and\ntoads carbonadoed.


plain_text:
Here's the midwife's name to't, one Mistress\nTale-porter, and five or six honest wives that were\npresent. Why should I carry lies abroad?


plain_text:
Here's another ballad of a fish, that appeared upon\nthe coast on Wednesday the four-score of April,\nforty thousand fathom above water, and sung this\nballad against the hard hearts of maids: it was\nthought she was a woman and was turned into a cold\nfish for she would not exchange flesh with one that\nloved her: the ballad is very pitiful and as true.


plain_text:
Why, this is a passing merry one and goes to\nthe tune of 'Two maids wooing a man:' there's\nscarce a maid westward but she sings it; 'tis in\nrequest, I can tell you.


plain_text:
We'll have this song out anon by ourselves: my\nfather and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we'll\nnot trouble them. Come, bring away thy pack after\nme. Wenches, I'll buy for you both. Pedlar, let's\nhave the first choice. Follow me, girls.


plain_text:
And you shall pay well for 'em.\n[Follows singing]\nWill you buy any tape,\nOr lace for your cape,\nMy dainty duck, my dear-a?\nAny silk, any thread,\nAny toys for your head,\nOf the new'st and finest, finest wear-a?\nCome to the pedlar;\nMoney's a medler.\nThat doth utter all men's ware-a.


plain_text:
Master, there is three carters, three shepherds,\nthree neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made\nthemselves all men of hair, they call themselves\nSaltiers, and they have a dance which the wenches\nsay is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are\nnot in't; but they themselves are o' the mind, if it\nbe not too rough for some that know little but\nbowling, it will please plentifully.


plain_text:
One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath\ndanced before the king; and not the worst of the\nthree but jumps twelve foot and a half by the squier.


plain_text:
O, father, you'll know more of that hereafter.\n[To CAMILLO]\nIs it not too far gone? 'Tis time to part them.\nHe's simple and tells much.\n[To FLORIZEL]\nHow now, fair shepherd!\nYour heart is full of something that does take\nYour mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young\nAnd handed love as you do, I was wont\nTo load my she with knacks: I would have ransack'd\nThe pedlar's silken treasury and have pour'd it\nTo her acceptance; you have let him go\nAnd nothing marted with him. If your lass\nInterpretation should abuse and call this\nYour lack of love or bounty, you were straited\nFor a reply, at least if you make a care\nOf happy holding her.


plain_text:
Old sir, I know\nShe prizes not such trifles as these are:\nThe gifts she looks from me are pack'd and lock'd\nUp in my heart; which I have given already,\nBut not deliver'd. O, hear me breathe my life\nBefore this ancient sir, who, it should seem,\nHath sometime loved! I take thy hand, this hand,\nAs soft as dove's down and as white as it,\nOr Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd\nsnow that's bolted\nBy the northern blasts twice o'er.


plain_text:
What follows this?\nHow prettily the young swain seems to wash\nThe hand was fair before! I have put you out:\nBut to your protestation; let me hear\nWhat you profess.


plain_text:
And he, and more\nThan he, and men, the earth, the heavens, and all:\nThat, were I crown'd the most imperial monarch,\nThereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth\nThat ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge\nMore than was ever man's, I would not prize them\nWithout her love; for her employ them all;\nCommend them and condemn them to her service\nOr to their own perdition.


plain_text:
I cannot speak\nSo well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better:\nBy the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out\nThe purity of his.


plain_text:
Take hands, a bargain!\nAnd, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to 't:\nI give my daughter to him, and will make\nHer portion equal his.


plain_text:
O, that must be\nI' the virtue of your daughter: one being dead,\nI shall have more than you can dream of yet;\nEnough then for your wonder. But, come on,\nContract us 'fore these witnesses.


plain_text:
Methinks a father\nIs at the nuptial of his son a guest\nThat best becomes the table. Pray you once more,\nIs not your father grown incapable\nOf reasonable affairs? is he not stupid\nWith age and altering rheums? can he speak? hear?\nKnow man from man? dispute his own estate?\nLies he not bed-rid? and again does nothing\nBut what he did being childish?


plain_text:
By my white beard,\nYou offer him, if this be so, a wrong\nSomething unfilial: reason my son\nShould choose himself a wife, but as good reason\nThe father, all whose joy is nothing else\nBut fair posterity, should hold some counsel\nIn such a business.


plain_text:
I yield all this;\nBut for some other reasons, my grave sir,\nWhich 'tis not fit you know, I not acquaint\nMy father of this business.


plain_text:
Mark your divorce, young sir,\n[Discovering himself]\nWhom son I dare not call; thou art too base\nTo be acknowledged: thou a sceptre's heir,\nThat thus affect'st a sheep-hook! Thou old traitor,\nI am sorry that by hanging thee I can\nBut shorten thy life one week. And thou, fresh piece\nOf excellent witchcraft, who of force must know\nThe royal fool thou copest with,--


plain_text:
I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briers, and made\nMore homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy,\nIf I may ever know thou dost but sigh\nThat thou no more shalt see this knack, as never\nI mean thou shalt, we'll bar thee from succession;\nNot hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,\nFar than Deucalion off: mark thou my words:\nFollow us to the court. Thou churl, for this time,\nThough full of our displeasure, yet we free thee\nFrom the dead blow of it. And you, enchantment.--\nWorthy enough a herdsman: yea, him too,\nThat makes himself, but for our honour therein,\nUnworthy thee,--if ever henceforth thou\nThese rural latches to his entrance open,\nOr hoop his body more with thy embraces,\nI will devise a death as cruel for thee\nAs thou art tender to't.


plain_text:
Even here undone!\nI was not much afeard; for once or twice\nI was about to speak and tell him plainly,\nThe selfsame sun that shines upon his court\nHides not his visage from our cottage but\nLooks on alike. Will't please you, sir, be gone?\nI told you what would come of this: beseech you,\nOf your own state take care: this dream of mine,--\nBeing now awake, I'll queen it no inch farther,\nBut milk my ewes and weep.


plain_text:
I cannot speak, nor think\nNor dare to know that which I know. O sir!\nYou have undone a man of fourscore three,\nThat thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea,\nTo die upon the bed my father died,\nTo lie close by his honest bones: but now\nSome hangman must put on my shroud and lay me\nWhere no priest shovels in dust. O cursed wretch,\nThat knew'st this was the prince,\nand wouldst adventure\nTo mingle faith with him! Undone! undone!\nIf I might die within this hour, I have lived\nTo die when I desire.


plain_text:
Why look you so upon me?\nI am but sorry, not afeard; delay'd,\nBut nothing alter'd: what I was, I am;\nMore straining on for plucking back, not following\nMy leash unwillingly.


plain_text:
Gracious my lord,\nYou know your father's temper: at this time\nHe will allow no speech, which I do guess\nYou do not purpose to him; and as hardly\nWill he endure your sight as yet, I fear:\nThen, till the fury of his highness settle,\nCome not before him.


plain_text:
How often have I told you 'twould be thus!\nHow often said, my dignity would last\nBut till 'twere known!


plain_text:
It cannot fail but by\nThe violation of my faith; and then\nLet nature crush the sides o' the earth together\nAnd mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks:\nFrom my succession wipe me, father; I\nAm heir to my affection.


plain_text:
I am, and by my fancy: if my reason\nWill thereto be obedient, I have reason;\nIf not, my senses, better pleased with madness,\nDo bid it welcome.


plain_text:
So call it: but it does fulfil my vow;\nI needs must think it honesty. Camillo,\nNot for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may\nBe thereat glean'd, for all the sun sees or\nThe close earth wombs or the profound sea hides\nIn unknown fathoms, will I break my oath\nTo this my fair beloved: therefore, I pray you,\nAs you have ever been my father's honour'd friend,\nWhen he shall miss me,--as, in faith, I mean not\nTo see him any more,--cast your good counsels\nUpon his passion; let myself and fortune\nTug for the time to come. This you may know\nAnd so deliver, I am put to sea\nWith her whom here I cannot hold on shore;\nAnd most opportune to our need I have\nA vessel rides fast by, but not prepared\nFor this design. What course I mean to hold\nShall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor\nConcern me the reporting.


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He's irremoveable,\nResolved for flight. Now were I happy, if\nHis going I could frame to serve my turn,\nSave him from danger, do him love and honour,\nPurchase the sight again of dear Sicilia\nAnd that unhappy king, my master, whom\nI so much thirst to see.


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Very nobly\nHave you deserved: it is my father's music\nTo speak your deeds, not little of his care\nTo have them recompensed as thought on.


plain_text:
Well, my lord,\nIf you may please to think I love the king\nAnd through him what is nearest to him, which is\nYour gracious self, embrace but my direction:\nIf your more ponderous and settled project\nMay suffer alteration, on mine honour,\nI'll point you where you shall have such receiving\nAs shall become your highness; where you may\nEnjoy your mistress, from the whom, I see,\nThere's no disjunction to be made, but by--\nAs heavens forefend!--your ruin; marry her,\nAnd, with my best endeavours in your absence,\nYour discontenting father strive to qualify\nAnd bring him up to liking.


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How, Camillo,\nMay this, almost a miracle, be done?\nThat I may call thee something more than man\nAnd after that trust to thee.


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Not any yet:\nBut as the unthought-on accident is guilty\nTo what we wildly do, so we profess\nOurselves to be the slaves of chance and flies\nOf every wind that blows.


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Then list to me:\nThis follows, if you will not change your purpose\nBut undergo this flight, make for Sicilia,\nAnd there present yourself and your fair princess,\nFor so I see she must be, 'fore Leontes:\nShe shall be habited as it becomes\nThe partner of your bed. Methinks I see\nLeontes opening his free arms and weeping\nHis welcomes forth; asks thee the son forgiveness,\nAs 'twere i' the father's person; kisses the hands\nOf your fresh princess; o'er and o'er divides him\n'Twixt his unkindness and his kindness; the one\nHe chides to hell and bids the other grow\nFaster than thought or time.


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Sent by the king your father\nTo greet him and to give him comforts. Sir,\nThe manner of your bearing towards him, with\nWhat you as from your father shall deliver,\nThings known betwixt us three, I'll write you down:\nThe which shall point you forth at every sitting\nWhat you must say; that he shall not perceive\nBut that you have your father's bosom there\nAnd speak his very heart.


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A cause more promising\nThan a wild dedication of yourselves\nTo unpath'd waters, undream'd shores, most certain\nTo miseries enough; no hope to help you,\nBut as you shake off one to take another;\nNothing so certain as your anchors, who\nDo their best office, if they can but stay you\nWhere you'll be loath to be: besides you know\nProsperity's the very bond of love,\nWhose fresh complexion and whose heart together\nAffliction alters.


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My prettiest Perdita!\nBut O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo,\nPreserver of my father, now of me,\nThe medicine of our house, how shall we do?\nWe are not furnish'd like Bohemia's son,\nNor shall appear in Sicilia.


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My lord,\nFear none of this: I think you know my fortunes\nDo all lie there: it shall be so my care\nTo have you royally appointed as if\nThe scene you play were mine. For instance, sir,\nThat you may know you shall not want, one word.


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Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his\nsworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I have sold\nall my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, not a\nribbon, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad,\nknife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring,\nto keep my pack from fasting: they throng who\nshould buy first, as if my trinkets had been\nhallowed and brought a benediction to the buyer:\nby which means I saw whose purse was best in\npicture; and what I saw, to my good use I\nremembered. My clown, who wants but something to\nbe a reasonable man, grew so in love with the\nwenches' song, that he would not stir his pettitoes\ntill he had both tune and words; which so drew the\nrest of the herd to me that all their other senses\nstuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket, it\nwas senseless; 'twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a\npurse; I could have filed keys off that hung in\nchains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir's song,\nand admiring the nothing of it. So that in this\ntime of lethargy I picked and cut most of their\nfestival purses; and had not the old man come in\nwith a whoo-bub against his daughter and the king's\nson and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not\nleft a purse alive in the whole army.


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Who have we here?\n[Seeing AUTOLYCUS]\nWe'll make an instrument of this, omit\nNothing may give us aid.


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Why, be so still; here's nobody will steal that from\nthee: yet for the outside of thy poverty we must\nmake an exchange; therefore discase thee instantly,\n--thou must think there's a necessity in't,--and\nchange garments with this gentleman: though the\npennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee,\nthere's some boot.


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Unbuckle, unbuckle.\n[FLORIZEL and AUTOLYCUS exchange garments]\nFortunate mistress,--let my prophecy\nCome home to ye!--you must retire yourself\nInto some covert: take your sweetheart's hat\nAnd pluck it o'er your brows, muffle your face,\nDismantle you, and, as you can, disliken\nThe truth of your own seeming; that you may--\nFor I do fear eyes over--to shipboard\nGet undescried.


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[Aside] What I do next, shall be to tell the king\nOf this escape and whither they are bound;\nWherein my hope is I shall so prevail\nTo force him after: in whose company\nI shall review Sicilia, for whose sight\nI have a woman's longing.


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I understand the business, I hear it: to have an\nopen ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is\nnecessary for a cut-purse; a good nose is requisite\nalso, to smell out work for the other senses. I see\nthis is the time that the unjust man doth thrive.\nWhat an exchange had this been without boot! What\na boot is here with this exchange! Sure the gods do\nthis year connive at us, and we may do any thing\nextempore. The prince himself is about a piece of\niniquity, stealing away from his father with his\nclog at his heels: if I thought it were a piece of\nhonesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not\ndo't: I hold it the more knavery to conceal it;\nand therein am I constant to my profession.\n[Re-enter Clown and Shepherd]\nAside, aside; here is more matter for a hot brain:\nevery lane's end, every shop, church, session,\nhanging, yields a careful man work.


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See, see; what a man you are now!\nThere is no other way but to tell the king\nshe's a changeling and none of your flesh and blood.


plain_text:
She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh\nand blood has not offended the king; and so your\nflesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show\nthose things you found about her, those secret\nthings, all but what she has with her: this being\ndone, let the law go whistle: I warrant you.


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I will tell the king all, every word, yea, and his\nson's pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man,\nneither to his father nor to me, to go about to make\nme the king's brother-in-law.


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Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you\ncould have been to him and then your blood had been\nthe dearer by I know how much an ounce.


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[Aside] Though I am not naturally honest, I am so\nsometimes by chance: let me pocket up my pedlar's excrement.\n[Takes off his false beard]\nHow now, rustics! whither are you bound?


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Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition\nof that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your\nnames, your ages, of what having, breeding, and any\nthing that is fitting to be known, discover.


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A lie; you are rough and hairy. Let me have no\nlying: it becomes none but tradesmen, and they\noften give us soldiers the lie: but we pay them for\nit with stamped coin, not stabbing steel; therefore\nthey do not give us the lie.


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Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest\nthou not the air of the court in these enfoldings?\nhath not my gait in it the measure of the court?\nreceives not thy nose court-odor from me? reflect I\nnot on thy baseness court-contempt? Thinkest thou,\nfor that I insinuate, or toaze from thee thy\nbusiness, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier\ncap-a-pe; and one that will either push on or pluck\nback thy business there: whereupon I command thee to\nopen thy affair.


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How blessed are we that are not simple men!\nYet nature might have made me as these are,\nTherefore I will not disdain.


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He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical:\na great man, I'll warrant; I know by the picking\non's teeth.


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Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box,\nwhich none must know but the king; and which he\nshall know within this hour, if I may come to the\nspeech of him.


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The king is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a\nnew ship to purge melancholy and air himself: for,\nif thou beest capable of things serious, thou must\nknow the king is full of grief.


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If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly:\nthe curses he shall have, the tortures he shall\nfeel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster.


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Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy\nand vengeance bitter; but those that are germane to\nhim, though removed fifty times, shall all come\nunder the hangman: which though it be great pity,\nyet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue a\nram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into\ngrace! Some say he shall be stoned; but that death\nis too soft for him, say I. draw our throne into a\nsheep-cote! all deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy.


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He has a son, who shall be flayed alive; then\n'nointed over with honey, set on the head of a\nwasp's nest; then stand till he be three quarters\nand a dram dead; then recovered again with\naqua-vitae or some other hot infusion; then, raw as\nhe is, and in the hottest day prognostication\nproclaims, shall be be set against a brick-wall, the\nsun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he\nis to behold him with flies blown to death. But what\ntalk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries\nare to be smiled at, their offences being so\ncapital? Tell me, for you seem to be honest plain\nmen, what you have to the king: being something\ngently considered, I'll bring you where he is\naboard, tender your persons to his presence,\nwhisper him in your behalfs; and if it be in man\nbesides the king to effect your suits, here is man\nshall do it.


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He seems to be of great authority: close with him,\ngive him gold; and though authority be a stubborn\nbear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold: show\nthe inside of your purse to the outside of his hand,\nand no more ado. Remember 'stoned,' and 'flayed alive.'


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An't please you, sir, to undertake the business for\nus, here is that gold I have: I'll make it as much\nmore and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you.


plain_text:
Comfort, good comfort! We must to the king and show\nour strange sights: he must know 'tis none of your\ndaughter nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I\nwill give you as much as this old man does when the\nbusiness is performed, and remain, as he says, your\npawn till it be brought you.


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I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side;\ngo on the right hand: I will but look upon the\nhedge and follow you.


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If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would\nnot suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth. I am\ncourted now with a double occasion, gold and a means\nto do the prince my master good; which who knows how\nthat may turn back to my advancement? I will bring\nthese two moles, these blind ones, aboard him: if he\nthink it fit to shore them again and that the\ncomplaint they have to the king concerns him\nnothing, let him call me rogue for being so far\nofficious; for I am proof against that title and\nwhat shame else belongs to't. To him will I present\nthem: there may be matter in it.


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Sir, you have done enough, and have perform'd\nA saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make,\nWhich you have not redeem'd; indeed, paid down\nMore penitence than done trespass: at the last,\nDo as the heavens have done, forget your evil;\nWith them forgive yourself.


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Whilst I remember\nHer and her virtues, I cannot forget\nMy blemishes in them, and so still think of\nThe wrong I did myself; which was so much,\nThat heirless it hath made my kingdom and\nDestroy'd the sweet'st companion that e'er man\nBred his hopes out of.


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True, too true, my lord:\nIf, one by one, you wedded all the world,\nOr from the all that are took something good,\nTo make a perfect woman, she you kill'd\nWould be unparallel'd.


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I think so. Kill'd!\nShe I kill'd! I did so: but thou strikest me\nSorely, to say I did; it is as bitter\nUpon thy tongue as in my thought: now, good now,\nSay so but seldom.


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Not at all, good lady:\nYou might have spoken a thousand things that would\nHave done the time more benefit and graced\nYour kindness better.


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If you would not so,\nYou pity not the state, nor the remembrance\nOf his most sovereign name; consider little\nWhat dangers, by his highness' fail of issue,\nMay drop upon his kingdom and devour\nIncertain lookers on. What were more holy\nThan to rejoice the former queen is well?\nWhat holier than, for royalty's repair,\nFor present comfort and for future good,\nTo bless the bed of majesty again\nWith a sweet fellow to't?


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There is none worthy,\nRespecting her that's gone. Besides, the gods\nWill have fulfill'd their secret purposes;\nFor has not the divine Apollo said,\nIs't not the tenor of his oracle,\nThat King Leontes shall not have an heir\nTill his lost child be found? which that it shall,\nIs all as monstrous to our human reason\nAs my Antigonus to break his grave\nAnd come again to me; who, on my life,\nDid perish with the infant. 'Tis your counsel\nMy lord should to the heavens be contrary,\nOppose against their wills.\n[To LEONTES]\nCare not for issue;\nThe crown will find an heir: great Alexander\nLeft his to the worthiest; so his successor\nWas like to be the best.


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Good Paulina,\nWho hast the memory of Hermione,\nI know, in honour, O, that ever I\nHad squared me to thy counsel! then, even now,\nI might have look'd upon my queen's full eyes,\nHave taken treasure from her lips--


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Thou speak'st truth.\nNo more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse,\nAnd better used, would make her sainted spirit\nAgain possess her corpse, and on this stage,\nWhere we're offenders now, appear soul-vex'd,\nAnd begin, 'Why to me?'


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I should so.\nWere I the ghost that walk'd, I'ld bid you mark\nHer eye, and tell me for what dull part in't\nYou chose her; then I'ld shriek, that even your ears\nShould rift to hear me; and the words that follow'd\nShould be 'Remember mine.'


