dev_shakespeare.txt

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: It wearies me; you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn; And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, That I have much ado to know myself.
Your mind is tossing on the ocean; There, where your argosies with portly sail, Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, Do overpeer the petty traffickers, That curtsy to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, The better part of my affections would Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind, Peering in maps for ports and piers and roads; And every object that might make me fear Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt Would make me sad.
My wind cooling my broth Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great at sea might do. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, But I should think of shallows and of flats, And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs To kiss her burial. Should I go to church And see the holy edifice of stone, And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, And, in a word, but even now worth this, And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought To think on this, and shall I lack the thought That such a thing bechanced would make me sad? But tell not me; I know, Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise.
Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year: Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.
Why, then you are in love.
Fie, fie!
Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad, Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, And other of such vinegar aspect That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well: We leave you now with better company.
I would have stay'd till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me.
Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it, your own business calls on you And you embrace the occasion to depart.
Good morrow, my good lords.
Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when? You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?
We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.
My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you: but at dinner-time, I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
I will not fail you.
You look not well, Signior Antonio; You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it that do buy it with much care: Believe me, you are marvellously changed.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.
Let me play the fool: With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio-- I love thee, and it is my love that speaks-- There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!' O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears, Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I'll tell thee more of this another time: But fish not, with this melancholy bait, For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile: I'll end my exhortation after dinner.
Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time: I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak.
Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.
Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear.
Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible.
Is that any thing now?
Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.
Well, tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you to-day promised to tell me of?
'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate, By something showing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance: Nor do I now make moan to be abridged From such a noble rate; but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts Wherein my time something too prodigal Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio, I owe the most, in money and in love, And from your love I have a warranty To unburden all my plots and purposes How to get clear of all the debts I owe.
I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand, as you yourself still do, Within the eye of honour, be assured, My purse, my person, my extremest means, Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.
In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way with more advised watch, To find the other forth, and by adventuring both I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof, Because what follows is pure innocence. I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth, That which I owe is lost; but if you please To shoot another arrow that self way Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, As I will watch the aim, or to find both Or bring your latter hazard back again And thankfully rest debtor for the first.
You know me well, and herein spend but time To wind about my love with circumstance; And out of doubt you do me now more wrong In making question of my uttermost Than if you had made waste of all I have: Then do but say to me what I should do That in your knowledge may by me be done, And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak.
In Belmont is a lady richly left; And she is fair, and, fairer than that word, Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages: Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia: Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, For the four winds blow in from every coast Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece; Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand, And many Jasons come in quest of her. O my Antonio, had I but the means To hold a rival place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift, That I should questionless be fortunate!
Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea; Neither have I money nor commodity To raise a present sum: therefore go forth; Try what my credit can in Venice do: That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost, To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. Go, presently inquire, and so will I, Where money is, and I no question make To have it of my trust or for my sake. SCENE II: Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.
You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are: and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.
Good sentences and well pronounced.
They would be better, if well followed.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose!' I may neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none?
Your father was ever virtuous; and holy men at their death have good inspirations: therefore the lottery, that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly but one who shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?
I pray thee, over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and, according to my description, level at my affection.
First, there is the Neapolitan prince.
Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts, that he can shoe him himself. I am much afeard my lady his mother played false with a smith.
Then there is the County Palatine.
He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'If you will not have me, choose:' he hears merry tales and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two!
How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?
God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker: but, he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man; if a throstle sing, he falls straight a capering: he will fence with his own shadow: if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him.
What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of England?
You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture, but, alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany and his behavior every where.
What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?
That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman and swore he would pay him again when he was able: I think the Frenchman became his surety and sealed under for another.
How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?
Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast: and the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.
If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him.
Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep glass of rhenish wine on the contrary casket, for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do any thing, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.
You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords: they have acquainted me with their determinations; which is, indeed, to return to their home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition depending on the caskets.
If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair departure.
Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat?
Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, he was so called.
True, madam: he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.
I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. How now! what news?
The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave: and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the prince his master will be here to-night.
If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach: if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gates upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.
Three thousand ducats; well.
Ay, sir, for three months.
For three months; well.
For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.
Antonio shall become bound; well.
May you stead me? will you pleasure me? shall I know your answer?
Three thousand ducats for three months and Antonio bound.
Your answer to that.
Antonio is a good man.
Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?
Oh, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves, I mean pirates, and then there is the peril of waters, winds and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats; I think I may take his bond.
Be assured you may.
I will be assured I may; and, that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?
If it please you to dine with us.
Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation which your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following, but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here?
This is Signior Antonio.
[Aside]  How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him for he is a Christian, But more for that in low simplicity He lends out money gratis and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation, and he rails, Even there where merchants most do congregate, On me, my bargains and my well-won thrift, Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe, If I forgive him!
Shylock, do you hear?
I am debating of my present store, And, by the near guess of my memory, I cannot instantly raise up the gross Of full three thousand ducats. What of that? Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, Will furnish me. But soft! how many months Do you desire? Rest you fair, good signior; Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow By taking nor by giving of excess, Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, I'll break a custom. Is he yet possess'd How much ye would?
Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.
And for three months.
I had forgot; three months; you told me so. Well then, your bond; and let me see; but hear you; Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow Upon advantage.
I do never use it.
When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep-- This Jacob from our holy Abram was, As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, The third possessor; ay, he was the third--
And what of him? did he take interest?
No, not take interest, not, as you would say, Directly interest: mark what Jacob did. When Laban and himself were compromised That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank, In the end of autumn turned to the rams, And, when the work of generation was Between these woolly breeders in the act, The skilful shepherd peel'd me certain wands, And, in the doing of the deed of kind, He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes, Who then conceiving did in eaning time Fall parti-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's. This was a way to thrive, and he was blest: And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.
This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for; A thing not in his power to bring to pass, But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven. Was this inserted to make interest good? Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?
I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast: But note me, signior.
Mark you this, Bassanio, The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart: O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
Three thousand ducats; 'tis a good round sum. Three months from twelve; then, let me see; the rate--
Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?
Signior Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances: Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help: Go to, then; you come to me, and you say 'Shylock, we would have moneys:' you say so; You, that did void your rheum upon my beard And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold: moneys is your suit What should I say to you? Should I not say 'Hath a dog money? is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?' Or Shall I bend low and in a bondman's key, With bated breath and whispering humbleness, Say this; 'Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last; You spurn'd me such a day; another time You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies I'll lend you thus much moneys'?
I am as like to call thee so again, To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends; for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend? But lend it rather to thine enemy, Who, if he break, thou mayst with better face Exact the penalty.
Why, look you, how you storm! I would be friends with you and have your love, Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with, Supply your present wants and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me: This is kind I offer.
This were kindness.
This kindness will I show. Go with me to a notary, seal me there Your single bond; and, in a merry sport, If you repay me not on such a day, In such a place, such sum or sums as are Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me.
Content, i' faith: I'll seal to such a bond And say there is much kindness in the Jew.
You shall not seal to such a bond for me: I'll rather dwell in my necessity.
Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it: Within these two months, that's a month before This bond expires, I do expect return Of thrice three times the value of this bond.
O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect The thoughts of others! Pray you, tell me this; If he should break his day, what should I gain By the exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh taken from a man Is not so estimable, profitable neither, As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, To buy his favour, I extend this friendship: If he will take it, so; if not, adieu; And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.
Yes Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.
Then meet me forthwith at the notary's; Give him direction for this merry bond, And I will go and purse the ducats straight, See to my house, left in the fearful guard Of an unthrifty knave, and presently I will be with you.
Hie thee, gentle Jew. The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.
I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.
Come on: in this there can be no dismay; My ships come home a month before the day.
Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun, To whom I am a neighbour and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, And let us make incision for your love, To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine Hath fear'd the valiant: by my love I swear The best-regarded virgins of our clime Have loved it too: I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes; Besides, the lottery of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing: But if my father had not scanted me And hedged me by his wit, to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look'd on yet For my affection.
Even for that I thank you: Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets To try my fortune. By this scimitar That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, I would outstare the sternest eyes that look, Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker hand: So is Alcides beaten by his page; And so may I, blind fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving.
You must take your chance, And either not attempt to choose at all Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage: therefore be advised.
Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.
First, forward to the temple: after dinner Your hazard shall be made.
Good fortune then! To make me blest or cursed'st among men.
Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me saying to me 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,' or 'good Gobbo,' or good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away. My conscience says 'No; take heed,' honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo, or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack: 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the fiend; 'for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend, 'and run.' Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me 'My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man's son,' or rather an honest woman's son; for, indeed, my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste; well, my conscience says 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience. 'Conscience,' say I, 'you counsel well;' ' Fiend,' say I, 'you counsel well:' to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your command; I will run.
Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's?
[Aside]  O heavens, this is my true-begotten father! who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him.
Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's?
Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house.
By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?
Talk you of young Master Launcelot? Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot?
No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father, though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man and, God be thanked, well to live.
Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk of young Master Launcelot.
Your worship's friend and Launcelot, sir.
But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot?
Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.
Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.
Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.
Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father?
Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman: but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead?
Do you not know me, father?
Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.
Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son: give me your blessing: truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son may, but at the length truth will out.
Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.
Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.
I cannot think you are my son.
I know not what I shall think of that: but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.
Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.
It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward: I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face when I last saw him.
Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now?
Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master's a very Jew: give him a present! give him a halter: I am famished in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come: give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed, gives rare new liveries: if I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune! here comes the man: to him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.
You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered; put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.
To him, father.
God bless your worship!
Gramercy! wouldst thou aught with me?
Here's my son, sir, a poor boy,--
Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man; that would, sir, as my father shall specify--
He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve--
Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify--
His master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are scarce cater-cousins--
To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being, I hope, an old man, shall frutify unto you--
I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship, and my suit is--
In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.
One speak for both. What would you?
Serve you, sir.
That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit: Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew's service, to become The follower of so poor a gentleman.
The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough.
Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son. Take leave of thy old master and inquire My lodging out. Give him a livery More guarded than his fellows': see it done.
Father, in. I cannot get a service, no; I have ne'er a tongue in my head. Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to, here's a simple line of life: here's a small trifle of wives: alas, fifteen wives is nothing! eleven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man: and then to 'scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye.
I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this: These things being bought and orderly bestow'd, Return in haste, for I do feast to-night My best-esteem'd acquaintance: hie thee, go.
My best endeavours shall be done herein.
Where is your master?
Yonder, sir, he walks.
Signior Bassanio!
Gratiano!
I have a suit to you.
You have obtain'd it.
You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.
Why then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano; Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice; Parts that become thee happily enough And in such eyes as ours appear not faults; But where thou art not known, why, there they show Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behavior I be misconstrued in the place I go to, And lose my hopes.
Signior Bassanio, hear me: If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect and swear but now and then, Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh and say 'amen,' Use all the observance of civility, Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more.
Well, we shall see your bearing.
Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not gauge me By what we do to-night.
No, that were pity: I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well: I have some business.
And I must to Lorenzo and the rest: But we will visit you at supper-time.
I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so: Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee: And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest: Give him this letter; do it secretly; And so farewell: I would not have my father See me in talk with thee.
Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! if a Christian did not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu: these foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit: adieu.
Farewell, good Launcelot. Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be ashamed to be my father's child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife.
Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, Disguise us at my lodging and return, All in an hour.
We have not made good preparation.
We have not spoke us yet of torchbearers.
'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd, And better in my mind not undertook.
'Tis now but four o'clock: we have two hours To furnish us. Friend Launcelot, what's the news?
An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify.
I know the hand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand; And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ.
Love-news, in faith.
By your leave, sir.
Whither goest thou?
Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup to-night with my new master the Christian.
Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica I will not fail her; speak it privately. Go, gentlemen, Will you prepare you for this masque tonight? I am provided of a torch-bearer.
Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.
And so will I.
Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.
'Tis good we do so.
Was not that letter from fair Jessica?
I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed How I shall take her from her father's house, What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with, What page's suit she hath in readiness. If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter's sake: And never dare misfortune cross her foot, Unless she do it under this excuse, That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me; peruse this as thou goest: Fair Jessica shall be my torch-beare r.
Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:-- What, Jessica!--thou shalt not gormandise, As thou hast done with me:--What, Jessica!-- And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out;-- Why, Jessica, I say!
Why, Jessica!
Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.
Your worship was wont to tell me that I could do nothing without bidding.
Call you? what is your will?
I am bid forth to supper, Jessica: There are my keys. But wherefore should I go? I am not bid for love; they flatter me: But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loath to go: There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night.
I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect your reproach.
So do I his.
An they have conspired together, I will not say you shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black-Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year, in the afternoon.
What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces, But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements: Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter My sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear, I have no mind of feasting forth to-night: But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah; Say I will come.
I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window, for all this, There will come a Christian boy, will be worth a Jewess' eye.
What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?
His words were 'Farewell mistress;' nothing else.
The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder; Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day More than the wild-cat: drones hive not with me; Therefore I part with him, and part with him To one that would have him help to waste His borrow'd purse. Well, Jessica, go in; Perhaps I will return immediately: Do as I bid you; shut doors after you: Fast bind, fast find; A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.
Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost, I have a father, you a daughter, lost.
This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo Desired us to make stand.
His hour is almost past.
And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock.
O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited!
That ever holds: who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. How like a younker or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind! How like the prodigal doth she return, With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!
Here comes Lorenzo: more of this hereafter.
Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode; Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait: When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, I'll watch as long for you then. Approach; Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within?
Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.
Lorenzo, and thy love.
Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed, For who love I so much? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?
Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.
Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains. I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much ashamed of my exchange: But love is blind and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit; For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy.
Descend, for you must be my torchbearer.
What, must I hold a candle to my shames? They in themselves, good-sooth, are too too light. Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love; And I should be obscured.
So are you, sweet, Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once; For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.
I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some more ducats, and be with you straight.
Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew.
Beshrew me but I love her heartily; For she is wise, if I can judge of her, And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, as she hath proved herself, And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul. What, art thou come? On, gentlemen; away! Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.
Who's there?
Signior Antonio!
Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest? 'Tis nine o'clock: our friends all stay for you. No masque to-night: the wind is come about; Bassanio presently will go aboard: I have sent twenty out to seek for you.
I am glad on't: I desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone to-night.
Go draw aside the curtains and discover The several caskets to this noble prince. Now make your choice.
The first, of gold, who this inscription bears, 'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;' The second, silver, which this promise carries, 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves;' This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' How shall I know if I do choose the right?
The one of them contains my picture, prince: If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
Some god direct my judgment! Let me see; I will survey the inscriptions back again. What says this leaden casket? 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' Must give: for what? for lead? hazard for lead? This casket threatens. Men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages: A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross; I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. What says the silver with her virgin hue? 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco, And weigh thy value with an even hand: If thou be'st rated by thy estimation, Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady: And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself. As much as I deserve! Why, that's the lady: I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, In graces and in qualities of breeding; But more than these, in love I do deserve. What if I stray'd no further, but chose here? Let's see once more this saying graved in gold 'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' Why, that's the lady; all the world desires her; From the four corners of the earth they come, To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint: The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as thoroughfares now For princes to come view fair Portia: The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar To stop the foreign spirits, but they come, As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia. One of these three contains her heavenly picture. Is't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation To think so base a thought: it were too gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. Or shall I think in silver she's immured, Being ten times undervalued to tried gold? O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem Was set in worse than gold. They have in England A coin that bears the figure of an angel Stamped in gold, but that's insculp'd upon; But here an angel in a golden bed Lies all within. Deliver me the key: Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!
There, take it, prince; and if my form lie there, Then I am yours.
O hell! what have we here? A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing. All that glitters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been inscroll'd: Fare you well; your suit is cold. Cold, indeed; and labour lost: Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost! Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.
A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. Let all of his complexion choose me so.
Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail: With him is Gratiano gone along; And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.
The villain Jew with outcries raised the duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.
He came too late, the ship was under sail: But there the duke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica: Besides, Antonio certified the duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship.
I never heard a passion so confused, So strange, outrageous, and so variable, As the dog Jew did utter in the streets: 'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter! And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl; She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.'
Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.
Let good Antonio look he keep his day, Or he shall pay for this.
Marry, well remember'd. I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday, Who told me, in the narrow seas that part The French and English, there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught: I thought upon Antonio when he told me; And wish'd in silence that it were not his.
You were best to tell Antonio what you hear; Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.
A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part: Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return: he answer'd, 'Do not so; Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio But stay the very riping of the time; And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love: Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there:' And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted.
I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other.
Do we so.
Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain straight: The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath, And comes to his election presently.
Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince: If you choose that wherein I am contain'd, Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized: But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, You must be gone from hence immediately.
I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things: First, never to unfold to any one Which casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage: Lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Immediately to leave you and be gone.
To these injunctions every one doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self.
And so have I address'd me. Fortune now To my heart's hope! Gold; silver; and base lead. 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard. What says the golden chest? ha! let me see: 'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' What many men desire! that 'many' may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach; Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet, Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house; Tell me once more what title thou dost bear: 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves:' And well said too; for who shall go about To cozen fortune and be honourable Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. O, that estates, degrees and offices Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover that stand bare! How many be commanded that command! How much low peasantry would then be glean'd From the true seed of honour! and how much honour Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times To be new-varnish'd! Well, but to my choice: 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, And instantly unlock my fortunes here.
Too long a pause for that which you find there.
What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot, Presenting me a schedule! I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia! How much unlike my hopes and my deservings! 'Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.' Did I deserve no more than a fool's head? Is that my prize? are my deserts no better?
To offend, and judge, are distinct offices And of opposed natures.
What is here? The fire seven times tried this: Seven times tried that judgment is, That did never choose amiss. Some there be that shadows kiss; Such have but a shadow's bliss: There be fools alive, I wis, Silver'd o'er; and so was this. Take what wife you will to bed, I will ever be your head: So be gone: you are sped. Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here With one fool's head I came to woo, But I go away with two. Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath, Patiently to bear my wroth.
Thus hath the candle singed the moth. O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose, They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.
The ancient saying is no heresy, Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.
Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.
Where is my lady?
Here: what would my lord?
Madam, there is alighted at your gate A young Venetian, one that comes before To signify the approaching of his lord; From whom he bringeth sensible regreets, To wit, besides commends and courteous breath, Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen So likely an ambassador of love: A day in April never came so sweet, To show how costly summer was at hand, As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.
No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him. Come, come, Nerissa; for I long to see Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly.
Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!
Now, what news on the Rialto?
Why, yet it lives there uncheck'd that Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the place; a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word.
I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,--O that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!--
Come, the full stop.
Ha! what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship.
I would it might prove the end of his losses.
Let me say 'amen' betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew. How now, Shylock! what news among the merchants?
You know, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter's flight.
That's certain: I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal.
And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam.
She is damned for it.
That's certain, if the devil may be her judge.
My own flesh and blood to rebel!
Out upon it, old carrion! rebels it at these years?
I say, my daughter is my flesh and blood.
There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory; more between your bloods than there is between red wine and rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no?
There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto; a beggar, that was used to come so smug upon the mart; let him look to his bond: he was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him look to his bond.
Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh: what's that good for?
To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.
Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house and desires to speak with you both.
We have been up and down to seek him.
Here comes another of the tribe: a third cannot be matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew.
How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? hast thou found my daughter?
I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.
Why, there, there, there, there! a diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now: two thousand ducats in that; and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of them? Why, so: and I know not what's spent in the search: why, thou loss upon loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge: nor no in luck stirring but what lights on my shoulders; no sighs but of my breathing; no tears but of my shedding.
Yes, other men have ill luck too: Antonio, as I heard in Genoa,--
What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?
Hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.
I thank God, I thank God. Is't true, is't true?
I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck.
I thank thee, good Tubal: good news, good news! ha, ha! where? in Genoa?
Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one night fourscore ducats.
Thou stickest a dagger in me: I shall never see my gold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting! fourscore ducats!
There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break.
I am very glad of it: I'll plague him; I'll torture him: I am glad of it.
One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey.
Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it was my turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor: I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.
But Antonio is certainly undone.
Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal.
I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong, I lose your company: therefore forbear awhile. There's something tells me, but it is not love, I would not lose you; and you know yourself, Hate counsels not in such a quality. But lest you should not understand me well,-- And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,-- I would detain you here some month or two Before you venture for me. I could teach you How to choose right, but I am then forsworn; So will I never be: so may you miss me; But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin, That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, They have o'erlook'd me and divided me; One half of me is yours, the other half yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours. O, these naughty times Put bars between the owners and their rights! And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. I speak too long; but 'tis to peize the time, To eke it and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election.
Let me choose For as I am, I live upon the rack.
Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess What treason there is mingled with your love.
None but that ugly treason of mistrust, Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love: There may as well be amity and life 'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.
Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, Where men enforced do speak anything.
Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.
Well then, confess and live.
'Confess' and 'love' Had been the very sum of my confession: O happy torment, when my torturer Doth teach me answers for deliverance! But let me to my fortune and the caskets.
Away, then! I am lock'd in one of them: If you do love me, you will find me out. Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof. Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music: that the comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And watery death-bed for him. He may win; And what is music then? Then music is Even as the flourish when true subjects bow To a new-crowned monarch: such it is As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear, And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, With no less presence, but with much more love, Than young Alcides, when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, With bleared visages, come forth to view The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules! Live thou, I live: with much, much more dismay I view the fight than thou that makest the fray. SONG. Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes, With gazing fed; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.
Ding, dong, bell.
So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts: How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk; And these assume but valour's excrement To render them redoubted! Look on beauty, And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight; Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it: So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head, The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee; Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught, Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence; And here choose I; joy be the consequence!
[Aside]  How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! O love, Be moderate; allay thy ecstasy, In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess. I feel too much thy blessing: make it less, For fear I surfeit.
What find I here? Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips, Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,-- How could he see to do them? having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his And leave itself unfurnish'd. Yet look, how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune. You that choose not by the view, Chance as fair and choose as true! Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new, If you be well pleased with this And hold your fortune for your bliss, Turn you where your lady is And claim her with a loving kiss. A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave; I come by note, to give and to receive. Like one of two contending in a prize, That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes, Hearing applause and universal shout, Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt Whether these pearls of praise be his or no; So, thrice fair lady, stand I, even so; As doubtful whether what I see be true, Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you.
You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am: though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish, To wish myself much better; yet, for you I would be trebled twenty times myself; A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich; That only to stand high in your account, I might in virtue, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account; but the full sum of me Is sum of something, which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractised; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself and what is mine to you and yours Is now converted: but now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o'er myself: and even now, but now, This house, these servants and this same myself Are yours, my lord: I give them with this ring; Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love And be my vantage to exclaim on you.
Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; And there is such confusion in my powers, As after some oration fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear Among the buzzing pleased multitude; Where every something, being blent together, Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence: O, then be bold to say Bassanio's dead!
My lord and lady, it is now our time, That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, To cry, good joy: good joy, my lord and lady!
My lord Bassanio and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish; For I am sure you can wish none from me: And when your honours mean to solemnize The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you, Even at that time I may be married too.
With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.
I thank your lordship, you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid; You loved, I loved for intermission. No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the casket there, And so did mine too, as the matter falls; For wooing here until I sweat again, And sweating until my very roof was dry With oaths of love, at last, if promise last, I got a promise of this fair one here To have her love, provided that your fortune Achieved her mistress.
Is this true, Nerissa?
Madam, it is, so you stand pleased withal.
And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?
Yes, faith, my lord.
Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage.
We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats.
What, and stake down?
No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down. But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What, and my old Venetian friend Salerio?
Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither; If that the youth of my new interest here Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, I bid my very friends and countrymen, Sweet Portia, welcome.
So do I, my lord: They are entirely welcome.
I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, My purpose was not to have seen you here; But meeting with Salerio by the way, He did entreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along.
I did, my lord; And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio Commends him to you.
Ere I ope his letter, I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth.
Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there Will show you his estate.
Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome. Your hand, Salerio: what's the news from Venice? How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? I know he will be glad of our success; We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.
I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost.
There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper, That steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek: Some dear friend dead; else nothing in the world Could turn so much the constitution Of any constant man. What, worse and worse! With leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself, And I must freely have the half of anything That this same paper brings you.
O sweet Portia, Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words That ever blotted paper! Gentle lady, When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you, all the wealth I had Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman; And then I told you true: and yet, dear lady, Rating myself at nothing, you shall see How much I was a braggart. When I told you My state was nothing, I should then have told you That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed, I have engaged myself to a dear friend, Engaged my friend to his mere enemy, To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady; The paper as the body of my friend, And every word in it a gaping wound, Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio? Have all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit? From Tripolis, from Mexico and England, From Lisbon, Barbary and India? And not one vessel 'scape the dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks?
Not one, my lord. Besides, it should appear, that if he had The present money to discharge the Jew, He would not take it. Never did I know A creature, that did bear the shape of man, So keen and greedy to confound a man: He plies the duke at morning and at night, And doth impeach the freedom of the state, If they deny him justice: twenty merchants, The duke himself, and the magnificoes Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him; But none can drive him from the envious plea Of forfeiture, of justice and his bond.
When I was with him I have heard him swear To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, That he would rather have Antonio's flesh Than twenty times the value of the sum That he did owe him: and I know, my lord, If law, authority and power deny not, It will go hard with poor Antonio.
Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?
The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, The best-condition'd and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies, and one in whom The ancient Roman honour more appears Than any that draws breath in Italy.
What sum owes he the Jew?
For me three thousand ducats.
What, no more? Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond; Double six thousand, and then treble that, Before a friend of this description Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault. First go with me to church and call me wife, And then away to Venice to your friend; For never shall you lie by Portia's side With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold To pay the petty debt twenty times over: When it is paid, bring your true friend along. My maid Nerissa and myself meantime Will live as maids and widows. Come, away! For you shall hence upon your wedding-day: Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer: Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. But let me hear the letter of your friend.
[Reads]  Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.
O love, dispatch all business, and be gone!
Since I have your good leave to go away, I will make haste: but, till I come again, No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay, No rest be interposer 'twixt us twain.
Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of mercy; This is the fool that lent out money gratis: Gaoler, look to him.
Hear me yet, good Shylock.
I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond: I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause; But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs: The duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request.
I pray thee, hear me speak.
I'll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak: I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more. I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors. Follow not; I'll have no speaking: I will have my bond.
It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept with men.
Let him alone: I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life; his reason well I know: I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures Many that have at times made moan to me; Therefore he hates me.
I am sure the duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.
The duke cannot deny the course of law: For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied, Will much impeach the justice of his state; Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go: These griefs and losses have so bated me, That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh To-morrow to my bloody creditor. Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come To see me pay his debt, and then I care not!
Madam, although I speak it in your presence, You have a noble and a true conceit Of godlike amity; which appears most strongly In bearing thus the absence of your lord. But if you  knew to whom you show this honour, How true a gentleman you send relief, How dear a lover of my lord your husband, I know you would be prouder of the work Than customary bounty can enforce you.
I never did repent for doing good, Nor shall not now: for in companions That do converse and waste the time together, Whose souls do bear an equal yoke Of love, There must be needs a like proportion Of lineaments, of manners and of spirit; Which makes me think that this Antonio, Being the bosom lover of my lord, Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, How little is the cost I have bestow'd In purchasing the semblance of my soul From out the state of hellish misery! This comes too near the praising of myself; Therefore no more of it: hear other things. Lorenzo, I commit into your hands The husbandry and manage of my house Until my lord's return: for mine own part, I have toward heaven breathed a secret vow To live in prayer and contemplation, Only attended by Nerissa here, Until her husband and my lord's return: There is a monastery two miles off; And there will we abide. I do desire you Not to deny this imposition; The which my love and some necessity Now lays upon you.
Madam, with all my heart; I shall obey you in all fair commands.
My people do already know my mind, And will acknowledge you and Jessica In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. And so farewell, till we shall meet again.
Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!
I wish your ladyship all heart's content.
I thank you for your wish, and am well pleased To wish it back on you: fare you well Jessica. Now, Balthasar, As I have ever found thee honest-true, So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, And use thou all the endeavour of a man In speed to Padua: see thou render this Into my cousin's hand, Doctor Bellario; And, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee, Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed Unto the tranect, to the common ferry Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, But get thee gone: I shall be there before thee.
Madam, I go with all convenient speed.
Come on, Nerissa; I have work in hand That you yet know not of: we'll see our husbands Before they think of us.
Shall they see us?
They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit, That they shall think we are accomplished With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutred like young men, I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, And wear my dagger with the braver grace, And speak between the change of man and boy With a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride, and speak of frays Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies, How honourable ladies sought my love, Which I denying, they fell sick and died; I could not do withal; then I'll repent, And wish for all that, that I had not killed them; And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell, That men shall swear I have discontinued school Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise.
Why, shall we turn to men?
Fie, what a question's that, If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device When I am in my coach, which stays for us At the park gate; and therefore haste away, For we must measure twenty miles to-day.
Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children: therefore, I promise ye, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter: therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damned. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good; and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither.
And what hope is that, I pray thee?
Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not, that you are not the Jew's daughter.
That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed: so the sins of my mother should be visited upon me.
Truly then I fear you are damned both by father and mother: thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother: well, you are gone both ways.
I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a Christian.
Truly, the more to blame he: we were Christians enow before; e'en as many as could well live, one by another. This making Christians will raise the price of hogs: if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money.
I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say: here he comes.
I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners.
Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo: Launcelot and I are out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter: and he says, you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians, you raise the price of pork.
I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro's belly: the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot.
It is much that the Moor should be more than reason: but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for.
How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner.
That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.
Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! then bid them prepare dinner.
That is done too, sir; only 'cover' is the word.
Will you cover then, sir?
Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty.
Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray tree, understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows; bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner.
For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern.
O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words; and I do know A many fools, that stand in better place, Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheerest thou, Jessica? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?
Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life; For, having such a blessing in his lady, He finds the joys of heaven here on earth; And if on earth he do not mean it, then In reason he should never come to heaven Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match And on the wager lay two earthly women, And Portia one, there must be something else Pawn'd with the other, for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow.
Even such a husband Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.
Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.
I will anon: first, let us go to dinner.
Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach.
No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk; '	Then, howso'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things I shall digest it.
Well, I'll set you forth.
What, is Antonio here?
Ready, so please your grace.
I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy.
I have heard Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate And that no lawful means can carry me Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am arm'd To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, The very tyranny and rage of his.
Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
He is ready at the door: he comes, my lord.
Make room, and let him stand before our face. Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act; and then 'tis thought Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange Than is thy strange apparent cruelty; And where thou now exact'st the penalty, Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, But, touch'd with human gentleness and love, Forgive a moiety of the principal; Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, That have of late so huddled on his back, Enow to press a royal merchant down And pluck commiseration of his state From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd To offices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose; And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn To have the due and forfeit of my bond: If you deny it, let the danger light Upon your charter and your city's freedom. You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have A weight of carrion flesh than to receive Three thousand ducats: I'll not answer that: But, say, it is my humour: is it answer'd? What if my house be troubled with a rat And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats To have it baned? What, are you answer'd yet? Some men there are love not a gaping pig; Some, that are mad if they behold a cat; And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose, Cannot contain their urine: for affection, Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer: As there is no firm reason to be render'd, Why he cannot abide a gaping pig; Why he, a harmless necessary cat; Why he, a woollen bagpipe; but of force Must yield to such inevitable shame As to offend, himself being offended; So can I give no reason, nor I will not, More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?
This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
I am not bound to please thee with my answers.
Do all men kill the things they do not love?
Hates any man the thing he would not kill?
Every offence is not a hate at first.
What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?
I pray you, think you question with the Jew: You may as well go stand upon the beach And bid the main flood bate his usual height; You may as well use question with the wolf Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb; You may as well forbid the mountain pines To wag their high tops and to make no noise, When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven; You may as well do anything most hard, As seek to soften that--than which what's harder?-- His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you, Make no more offers, use no farther means, But with all brief and plain conveniency Let me have judgment and the Jew his will.
For thy three thousand ducats here is six.
What judgment shall I dread, doing Were in six parts and every part a ducat, I would not draw them; I would have my bond.
How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?
What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? You have among you many a purchased slave, Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, You use in abject and in slavish parts, Because you bought them: shall I say to you, Let them be free, marry them to your heirs? Why sweat they under burthens? let their beds Be made as soft as yours and let their palates Be season'd with such viands? You will answer 'The slaves are ours:' so do I answer you: The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, Is dearly bought; 'tis mine and I will have it. If you deny me, fie upon your law! There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?
Upon my power I may dismiss this court, Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, Whom I have sent for to determine this, Come here to-day.
My lord, here stays without A messenger with letters from the doctor, New come from Padua.
Bring us the letter; call the messenger.
Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet! The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.
I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground; and so let me You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio, Than to live still and write mine epitaph.
Came you from Padua, from Bellario?
From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace.
Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou makest thy knife keen; but no metal can, No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?
No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog! And for thy life let justice be accused. Thou almost makest me waver in my faith To hold opinion with Pythagoras, That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, Infused itself in thee; for thy desires Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous.
Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud: Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.
This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court. Where is he?
He attendeth here hard by, To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.
With all my heart. Some three or four of you Go give him courteous conduct to this place. Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter.
[Reads] Your grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick: but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome; his name is Balthasar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant: we turned o'er many books together: he is furnished with my opinion; which, bettered with his own learning, the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend, comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up your grace's request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation; for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation.
You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes: And here, I take it, is the doctor come. Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario?
I did, my lord.
You are welcome: take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court?
I am informed thoroughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?
Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
Is your name Shylock?
Shylock is my name.
Of a strange nature is the suit you follow; Yet in such rule that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. You stand within his danger, do you not?
Ay, so he says.
Do you confess the bond?
I do.
Then must the Jew be merciful.
On what compulsion must I? tell me that.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea; Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
My deeds upon my head! I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
Is he not able to discharge the money?
Yes, here I tender it for him in the court; Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart: If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority: To do a great right, do a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will.
It must not be; there is no power in Venice Can alter a decree established: 'Twill be recorded for a precedent, And many an error by the same example Will rush into the state: it cannot be.
A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel! O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!
I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.
Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.
An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven: Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice.
Why, this bond is forfeit; And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful: Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.
When it is paid according to the tenor. It doth appear you are a worthy judge; You know the law, your exposition Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law, Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me: I stay here on my bond.
Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment.
Why then, thus it is: You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
O noble judge! O excellent young man!
For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge! How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
Therefore lay bare your bosom.
Ay, his breast: So says the bond: doth it not, noble judge? 'Nearest his heart:' those are the very words.
It is so. Are there balance here to weigh The flesh?
I have them ready.
Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
Is it so nominated in the bond?
It is not so express'd: but what of that? 'Twere good you do so much for charity.
I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.
You, merchant, have you any thing to say?
But little: I am arm'd and well prepared. Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well! Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you; For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom: it is still her use To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow An age of poverty; from which lingering penance Of such misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honourable wife: Tell her the process of Antonio's end; Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death; And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent but you that you shall lose your friend, And he repents not that he pays your debt; For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I'll pay it presently with all my heart.
Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear to me as life itself; But life itself, my wife, and all the world, Are not with me esteem'd above thy life: I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you.
Your wife would give you little thanks for that, If she were by, to hear you make the offer.
I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love: I would she were in heaven, so she could Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.
'Tis well you offer it behind her back; The wish would make else an unquiet house.
These be the Christian husbands. I have a daughter; Would any of the stock of Barrabas Had been her husband rather than a Christian! We trifle time: I pray thee, pursue sentence.
A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine: The court awards it, and the law doth give it.
Most rightful judge!
And you must cut this flesh from off his breast: The law allows it, and the court awards it.
Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare!
Tarry a little; there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; The words expressly are 'a pound of flesh:' Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh; But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate Unto the state of Venice.
O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned judge!
Is that the law?
Thyself shalt see the act: For, as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.
O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned judge!
I take this offer, then; pay the bond thrice And let the Christian go.
Here is the money.
Soft! The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste: He shall have nothing but the penalty.
O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more But just a pound of flesh: if thou cut'st more Or less than a just pound, be it but so much As makes it light or heavy in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair, Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate.
A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew! Now, infidel, I have you on the hip.
Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.
Give me my principal, and let me go.
I have it ready for thee; here it is.
He hath refused it in the open court: He shall have merely justice and his bond.
A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
Shall I not have barely my principal?
Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
Why, then the devil give him good of it! I'll stay no longer question.
Tarry, Jew: The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, If it be proved against an alien That by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life of any citizen, The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods; the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state; And the offender's life lies in the mercy Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st; For it appears, by manifest proceeding, That indirectly and directly too Thou hast contrived against the very life Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd The danger formerly by me rehearsed. Down therefore and beg mercy of the duke.
Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself: And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou hast not left the value of a cord; Therefore thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.
That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it: For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's; The other half comes to the general state, Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
Ay, for the state, not for Antonio.
Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that: You take my house when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house; you take my life When you do take the means whereby I live.
What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake.
So please my lord the duke and all the court To quit the fine for one half of his goods, I am content; so he will let me have The other half in use, to render it, Upon his death, unto the gentleman That lately stole his daughter: Two things provided more, that, for this favour, He presently become a Christian; The other, that he do record a gift, Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd, Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.
He shall do this, or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here.
Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?
I am content.
Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
I pray you, give me leave to go from hence; I am not well: send the deed after me, And I will sign it.
Get thee gone, but do it.
In christening shalt thou have two god-fathers: Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, To bring thee to the gallows, not the font.
Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.
I humbly do desire your grace of pardon: I must away this night toward Padua, And it is meet I presently set forth.
I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman, For, in my mind, you are much bound to him.
Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof, Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, We freely cope your courteous pains withal.
And stand indebted, over and above, In love and service to you evermore.
He is well paid that is well satisfied; And I, delivering you, am satisfied And therein do account myself well paid: My mind was never yet more mercenary. I pray you, know me when we meet again: I wish you well, and so I take my leave.
Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further: Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute, Not as a fee: grant me two things, I pray you, Not to deny me, and to pardon me.
You press me far, and therefore I will yield. Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake; And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you: Do not draw back your hand; I'll take no more; And you in love shall not deny me this.
This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle! I will not shame myself to give you this.
I will have nothing else but only this; And now methinks I have a mind to it.
There's more depends on this than on the value. The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, And find it out by proclamation: Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.
I see, sir, you are liberal in offers You taught me first to beg; and now methinks You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd.
Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife; And when she put it on, she made me vow That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it.
That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts. An if your wife be not a mad-woman, And know how well I have deserved the ring, She would not hold out enemy for ever, For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you!
My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring: Let his deservings and my love withal Be valued against your wife's commandment.
Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him; Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst, Unto Antonio's house: away! make haste. Come, you and I will thither presently; And in the morning early will we both Fly toward Belmont: come, Antonio.
Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed And let him sign it: we'll away to-night And be a day before our husbands home: This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.
Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en My Lord Bassanio upon more advice Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner.
That cannot be: His ring I do accept most thankfully: And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore, I pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house.
That will I do.
Sir, I would speak with you. I'll see if I can get my husband's ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.
[Aside to NERISSA]  Thou mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men; But we'll outface them, and outswear them too. Away! make haste: thou knowist where I will tarry.
Come, good sir, will you show me to this house?
The moon shines bright: in such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees And they did make no noise, in such a night Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night.
In such a night Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew And saw the lion's shadow ere himself And ran dismay'd away.
In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea banks and waft her love To come again to Carthage.
In such a night Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs That did renew old AEson.
In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont.
In such a night Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, Stealing her soul with many vows of faith And ne'er a true one.
In such a night Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
I would out-night you, did no body come; But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.
Who comes so fast in silence of the night?
A friend.
A friend! what friend? your name, I pray you, friend?
Stephano is my name; and I bring word My mistress will before the break of day Be here at Belmont; she doth stray about By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays For happy wedlock hours.
Who comes with her?
None but a holy hermit and her maid. I pray you, is my master yet return'd?
He is not, nor we have not heard from him. But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, And ceremoniously let us prepare Some welcome for the mistress of the house.
Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!
Who calls?
Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo, sola, sola!
Leave hollaing, man: here.
Sola! where? where?
Here.
Tell him there's a post come from my master, with his horn full of good news: my master will be here ere morning.
Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming. And yet no matter: why should we go in? My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, Within the house, your mistress is at hand; And bring your music forth into the air. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn! With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, And draw her home with music.
I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
The reason is, your spirits are attentive: For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood; If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods; Since nought so stockish, hard and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.
So doth the greater glory dim the less: A substitute shines brightly as a king Unto the king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as doth an inland brook Into the main of waters. Music! hark!
It is your music, madam, of the house.
Nothing is good, I see, without respect: Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.
Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark, When neither is attended, and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season'd are To their right praise and true perfection! Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion And would not be awaked.
That is the voice, Or I am much deceived, of Portia.
He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo, By the bad voice.
Dear lady, welcome home.
We have been praying for our husbands' healths, Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. Are they return'd?
Madam, they are not yet; But there is come a messenger before, To signify their coming.
Go in, Nerissa; Give order to my servants that they take No note at all of our being absent hence; Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.
Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet: We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not.
This night methinks is but the daylight sick; It looks a little paler: 'tis a day, Such as the day is when the sun is hid.
We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun.
Let me give light, but let me not be light; For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, And never be Bassanio so for me: But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord.
I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend. This is the man, this is Antonio, To whom I am so infinitely bound.
You should in all sense be much bound to him. For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.
No more than I am well acquitted of.
Sir, you are very welcome to our house: It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.
[To NERISSA]  By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong; In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk: Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.
A quarrel, ho, already! what's the matter?
About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me, whose posy was For all the world like cutler's poetry Upon  a knife, 'Love me, and leave me not.'
What talk you of the posy or the value? You swore to me, when I did give it you, That you would wear it till your hour of death And that it should lie with you in your grave: Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, You should have been respective and have kept it. Gave it a judge's clerk! no, God's my judge, The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it.
He will, an if he live to be a man.
Ay, if a woman live to be a man.
Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, No higher than thyself; the judge's clerk, A prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee: I could not for my heart deny it him.
You were to blame, I must be plain with you, To part so slightly with your wife's first gift: A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. I gave my love a ring and made him swear Never to part with it; and here he stands; I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it Nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief: An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it.
[Aside]  Why, I were best to cut my left hand off And swear I lost the ring defending it.
My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away Unto the judge that begg'd it and indeed Deserved it too; and then the boy, his clerk, That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine; And neither man nor master would take aught But the two rings.
What ring gave you my lord? Not that, I hope, which you received of me.
If I could add a lie unto a fault, I would deny it; but you see my finger Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone.
Even so void is your false heart of truth. By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed Until I see the ring.
Nor I in yours Till I again see mine.
Sweet Portia, If you did know to whom I gave the ring, If you did know for whom I gave the ring And would conceive for what I gave the ring And how unwillingly I left the ring, When nought would be accepted but the ring, You would abate the strength of your displeasure.
If you had known the virtue of the ring, Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, Or your own honour to contain the ring, You would not then have parted with the ring. What man is there so much unreasonable, If you had pleased to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the thing held as a ceremony? Nerissa teaches me what to believe: I'll die for't but some woman had the ring.
No, by my honour, madam, by my soul, No woman had it, but a civil doctor, Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me And begg'd the ring; the which I did deny him And suffer'd him to go displeased away; Even he that did uphold the very life Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady? I was enforced to send it after him; I was beset with shame and courtesy; My honour would not let ingratitude So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady; For, by these blessed candles of the night, Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.
Let not that doctor e'er come near my house: Since he hath got the jewel that I loved, And that which you did swear to keep for me, I will become as liberal as you; I'll not deny him any thing I have, No, not my body nor my husband's bed: Know him I shall, I am well sure of it: Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus: If you do not, if I be left alone, Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own, I'll have that doctor for my bedfellow.
And I his clerk; therefore be well advised How you do leave me to mine own protection.
Well, do you so; let not me take him, then; For if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen.
I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels.
Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding.
Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong; And, in the hearing of these many friends, I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, Wherein I see myself--
Mark you but that! In both my eyes he doubly sees himself; In each eye, one: swear by your double self, And there's an oath of credit.
Nay, but hear me: Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear I never more will break an oath with thee.
I once did lend my body for his wealth; Which, but for him that had your husband's ring, Had quite miscarried: I dare be bound again, My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord Will never more break faith advisedly.
Then you shall be his surety. Give him this And bid him keep it better than the other.
Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring.
By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor!
I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio; For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me.
And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano; For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk, In lieu of this last night did lie with me.
Why, this is like the mending of highways In summer, where the ways are fair enough: What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserved it?
Speak not so grossly. You are all amazed: Here is a letter; read it at your leisure; It comes from Padua, from Bellario: There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, Nerissa there her clerk: Lorenzo here Shall witness I set forth as soon as you And even but now return'd; I have not yet Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome; And I have better news in store for you Than you expect: unseal this letter soon; There you shall find three of your argosies Are richly come to harbour suddenly: You shall not know by what strange accident I chanced on this letter.
I am dumb.
Were you the doctor and I knew you not?
Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?
Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it, Unless he live until he be a man.
Sweet doctor, you shall be my bed-fellow: When I am absent, then lie with my wife.
Sweet lady, you have given me life and living; For here I read for certain that my ships Are safely come to road.
How now, Lorenzo! My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.
Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee. There do I give to you and Jessica, From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, After his death, of all he dies possess'd of.
Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way Of starved people.
It is almost morning, And yet I am sure you are not satisfied Of these events at full. Let us go in; And charge us there upon inter'gatories, And we will answer all things faithfully.
Let it be so: the first inter'gatory That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is, Whether till the next night she had rather stay, Or go to bed now, being two hours to day: But were the day come, I should wish it dark, That I were couching with the doctor's clerk. Well, while I live I'll fear no other thing So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece The princes orgulous, their high blood chafed, Have to the port of Athens sent their ships, Fraught with the ministers and instruments Of cruel war: sixty and nine, that wore Their crownets regal, from the Athenian bay Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures The ravish'd Helen, Menelaus' queen, With wanton Paris sleeps; and that's the quarrel. To Tenedos they come; And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge Their warlike fraughtage: now on Dardan plains The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch Their brave pavilions: Priam's six-gated city, Dardan, and Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien, And Antenorides, with massy staples And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts, Sperr up the sons of Troy. Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, On one and other side, Trojan and Greek, Sets all on hazard: and hither am I come A prologue arm'd, but not in confidence Of author's pen or actor's voice, but suited In like conditions as our argument, To tell you, fair beholders, that our play Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, Beginning in the middle, starting thence away To what may be digested in a play. Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are: Now good or bad, 'tis but the chance of war.
Call here my varlet; I'll unarm again: Why should I war without the walls of Troy, That find such cruel battle here within? Each Trojan that is master of his heart, Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none.
Will this gear ne'er be mended?
The Greeks are strong and skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill and to their fierceness valiant; But I am weaker than a woman's tear, Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, Less valiant than the virgin in the night And skilless as unpractised infancy.
Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part, I'll not meddle nor make no further. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding.
Have I not tarried?
Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
Have I not tarried?
Ay, the bolting, but you must tarry the leavening.
Still have I tarried.
Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word 'hereafter' the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips.
Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be, Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do. At Priam's royal table do I sit; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,-- So, traitor! 'When she comes!' When is she thence?
Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else.
I was about to tell thee:--when my heart, As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, Lest Hector or my father should perceive me, I have, as when the sun doth light a storm, Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile: But sorrow, that is couch'd in seeming gladness, Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.
An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's-- well, go to--there were no more comparison between the women: but, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her: but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit, but--
O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,-- When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd, Reply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench'd. I tell thee I am mad In Cressid's love: thou answer'st 'she is fair;' Pour'st in the open ulcer of my heart Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice, Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand, In whose comparison all whites are ink, Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure The cygnet's down is harsh and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughman: this thou tell'st me, As true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her; But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it.
I speak no more than truth.
Thou dost not speak so much.
Faith, I'll not meddle in't. Let her be as she is: if she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the mends in her own hands.
Good Pandarus, how now, Pandarus!
I have had my labour for my travail; ill-thought on of her and ill-thought on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour.
What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me?
Because she's kin to me, therefore she's not so fair as Helen: an she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she were a black-a-moor; 'tis all one to me.
Say I she is not fair?
I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to stay behind her father; let her to the Greeks; and so I'll tell her the next time I see her: for my part, I'll meddle nor make no more i' the matter.
Pandarus,--
Not I.
Sweet Pandarus,--
Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I found it, and there an end.
Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds! Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair, When with your blood you daily paint her thus. I cannot fight upon this argument; It is too starved a subject for my sword. But Pandarus,--O gods, how do you plague me! I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar; And he's as tetchy to be woo'd to woo. As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit. Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love, What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we? Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl: Between our Ilium and where she resides, Let it be call'd the wild and wandering flood, Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar Our doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark.
How now, Prince Troilus! wherefore not afield?
Because not there: this woman's answer sorts, For womanish it is to be from thence. What news, AEneas, from the field to-day?
That Paris is returned home and hurt.
By whom, AEneas?
Troilus, by Menelaus.
Let Paris bleed; 'tis but a scar to scorn; Paris is gored with Menelaus' horn.
Hark, what good sport is out of town to-day!
Better at home, if 'would I might' were 'may.' But to the sport abroad: are you bound thither?
In all swift haste.
Come, go we then together.
Who were those went by?
Queen Hecuba and Helen.
And whither go they?
Up to the eastern tower, Whose height commands as subject all the vale, To see the battle. Hector, whose patience Is, as a virtue, fix'd, to-day was moved: He chid Andromache and struck his armourer, And, like as there were husbandry in war, Before the sun rose he was harness'd light, And to the field goes he; where every flower Did, as a prophet, weep what it foresaw In Hector's wrath.
What was his cause of anger?
The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector; They call him Ajax.
Good; and what of him?
They say he is a very man per se, And stands alone.
So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have no legs.
This man, lady, hath robbed many beasts of their particular additions; he is as valiant as the lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant: a man into whom nature hath so crowded humours that his valour is crushed into folly, his folly sauced with discretion: there is no man hath a virtue that he hath not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries some stain of it: he is melancholy without cause, and merry against the hair: he hath the joints of every thing, but everything so out of joint that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use, or purblind Argus, all eyes and no sight.
But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector angry?
They say he yesterday coped Hector in the battle and struck him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since kept Hector fasting and waking.
Who comes here?
Madam, your uncle Pandarus.
Hector's a gallant man.
As may be in the world, lady.
What's that? what's that?
Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.
Good morrow, cousin Cressid: what do you talk of? Good morrow, Alexander. How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium?
This morning, uncle.
What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector armed and gone ere ye came to Ilium? Helen was not up, was she?
Hector was gone, but Helen was not up.
Even so: Hector was stirring early.
That were we talking of, and of his anger.
Was he angry?
So he says here.
True, he was so: I know the cause too: he'll lay about him to-day, I can tell them that: and there's Troilus will not come far behind him: let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell them that too.
What, is he angry too?
Who, Troilus? Troilus is the better man of the two.
O Jupiter! there's no comparison.
What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do you know a man if you see him?
Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him.
Well, I say Troilus is Troilus.
Then you say as I say; for, I am sure, he is not Hector.
No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some degrees.
'Tis just to each of them; he is himself.
Himself! Alas, poor Troilus! I would he were.
So he is.
Condition, I had gone barefoot to India.
He is not Hector.
Himself! no, he's not himself: would a' were himself! Well, the gods are above; time must friend or end: well, Troilus, well: I would my heart were in her body. No, Hector is not a better man than Troilus.
Excuse me.
He is elder.
Pardon me, pardon me.
Th' other's not come to't; you shall tell me another tale, when th' other's come to't. Hector shall not have his wit this year.
He shall not need it, if he have his own.
Nor his qualities.
No matter.
Nor his beauty.
'Twould not become him; his own's better.
You have no judgment, niece: Helen herself swore th' other day, that Troilus, for a brown favour--for so 'tis, I must confess,-- not brown neither,--
No, but brown.
'Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown.
To say the truth, true and not true.
She praised his complexion above Paris.
Why, Paris hath colour enough.
So he has.
Then Troilus should have too much: if she praised him above, his complexion is higher than his; he having colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a praise for a good complexion. I had as lief Helen's golden tongue had commended Troilus for a copper nose.
I swear to you. I think Helen loves him better than Paris.
Then she's a merry Greek indeed.
Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th' other day into the compassed window,--and, you know, he has not past three or four hairs on his chin,--
Indeed, a tapster's arithmetic may soon bring his particulars therein to a total.
Why, he is very young: and yet will he, within three pound, lift as much as his brother Hector.
Is he so young a man and so old a lifter?
But to prove to you that Helen loves him: she came and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin--
Juno have mercy! how came it cloven?
Why, you know 'tis dimpled: I think his smiling becomes him better than any man in all Phrygia.
O, he smiles valiantly.
Does he not?
O yes, an 'twere a cloud in autumn.
Why, go to, then: but to prove to you that Helen loves Troilus,--
Troilus will stand to the proof, if you'll prove it so.
Troilus! why, he esteems her no more than I esteem an addle egg.
If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle head, you would eat chickens i' the shell.
I cannot choose but laugh, to think how she tickled his chin: indeed, she has a marvellous white hand, I must needs confess,--
Without the rack.
And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin.
Alas, poor chin! many a wart is richer.
But there was such laughing! Queen Hecuba laughed that her eyes ran o'er.
With mill-stones.
And Cassandra laughed.
But there was more temperate fire under the pot of her eyes: did her eyes run o'er too?
And Hector laughed.
At what was all this laughing?
Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied on Troilus' chin.
An't had been a green hair, I should have laughed too.
They laughed not so much at the hair as at his pretty answer.
What was his answer?
Quoth she, 'Here's but two and fifty hairs on your chin, and one of them is white.
This is her question.
That's true; make no question of that. 'Two and fifty hairs' quoth he, 'and one white: that white hair is my father, and all the rest are his sons.' 'Jupiter!' quoth she, 'which of these hairs is Paris, my husband? 'The forked one,' quoth he, 'pluck't out, and give it him.' But there was such laughing! and Helen so blushed, an Paris so chafed, and all the rest so laughed, that it passed.
So let it now; for it has been while going by.
Well, cousin. I told you a thing yesterday; think on't.
So I do.
I'll be sworn 'tis true; he will weep you, an 'twere a man born in April.
And I'll spring up in his tears, an 'twere a nettle against May.
Hark! they are coming from the field: shall we stand up here, and see them as they pass toward Ilium? good niece, do, sweet niece Cressida.
At your pleasure.
Here, here, here's an excellent place; here we may see most bravely: I'll tell you them all by their names as they pass by; but mark Troilus above the rest.
Speak not so loud.
That's AEneas: is not that a brave man? he's one of the flowers of Troy, I can tell you: but mark Troilus; you shall see anon.
Who's that?
That's Antenor: he has a shrewd wit, I can tell you; and he's a man good enough, he's one o' the soundest judgments in whosoever, and a proper man of person. When comes Troilus? I'll show you Troilus anon: if he see me, you shall see him nod at me.
Will he give you the nod?
You shall see.
If he do, the rich shall have more.
That's Hector, that, that, look you, that; there's a fellow! Go thy way, Hector! There's a brave man, niece. O brave Hector! Look how he looks! there's a countenance! is't not a brave man?
O, a brave man!
Is a' not? it does a man's heart good. Look you what hacks are on his helmet! look you yonder, do you see? look you there: there's no jesting; there's laying on, take't off who will, as they say: there be hacks!
Be those with swords?
Swords! any thing, he cares not; an the devil come to him, it's all one: by God's lid, it does one's heart good. Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes Paris. Look ye yonder, niece; is't not a gallant man too, is't not? Why, this is brave now. Who said he came hurt home to-day? he's not hurt: why, this will do Helen's heart good now, ha! Would I could see Troilus now! You shall see Troilus anon.
Who's that?
That's Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That's Helenus. I think he went not forth to-day. That's Helenus.
Can Helenus fight, uncle?
Helenus? no. Yes, he'll fight indifferent well. I marvel where Troilus is. Hark! do you not hear the people cry 'Troilus'? Helenus is a priest.
What sneaking fellow comes yonder?
Where? yonder? that's Deiphobus. 'Tis Troilus! there's a man, niece! Hem! Brave Troilus! the prince of chivalry!
Peace, for shame, peace!
Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! Look well upon him, niece: look you how his sword is bloodied, and his helm more hacked than Hector's, and how he looks, and how he goes! O admirable youth! he ne'er saw three and twenty. Go thy way, Troilus, go thy way! Had I a sister were a grace, or a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice. O admirable man! Paris? Paris is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen, to change, would give an eye to boot.
Here come more.
Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran! porridge after meat! I could live and die i' the eyes of Troilus. Ne'er look, ne'er look: the eagles are gone: crows and daws, crows and daws! I had rather be such a man as Troilus than Agamemnon and all Greece.
There is among the Greeks Achilles, a better man than Troilus.
Achilles! a drayman, a porter, a very camel.
Well, well.
'Well, well!' why, have you any discretion? have you any eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man?
Ay, a minced man: and then to be baked with no date in the pie, for then the man's date's out.
You are such a woman! one knows not at what ward you lie.
Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my wit, to defend my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these: and at all these wards I lie, at a thousand watches.
Say one of your watches.
Nay, I'll watch you for that; and that's one of the chiefest of them too: if I cannot ward what I would not have hit, I can watch you for telling how I took the blow; unless it swell past hiding, and then it's past watching.
You are such another!
Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you.
Where?
At your own house; there he unarms him.
Good boy, tell him I come. I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece.
Adieu, uncle.
I'll be with you, niece, by and by.
To bring, uncle?
Ay, a token from Troilus.
By the same token, you are a bawd. Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice, He offers in another's enterprise; But more in Troilus thousand fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be; Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing: Things won are done; joy's soul lies in the doing. That she beloved knows nought that knows not this: Men prize the thing ungain'd more than it is: That she was never yet that ever knew Love got so sweet as when desire did sue. Therefore this maxim out of love I teach: Achievement is command; ungain'd, beseech: Then though my heart's content firm love doth bear, Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear.
Princes, What grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks? The ample proposition that hope makes In all designs begun on earth below Fails in the promised largeness: cheques and disasters Grow in the veins of actions highest rear'd, As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap, Infect the sound pine and divert his grain Tortive and errant from his course of growth. Nor, princes, is it matter new to us That we come short of our suppose so far That after seven years' siege yet Troy walls stand; Sith every action that hath gone before, Whereof we have record, trial did draw Bias and thwart, not answering the aim, And that unbodied figure of the thought That gave't surmised shape. Why then, you princes, Do you with cheeks abash'd behold our works, And call them shames? which are indeed nought else But the protractive trials of great Jove To find persistive constancy in men: The fineness of which metal is not found In fortune's love; for then the bold and coward, The wise and fool, the artist and unread, The hard and soft seem all affined and kin: But, in the wind and tempest of her frown, Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan, Puffing at all, winnows the light away; And what hath mass or matter, by itself Lies rich in virtue and unmingled.
With due observance of thy godlike seat, Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance Lies the true proof of men: the sea being smooth, How many shallow bauble boats dare sail Upon her patient breast, making their way With those of nobler bulk! But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage The gentle Thetis, and anon behold The strong-ribb'd bark through liquid mountains cut, Bounding between the two moist elements, Like Perseus' horse: where's then the saucy boat Whose weak untimber'd sides but even now Co-rivall'd greatness? Either to harbour fled, Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so Doth valour's show and valour's worth divide In storms of fortune; for in her ray and brightness The herd hath more annoyance by the breeze Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, And flies fled under shade, why, then the thing of courage As roused with rage with rage doth sympathize, And with an accent tuned in selfsame key Retorts to chiding fortune.
Agamemnon, Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece, Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit. In whom the tempers and the minds of all Should be shut up, hear what Ulysses speaks. Besides the applause and approbation To which, most mighty for thy place and sway, And thou most reverend for thy stretch'd-out life I give to both your speeches, which were such As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece Should hold up high in brass, and such again As venerable Nestor, hatch'd in silver, Should with a bond of air, strong as the axle-tree On which heaven rides, knit all the Greekish ears To his experienced tongue, yet let it please both, Thou great, and wise, to hear Ulysses speak.
Speak, prince of Ithaca; and be't of less expect That matter needless, of importless burden, Divide thy lips, than we are confident, When rank Thersites opes his mastic jaws, We shall hear music, wit and oracle.
Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down, And the great Hector's sword had lack'd a master, But for these instances. The specialty of rule hath been neglected: And, look, how many Grecian tents do stand Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. When that the general is not like the hive To whom the foragers shall all repair, What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded, The unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. The heavens themselves, the planets and this centre Observe degree, priority and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office and custom, in all line of order; And therefore is the glorious planet Sol In noble eminence enthroned and sphered Amidst the other; whose medicinable eye Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil, And posts, like the commandment of a king, Sans cheque to good and bad: but when the planets In evil mixture to disorder wander, What plagues and what portents! what mutiny! What raging of the sea! shaking of earth! Commotion in the winds! frights, changes, horrors, Divert and crack, rend and deracinate The unity and married calm of states Quite from their fixure! O, when degree is shaked, Which is the ladder to all high designs, Then enterprise is sick! How could communities, Degrees in schools and brotherhoods in cities, Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, The primogenitive and due of birth, Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, But by degree, stand in authentic place? Take but degree away, untune that string, And, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores And make a sop of all this solid globe: Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead: Force should be right; or rather, right and wrong, Between whose endless jar justice resides, Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then every thing includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey, And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon, This chaos, when degree is suffocate, Follows the choking. And this neglection of degree it is That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose It hath to climb. The general's disdain'd By him one step below, he by the next, That next by him beneath; so every step, Exampled by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation: And 'tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot, Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength.
Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover'd The fever whereof all our power is sick.
The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses, What is the remedy?
The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host, Having his ear full of his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent Lies mocking our designs: with him Patroclus Upon a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks scurril jests; And with ridiculous and awkward action, Which, slanderer, he imitation calls, He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, Thy topless deputation he puts on, And, like a strutting player, whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound 'Twixt his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldage,-- Such to-be-pitied and o'er-wrested seeming He acts thy greatness in: and when he speaks, 'Tis like a chime a-mending; with terms unsquared, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp'd Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff The large Achilles, on his press'd bed lolling, From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause; Cries 'Excellent! 'tis Agamemnon just. Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard, As he being drest to some oration.' That's done, as near as the extremest ends Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife: Yet god Achilles still cries 'Excellent! 'Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, Arming to answer in a night alarm.' And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age Must be the scene of mirth; to cough and spit, And, with a palsy-fumbling on his gorget, Shake in and out the rivet: and at this sport Sir Valour dies; cries 'O, enough, Patroclus; Or give me ribs of steel! I shall split all In pleasure of my spleen.' And in this fashion, All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes, Severals and generals of grace exact, Achievements, plots, orders, preventions, Excitements to the field, or speech for truce, Success or loss, what is or is not, serves As stuff for these two to make paradoxes.
And in the imitation of these twain-- Who, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns With an imperial voice--many are infect. Ajax is grown self-will'd, and bears his head In such a rein, in full as proud a place As broad Achilles; keeps his tent like him; Makes factious feasts; rails on our state of war, Bold as an oracle, and sets Thersites, A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint, To match us in comparisons with dirt, To weaken and discredit our exposure, How rank soever rounded in with danger.
They tax our policy, and call it cowardice, Count wisdom as no member of the war, Forestall prescience, and esteem no act But that of hand: the still and mental parts, That do contrive how many hands shall strike, When fitness calls them on, and know by measure Of their observant toil the enemies' weight,-- Why, this hath not a finger's dignity: They call this bed-work, mappery, closet-war; So that the ram that batters down the wall, For the great swing and rudeness of his poise, They place before his hand that made the engine, Or those that with the fineness of their souls By reason guide his execution.
Let this be granted, and Achilles' horse Makes many Thetis' sons.
What trumpet? look, Menelaus.
From Troy.
What would you 'fore our tent?
Is this great Agamemnon's tent, I pray you?
Even this.
May one, that is a herald and a prince, Do a fair message to his kingly ears?
With surety stronger than Achilles' arm 'Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice Call Agamemnon head and general.
Fair leave and large security. How may A stranger to those most imperial looks Know them from eyes of other mortals?
How!
Ay; I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modest as morning when she coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus: Which is that god in office, guiding men? Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon?
This Trojan scorns us; or the men of Troy Are ceremonious courtiers.
Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm'd, As bending angels; that's their fame in peace: But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls, Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove's accord, Nothing so full of heart. But peace, AEneas, Peace, Trojan; lay thy finger on thy lips! The worthiness of praise distains his worth, If that the praised himself bring the praise forth: But what the repining enemy commends, That breath fame blows; that praise, sole sure, transcends.
Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself AEneas?
Ay, Greek, that is my name.
What's your affair I pray you?
Sir, pardon; 'tis for Agamemnon's ears.
He hears naught privately that comes from Troy.
Nor I from Troy come not to whisper him: I bring a trumpet to awake his ear, To set his sense on the attentive bent, And then to speak.
Speak frankly as the wind; It is not Agamemnon's sleeping hour: That thou shalt know. Trojan, he is awake, He tells thee so himself.
Trumpet, blow loud, Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents; And every Greek of mettle, let him know, What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud. We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy A prince call'd Hector,--Priam is his father,-- Who in this dull and long-continued truce Is rusty grown: he bade me take a trumpet, And to this purpose speak. Kings, princes, lords! If there be one among the fair'st of Greece That holds his honour higher than his ease, That seeks his praise more than he fears his peril, That knows his valour, and knows not his fear, That loves his mistress more than in confession, With truant vows to her own lips he loves, And dare avow her beauty and her worth In other arms than hers,--to him this challenge. Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks, Shall make it good, or do his best to do it, He hath a lady, wiser, fairer, truer, Than ever Greek did compass in his arms, And will to-morrow with his trumpet call Midway between your tents and walls of Troy, To rouse a Grecian that is true in love: If any come, Hector shall honour him; If none, he'll say in Troy when he retires, The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth The splinter of a lance. Even so much.
This shall be told our lovers, Lord AEneas; If none of them have soul in such a kind, We left them all at home: but we are soldiers; And may that soldier a mere recreant prove, That means not, hath not, or is not in love! If then one is, or hath, or means to be, That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he.
Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man When Hector's grandsire suck'd: he is old now; But if there be not in our Grecian host One noble man that hath one spark of fire, To answer for his love, tell him from me I'll hide my silver beard in a gold beaver And in my vantbrace put this wither'd brawn, And meeting him will tell him that my lady Was fairer than his grandam and as chaste As may be in the world: his youth in flood, I'll prove this truth with my three drops of blood.
Now heavens forbid such scarcity of youth!
Amen.
Fair Lord AEneas, let me touch your hand; To our pavilion shall I lead you, sir. Achilles shall have word of this intent; So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent: Yourself shall feast with us before you go And find the welcome of a noble foe.
Nestor!
What says Ulysses?
I have a young conception in my brain; Be you my time to bring it to some shape.
What is't?
This 'tis: Blunt wedges rive hard knots: the seeded pride That hath to this maturity blown up In rank Achilles must or now be cropp'd, Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil, To overbulk us all.
Well, and how?
This challenge that the gallant Hector sends, However it is spread in general name, Relates in purpose only to Achilles.
The purpose is perspicuous even as substance, Whose grossness little characters sum up: And, in the publication, make no strain, But that Achilles, were his brain as barren As banks of Libya,--though, Apollo knows, 'Tis dry enough,--will, with great speed of judgment, Ay, with celerity, find Hector's purpose Pointing on him.
And wake him to the answer, think you?
Yes, 'tis most meet: whom may you else oppose, That can from Hector bring his honour off, If not Achilles? Though't be a sportful combat, Yet in the trial much opinion dwells; For here the Trojans taste our dear'st repute With their finest palate: and trust to me, Ulysses, Our imputation shall be oddly poised In this wild action; for the success, Although particular, shall give a scantling Of good or bad unto the general; And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mass Of things to come at large. It is supposed He that meets Hector issues from our choice And choice, being mutual act of all our souls, Makes merit her election, and doth boil, As 'twere from us all, a man distill'd Out of our virtues; who miscarrying, What heart receives from hence the conquering part, To steel a strong opinion to themselves? Which entertain'd, limbs are his instruments, In no less working than are swords and bows Directive by the limbs.
Give pardon to my speech: Therefore 'tis meet Achilles meet not Hector. Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares, And think, perchance, they'll sell; if not, The lustre of the better yet to show, Shall show the better. Do not consent That ever Hector and Achilles meet; For both our honour and our shame in this Are dogg'd with two strange followers.
I see them not with my old eyes: what are they?
What glory our Achilles shares from Hector, Were he not proud, we all should share with him: But he already is too insolent; A nd we were better parch in Afric sun Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes, Should he 'scape Hector fair: if he were foil'd, Why then, we did our main opinion crush In taint of our best man. No, make a lottery; And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw The sort to fight with Hector: among ourselves Give him allowance for the better man; For that will physic the great Myrmidon Who broils in loud applause, and make him fall His crest that prouder than blue Iris bends. If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off, We'll dress him up in voices: if he fail, Yet go we under our opinion still That we have better men. But, hit or miss, Our project's life this shape of sense assumes: Ajax employ'd plucks down Achilles' plumes.
Ulysses, Now I begin to relish thy advice; And I will give a taste of it forthwith To Agamemnon: go we to him straight. Two curs shall tame each other: pride alone Must tarre the mastiffs on, as 'twere their bone.
Thersites!
Agamemnon, how if he had boils? full, all over, generally?
Thersites!
And those boils did run? say so: did not the general run then? were not that a botchy core?
Dog!
Then would come some matter from him; I see none now.
Thou bitch-wolf's son, canst thou not hear? Feel, then.
The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted lord!
Speak then, thou vinewedst leaven, speak: I will beat thee into handsomeness.
I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness: but, I think, thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou? a red murrain o' thy jade's tricks!
Toadstool, learn me the proclamation.
Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus?
The proclamation!
Thou art proclaimed a fool, I think.
Do not, porpentine, do not: my fingers itch.
I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another.
I say, the proclamation!
Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles, and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpine's beauty, ay, that thou barkest at him.
Mistress Thersites!
Thou shouldest strike him.
Cobloaf!
He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a sailor breaks a biscuit.
[Beating him]  You whoreson cur!
Do, do.
Thou stool for a witch!
Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows; an assinego may tutor thee: thou scurvy-valiant ass! thou art here but to thrash Trojans; and thou art bought and sold among those of any wit, like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel, and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou!
You dog!
You scurvy lord!
[Beating him]  You cur!
Mars his idiot! do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do.
Why, how now, Ajax! wherefore do you thus? How now, Thersites! what's the matter, man?
You see him there, do you?
Ay; what's the matter?
Nay, look upon him.
So I do: what's the matter?
Nay, but regard him well.
'Well!' why, I do so.
But yet you look not well upon him; for whosoever you take him to be, he is Ajax.
I know that, fool.
Ay, but that fool knows not himself.
Therefore I beat thee.
Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! his evasions have ears thus long. I have bobbed his brain more than he has beat my bones: I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not worth the nineth part of a sparrow. This lord, Achilles, Ajax, who wears his wit in his belly and his guts in his head, I'll tell you what I say of him.
What?
I say, this Ajax--
Nay, good Ajax.
Has not so much wit--
Nay, I must hold you.
As will stop the eye of Helen's needle, for whom he comes to fight.
Peace, fool!
I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not: he there: that he: look you there.
O thou damned cur! I shall--
Will you set your wit to a fool's?
No, I warrant you; for a fools will shame it.
Good words, Thersites.
What's the quarrel?
I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenor of the proclamation, and he rails upon me.
I serve thee not.
Well, go to, go to.
I serve here voluntarily.
Your last service was sufferance, 'twas not voluntary: no man is beaten voluntary: Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress.
E'en so; a great deal of your wit, too, lies in your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector have a great catch, if he knock out either of your brains: a' were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel.
What, with me too, Thersites?
There's Ulysses and old Nestor, whose wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails on their toes, yoke you like draught-oxen and make you plough up the wars.
What, what?
Yes, good sooth: to, Achilles! to, Ajax! to!
I shall cut out your tongue.
'Tis no matter! I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.
No more words, Thersites; peace!
I will hold my peace when Achilles' brach bids me, shall I?
There's for you, Patroclus.
I will see you hanged, like clotpoles, ere I come any more to your tents: I will keep where there is wit stirring and leave the faction of fools.
A good riddance.
Marry, this, sir, is proclaim'd through all our host: That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun, Will with a trumpet 'twixt our tents and Troy To-morrow morning call some knight to arms That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare Maintain--I know not what: 'tis trash. Farewell.
Farewell. Who shall answer him?
I know not: 'tis put to lottery; otherwise He knew his man.
O, meaning you. I will go learn more of it.
After so many hours, lives, speeches spent, Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks: 'Deliver Helen, and all damage else-- As honour, loss of time, travail, expense, Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consumed In hot digestion of this cormorant war-- Shall be struck off.' Hector, what say you to't?
Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I As far as toucheth my particular, Yet, dread Priam, There is no lady of more softer bowels, More spongy to suck in the sense of fear, More ready to cry out 'Who knows what follows?' Than Hector is: the wound of peace is surety, Surety secure; but modest doubt is call'd The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To the bottom of the worst. Let Helen go: Since the first sword was drawn about this question, Every tithe soul, 'mongst many thousand dismes, Hath been as dear as Helen; I mean, of ours: If we have lost so many tenths of ours, To guard a thing not ours nor worth to us, Had it our name, the value of one ten, What merit's in that reason which denies The yielding of her up?
Fie, fie, my brother! Weigh you the worth and honour of a king So great as our dread father in a scale Of common ounces? will you with counters sum The past proportion of his infinite? And buckle in a waist most fathomless With spans and inches so diminutive As fears and reasons? fie, for godly shame!
No marvel, though you bite so sharp at reasons, You are so empty of them. Should not our father Bear the great sway of his affairs with reasons, Because your speech hath none that tells him so?
You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest; You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your reasons: You know an enemy intends you harm; You know a sword employ'd is perilous, And reason flies the object of all harm: Who marvels then, when Helenus beholds A Grecian and his sword, if he do set The very wings of reason to his heels And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove, Or like a star disorb'd? Nay, if we talk of reason, Let's shut our gates and sleep: manhood and honour Should have hare-hearts, would they but fat their thoughts With this cramm'd reason: reason and respect Make livers pale and lustihood deject.
Brother, she is not worth what she doth cost The holding.
What is aught, but as 'tis valued?
But value dwells not in particular will; It holds his estimate and dignity As well wherein 'tis precious of itself As in the prizer: 'tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god And the will dotes that is attributive To what infectiously itself affects, Without some image of the affected merit.
I take to-day a wife, and my election Is led on in the conduct of my will; My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, Two traded pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores Of will and judgment: how may I avoid, Although my will distaste what it elected, The wife I chose? there can be no evasion To blench from this and to stand firm by honour: We turn not back the silks upon the merchant, When we have soil'd them, nor the remainder viands We do not throw in unrespective sieve, Because we now are full. It was thought meet Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks: Your breath of full consent bellied his sails; The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce And did him service: he touch'd the ports desired, And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive, He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and freshness Wrinkles Apollo's, and makes stale the morning. Why keep we her? the Grecians keep our aunt: Is she worth keeping? why, she is a pearl, Whose price hath launch'd above a thousand ships, And turn'd crown'd kings to merchants. If you'll avouch 'twas wisdom Paris went-- As you must needs, for you all cried 'Go, go,'-- If you'll confess he brought home noble prize-- As you must needs, for you all clapp'd your hands And cried 'Inestimable!'--why do you now The issue of your proper wisdoms rate, And do a deed that fortune never did, Beggar the estimation which you prized Richer than sea and land? O, theft most base, That we have stol'n what we do fear to keep! But, thieves, unworthy of a thing so stol'n, That in their country did them that disgrace, We fear to warrant in our native place!
[Within]  Cry, Trojans, cry!
What noise? what shriek is this?
'Tis our mad sister, I do know her voice.
[Within]  Cry, Trojans!
It is Cassandra.
Cry, Trojans, cry! lend me ten thousand eyes, And I will fill them with prophetic tears.
Peace, sister, peace!
Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld, Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry, Add to my clamours! let us pay betimes A moiety of that mass of moan to come. Cry, Trojans, cry! practise your eyes with tears! Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand; Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all. Cry, Trojans, cry! a Helen and a woe: Cry, cry! Troy burns, or else let Helen go.
Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains Of divination in our sister work Some touches of remorse? or is your blood So madly hot that no discourse of reason, Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause, Can qualify the same?
Why, brother Hector, We may not think the justness of each act Such and no other than event doth form it, Nor once deject the courage of our minds, Because Cassandra's mad: her brain-sick raptures Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel Which hath our several honours all engaged To make it gracious. For my private part, I am no more touch'd than all Priam's sons: And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us Such things as might offend the weakest spleen To fight for and maintain!
Else might the world convince of levity As well my undertakings as your counsels: But I attest the gods, your full consent Gave wings to my propension and cut off All fears attending on so dire a project. For what, alas, can these my single arms? What Propugnation is in one man's valour, To stand the push and enmity of those This quarrel would excite? Yet, I protest, Were I alone to pass the difficulties And had as ample power as I have will, Paris should ne'er retract what he hath done, Nor faint in the pursuit.
Paris, you speak Like one besotted on your sweet delights: You have the honey still, but these the gall; So to be valiant is no praise at all.
Sir, I propose not merely to myself The pleasures such a beauty brings with it; But I would have the soil of her fair rape Wiped off, in honourable keeping her. What treason were it to the ransack'd queen, Disgrace to your great worths and shame to me, Now to deliver her possession up On terms of base compulsion! Can it be That so degenerate a strain as this Should once set footing in your generous bosoms? There's not the meanest spirit on our party Without a heart to dare or sword to draw When Helen is defended, nor none so noble Whose life were ill bestow'd or death unfamed Where Helen is the subject; then, I say, Well may we fight for her whom, we know well, The world's large spaces cannot parallel.
Paris and Troilus, you have both said well, And on the cause and question now in hand Have glozed, but superficially: not much Unlike young men, whom Aristotle thought Unfit to hear moral philosophy: The reasons you allege do more conduce To the hot passion of distemper'd blood Than to make up a free determination 'Twixt right and wrong, for pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision. Nature craves All dues be render'd to their owners: now, What nearer debt in all humanity Than wife is to the husband? If this law Of nature be corrupted through affection, And that great minds, of partial indulgence To their benumbed wills, resist the same, There is a law in each well-order'd nation To curb those raging appetites that are Most disobedient and refractory. If Helen then be wife to Sparta's king, As it is known she is, these moral laws Of nature and of nations speak aloud To have her back return'd: thus to persist In doing wrong extenuates not wrong, But makes it much more heavy. Hector's opinion Is this in way of truth; yet ne'ertheless, My spritely brethren, I propend to you In resolution to keep Helen still, For 'tis a cause that hath no mean dependance Upon our joint and several dignities.
Why, there you touch'd the life of our design: Were it not glory that we more affected Than the performance of our heaving spleens, I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector, She is a theme of honour and renown, A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds, Whose present courage may beat down our foes, And fame in time to come canonize us; For, I presume, brave Hector would not lose So rich advantage of a promised glory As smiles upon the forehead of this action For the wide world's revenue.
I am yours, You valiant offspring of great Priamus. I have a roisting challenge sent amongst The dun and factious nobles of the Greeks Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits: I was advertised their great general slept, Whilst emulation in the army crept: This, I presume, will wake him.
How now, Thersites! what lost in the labyrinth of thy fury! Shall the elephant Ajax carry it thus? He beats me, and I rail at him: O, worthy satisfaction! would it were otherwise; that I could beat him, whilst he railed at me. 'Sfoot, I'll learn to conjure and raise devils, but I'll see some issue of my spiteful execrations. Then there's Achilles, a rare enginer! If Troy be not taken till these two undermine it, the walls will stand till they fall of themselves. O thou great thunder-darter of Olympus, forget that thou art Jove, the king of gods and, Mercury, lose all the serpentine craft of thy caduceus, if ye take not that little, little less than little wit from them that they have! which short-armed ignorance itself knows is so abundant scarce, it will not in circumvention deliver a fly from a spider, without drawing their massy irons and cutting the web. After this, the vengeance on the whole camp! or rather, the bone-ache! for that, methinks, is the curse dependent on those that war for a placket. I have said my prayers and devil Envy say Amen. What ho! my Lord Achilles!
Who's there? Thersites! Good Thersites, come in and rail.
If I could have remembered a gilt counterfeit, thou wouldst not have slipped out of my contemplation: but it is no matter; thyself upon thyself! The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue! heaven bless thee from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy direction till thy death! then if she that lays thee out says thou art a fair corse, I'll be sworn and sworn upon't she never shrouded any but lazars. Amen. Where's Achilles?
What, art thou devout? wast thou in prayer?
Ay: the heavens hear me!
Who's there?
Thersites, my lord.
Where, where? Art thou come? why, my cheese, my digestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to my table so many meals? Come, what's Agamemnon?
Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what's Achilles?
Thy lord, Thersites: then tell me, I pray thee, what's thyself?
Thy knower, Patroclus: then tell me, Patroclus, what art thou?
Thou mayst tell that knowest.
O, tell, tell.
I'll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus' knower, and Patroclus is a fool.
You rascal!
Peace, fool! I have not done.
He is a privileged man. Proceed, Thersites.
Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites is a fool, and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool.
Derive this; come.
Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles; Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool, and Patroclus is a fool positive.
Why am I a fool?
Make that demand of the prover. It suffices me thou art. Look you, who comes here?
Patroclus, I'll speak with nobody. Come in with me, Thersites.
Here is such patchery, such juggling and such knavery! all the argument is a cuckold and a whore; a good quarrel to draw emulous factions and bleed to death upon. Now, the dry serpigo on the subject! and war and lechery confound all!
Where is Achilles?
Within his tent; but ill disposed, my lord.
Let it be known to him that we are here. He shent our messengers; and we lay by Our appertainments, visiting of him: Let him be told so; lest perchance he think We dare not move the question of our place, Or know not what we are.
I shall say so to him.
We saw him at the opening of his tent: He is not sick.
Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart: you may call it melancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by my head, 'tis pride: but why, why? let him show us the cause. A word, my lord.
What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?
Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.
Who, Thersites?
He.
Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument.
No, you see, he is his argument that has his argument, Achilles.
All the better; their fraction is more our wish than their faction: but it was a strong composure a fool could disunite.
The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie. Here comes Patroclus.
No Achilles with him.
The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy: his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure.
Achilles bids me say, he is much sorry, If any thing more than your sport and pleasure Did move your greatness and this noble state To call upon him; he hopes it is no other But for your health and your digestion sake, And after-dinner's breath.
Hear you, Patroclus: We are too well acquainted with these answers: But his evasion, wing'd thus swift with scorn, Cannot outfly our apprehensions. Much attribute he hath, and much the reason Why we ascribe it to him; yet all his virtues, Not virtuously on his own part beheld, Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss, Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish, Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him, We come to speak with him; and you shall not sin, If you do say we think him over-proud And under-honest, in self-assumption greater Than in the note of judgment; and worthier than himself Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on, Disguise the holy strength of their command, And underwrite in an observing kind His humorous predominance; yea, watch His pettish lunes, his ebbs, his flows, as if The passage and whole carriage of this action Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add, That if he overhold his price so much, We'll none of him; but let him, like an engine Not portable, lie under this report: 'Bring action hither, this cannot go to war: A stirring dwarf we do allowance give Before a sleeping giant.' Tell him so.
I shall; and bring his answer presently.
In second voice we'll not be satisfied; We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you.
What is he more than another?
No more than what he thinks he is.
Is he so much? Do you not think he thinks himself a better man than I am?
No question.
Will you subscribe his thought, and say he is?
No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable.
Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I know not what pride is.
Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise.
I do hate a proud man, as I hate the engendering of toads.
Yet he loves himself: is't not strange?
Achilles will not to the field to-morrow.
What's his excuse?
He doth rely on none, But carries on the stream of his dispose Without observance or respect of any, In will peculiar and in self-admission.
Why will he not upon our fair request Untent his person and share the air with us?
Things small as nothing, for request's sake only, He makes important: possess'd he is with greatness, And speaks not to himself but with a pride That quarrels at self-breath: imagined worth Holds in his blood such swoln and hot discourse That 'twixt his mental and his active parts Kingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages And batters down himself: what should I say? He is so plaguy proud that the death-tokens of it Cry 'No recovery.'
Let Ajax go to him. Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent: 'Tis said he holds you well, and will be led At your request a little from himself.
O Agamemnon, let it not be so! We'll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes When they go from Achilles: shall the proud lord That bastes his arrogance with his own seam And never suffers matter of the world Enter his thoughts, save such as do revolve And ruminate himself, shall he be worshipp'd Of that we hold an idol more than he? No, this thrice worthy and right valiant lord Must not so stale his palm, nobly acquired; Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit, As amply titled as Achilles is, By going to Achilles: That were to enlard his fat already pride And add more coals to Cancer when he burns With entertaining great Hyperion. This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid, And say in thunder 'Achilles go to him.'
[Aside to DIOMEDES]  O, this is well; he rubs the vein of him.
[Aside to NESTOR]  And how his silence drinks up this applause!
If I go to him, with my armed fist I'll pash him o'er the face.
O, no, you shall not go.
An a' be proud with me, I'll pheeze his pride: Let me go to him.
Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel.
A paltry, insolent fellow!
How he describes himself!
Can he not be sociable?
The raven chides blackness.
I'll let his humours blood.
He will be the physician that should be the patient.
An all men were o' my mind,--
Wit would be out of fashion.
A' should not bear it so, a' should eat swords first: shall pride carry it?
An 'twould, you'ld carry half.
A' would have ten shares.
I will knead him; I'll make him supple.
He's not yet through warm: force him with praises: pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry.
[To AGAMEMNON]  My lord, you feed too much on this dislike.
Our noble general, do not do so.
You must prepare to fight without Achilles.
Why, 'tis this naming of him does him harm. Here is a man--but 'tis before his face; I will be silent.
Wherefore should you so? He is not emulous, as Achilles is.
Know the whole world, he is as valiant.
A whoreson dog, that shall pelter thus with us! Would he were a Trojan!
What a vice were it in Ajax now,--
If he were proud,--
Or covetous of praise,--
Ay, or surly borne,--
Or strange, or self-affected!
Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure; Praise him that got thee, she that gave thee suck: Famed be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature Thrice famed, beyond all erudition: But he that disciplined thy arms to fight, Let Mars divide eternity in twain, And give him half: and, for thy vigour, Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom, Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines Thy spacious and dilated parts: here's Nestor; Instructed by the antiquary times, He must, he is, he cannot but be wise: Put pardon, father Nestor, were your days As green as Ajax' and your brain so temper'd, You should not have the eminence of him, But be as Ajax.
Shall I call you father?
Ay, my good son.
Be ruled by him, Lord Ajax.
There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles Keeps thicket. Please it our great general To call together all his state of war; Fresh kings are come to Troy: to-morrow We must with all our main of power stand fast: And here's a lord,--come knights from east to west, And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best.
Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep: Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.
Friend, you! pray you, a word: do not you follow the young Lord Paris?
Ay, sir, when he goes before me.
You depend upon him, I mean?
Sir, I do depend upon the lord.
You depend upon a noble gentleman; I must needs praise him.
The lord be praised!
You know me, do you not?
Faith, sir, superficially.
Friend, know me better; I am the Lord Pandarus.
I hope I shall know your honour better.
I do desire it.
You are in the state of grace.
Grace! not so, friend: honour and lordship are my titles. What music is this?
I do but partly know, sir: it is music in parts.
Know you the musicians?
Wholly, sir.
Who play they to?
To the hearers, sir.
At whose pleasure, friend
At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.
Command, I mean, friend.
Who shall I command, sir?
Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play?
That's to 't indeed, sir: marry, sir, at the request of Paris my lord, who's there in person; with him, the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love's invisible soul,--
Who, my cousin Cressida?
No, sir, Helen: could you not find out that by her attributes?
It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus: I will make a complimental assault upon him, for my business seethes.
Sodden business! there's a stewed phrase indeed!
Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company! fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly guide them! especially to you, fair queen! fair thoughts be your fair pillow!
Dear lord, you are full of fair words.
You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince, here is good broken music.
You have broke it, cousin: and, by my life, you shall make it whole again; you shall piece it out with a piece of your performance. Nell, he is full of harmony.
Truly, lady, no.
O, sir,--
Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude.
Well said, my lord! well, you say so in fits.
I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you vouchsafe me a word?
Nay, this shall not hedge us out: we'll hear you sing, certainly.
Well, sweet queen. you are pleasant with me. But, marry, thus, my lord: my dear lord and most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus,--
My Lord Pandarus; honey-sweet lord,--
Go to, sweet queen, to go:--commends himself most affectionately to you,--
You shall not bob us out of our melody: if you do, our melancholy upon your head!
Sweet queen, sweet queen! that's a sweet queen, i' faith.
And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence.
Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall not, in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words; no, no. And, my lord, he desires you, that if the king call for him at supper, you will make his excuse.
My Lord Pandarus,--
What says my sweet queen, my very very sweet queen?
What exploit's in hand? where sups he to-night?
Nay, but, my lord,--
What says my sweet queen? My cousin will fall out with you. You must not know where he sups.
I'll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida.
No, no, no such matter; you are wide: come, your disposer is sick.
Well, I'll make excuse.
Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida? no, your poor disposer's sick.
I spy.
You spy! what do you spy? Come, give me an instrument. Now, sweet queen.
Why, this is kindly done.
My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet queen.
She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my lord Paris.
He! no, she'll none of him; they two are twain.
Falling in, after falling out, may make them three.
Come, come, I'll hear no more of this; I'll sing you a song now.
Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a fine forehead.
Ay, you may, you may.
Let thy song be love: this love will undo us all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!
Love! ay, that it shall, i' faith.
Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.
In good troth, it begins so. Love, love, nothing but love, still more! For, O, love's bow Shoots buck and doe: The shaft confounds, Not that it wounds, But tickles still the sore. These lovers cry Oh! oh! they die! Yet that which seems the wound to kill, Doth turn oh! oh! to ha! ha! he! So dying love lives still: Oh! oh! a while, but ha! ha! ha! Oh! oh! groans out for ha! ha! ha! Heigh-ho!
In love, i' faith, to the very tip of the nose.
He eats nothing but doves, love, and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.
Is this the generation of love? hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers: is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who's a-field to-day?
Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry of Troy: I  would fain have armed to-day, but my Nell would not have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not?
He hangs the lip at something: you know all, Lord Pandarus.
Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they sped to-day. You'll remember your brother's excuse?
To a hair.
Farewell, sweet queen.
Commend me to your niece.
I will, sweet queen.
They're come from field: let us to Priam's hall, To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you To help unarm our Hector: his stubborn buckles, With these your white enchanting fingers touch'd, Shall more obey than to the edge of steel Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more Than all the island kings,--disarm great Hector.
'Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris; Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty Gives us more palm in beauty than we have, Yea, overshines ourself.
Sweet, above thought I love thee.
How now! where's thy master? at my cousin Cressida's?
No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him thither.
O, here he comes. How now, how now!
Sirrah, walk off.
Have you seen my cousin?
No, Pandarus: I stalk about her door, Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon, And give me swift transportance to those fields Where I may wallow in the lily-beds Proposed for the deserver! O gentle Pandarus, From Cupid's shoulder pluck his painted wings And fly with me to Cressid!
Walk here i' the orchard, I'll bring her straight.
I am giddy; expectation whirls me round. The imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense: what will it be, When that the watery palate tastes indeed Love's thrice repured nectar? death, I fear me, Swooning destruction, or some joy too fine, Too subtle-potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers: I fear it much; and I do fear besides, That I shall lose distinction in my joys; As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps The enemy flying.
She's making her ready, she'll come straight: you must be witty now. She does so blush, and fetches her wind so short, as if she were frayed with a sprite: I'll fetch her. It is the prettiest villain: she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta'en sparrow.
Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom: My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse; And all my powers do their bestowing lose, Like vassalage at unawares encountering The eye of majesty.
Come, come, what need you blush? shame's a baby. Here she is now: swear the oaths now to her that you have sworn to me. What, are you gone again? you must be watched ere you be made tame, must you? Come your ways, come your ways; an you draw backward, we'll put you i' the fills. Why do you not speak to her? Come, draw this curtain, and let's see your picture. Alas the day, how loath you are to offend daylight! an 'twere dark, you'ld close sooner. So, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress. How now! a kiss in fee-farm! build there, carpenter; the air is sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere I part you. The falcon as the tercel, for all the ducks i' the river: go to, go to.
You have bereft me of all words, lady.
Words pay no debts, give her deeds: but she'll bereave you o' the deeds too, if she call your activity in question. What, billing again? Here's 'In witness whereof the parties interchangeably'-- Come in, come in: I'll go get a fire.
Will you walk in, my lord?
O Cressida, how often have I wished me thus!
Wished, my lord! The gods grant,--O my lord!
What should they grant? what makes this pretty abruption? What too curious dreg espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our love?
More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes.
Fears make devils of cherubims; they never see truly.
Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer footing than blind reason stumbling without fear: to fear the worst oft cures the worse.
O, let my lady apprehend no fear: in all Cupid's pageant there is presented no monster.
Nor nothing monstrous neither?
Nothing, but our undertakings; when we vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers; thinking it harder for our mistress to devise imposition enough than for us to undergo any difficulty imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, that the will is infinite and the execution confined, that the desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.
They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able and yet reserve an ability that they never perform, vowing more than the perfection of ten and discharging less than the tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act of hares, are they not monsters?
Are there such? such are not we: praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove; our head shall go bare till merit crown it: no perfection in reversion shall have a praise in present: we will not name desert before his birth, and, being born, his addition shall be humble. Few words to fair faith: Troilus shall be such to Cressid as what envy can say worst shall be a mock for his truth, and what truth can speak truest not truer than Troilus.
Will you walk in, my lord?
What, blushing still? have you not done talking yet?
Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate to you.
I thank you for that: if my lord get a boy of you, you'll give him me. Be true to my lord: if he flinch, chide me for it.
You know now your hostages; your uncle's word and my firm faith.
Nay, I'll give my word for her too: our kindred, though they be long ere they are wooed, they are constant being won: they are burs, I can tell you; they'll stick where they are thrown.
Boldness comes to me now, and brings me heart. Prince Troilus, I have loved you night and day For many weary months.
Why was my Cressid then so hard to win?
Hard to seem won: but I was won, my lord, With the first glance that ever--pardon me-- If I confess much, you will play the tyrant. I love you now; but not, till now, so much But I might master it: in faith, I lie; My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools! Why have I blabb'd? who shall be true to us, When we are so unsecret to ourselves? But, though I loved you well, I woo'd you not; And yet, good faith, I wish'd myself a man, Or that we women had men's privilege Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue, For in this rapture I shall surely speak The thing I shall repent. See, see, your silence, Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws My very soul of counsel! stop my mouth.
And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence.
Pretty, i' faith.
My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me; 'Twas not my purpose, thus to beg a kiss: I am ashamed. O heavens! what have I done? For this time will I take my leave, my lord.
Your leave, sweet Cressid!
Leave! an you take leave till to-morrow morning,--
Pray you, content you.
What offends you, lady?
Sir, mine own company.
You cannot shun Yourself.
Let me go and try: I have a kind of self resides with you; But an unkind self, that itself will leave, To be another's fool. I would be gone: Where is my wit? I know not what I speak.
Well know they what they speak that speak so wisely.
Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than love; And fell so roundly to a large confession, To angle for your thoughts: but you are wise, Or else you love not, for to be wise and love Exceeds man's might; that dwells with gods above.
O that I thought it could be in a woman-- As, if it can, I will presume in you-- To feed for aye her ramp and flames of love; To keep her constancy in plight and youth, Outliving beauty's outward, with a mind That doth renew swifter than blood decays! Or that persuasion could but thus convince me, That my integrity and truth to you Might be affronted with the match and weight Of such a winnow'd purity in love; How were I then uplifted! but, alas! I am as true as truth's simplicity And simpler than the infancy of truth.
In that I'll war with you.
O virtuous fight, When right with right wars who shall be most right! True swains in love shall in the world to come Approve their truths by Troilus: when their rhymes, Full of protest, of oath and big compare, Want similes, truth tired with iteration, As true as steel, as plantage to the moon, As sun to day, as turtle to her mate, As iron to adamant, as earth to the centre, Yet, after all comparisons of truth, As truth's authentic author to be cited, 'As true as Troilus' shall crown up the verse, And sanctify the numbers.
Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, When time is old and hath forgot itself, When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, And blind oblivion swallow'd cities up, And mighty states characterless are grated To dusty nothing, yet let memory, From false to false, among false maids in love, Upbraid my falsehood! when they've said 'as false As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth, As fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer's calf, Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son,' 'Yea,' let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood, 'As false as Cressid.'
Go to, a bargain made: seal it, seal it; I'll be the witness. Here I hold your hand, here my cousin's. If ever you prove false one to another, since I have taken such pains to bring you together, let all pitiful goers-between be called to the world's end after my name; call them all Pandars; let all constant men be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, and all brokers-between Pandars! say, amen.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber with a bed; which bed, because it shall not speak of your pretty encounters, press it to death: away! And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here Bed, chamber, Pandar to provide this gear!
Now, princes, for the service I have done you, The advantage of the time prompts me aloud To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind That, through the sight I bear in things to love, I have abandon'd Troy, left my possession, Incurr'd a traitor's name; exposed myself, From certain and possess'd conveniences, To doubtful fortunes; sequestering from me all That time, acquaintance, custom and condition Made tame and most familiar to my nature, And here, to do you service, am become As new into the world, strange, unacquainted: I do beseech you, as in way of taste, To give me now a little benefit, Out of those many register'd in promise, Which, you say, live to come in my behalf.
What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? make demand.
You have a Trojan prisoner, call'd Antenor, Yesterday took: Troy holds him very dear. Oft have you--often have you thanks therefore-- Desired my Cressid in right great exchange, Whom Troy hath still denied: but this Antenor, I know, is such a wrest in their affairs That their negotiations all must slack, Wanting his manage; and they will almost Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam, In change of him: let him be sent, great princes, And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence Shall quite strike off all service I have done, In most accepted pain.
Let Diomedes bear him, And bring us Cressid hither: Calchas shall have What he requests of us. Good Diomed, Furnish you fairly for this interchange: Withal bring word if Hector will to-morrow Be answer'd in his challenge: Ajax is ready.
This shall I undertake; and 'tis a burden Which I am proud to bear.
Achilles stands i' the entrance of his tent: Please it our general to pass strangely by him, As if he were forgot; and, princes all, Lay negligent and loose regard upon him: I will come last. 'Tis like he'll question me Why such unplausive eyes are bent on him: If so, I have derision medicinable, To use between your strangeness and his pride, Which his own will shall have desire to drink: It may be good: pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride, for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees.
We'll execute your purpose, and put on A form of strangeness as we pass along: So do each lord, and either greet him not, Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more Than if not look'd on. I will lead the way.
What, comes the general to speak with me? You know my mind, I'll fight no more 'gainst Troy.
What says Achilles? would he aught with us?
Would you, my lord, aught with the general?
No.
Nothing, my lord.
The better.
Good day, good day.
How do you? how do you?
What, does the cuckold scorn me?
How now, Patroclus!
Good morrow, Ajax.
Ha?
Good morrow.
Ay, and good next day too.
What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles?
They pass by strangely: they were used to bend To send their smiles before them to Achilles; To come as humbly as they used to creep To holy altars.
What, am I poor of late? 'Tis certain, greatness, once fall'n out with fortune, Must fall out with men too: what the declined is He shall as soon read in the eyes of others As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies, Show not their mealy wings but to the summer, And not a man, for being simply man, Hath any honour, but honour for those honours That are without him, as place, riches, favour, Prizes of accident as oft as merit: Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, The love that lean'd on them as slippery too, Do one pluck down another and together Die in the fall. But 'tis not so with me: Fortune and I are friends: I do enjoy At ample point all that I did possess, Save these men's looks; who do, methinks, find out Something not worth in me such rich beholding As they have often given. Here is Ulysses; I'll interrupt his reading. How now Ulysses!
Now, great Thetis' son!
What are you reading?
A strange fellow here Writes me: 'That man, how dearly ever parted, How much in having, or without or in, Cannot make boast to have that which he hath, Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection; As when his virtues shining upon others Heat them and they retort that heat again To the first giver.'
This is not strange, Ulysses. The beauty that is borne here in the face The bearer knows not, but commends itself To others' eyes; nor doth the eye itself, That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself, Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed Salutes each other with each other's form; For speculation turns not to itself, Till it hath travell'd and is mirror'd there Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.
I do not strain at the position,-- It is familiar,--but at the author's drift; Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves That no man is the lord of any thing, Though in and of him there be much consisting, Till he communicate his parts to others: Nor doth he of himself know them for aught Till he behold them form'd in the applause Where they're extended; who, like an arch, reverberates The voice again, or, like a gate of steel Fronting the sun, receives and renders back His figure and his heat.  I was much wrapt in this; And apprehended here immediately The unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there! a very horse, That has he knows not what. Nature, what things there are Most abject in regard and dear in use! What things again most dear in the esteem And poor in worth! Now shall we see to-morrow-- An act that very chance doth throw upon him-- Ajax renown'd. O heavens, what some men do, While some men leave to do! How some men creep in skittish fortune's hall, Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes! How one man eats into another's pride, While pride is fasting in his wantonness! To see these Grecian lords!--why, even already They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder, As if his foot were on brave Hector's breast And great Troy shrieking.
I do believe it; for they pass'd by me As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me Good word nor look: what, are my deeds forgot?
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright: to have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or like a gallant horse fall'n in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours; For time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, That all with one consent praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object. Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive And case thy reputation in thy tent; Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, Made emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves And drave great Mars to faction.
Of this my privacy I have strong reasons.
But 'gainst your privacy The reasons are more potent and heroical: 'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love With one of Priam's daughters.
Ha! known!
Is that a wonder? The providence that's in a watchful state Knows almost every grain of Plutus' gold, Finds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps, Keeps place with thought and almost, like the gods, Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. There is a mystery--with whom relation Durst never meddle--in the soul of state; Which hath an operation more divine Than breath or pen can give expressure to: All the commerce that you have had with Troy As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord; And better would it fit Achilles much To throw down Hector than Polyxena: But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home, When fame shall in our islands sound her trump, And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing, 'Great Hector's sister did Achilles win, But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.' Farewell, my lord: I as your lover speak; The fool slides o'er the ice that you should break.
To this effect, Achilles, have I moved you: A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loathed than an effeminate man In time of action. I stand condemn'd for this; They think my little stomach to the war And your great love to me restrains you thus: Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane, Be shook to air.
Shall Ajax fight with Hector?
Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by him.
I see my reputation is at stake My fame is shrewdly gored.
O, then, beware; Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves: Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger; And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when we sit idly in the sun.
Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus: I'll send the fool to Ajax and desire him To invite the Trojan lords after the combat To see us here unarm'd: I have a woman's longing, An appetite that I am sick withal, To see great Hector in his weeds of peace, To talk with him and to behold his visage, Even to my full of view. A labour saved!
A wonder!
What?
Ajax goes up and down the field, asking for himself.
How so?
He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector, and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he raves in saying nothing.
How can that be?
Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock,--a stride and a stand: ruminates like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning: bites his lip with a politic regard, as who should say 'There were wit in this head, an 'twould out;' and so there is, but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking. The man's undone forever; for if Hector break not his neck i' the combat, he'll break 't himself in vain-glory. He knows not me: I said 'Good morrow, Ajax;' and he replies 'Thanks, Agamemnon.' What think you of this man that takes me for the general? He's grown a very land-fish, language-less, a monster. A plague of opinion! a man may wear it on both sides, like a leather jerkin.
Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites.
Who, I? why, he'll answer nobody; he professes not answering: speaking is for beggars; he wears his tongue in's arms. I will put on his presence: let Patroclus make demands to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax.
To him, Patroclus; tell him I humbly desire the valiant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarmed to my tent, and to procure safe-conduct for his person of the magnanimous and most illustrious six-or-seven-times-honoured captain-general of the Grecian army, Agamemnon, et cetera. Do this.
Jove bless great Ajax!
Hum!
I come from the worthy Achilles,--
Ha!
Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent,--
Hum!
And to procure safe-conduct from Agamemnon.
Agamemnon!
Ay, my lord.
Ha!
What say you to't?
God b' wi' you, with all my heart.
Your answer, sir.
If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o'clock it will go one way or other: howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me.
Your answer, sir.
Fare you well, with all my heart.
Why, but he is not in this tune, is he?
No, but he's out o' tune thus. What music will be in him when Hector has knocked out his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none, unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings on.
Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.
Let me bear another to his horse; for that's the more capable creature.
My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd; And I myself see not the bottom of it.
Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it! I had rather be a tick in a sheep than such a valiant ignorance.
See, ho! who is that there?
It is the Lord AEneas.
Is the prince there in person? Had I so good occasion to lie long As you, prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business Should rob my bed-mate of my company.
That's my mind too. Good morrow, Lord AEneas.
A valiant Greek, AEneas,--take his hand,-- Witness the process of your speech, wherein You told how Diomed, a whole week by days, Did haunt you in the field.
Health to you, valiant sir, During all question of the gentle truce; But when I meet you arm'd, as black defiance As heart can think or courage execute.
The one and other Diomed embraces. Our bloods are now in calm; and, so long, health! But when contention and occasion meet, By Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life With all my force, pursuit and policy.
And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly With his face backward. In humane gentleness, Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises' life, Welcome, indeed! By Venus' hand I swear, No man alive can love in such a sort The thing he means to kill more excellently.
We sympathize: Jove, let AEneas live, If to my sword his fate be not the glory, A thousand complete courses of the sun! But, in mine emulous honour, let him die, With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow!
We know each other well.
We do; and long to know each other worse.
This is the most despiteful gentle greeting, The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of. What business, lord, so early?
I was sent for to the king; but why, I know not.
His purpose meets you: 'twas to bring this Greek To Calchas' house, and there to render him, For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid: Let's have your company, or, if you please, Haste there before us: I constantly do think-- Or rather, call my thought a certain knowledge-- My brother Troilus lodges there to-night: Rouse him and give him note of our approach. With the whole quality wherefore: I fear We shall be much unwelcome.
That I assure you: Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece Than Cressid borne from Troy.
There is no help; The bitter disposition of the time Will have it so. On, lord; we'll follow you.
Good morrow, all.
And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tell me true, Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship, Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen best, Myself or Menelaus?
Both alike: He merits well to have her, that doth seek her, Not making any scruple of her soilure, With such a hell of pain and world of charge, And you as well to keep her, that defend her, Not palating the taste of her dishonour, With such a costly loss of wealth and friends: He, like a puling cuckold, would drink up The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece; You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins Are pleased to breed out your inheritors: Both merits poised, each weighs nor less nor more; But he as he, the heavier for a whore.
You are too bitter to your countrywoman.
She's bitter to her country: hear me, Paris: For every false drop in her bawdy veins A Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple Of her contaminated carrion weight, A Trojan hath been slain: since she could speak, She hath not given so many good words breath As for her Greeks and Trojans suffer'd death.
Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do, Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy: But we in silence hold this virtue well, We'll but commend what we intend to sell. Here lies our way.
Dear, trouble not yourself: the morn is cold.
Then, sweet my lord, I'll call mine uncle down; He shall unbolt the gates.
Trouble him not; To bed, to bed: sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses As infants' empty of all thought!
Good morrow, then.
I prithee now, to bed.
Are you a-weary of me?
O Cressida! but that the busy day, Waked by the lark, hath roused the ribald crows, And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer, I would not from thee.
Night hath been too brief.
Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love With wings more momentary-swift than thought. You will catch cold, and curse me.
Prithee, tarry: You men will never tarry. O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off, And then you would have tarried. Hark! there's one up.
[Within]  What, 's all the doors open here?
It is your uncle.
A pestilence on him! now will he be mocking: I shall have such a life!
How now, how now! how go maidenheads? Here, you maid! where's my cousin Cressid?
Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle! You bring me to do, and then you flout me too.
To do what? to do what? let her say what: what have I brought you to do?
Come, come, beshrew your heart! you'll ne'er be good, Nor suffer others.
Ha! ha! Alas, poor wretch! ah, poor capocchia! hast not slept to-night? would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep? a bugbear take him!
Did not I tell you? Would he were knock'd i' the head! Who's that at door? good uncle, go and see. My lord, come you again into my chamber: You smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.
Ha, ha!
Come, you are deceived, I think of no such thing. How earnestly they knock! Pray you, come in: I would not for half Troy have you seen here.
Who's there? what's the matter? will you beat down the door? How now! what's the matter?
Good morrow, lord, good morrow.
Who's there? my Lord AEneas! By my troth, I knew you not: what news with you so early?
Is not Prince Troilus here?
Here! what should he do here?
Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him: It doth import him much to speak with me.
Is he here, say you? 'tis more than I know, I'll be sworn: for my own part, I came in late. What should he do here?
Who!--nay, then: come, come, you'll do him wrong ere you're ware: you'll be so true to him, to be false to him: do not you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither; go.
How now! what's the matter?
My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you, My matter is so rash: there is at hand Paris your brother, and Deiphobus, The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor Deliver'd to us; and for him forthwith, Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour, We must give up to Diomedes' hand The Lady Cressida.
Is it so concluded?
By Priam and the general state of Troy: They are at hand and ready to effect it.
How my achievements mock me! I will go meet them: and, my Lord AEneas, We met by chance; you did not find me here.
Good, good, my lord; the secrets of nature Have not more gift in taciturnity.
Is't possible? no sooner got but lost? The devil take Antenor! the young prince will go mad: a plague upon Antenor! I would they had broke 's neck!
How now! what's the matter? who was here?
Ah, ah!
Why sigh you so profoundly? where's my lord? gone! Tell me, sweet uncle, what's the matter?
Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above!
O the gods! what's the matter?
Prithee, get thee in: would thou hadst ne'er been born! I knew thou wouldst be his death. O, poor gentleman! A plague upon Antenor!
Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees! beseech you, what's the matter?
Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art changed for Antenor: thou must to thy father, and be gone from Troilus: 'twill be his death; 'twill be his bane; he cannot bear it.
O you immortal gods! I will not go.
Thou must.
I will not, uncle: I have forgot my father; I know no touch of consanguinity; No kin no love, no blood, no soul so near me As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine! Make Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood, If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death, Do to this body what extremes you can; But the strong base and building of my love Is as the very centre of the earth, Drawing all things to it. I'll go in and weep,--
Do, do.
Tear my bright hair and scratch my praised cheeks, Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart With sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy.
It is great morning, and the hour prefix'd Of her delivery to this valiant Greek Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus, Tell you the lady what she is to do, And haste her to the purpose.
Walk into her house; I'll bring her to the Grecian presently: And to his hand when I deliver her, Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus A priest there offering to it his own heart.
I know what 'tis to love; And would, as I shall pity, I could help! Please you walk in, my lords.
Be moderate, be moderate.
Why tell you me of moderation? The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, And violenteth in a sense as strong As that which causeth it: how can I moderate it? If I could temporize with my affection, Or brew it to a weak and colder palate, The like allayment could I give my grief. My love admits no qualifying dross; No more my grief, in such a precious loss.
Here, here, here he comes. Ah, sweet ducks!
O Troilus! Troilus!
What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me embrace too. 'O heart,' as the goodly saying is, '--O heart, heavy heart, Why sigh'st thou without breaking? where he answers again, 'Because thou canst not ease thy smart By friendship nor by speaking.' There was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verse: we see it, we see it. How now, lambs?
Cressid, I love thee in so strain'd a purity, That the bless'd gods, as angry with my fancy, More bright in zeal than the devotion which Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me.
Have the gods envy?
Ay, ay, ay, ay; 'tis too plain a case.
And is it true that I must go from Troy?
A hateful truth.
What, and from Troilus too?
From Troy and Troilus.
Is it possible?
And suddenly; where injury of chance Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents Our lock'd embrasures, strangles our dear vows Even in the birth of our own labouring breath: We two, that with so many thousand sighs Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves With the rude brevity and discharge of one. Injurious time now with a robber's haste Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how: As many farewells as be stars in heaven, With distinct breath and consign'd kisses to them, He fumbles up into a lose adieu, And scants us with a single famish'd kiss, Distasted with the salt of broken tears.
[Within]  My lord, is the lady ready?
Hark! you are call'd: some say the Genius so Cries 'come' to him that instantly must die. Bid them have patience; she shall come anon.
Where are my tears? rain, to lay this wind, or my heart will be blown up by the root.
I must then to the Grecians?
No remedy.
A woful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks! When shall we see again?
Hear me, my love: be thou but true of heart,--
I true! how now! what wicked deem is this?
Nay, we must use expostulation kindly, For it is parting from us: I speak not 'be thou true,' as fearing thee, For I will throw my glove to Death himself, That there's no maculation in thy heart: But 'be thou true,' say I, to fashion in My sequent protestation; be thou true, And I will see thee.
O, you shall be exposed, my lord, to dangers As infinite as imminent! but I'll be true.
And I'll grow friend with danger. Wear this sleeve.
And you this glove. When shall I see you?
I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels, To give thee nightly visitation. But yet be true.
O heavens! 'be true' again!
Hear while I speak it, love: The Grecian youths are full of quality; They're loving, well composed with gifts of nature, Flowing and swelling o'er with arts and exercise: How novelty may move, and parts with person, Alas, a kind of godly jealousy-- Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin-- Makes me afeard.
O heavens! you love me not.
Die I a villain, then! In this I do not call your faith in question So mainly as my merit: I cannot sing, Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk, Nor play at subtle games; fair virtues all, To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant: But I can tell that in each grace of these There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil That tempts most cunningly: but be not tempted.
Do you think I will?
No. But something may be done that we will not: And sometimes we are devils to ourselves, When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.
[Within]  Nay, good my lord,--
Come, kiss; and let us part.
[Within]  Brother Troilus!
Good brother, come you hither; And bring AEneas and the Grecian with you.
My lord, will you be true?
Who, I? alas, it is my vice, my fault: Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion, I with great truth catch mere simplicity; Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns, With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare. Fear not my truth: the moral of my wit Is 'plain and true;' there's all the reach of it. Welcome, Sir Diomed! here is the lady Which for Antenor we deliver you: At the port, lord, I'll give her to thy hand, And by the way possess thee what she is. Entreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek, If e'er thou stand at mercy of my sword, Name Cressida and thy life shall be as safe As Priam is in Ilion.
Fair Lady Cressid, So please you, save the thanks this prince expects: The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek, Pleads your fair usage; and to Diomed You shall be mistress, and command him wholly.
Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously, To shame the zeal of my petition to thee In praising her: I tell thee, lord of Greece, She is as far high-soaring o'er thy praises As thou unworthy to be call'd her servant. I charge thee use her well, even for my charge; For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not, Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard, I'll cut thy throat.
O, be not moved, Prince Troilus: Let me be privileged by my place and message, To be a speaker free; when I am hence I'll answer to my lust: and know you, lord, I'll nothing do on charge: to her own worth She shall be prized; but that you say 'be't so,' I'll speak it in my spirit and honour, 'no.'
Come, to the port. I'll tell thee, Diomed, This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head. Lady, give me your hand, and, as we walk, To our own selves bend we our needful talk.
Hark! Hector's trumpet.
How have we spent this morning! The prince must think me tardy and remiss, That sore to ride before him to the field.
'Tis Troilus' fault: come, come, to field with him.
Let us make ready straight.
Yea, with a bridegroom's fresh alacrity, Let us address to tend on Hector's heels: The glory of our Troy doth this day lie On his fair worth and single chivalry.
Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair, Anticipating time with starting courage. Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy, Thou dreadful Ajax; that the appalled air May pierce the head of the great combatant And hale him hither.
Thou, trumpet, there's my purse. Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe: Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek Outswell the colic of puff'd Aquilon: Come, stretch thy chest and let thy eyes spout blood; Thou blow'st for Hector.
No trumpet answers.
'Tis but early days.
Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas' daughter?
'Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait; He rises on the toe: that spirit of his In aspiration lifts him from the earth.
Is this the Lady Cressid?
Even she.
Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.
Our general doth salute you with a kiss.
Yet is the kindness but particular; 'Twere better she were kiss'd in general.
And very courtly counsel: I'll begin. So much for Nestor.
I'll take what winter from your lips, fair lady: Achilles bids you welcome.
I had good argument for kissing once.
But that's no argument for kissing now; For this popp'd Paris in his hardiment, And parted thus you and your argument.
O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns! For which we lose our heads to gild his horns.
The first was Menelaus' kiss; this, mine: Patroclus kisses you.
O, this is trim!
Paris and I kiss evermore for him.
I'll have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave.
In kissing, do you render or receive?
Both take and give.
I'll make my match to live, The kiss you take is better than you give; Therefore no kiss.
I'll give you boot, I'll give you three for one.
You're an odd man; give even or give none.
An odd man, lady! every man is odd.
No, Paris is not; for you know 'tis true, That you are odd, and he is even with you.
You fillip me o' the head.
No, I'll be sworn.
It were no match, your nail against his horn. May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you?
You may.
I do desire it.
Why, beg, then.
Why then for Venus' sake, give me a kiss, When Helen is a maid again, and his.
I am your debtor, claim it when 'tis due.
Never's my day, and then a kiss of you.
Lady, a word: I'll bring you to your father.
A woman of quick sense.
Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body. O, these encounterers, so glib of tongue, That give accosting welcome ere it comes, And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts To every ticklish reader! set them down For sluttish spoils of opportunity And daughters of the game.
The Trojans' trumpet.
Yonder comes the troop.
Hail, all you state of Greece! what shall be done To him that victory commands? or do you purpose A victor shall be known? will you the knights Shall to the edge of all extremity Pursue each other, or shall be divided By any voice or order of the field? Hector bade ask.
Which way would Hector have it?
He cares not; he'll obey conditions.
'Tis done like Hector; but securely done, A little proudly, and great deal misprizing The knight opposed.
If not Achilles, sir, What is your name?
If not Achilles, nothing.
Therefore Achilles: but, whate'er, know this: In the extremity of great and little, Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector; The one almost as infinite as all, The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well, And that which looks like pride is courtesy. This Ajax is half made of Hector's blood: In love whereof, half Hector stays at home; Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek This blended knight, half Trojan and half Greek.
A maiden battle, then? O, I perceive you.
Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight, Stand by our Ajax: as you and Lord AEneas Consent upon the order of their fight, So be it; either to the uttermost, Or else a breath: the combatants being kin Half stints their strife before their strokes begin.
They are opposed already.
What Trojan is that same that looks so heavy?
The youngest son of Priam, a true knight, Not yet mature, yet matchless, firm of word, Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue; Not soon provoked nor being provoked soon calm'd: His heart and hand both open and both free; For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows; Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty, Nor dignifies an impure thought with breath; Manly as Hector, but more dangerous; For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes To tender objects, but he in heat of action Is more vindicative than jealous love: They call him Troilus, and on him erect A second hope, as fairly built as Hector. Thus says AEneas; one that knows the youth Even to his inches, and with private soul Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me.
They are in action.
Now, Ajax, hold thine own!
Hector, thou sleep'st; Awake thee!
His blows are well disposed: there, Ajax!
You must no more.
Princes, enough, so please you.
I am not warm yet; let us fight again.
As Hector pleases.
Why, then will I no more: Thou art, great lord, my father's sister's son, A cousin-german to great Priam's seed; The obligation of our blood forbids A gory emulation 'twixt us twain: Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so That thou couldst say 'This hand is Grecian all, And this is Trojan; the sinews of this leg All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother's blood Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister Bounds in my father's;' by Jove multipotent, Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member Wherein my sword had not impressure made Of our rank feud: but the just gods gainsay That any drop thou borrow'dst from thy mother, My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword Be drain'd! Let me embrace thee, Ajax: By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms; Hector would have them fall upon him thus: Cousin, all honour to thee!
I thank thee, Hector Thou art too gentle and too free a man: I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence A great addition earned in thy death.
Not Neoptolemus so mirable, On whose bright crest Fame with her loud'st Oyes Cries 'This is he,' could promise to himself A thought of added honour torn from Hector.
There is expectance here from both the sides, What further you will do.
We'll answer it; The issue is embracement: Ajax, farewell.
If I might in entreaties find success-- As seld I have the chance--I would desire My famous cousin to our Grecian tents.
'Tis Agamemnon's wish, and great Achilles Doth long to see unarm'd the valiant Hector.
AEneas, call my brother Troilus to me, And signify this loving interview To the expecters of our Trojan part; Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin; I will go eat with thee and see your knights.
Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here.
The worthiest of them tell me name by name; But for Achilles, mine own searching eyes Shall find him by his large and portly size.
Worthy of arms! as welcome as to one That would be rid of such an enemy; But that's no welcome: understand more clear, What's past and what's to come is strew'd with husks And formless ruin of oblivion; But in this extant moment, faith and troth, Strain'd purely from all hollow bias-drawing, Bids thee, with most divine integrity, From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome.
I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon.
[To TROILUS]  My well-famed lord of Troy, no less to you.
Let me confirm my princely brother's greeting: You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither.
Who must we answer?
The noble Menelaus.
O, you, my lord? by Mars his gauntlet, thanks! Mock not, that I affect the untraded oath; Your quondam wife swears still by Venus' glove: She's well, but bade me not commend her to you.
Name her not now, sir; she's a deadly theme.
O, pardon; I offend.
I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft Labouring for destiny make cruel way Through ranks of Greekish youth, and I have seen thee, As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed, Despising many forfeits and subduements, When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' the air, Not letting it decline on the declined, That I have said to some my standers by 'Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!' And I have seen thee pause and take thy breath, When that a ring of Greeks have hemm'd thee in, Like an Olympian wrestling: this have I seen; But this thy countenance, still lock'd in steel, I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire, And once fought with him: he was a soldier good; But, by great Mars, the captain of us all, Never saw like thee. Let an old man embrace thee; And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents.
'Tis the old Nestor.
Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle, That hast so long walk'd hand in hand with time: Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee.
I would my arms could match thee in contention, As they contend with thee in courtesy.
I would they could.
Ha! By this white beard, I'ld fight with thee to-morrow. Well, welcome, welcome! I have seen the time.
I wonder now how yonder city stands When we have here her base and pillar by us.
I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well. Ah, sir, there's many a Greek and Trojan dead, Since first I saw yourself and Diomed In Ilion, on your Greekish embassy.
Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue: My prophecy is but half his journey yet; For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yond towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet.
I must not believe you: There they stand yet, and modestly I think, The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost A drop of Grecian blood: the end crowns all, And that old common arbitrator, Time, Will one day end it.
So to him we leave it. Most gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome: After the general, I beseech you next To feast with me and see me at my tent.
I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou! Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee; I have with exact view perused thee, Hector, And quoted joint by joint.
Is this Achilles?
I am Achilles.
Stand fair, I pray thee: let me look on thee.
Behold thy fill.
Nay, I have done already.
Thou art too brief: I will the second time, As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb.
O, like a book of sport thou'lt read me o'er; But there's more in me than thou understand'st. Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye?
Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body Shall I destroy him? whether there, or there, or there? That I may give the local wound a name And make distinct the very breach whereout Hector's great spirit flew: answer me, heavens!
It would discredit the blest gods, proud man, To answer such a question: stand again: Think'st thou to catch my life so pleasantly As to prenominate in nice conjecture Where thou wilt hit me dead?
I tell thee, yea.
Wert thou an oracle to tell me so, I'd not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well; For I'll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there; But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm, I'll kill thee every where, yea, o'er and o'er. You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag; His insolence draws folly from my lips; But I'll endeavour deeds to match these words, Or may I never--
Do not chafe thee, cousin: And you, Achilles, let these threats alone, Till accident or purpose bring you to't: You may have every day enough of Hector If you have stomach; the general state, I fear, Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him.
I pray you, let us see you in the field: We have had pelting wars, since you refused The Grecians' cause.
Dost thou entreat me, Hector? To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death; To-night all friends.
Thy hand upon that match.
First, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent; There in the full convive we: afterwards, As Hector's leisure and your bounties shall Concur together, severally entreat him. Beat loud the tabourines, let the trumpets blow, That this great soldier may his welcome know.
My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you, In what place of the field doth Calchas keep?
At Menelaus' tent, most princely Troilus: There Diomed doth feast with him to-night; Who neither looks upon the heaven nor earth, But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view On the fair Cressid.
Shall sweet lord, be bound to you so much, After we part from Agamemnon's tent, To bring me thither?
You shall command me, sir. As gentle tell me, of what honour was This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there That wails her absence?
O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord? She was beloved, she loved; she is, and doth: But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth.
I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night, Which with my scimitar I'll cool to-morrow. Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.
Here comes Thersites.
How now, thou core of envy! Thou crusty batch of nature, what's the news?
Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of idiot worshippers, here's a letter for thee.
From whence, fragment?
Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.
Who keeps the tent now?
The surgeon's box, or the patient's wound.
Well said, adversity! and what need these tricks?
Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk: thou art thought to be Achilles' male varlet.
Male varlet, you rogue! what's that?
Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of the south, the guts-griping, ruptures, catarrhs, loads o' gravel i' the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas, limekilns i' the palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous discoveries!
Why thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou to curse thus?
Do I curse thee?
Why no, you ruinous butt, you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no.
No! why art thou then exasperate, thou idle immaterial skein of sleave-silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal's purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pestered with such waterflies, diminutives of nature!
Out, gall!
Finch-egg!
My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite From my great purpose in to-morrow's battle. Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba, A token from her daughter, my fair love, Both taxing me and gaging me to keep An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it: Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I'll obey. Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent: This night in banqueting must all be spent. Away, Patroclus!
With too much blood and too little brain, these two may run mad; but, if with too much brain and too little blood they do, I'll be a curer of madmen. Here's Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough and one that loves quails; but he has not so much brain as earwax: and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there, his brother, the bull,--the primitive statue, and oblique memorial of cuckolds; a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, hanging at his brother's leg,--to what form but that he is, should wit larded with malice and malice forced with wit turn him to? To an ass, were nothing; he is both ass and ox: to an ox, were nothing; he is both ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad, a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would not care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against destiny. Ask me not, what I would be, if I were not Thersites; for I care not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus! Hey-day! spirits and fires!
We go wrong, we go wrong.
No, yonder 'tis; There, where we see the lights.
I trouble you.
No, not a whit.
Here comes himself to guide you.
Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, princes all.
So now, fair prince of Troy, I bid good night. Ajax commands the guard to tend on you.
Thanks and good night to the Greeks' general.
Good night, my lord.
Good night, sweet lord Menelaus.
Sweet draught: 'sweet' quoth 'a! sweet sink, sweet sewer.
Good night and welcome, both at once, to those That go or tarry.
Good night.
Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed, Keep Hector company an hour or two.
I cannot, lord; I have important business, The tide whereof is now. Good night, great Hector.
Give me your hand.
[Aside to TROILUS]  Follow his torch; he goes to Calchas' tent: I'll keep you company.
Sweet sir, you honour me.
And so, good night.
Come, come, enter my tent.
That same Diomed's a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust knave; I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a serpent when he hisses: he will spend his mouth, and promise, like Brabbler the hound: but when he performs, astronomers foretell it; it is prodigious, there will come some change; the sun borrows of the moon, when Diomed keeps his word. I will rather leave to see Hector, than not to dog him: they say he keeps a Trojan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas' tent: I'll after. Nothing but lechery! all incontinent varlets!
What, are you up here, ho? speak.
[Within]  Who calls?
Calchas, I think. Where's your daughter?
[Within]  She comes to you.
Stand where the torch may not discover us.
Cressid comes forth to him.
How now, my charge!
Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word with you.
Yea, so familiar!
She will sing any man at first sight.
And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff; she's noted.
Will you remember?
Remember! yes.
Nay, but do, then; And let your mind be coupled with your words.
What should she remember?
List.
Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.
Roguery!
Nay, then,--
I'll tell you what,--
Foh, foh! come, tell a pin: you are forsworn.
In faith, I cannot: what would you have me do?
A juggling trick,--to be secretly open.
What did you swear you would bestow on me?
I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath; Bid me do any thing but that, sweet Greek.
Good night.
Hold, patience!
How now, Trojan!
Diomed,--
No, no, good night: I'll be your fool no more.
Thy better must.
Hark, one word in your ear.
O plague and madness!
You are moved, prince; let us depart, I pray you, Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself To wrathful terms: this place is dangerous; The time right deadly; I beseech you, go.
Behold, I pray you!
Nay, good my lord, go off: You flow to great distraction; come, my lord.
I pray thee, stay.
You have not patience; come.
I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell's torments I will not speak a word!
And so, good night.
Nay, but you part in anger.
Doth that grieve thee? O wither'd truth!
Why, how now, lord!
By Jove, I will be patient.
Guardian!--why, Greek!
Foh, foh! adieu; you palter.
In faith, I do not: come hither once again.
You shake, my lord, at something: will you go? You will break out.
She strokes his cheek!
Come, come.
Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word: There is between my will and all offences A guard of patience: stay a little while.
How the devil Luxury, with his fat rump and potato-finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!
But will you, then?
In faith, I will, la; never trust me else.
Give me some token for the surety of it.
I'll fetch you one.
You have sworn patience.
Fear me not, sweet lord; I will not be myself, nor have cognition Of what I feel: I am all patience.
Now the pledge; now, now, now!
Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.
O beauty! where is thy faith?
My lord,--
I will be patient; outwardly I will.
You look upon that sleeve; behold it well. He loved me--O false wench!--Give't me again.
Whose was't?
It is no matter, now I have't again. I will not meet with you to-morrow night: I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.
Now she sharpens: well said, whetstone!
I shall have it.
What, this?
Ay, that.
O, all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge! Thy master now lies thinking in his bed Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove, And gives memorial dainty kisses to it, As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me; He that takes that doth take my heart withal.
I had your heart before, this follows it.
I did swear patience.
You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not; I'll give you something else.
I will have this: whose was it?
It is no matter.
Come, tell me whose it was.
'Twas one's that loved me better than you will. But, now you have it, take it.
Whose was it?
By all Diana's waiting-women yond, And by herself, I will not tell you whose.
To-morrow will I wear it on my helm, And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.
Wert thou the devil, and worest it on thy horn, It should be challenged.
Well, well, 'tis done, 'tis past: and yet it is not; I will not keep my word.
Why, then, farewell; Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.
You shall not go: one cannot speak a word, But it straight starts you.
I do not like this fooling.
Nor I, by Pluto: but that that likes not you pleases me best.
What, shall I come? the hour?
Ay, come:--O Jove!--do come:--I shall be plagued.
Farewell till then.
Good night: I prithee, come. Troilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee But with my heart the other eye doth see. Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find, The error of our eye directs our mind: What error leads must err; O, then conclude Minds sway'd by eyes are full of turpitude.
A proof of strength she could not publish more, Unless she said ' My mind is now turn'd whore.'
All's done, my lord.
It is.
Why stay we, then?
To make a recordation to my soul Of every syllable that here was spoke. But if I tell how these two did co-act, Shall I not lie in publishing a truth? Sith yet there is a credence in my heart, An esperance so obstinately strong, That doth invert the attest of eyes and ears, As if those organs had deceptious functions, Created only to calumniate. Was Cressid here?
I cannot conjure, Trojan.
She was not, sure.
Most sure she was.
Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.
Nor mine, my lord: Cressid was here but now.
Let it not be believed for womanhood! Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme, For depravation, to square the general sex By Cressid's rule: rather think this not Cressid.
What hath she done, prince, that can soil our mothers?
Nothing at all, unless that this were she.
Will he swagger himself out on's own eyes?
This she? no, this is Diomed's Cressida: If beauty have a soul, this is not she; If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies, If sanctimony be the gods' delight, If there be rule in unity itself, This is not she. O madness of discourse, That cause sets up with and against itself! Bi-fold authority! where reason can revolt Without perdition, and loss assume all reason Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid. Within my soul there doth conduce a fight Of this strange nature that a thing inseparate Divides more wider than the sky and earth, And yet the spacious breadth of this division Admits no orifex for a point as subtle As Ariachne's broken woof to enter. Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto's gates; Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven: Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself; The bonds of heaven are slipp'd, dissolved, and loosed; And with another knot, five-finger-tied, The fractions of her faith, orts of her love, The fragments, scraps, the bits and greasy relics Of her o'er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed.
May worthy Troilus be half attach'd With that which here his passion doth express?
Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well In characters as red as Mars his heart Inflamed with Venus: never did young man fancy With so eternal and so fix'd a soul. Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love, So much by weight hate I her Diomed: That sleeve is mine that he'll bear on his helm; Were it a casque composed by Vulcan's skill, My sword should bite it: not the dreadful spout Which shipmen do the hurricano call, Constringed in mass by the almighty sun, Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune's ear In his descent than shall my prompted sword Falling on Diomed.
He'll tickle it for his concupy.
O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false! Let all untruths stand by thy stained name, And they'll seem glorious.
O, contain yourself Your passion draws ears hither.
I have been seeking you this hour, my lord: Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy; Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home.
Have with you, prince. My courteous lord, adieu. Farewell, revolted fair! and, Diomed, Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head!
I'll bring you to the gates.
Accept distracted thanks.
Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me any thing for the intelligence of this whore: the parrot will not do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab. Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery; nothing else holds fashion: a burning devil take them!
When was my lord so much ungently temper'd, To stop his ears against admonishment? Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day.
You train me to offend you; get you in: By all the everlasting gods, I'll go!
My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.
No more, I say.
Where is my brother Hector?
Here, sister; arm'd, and bloody in intent. Consort with me in loud and dear petition, Pursue we him on knees; for I have dream'd Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.
O, 'tis true.
Ho! bid my trumpet sound!
No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother.
Be gone, I say: the gods have heard me swear.
The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows: They are polluted offerings, more abhorr'd Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
O, be persuaded! do not count it holy To hurt by being just: it is as lawful, For we would give much, to use violent thefts, And rob in the behalf of charity.
It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold: Unarm, sweet Hector.
Hold you still, I say; Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate: Lie every man holds dear; but the brave man Holds honour far more precious-dear than life. How now, young man! mean'st thou to fight to-day?
Cassandra, call my father to persuade.
No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth; I am to-day i' the vein of chivalry: Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong, And tempt not yet the brushes of the war. Unarm thee, go, and doubt thou not, brave boy, I'll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy.
Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you, Which better fits a lion than a man.
What vice is that, good Troilus? chide me for it.
When many times the captive Grecian falls, Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword, You bid them rise, and live.
O,'tis fair play.
Fool's play, by heaven, Hector.
How now! how now!
For the love of all the gods, Let's leave the hermit pity with our mothers, And when we have our armours buckled on, The venom'd vengeance ride upon our swords, Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth.
Fie, savage, fie!
Hector, then 'tis wars.
Troilus, I would not have you fight to-day.
Who should withhold me? Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire; Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees, Their eyes o'ergalled with recourse of tears; Not you, my brother, with your true sword drawn, Opposed to  hinder me, should stop my way, But by my ruin.
Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast: He is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay, Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee, Fall all together.
Come, Hector, come, go back: Thy wife hath dream'd; thy mother hath had visions; Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt To tell thee that this day is ominous: Therefore, come back.
AEneas is a-field; And I do stand engaged to many Greeks, Even in the faith of valour, to appear This morning to them.
Ay, but thou shalt not go.
I must not break my faith. You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir, Let me not shame respect; but give me leave To take that course by your consent and voice, Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam.
O Priam, yield not to him!
Do not, dear father.
Andromache, I am offended with you: Upon the love you bear me, get you in.
This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl Makes all these bodements.
O, farewell, dear Hector! Look, how thou diest! look, how thy eye turns pale! Look, how thy wounds do bleed at many vents! Hark, how Troy roars! how Hecuba cries out! How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth! Behold, distraction, frenzy and amazement, Like witless antics, one another meet, And all cry, Hector! Hector's dead! O Hector!
Away! away!
Farewell: yet, soft! Hector! take my leave: Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.
You are amazed, my liege, at her exclaim: Go in and cheer the town: we'll forth and fight, Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night.
Farewell: the gods with safety stand about thee!
They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, believe, I come to lose my arm, or win my sleeve.
Do you hear, my lord? do you hear?
What now?
Here's a letter come from yond poor girl.
Let me read.
A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl; and what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you one o' these days: and I have a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that, unless a man were cursed, I cannot tell what to think on't. What says she there?
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart: The effect doth operate another way. Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together. My love with words and errors still she feeds; But edifies another with her deeds.
Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I'll go look on. That dissembling abominable varlets Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting foolish young knave's sleeve of Troy there in his helm: I would fain see them meet; that that same young Trojan ass, that loves the whore there, might send that Greekish whore-masterly villain, with the sleeve, back to the dissembling luxurious drab, of a sleeveless errand. O' the t'other side, the policy of those crafty swearing rascals, that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses, is not proved worthy a blackberry: they set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles: and now is the cur Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm to-day; whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion. Soft! here comes sleeve, and t'other.
Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx, I would swim after.
Thou dost miscall retire: I do not fly, but advantageous care Withdrew me from the odds of multitude: Have at thee!
Hold thy whore, Grecian!--now for thy whore, Trojan!--now the sleeve, now the sleeve!
What art thou, Greek? art thou for Hector's match? Art thou of blood and honour?
No, no, I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave: a very filthy rogue.
I do believe thee: live.
God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague break thy neck for frightening me! What's become of the wenching rogues? I think they have swallowed one another: I would laugh at that miracle: yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I'll seek them.
Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus' horse; Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid: Fellow, commend my service to her beauty; Tell her I have chastised the amorous Trojan, And am her knight by proof.
I go, my lord.
Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas Hath beat down Menon: bastard Margarelon Hath Doreus prisoner, And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam, Upon the pashed corses of the kings Epistrophus and Cedius: Polyxenes is slain, Amphimachus and Thoas deadly hurt, Patroclus ta'en or slain, and Palamedes Sore hurt and bruised: the dreadful Sagittary Appals our numbers: haste we, Diomed, To reinforcement, or we perish all.
Go, bear Patroclus' body to Achilles; And bid the snail-paced Ajax arm for shame. There is a thousand Hectors in the field: Now here he fights on Galathe his horse, And there lacks work; anon he's there afoot, And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls Before the belching whale; then is he yonder, And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge, Fall down before him, like the mower's swath: Here, there, and every where, he leaves and takes, Dexterity so obeying appetite That what he will he does, and does so much That proof is call'd impossibility.
O, courage, courage, princes! great Achilles Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance: Patroclus' wounds have roused his drowsy blood, Together with his mangled Myrmidons, That noseless, handless, hack'd and chipp'd, come to him, Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend And foams at mouth, and he is arm'd and at it, Roaring for Troilus, who hath done to-day Mad and fantastic execution, Engaging and redeeming of himself With such a careless force and forceless care As if that luck, in very spite of cunning, Bade him win all.
Troilus! thou coward Troilus!
Ay, there, there.
So, so, we draw together.
Where is this Hector? Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face; Know what it is to meet Achilles angry: Hector? where's Hector? I will none but Hector.
Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head!
Troilus, I say! where's Troilus?
What wouldst thou?
I would correct him.
Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! what, Troilus!
O traitor Diomed! turn thy false face, thou traitor, And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse!
Ha, art thou there?
I'll fight with him alone: stand, Diomed.
He is my prize; I will not look upon.
Come, both you cogging Greeks; have at you both!
Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother!
Now do I see thee, ha! have at thee, Hector!
Pause, if thou wilt.
I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan: Be happy that my arms are out of use: My rest and negligence befriends thee now, But thou anon shalt hear of me again; Till when, go seek thy fortune.
Fare thee well: I would have been much more a fresher man, Had I expected thee. How now, my brother!
Ajax hath ta'en AEneas: shall it be? No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven, He shall not carry him: I'll be ta'en too, Or bring him off: fate, hear me what I say! I reck not though I end my life to-day.
Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark: No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well; I'll frush it and unlock the rivets all, But I'll be master of it: wilt thou not, beast, abide? Why, then fly on, I'll hunt thee for thy hide.
Come here about me, you my Myrmidons; Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel: Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath: And when I have the bloody Hector found, Empale him with your weapons round about; In fellest manner execute your aims. Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye: It is decreed Hector the great must die.
The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull! now, dog! 'Loo, Paris, 'loo! now my double- henned sparrow! 'loo, Paris, 'loo! The bull has the game: ware horns, ho!
Turn, slave, and fight.
What art thou?
A bastard son of Priam's.
I am a bastard too; I love bastards: I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel's most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgment: farewell, bastard.
The devil take thee, coward!
Most putrefied core, so fair without, Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life. Now is my day's work done; I'll take good breath: Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death.
Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set; How ugly night comes breathing at his heels: Even with the vail and darking of the sun, To close the day up, Hector's life is done.
I am unarm'd; forego this vantage, Greek.
Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek. So, Ilion, fall thou next! now, Troy, sink down! Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone. On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain, 'Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.' Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part.
The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my lord.
The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth, And, stickler-like, the armies separates. My half-supp'd sword, that frankly would have fed, Pleased with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed. Come, tie his body to my horse's tail; Along the field I will the Trojan trail.
Hark! hark! what shout is that?
Peace, drums! Achilles! Achilles! Hector's slain! Achilles.
The bruit is, Hector's slain, and by Achilles.
If it be so, yet bragless let it be; Great Hector was a man as good as he.
March patiently along: let one be sent To pray Achilles see us at our tent. If in his death the gods have us befriended, Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.
Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field: Never go home; here starve we out the night.
Hector is slain.
Hector! the gods forbid!
He's dead; and at the murderer's horse's tail, In beastly sort, dragg'd through the shameful field. Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed! Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy! I say, at once let your brief plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on!
My lord, you do discomfort all the host!
You understand me not that tell me so: I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death, But dare all imminence that gods and men Address their dangers in. Hector is gone: Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba? Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call'd, Go in to Troy, and say there, Hector's dead: There is a word will Priam turn to stone; Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, Cold statues of the youth, and, in a word, Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away: Hector is dead; there is no more to say. Stay yet. You vile abominable tents, Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, Let Titan rise as early as he dare, I'll through and through you! and, thou great-sized coward, No space of earth shall sunder our two hates: I'll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy's thoughts. Strike a free march to Troy! with comfort go: Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
But hear you, hear you!
Hence, broker-lackey! ignomy and shame Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!
A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! world! thus is the poor agent despised! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! why should our endeavour be so loved and the performance so loathed? what verse for it? what instance for it? Let me see: Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing, Till he hath lost his honey and his sting; And being once subdued in armed tail, Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths. As many as be here of pander's hall, Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar's fall; Or if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, Though not for me, yet for your aching bones. Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, Some two months hence my will shall here be made: It should be now, but that my fear is this, Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss: Till then I'll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeathe you my diseases.
If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again! it had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more: 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou, That, notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soe'er, But falls into abatement and low price, Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy That it alone is high fantastical.
Will you go hunt, my lord?
What, Curio?
The hart.
Why, so I do, the noblest that I have: O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purged the air of pestilence! That instant was I turn'd into a hart; And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E'er since pursue me. How now! what news from her?
So please my lord, I might not be admitted; But from her handmaid do return this answer: The element itself, till seven years' heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this to season A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh And lasting in her sad remembrance.
O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else That live in her; when liver, brain and heart, These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill'd Her sweet perfections with one self king! Away before me to sweet beds of flowers: Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.
What country, friends, is this?
This is Illyria, lady.
And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in Elysium. Perchance he is not drown'd: what think you, sailors?
It is perchance that you yourself were saved.
O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.
True, madam: and, to comfort you with chance, Assure yourself, after our ship did split, When you and those poor number saved with you Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, Most provident in peril, bind himself, Courage and hope both teaching him the practise, To a strong mast that lived upon the sea; Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back, I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves So long as I could see.
For saying so, there's gold: Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, Whereto thy speech serves for authority, The like of him. Know'st thou this country?
Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born Not three hours' travel from this very place.
Who governs here?
A noble duke, in nature as in name.
What is the name?
Orsino.
Orsino! I have heard my father name him: He was a bachelor then.
And so is now, or was so very late; For but a month ago I went from hence, And then 'twas fresh in murmur,--as, you know, What great ones do the less will prattle of,-- That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.
What's she?
A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count That died some twelvemonth since, then leaving her In the protection of his son, her brother, Who shortly also died: for whose dear love, They say, she hath abjured the company And sight of men.
O that I served that lady And might not be delivered to the world, Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, What my estate is!
That were hard to compass; Because she will admit no kind of suit, No, not the duke's.
There is a fair behavior in thee, captain; And though that nature with a beauteous wall Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee I will believe thou hast a mind that suits With this thy fair and outward character. I prithee, and I'll pay thee bounteously, Conceal me what I am, and be my aid For such disguise as haply shall become The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke: Thou shall present me as an eunuch to him: It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing And speak to him in many sorts of music That will allow me very worth his service. What else may hap to time I will commit; Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.
Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be: When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.
I thank thee: lead me on.
What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.
By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.
Why, let her except, before excepted.
Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.
Confine! I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these clothes are good enough to drink in; and so be these boots too: an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.
That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer.
Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?
Ay, he.
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
What's that to the purpose?
Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.
Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats: he's a very fool and a prodigal.
Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature.
He hath indeed, almost natural: for besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller: and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.
By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that say so of him. Who are they?
They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.
With drinking healths to my niece: I'll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria: he's a coward and a coystrill that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench! Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.
Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch!
Sweet Sir Andrew!
Bless you, fair shrew.
And you too, sir.
Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
What's that?
My niece's chambermaid.
Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
My name is Mary, sir.
Good Mistress Mary Accost,--
You mistake, knight; 'accost' is front her, board her, woo her, assail her.
By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of 'accost'?
Fare you well, gentlemen.
An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again.
An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?
Sir, I have not you by the hand.
Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
Now, sir, 'thought is free:' I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar and let it drink.
Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?
It's dry, sir.
Why, I think so: I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?
A dry jest, sir.
Are you full of them?
Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.
O knight thou lackest a cup of canary: when did I see thee so put down?
Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has: but I am a great eater of beef and I believe that does harm to my wit.
No question.
An I thought that, I'ld forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby.
Pourquoi, my dear knight?
What is 'Pourquoi'? do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing and bear-baiting: O, had I but followed the arts!
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.
Why, would that have mended my hair?
Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.
But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs and spin it off.
Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece will not be seen; or if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the count himself here hard by woos her.
She'll none o' the count: she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear't. Tut, there's life in't, man.
I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.
Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
Faith, I can cut a caper.
And I can cut the mutton to't.
And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria.
Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before 'em? are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.
Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels?
What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?
Taurus! That's sides and heart.
No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the caper; ha! higher: ha, ha! excellent!
If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced: he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger.
You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love: is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?
No, believe me.
I thank you. Here comes the count.
Who saw Cesario, ho?
On your attendance, my lord; here.
Stand you a while aloof, Cesario, Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd To thee the book even of my secret soul: Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her; Be not denied access, stand at her doors, And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow Till thou have audience.
Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds Rather than make unprofited return.
Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?
O, then unfold the passion of my love, Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth Than in a nuncio's of more grave aspect.
I think not so, my lord.
Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years, That say thou art a man: Diana's lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman's part. I know thy constellation is right apt For this affair. Some four or five attend him; All, if you will; for I myself am best When least in company. Prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine.
I'll do my best To woo your lady: yet, a barful strife! Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.
Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence.
Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours.
Make that good.
He shall see none to fear.
A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that saying was born, of 'I fear no colours.'
Where, good Mistress Mary?
In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.
Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.
Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or, to be turned away, is not that as good as a hanging to you?
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out.
You are resolute, then?
Not so, neither; but I am resolved on two points.
That if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall.
Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.
Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.
Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus? 'Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.' God bless thee, lady!
Take the fool away.
Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.
Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest.
Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry: bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing that's mended is but patched: virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty's a flower. The lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.
Sir, I bade them take away you.
Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non facit monachum; that's as much to say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
Can you do it?
Dexterously, good madonna.
Make your proof.
I must catechise you for it, madonna: good my mouse of virtue, answer me.
Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your proof.
Good madonna, why mournest thou?
Good fool, for my brother's death.
I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.
What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?
Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for two pence that you are no fool.
How say you to that, Malvolio?
I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies.
Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets: there is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.
Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools!
Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.
From the Count Orsino, is it?
I know not, madam: 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.
Who of my people hold him in delay?
Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: fie on him! Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.
Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram with brains! for,--here he comes,--one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater.
By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin?
A gentleman.
A gentleman! what gentleman?
'Tis a gentle man here--a plague o' these pickle-herring! How now, sot!
Good Sir Toby!
Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?
Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.
Ay, marry, what is he?
Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.
What's a drunken man like, fool?
Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.
Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my coz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drowned: go, look after him.
He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman.
Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.
Tell him he shall not speak with me.
Has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he'll speak with you.
What kind o' man is he?
Why, of mankind.
What manner of man?
Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.
Of what personage and years is he?
Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a cooling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.
Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman.
Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face. We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
The honourable lady of the house, which is she?
Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?
Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty,--I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage.
Whence came you, sir?
I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.
Are you a comedian?
No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?
If I do not usurp myself, I am.
Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.
Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.
Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.
It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.
No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger.
Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.
It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as fun of peace as matter.
Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?
The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead; to your ears, divinity, to any other's, profanation.
Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. Now, sir, what is your text?
Most sweet lady,--
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?
In Orsino's bosom.
In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?
To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
O, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say?
Good madam, let me see your face.
Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this present: is't not well done?
Excellently done, if God did all.
'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.
'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.
O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?
I see you what you are, you are too proud; But, if you were the devil, you are fair. My lord and master loves you: O, such love Could be but recompensed, though you were crown'd The nonpareil of beauty!
How does he love me?
With adorations, fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him: Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; In voices well divulged, free, learn'd and valiant; And in dimension and the shape of nature A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him; He might have took his answer long ago.
If I did love you in my master's flame, With such a suffering, such a deadly life, In your denial I would find no sense; I would not understand it.
Why, what would you?
Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Halloo your name to the reverberate hills And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out 'Olivia!' O, You should not rest Between the elements of air and earth, But you should pity me!
You might do much. What is your parentage?
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.
Get you to your lord; I cannot love him: let him send no more; Unless, perchance, you come to me again, To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well: I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.
I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse: My master, not myself, lacks recompense. Love make his heart of flint that you shall love; And let your fervor, like my master's, be Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.
'What is your parentage?' 'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.' I'll be sworn thou art; Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions and spirit, Do give thee five-fold blazon: not too fast: soft, soft! Unless the master were the man. How now! Even so quickly may one catch the plague? Methinks I feel this youth's perfections With an invisible and subtle stealth To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. What ho, Malvolio!
Here, madam, at your service.
Run after that same peevish messenger, The county's man: he left this ring behind him, Would I or not: tell him I'll none of it. Desire him not to flatter with his lord, Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him: If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, I'll give him reasons for't: hie thee, Malvolio.
Madam, I will.
I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe; What is decreed must be, and be this so.
Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you?
By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. ANTONIO: Let me yet know of you whither you are bound.
No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both born in an hour: if the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned.
Alas the day!
A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her; she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.
If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.
If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness, and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell.
The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! I have many enemies in Orsino's court, Else would I very shortly see thee there. But, come what may, I do adore thee so, That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.
Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia?
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.
She returns this ring to you, sir: you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him: and one thing more, that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. Receive it so.
She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.
Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is, it should be so returned: if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.
I left no ring with her: what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her! She made good view of me; indeed, so much, That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none. I am the man: if it be so, as 'tis, Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it for the proper-false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we! For such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly; And I, poor monster, fond as much on him; And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. What will become of this? As I am man, My state is desperate for my master's love; As I am woman,--now alas the day!-- What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time! thou must untangle this, not I; It is too hard a knot for me to untie!
Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed after midnight is to be up betimes; and 'diluculo surgere,' thou know'st,--
Nay, my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late is to be up late.
A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the four elements?
Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking.
Thou'rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine!
Here comes the fool, i' faith.
How now, my hearts! did you never see the picture of 'we three'?
Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.
By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus: 'twas very good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman: hadst it?
I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.
Excellent! why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.
Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.
There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a--
Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?
A love-song, a love-song.
Ay, ay: I care not for good life.
[Sings] O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.
Excellent good, i' faith.
Good, good.
[Sings] What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.
A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
A contagious breath.
Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?
An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.
By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
Most certain. Let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'
'Hold thy peace, thou knave,' knight? I shall be constrained in't to call thee knave, knight.
'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins 'Hold thy peace.'
I shall never begin if I hold my peace.
Good, i' faith. Come, begin.
What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.
My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.' Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tillyvally. Lady! 'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
[Sings]  'O, the twelfth day of December,'--
For the love o' God, peace!
My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.
'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'
Nay, good Sir Toby.
'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'
Is't even so?
'But I will never die.'
Sir Toby, there you lie.
This is much credit to you.
'Shall I bid him go?'
'What an if you do?'
'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'
'O no, no, no, no, you dare not.'
Out o' tune, sir: ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.
Thou'rt i' the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!
Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand.
Go shake your ears.
'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him.
Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight: since the youth of the count's was today with thy lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: I know I can do it.
Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.
O, if I thought that I'ld beat him like a dog!
What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?
I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.
The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.
What wilt thou do?
I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.
Excellent! I smell a device.
I have't in my nose too.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she's in love with him.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
And your horse now would make him an ass.
Ass, I doubt not.
O, 'twill be admirable!
Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter: observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.
Good night, Penthesilea.
Before me, she's a good wench.
She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me: what o' that?
I was adored once too.
Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.
If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i' the end, call me cut.
If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.
Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends. Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night: Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times: Come, but one verse.
He is not here, so please your lordship that should sing it.
Who was it?
Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house.
Seek him out, and play the tune the while. Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me; For such as I am all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?
It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is throned.
Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves: Hath it not, boy?
A little, by your favour.
What kind of woman is't?
Of your complexion.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?
About your years, my lord.
Too old by heaven: let still the woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart: For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women's are.
I think it well, my lord.
Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent; For women are as roses, whose fair flower Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.
And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow!
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun And the free maids that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Are you ready, sir?
Ay; prithee, sing. SONG.
Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet On my black coffin let there be strown; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there!
There's for thy pains.
No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.
I'll pay thy pleasure then.
Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.
Give me now leave to leave thee.
Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be every thing and their intent every where; for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.
Let all the rest give place. Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty: Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her, Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune; But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.
But if she cannot love you, sir?
I cannot be so answer'd.
Sooth, but you must. Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love a great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell her so; must she not then be answer'd?
There is no woman's sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart; no woman's heart So big, to hold so much; they lack retention Alas, their love may be call'd appetite, No motion of the liver, but the palate, That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as much: make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe Olivia.
Ay, but I know--
What dost thou know?
Too well what love women to men may owe: In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship.
And what's her history?
A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more: but indeed Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too: and yet I know not. Sir, shall I to this lady?
Ay, that's the theme. To her in haste; give her this jewel; say, My love can give no place, bide no denay.
Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
Nay, I'll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out o' favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.
To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue: shall we not, Sir Andrew?
An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Here comes the little villain. How now, my metal of India!
Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down this walk: he has been yonder i' the sun practising behavior to his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there, for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.
'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't?
Here's an overweening rogue!
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him: how he jets under his advanced plumes!
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue!
Peace, I say.
To be Count Malvolio!
Ah, rogue!
Pistol him, pistol him.
Peace, peace!
There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.
Fie on him, Jezebel!
O, peace! now he's deeply in: look how imagination blows him.
Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,--
O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!
Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping,--
Fire and brimstone!
O, peace, peace!
And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place as I would they should do theirs, to for my kinsman Toby,--
Bolts and shackles!
O peace, peace, peace! now, now.
Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: I frown the while; and perchance wind up watch, or play with my--some rich jewel. Toby approaches; courtesies there to me,--
Shall this fellow live?
Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.
I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control,--
And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?
Saying, 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece give me this prerogative of speech,'--
What, what?
'You must amend your drunkenness.'
Out, scab!
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight,'--
That's me, I warrant you.
'One Sir Andrew,'--
I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.
What employment have we here?
Now is the woodcock near the gin.
O, peace! and the spirit of humour intimate reading aloud to him!
By my life, this is my lady's hand these be her very C's, her U's and her T's and thus makes she her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.
Her C's, her U's and her T's: why that?
[Reads]  'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes:'--her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my lady. To whom should this be?
This wins him, liver and all.
[Reads] Jove knows I love: But who? Lips, do not move; No man must know. 'No man must know.' What follows? the numbers altered! 'No man must know:' if this should be thee, Malvolio?
Marry, hang thee, brock!
[Reads] I may command where I adore; But silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore: M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.
A fustian riddle!
Excellent wench, say I.
'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.' Nay, but first, let me see, let me see, let me see.
What dish o' poison has she dressed him!
And with what wing the staniel cheques at it!
'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command me: I serve her; she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity; there is no obstruction in this: and the end,--what should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me,--Softly! M, O, A, I,--
O, ay, make up that: he is now at a cold scent.
Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank as a fox.
M,--Malvolio; M,--why, that begins my name.
Did not I say he would work it out? the cur is excellent at faults.
M,--but then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation A should follow but O does.
And O shall end, I hope.
Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry O!
And then I comes behind.
Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.
M, O, A, I; this simulation is not as the former: and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft! here follows prose. 'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em. Thy Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them; and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity: she thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee, THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.' Daylight and champaign discovers not more: this is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-devise the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of injunction drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a postscript. 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well; therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.' Jove, I thank thee: I will smile; I will do everything that thou wilt have me.
I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.
I could marry this wench for this device.
So could I too.
And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.
Nor I neither.
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?
Or o' mine either?
Shall I play my freedom at traytrip, and become thy bond-slave?
I' faith, or I either?
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad.
Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?
Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.
If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!
I'll make one too.
Save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou live by thy tabour?
No, sir, I live by the church.
Art thou a churchman?
No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.
So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by thy tabour, if thy tabour stand by the church.
You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit: how quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!
Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton.
I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.
Why, man?
Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals since bonds disgraced them.
Thy reason, man?
Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them.
I warrant thou art a merry fellow and carest for nothing.
Not so, sir, I do care for something; but in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.
Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?
No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings; the husband's the bigger: I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words.
I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun, it shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress: I think I saw your wisdom there.
Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold, there's expenses for thee.
Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!
By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one; though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?
Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?
Yes, being kept together and put to use.
I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus.
I understand you, sir; 'tis well begged.
The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of my welkin, I might say 'element,' but the word is over-worn.
This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, cheque at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.
Save you, gentleman.
And you, sir.
Dieu vous garde, monsieur.
Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.
I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.
Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her.
I am bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the list of my voyage.
Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.
My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs.
I mean, to go, sir, to enter.
I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we are prevented. Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!
That youth's a rare courtier: 'Rain odours;' well.
My matter hath no voice, to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear.
'Odours,' 'pregnant' and 'vouchsafed:' I'll get 'em all three all ready.
Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing. Give me your hand, sir.
My duty, madam, and most humble service.
What is your name?
Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.
My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment: You're servant to the Count Orsino, youth.
And he is yours, and his must needs be yours: Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.
For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, Would they were blanks, rather than fill'd with me!
Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts On his behalf.
O, by your leave, I pray you, I bade you never speak again of him: But, would you undertake another suit, I had rather hear you to solicit that Than music from the spheres.
Dear lady,--
Give me leave, beseech you. I did send, After the last enchantment you did here, A ring in chase of you: so did I abuse Myself, my servant and, I fear me, you: Under your hard construction must I sit, To force that on you, in a shameful cunning, Which you knew none of yours: what might you think? Have you not set mine honour at the stake And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom, Hideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak.
I pity you.
That's a degree to love.
No, not a grize; for 'tis a vulgar proof, That very oft we pity enemies.
Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again. O, world, how apt the poor are to be proud! If one should be a prey, how much the better To fall before the lion than the wolf! The clock upbraids me with the waste of time. Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you: And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, Your were is alike to reap a proper man: There lies your way, due west.
Then westward-ho! Grace and good disposition Attend your ladyship! You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?
Stay: I prithee, tell me what thou thinkest of me.
That you do think you are not what you are.
If I think so, I think the same of you.
Then think you right: I am not what I am.
I would you were as I would have you be!
Would it be better, madam, than I am? I wish it might, for now I am your fool.
O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip! A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon. Cesario, by the roses of the spring, By maidhood, honour, truth and every thing, I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause, But rather reason thus with reason fetter, Love sought is good, but given unsought better.
By innocence I swear, and by my youth I have one heart, one bosom and one truth, And that no woman has; nor never none Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. And so adieu, good madam: never more Will I my master's tears to you deplore.
Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.
No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.
Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.
You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count's serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw't i' the orchard.
Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.
As plain as I see you now.
This was a great argument of love in her toward you.
'Slight, will you make an ass o' me?
I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason.
And they have been grand-jury-men since before Noah was a sailor.
She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt either of valour or policy.
An't be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.
Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the count's youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places: my niece shall take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman than report of valour.
There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?
Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink: if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set 'em down: go, about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter: about it.
Where shall I find you?
We'll call thee at the cubiculo: go.
This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.
I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.
We shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll not deliver't?
Never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of the anatomy.
And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty.
Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.
If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He's in yellow stockings.
And cross-gartered?
Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the church. I have dogged him, like his murderer. He does obey every point of the letter that I dropped to betray him: he does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map with the augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such a thing as 'tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady will strike him: if she do, he'll smile and take't for a great favour.
Come, bring us, bring us where he is.
I would not by my will have troubled you; But, since you make your pleasure of your pains, I will no further chide you.
I could not stay behind you: my desire, More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth; And not all love to see you, though so much As might have drawn one to a longer voyage, But jealousy what might befall your travel, Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger, Unguided and unfriended, often prove Rough and unhospitable: my willing love, The rather by these arguments of fear, Set forth in your pursuit.
My kind Antonio, I can no other answer make but thanks, And thanks; and ever [         ] oft good turns Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay: But, were my worth as is my conscience firm, You should find better dealing. What's to do? Shall we go see the reliques of this town?
To-morrow, sir: best first go see your lodging.
I am not weary, and 'tis long to night: I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes With the memorials and the things of fame That do renown this city.
Would you'ld pardon me; I do not without danger walk these streets: Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count his galleys I did some service; of such note indeed, That were I ta'en here it would scarce be answer'd.
Belike you slew great number of his people.
The offence is not of such a bloody nature; Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel Might well have given us bloody argument. It might have since been answer'd in repaying What we took from them; which, for traffic's sake, Most of our city did: only myself stood out; For which, if I be lapsed in this place, I shall pay dear.
Do not then walk too open.
It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my purse. In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet, Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge With viewing of the town: there shall you have me.
Why I your purse?
Haply your eye shall light upon some toy You have desire to purchase; and your store, I think, is not for idle markets, sir.
I'll be your purse-bearer and leave you For an hour.
To the Elephant.
I do remember.
I have sent after him: he says he'll come; How shall I feast him? what bestow of him? For youth is bought more oft than begg'd or borrow'd. I speak too loud. Where is Malvolio? he is sad and civil, And suits well for a servant with my fortunes: Where is Malvolio?
He's coming, madam; but in very strange manner. He is, sure, possessed, madam.
Why, what's the matter? does he rave?
No. madam, he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were best to have some guard about you, if he come; for, sure, the man is tainted in's wits.
Go call him hither. I am as mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be. How now, Malvolio!
Sweet lady, ho, ho.
Smilest thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.
Sad, lady! I could be sad: this does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering; but what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is, 'Please one, and please all.'
Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee?
Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed: I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.
Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
To bed! ay, sweet-heart, and I'll come to thee.
God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so and kiss thy hand so oft?
How do you, Malvolio?
At your request! yes; nightingales answer daws.
Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?
'Be not afraid of greatness:' 'twas well writ.
What meanest thou by that, Malvolio?
'Some are born great,'--
Ha!
'Some achieve greatness,'--
What sayest thou?
'And some have greatness thrust upon them.'
Heaven restore thee!
'Remember who commended thy yellow stocking s,'--
Thy yellow stockings!
'And wished to see thee cross-gartered.'
Cross-gartered!
'Go to thou art made, if thou desirest to be so;'--
Am I made?
'If not, let me see thee a servant still.'
Why, this is very midsummer madness.
Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino's is returned: I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's pleasure.
I'll come to him. Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where's my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special care of him: I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry.
O, ho! do you come near me now? no worse man than Sir Toby to look to me! This concurs directly with the letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. 'Cast thy humble slough,' says she; 'be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang with arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity;' and consequently sets down the manner how; as, a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her; but it is Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when she went away now, 'Let this fellow be looked to:' fellow! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance--What can be said? Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked.
Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I'll speak to him.
Here he is, here he is. How is't with you, sir? how is't with you, man?
Go off; I discard you: let me enjoy my private: go off.
Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.
Ah, ha! does she so?
Go to, go to; peace, peace; we must deal gently with him: let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? how is't with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he's an enemy to mankind.
Do you know what you say?
La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray God, he be not bewitched!
Carry his water to the wise woman.
Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him for more than I'll say.
How now, mistress!
O Lord!
Prithee, hold thy peace; this is not the way: do you not see you move him? let me alone with him.
No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used.
Why, how now, my bawcock! how dost thou, chuck?
Sir!
Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! 'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: hang him, foul collier!
Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.
My prayers, minx!
No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.
Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am not of your element: you shall know more hereafter.
Is't possible?
If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.
Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.
Why, we shall make him mad indeed.
The house will be the quieter.
Come, we'll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece is already in the belief that he's mad: we may carry it thus, for our pleasure and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on him: at which time we will bring the device to the bar and crown thee for a finder of madmen. But see, but see.
More matter for a May morning.
Here's the challenge, read it: warrant there's vinegar and pepper in't.
Is't so saucy?
Ay, is't, I warrant him: do but read.
Give me. 'Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.'
Good, and valiant.
[Reads]  'Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't.'
A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law.
[Reads]  'Thou comest to the lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for.'
Very brief, and to exceeding good sense--less.
[Reads]  'I will waylay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me,'--
Good.
[Reads]  'Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain.'
Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: good.
[Reads]  'Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy, ANDREW AGUECHEEK. If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give't him.
You may have very fit occasion for't: he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.
Go, Sir Andrew: scout me for him at the corner the orchard like a bum-baily: so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou drawest swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away!
Nay, let me alone for swearing.
Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behavior of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; his employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less: therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth: he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon Aguecheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, as I know his youth will aptly receive it, into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury and impetuosity. This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices.
Here he comes with your niece: give them way till he take leave, and presently after him.
I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge.
I have said too much unto a heart of stone And laid mine honour too unchary out: There's something in me that reproves my fault; But such a headstrong potent fault it is, That it but mocks reproof.
With the same 'havior that your passion bears Goes on my master's grief.
Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture; Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you; And I beseech you come again to-morrow. What shall you ask of me that I'll deny, That honour saved may upon asking give?
Nothing but this; your true love for my master.
How with mine honour may I give him that Which I have given to you?
I will acquit you.
Well, come again to-morrow: fare thee well: A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.
Gentleman, God save thee.
And you, sir.
That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard-end: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful and deadly.
You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me: my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man.
You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill and wrath can furnish man withal.
I pray you, sir, what is he?
He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier and on carpet consideration; but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his word; give't or take't.
I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valour: belike this is a man of that quirk.
Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of a very competent injury: therefore, get you on and give him his desire. Back you shall not to the house, unless you undertake that with me which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on, or strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you must, that's certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.
This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is: it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.
I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return.
Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?
I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.
I beseech you, what manner of man is he?
Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him if I can.
I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one that had rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my mettle.
Why, man, he's a very devil; I have not seen such a firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard and all, and he gives me the stuck in with such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy.
Pox on't, I'll not meddle with him.
Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder.
Plague on't, an I thought he had been valiant and so cunning in fence, I'ld have seen him damned ere I'ld have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet.
I'll make the motion: stand here, make a good show on't: this shall end without the perdition of souls. Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you. I have his horse to take up the quarrel: I have persuaded him the youth's a devil.
He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels.
[To VIOLA]  There's no remedy, sir; he will fight with you for's oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you.
[Aside]  Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.
Give ground, if you see him furious.
Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you; he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to't.
Pray God, he keep his oath!
I do assure you, 'tis against my will.
Put up your sword. If this young gentleman Have done offence, I take the fault on me: If you offend him, I for him defy you.
You, sir! why, what are you?
One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more Than you have heard him brag to you he will.
Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.
O good Sir Toby, hold! here come the officers.
I'll be with you anon.
Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.
Marry, will I, sir; and, for that I promised you, I'll be as good as my word: he will bear you easily and reins well.
This is the man; do thy office.
Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit of Count Orsino.
You do mistake me, sir.
No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well, Though now you have no sea-cap on your head. Take him away: he knows I know him well.
I must obey. This comes with seeking you: But there's no remedy; I shall answer it. What will you do, now my necessity Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me Much more for what I cannot do for you Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed; But be of comfort.
Come, sir, away.
I must entreat of you some of that money.
What money, sir? For the fair kindness you have show'd me here, And, part, being prompted by your present trouble, Out of my lean and low ability I'll lend you something: my having is not much; I'll make division of my present with you: Hold, there's half my coffer.
Will you deny me now? Is't possible that my deserts to you Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery, Lest that it make me so unsound a man As to upbraid you with those kindnesses That I have done for you.
I know of none; Nor know I you by voice or any feature: I hate ingratitude more in a man Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood.
O heavens themselves!
Come, sir, I pray you, go.
Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death, Relieved him with such sanctity of love, And to his image, which methought did promise Most venerable worth, did I devotion.
What's that to us? The time goes by: away!
But O how vile an idol proves this god Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame. In nature there's no blemish but the mind; None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind: Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil Are empty trunks o'erflourish'd by the devil.
The man grows mad: away with him! Come, come, sir.
Lead me on.
Methinks his words do from such passion fly, That he believes himself: so do not I. Prove true, imagination, O, prove true, That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you!
Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian: we'll whisper o'er a couplet or two of most sage saws.
He named Sebastian: I my brother know Yet living in my glass; even such and so In favour was my brother, and he went Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, For him I imitate: O, if it prove, Tempests are kind and salt waves fresh in love.
A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare: his dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.
A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.
'Slid, I'll after him again and beat him.
Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.
An I do not,--
Come, let's see the event.
I dare lay any money 'twill be nothing yet.
Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?
Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow: Let me be clear of thee.
Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so.
I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else: Thou know'st not me.
Vent my folly! he has heard that word of some great man and now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness and tell me what I shall vent to my lady: shall I vent to her that thou art coming?
I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me: There's money for thee: if you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment.
By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report--after fourteen years' purchase.
Now, sir, have I met you again? there's for you.
Why, there's for thee, and there, and there. Are all the people mad?
Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.
This will I tell my lady straight: I would not be in some of your coats for two pence.
Come on, sir; hold.
Nay, let him alone: I'll go another way to work with him; I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for that.
Let go thy hand.
Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on.
I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now? If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword.
What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.
Hold, Toby; on thy life I charge thee, hold!
Madam!
Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight! Be not offended, dear Cesario. Rudesby, be gone! I prithee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this uncivil and thou unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby Mayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go: Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, He started one poor heart of mine in thee.
What relish is in this? how runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream: Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
Nay, come, I prithee; would thou'ldst be ruled by me!
Madam, I will.
O, say so, and so be!
Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate: do it quickly; I'll call Sir Toby the whilst.
Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to become the function well, nor lean enough to be thought a good student; but to be said an honest man and a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say a careful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter.
Jove bless thee, master Parson.
Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for, as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, 'That that is is;' so I, being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for, what is 'that' but 'that,' and 'is' but 'is'?
To him, Sir Topas.
What, ho, I say! peace in this prison!
The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.
[Within]  Who calls there?
Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic.
Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.
Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man! talkest thou nothing but of ladies?
Well said, Master Parson.
Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged: good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad: they have laid me here in hideous darkness.
Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy: sayest thou that house is dark?
As hell, Sir Topas.
Why it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clearstores toward the south north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of obstruction?
I am not mad, Sir Topas: I say to you, this house is dark.
Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness but ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog.
I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say, there was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you are: make the trial of it in any constant question.
What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl?
That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.
What thinkest thou of his opinion?
I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.
Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well.
Sir Topas, Sir Topas!
My most exquisite Sir Topas!
Nay, I am for all waters.
Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown: he sees thee not.
To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou findest him: I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered, I would he were, for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.
[Singing] 'Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, Tell me how thy lady does.'
Fool!
'My lady is unkind, perdy.'
Fool!
'Alas, why is she so?'
Fool, I say!
'She loves another'--Who calls, ha?
Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink and paper: as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for't.
Master Malvolio?
Ay, good fool.
Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?
Fool, there was never a man so notoriously abused: I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.
But as well? then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool.
They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits.
Advise you what you say; the minister is here. Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble babble.
Sir Topas!
Maintain no words with him, good fellow. Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God be wi' you, good Sir Topas. Merry, amen. I will, sir, I will.
Fool, fool, fool, I say!
Alas, sir, be patient. What say you sir? I am shent for speaking to you.
Good fool, help me to some light and some paper: I tell thee, I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.
Well-a-day that you were, sir
By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper and light; and convey what I will set down to my lady: it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did.
I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit?
Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.
Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see his brains. I will fetch you light and paper and ink.
Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree: I prithee, be gone.
[Singing] I am gone, sir, And anon, sir, I'll be with you again, In a trice, Like to the old Vice, Your need to sustain; Who, with dagger of lath, In his rage and his wrath, Cries, ah, ha! to the devil: Like a mad lad, Pare thy nails, dad; Adieu, good man devil.
This is the air; that is the glorious sun; This pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't; And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio, then? I could not find him at the Elephant: Yet there he was; and there I found this credit, That he did range the town to seek me out. His counsel now might do me golden service; For though my soul disputes well with my sense, That this may be some error, but no madness, Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes And wrangle with my reason that persuades me To any other trust but that I am mad Or else the lady's mad; yet, if 'twere so, She could not sway her house, command her followers, Take and give back affairs and their dispatch With such a smooth, discreet and stable bearing As I perceive she does: there's something in't That is deceiveable. But here the lady comes.
Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well, Now go with me and with this holy man Into the chantry by: there, before him, And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith; That my most jealous and too doubtful soul May live at peace. He shall conceal it Whiles you are willing it shall come to note, What time we will our celebration keep According to my birth. What do you say?
I'll follow this good man, and go with you; And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.
Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine, That they may fairly note this act of mine!
Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter.
Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.
Any thing.
Do not desire to see this letter.
This is, to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog again.
Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?
Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings.
I know thee well; how dost thou, my good fellow?
Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my friends.
Just the contrary; the better for thy friends.
No, sir, the worse.
How can that be?
Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me; now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir I profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends, I am abused: so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives why then, the worse for my friends and the better for my foes.
Why, this is excellent.
By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends.
Thou shalt not be the worse for me: there's gold.
But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another.
O, you give me ill counsel.
Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it.
Well, I will be so much a sinner, to be a double-dealer: there's another.
Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old saying is, the third pays for all: the triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind; one, two, three.
You can fool no more money out of me at this throw: if you will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further.
Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir; but I would not have you to think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness: but, as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon.
Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.
That face of his I do remember well; Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear'd As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war: A bawbling vessel was he captain of, For shallow draught and bulk unprizable; With which such scathful grapple did he make With the most noble bottom of our fleet, That very envy and the tongue of loss Cried fame and honour on him. What's the matter?
Orsino, this is that Antonio That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy; And this is he that did the Tiger board, When your young nephew Titus lost his leg: Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state, In private brabble did we apprehend him.
He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side; But in conclusion put strange speech upon me: I know not what 'twas but distraction.
Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief! What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies, Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear, Hast made thine enemies?
Orsino, noble sir, Be pleased that I shake off these names you give me: Antonio never yet was thief or pirate, Though I confess, on base and ground enough, Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither: That most ingrateful boy there by your side, From the rude sea's enraged and foamy mouth Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was: His life I gave him and did thereto add My love, without retention or restraint, All his in dedication; for his sake Did I expose myself, pure for his love, Into the danger of this adverse town; Drew to defend him when he was beset: Where being apprehended, his false cunning, Not meaning to partake with me in danger, Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, And grew a twenty years removed thing While one would wink; denied me mine own purse, Which I had recommended to his use Not half an hour before.
How can this be?
When came he to this town?
To-day, my lord; and for three months before, No interim, not a minute's vacancy, Both day and night did we keep company.
Here comes the countess: now heaven walks on earth. But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are madness: Three months this youth hath tended upon me; But more of that anon. Take him aside.
What would my lord, but that he may not have, Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable? Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
Madam!
Gracious Olivia,--
What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord,--
My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.
If it be aught to the old tune, my lord, It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear As howling after music.
Still so cruel?
Still so constant, lord.
What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady, To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars My soul the faithfull'st offerings hath breathed out That e'er devotion tender'd! What shall I do?
Even what it please my lord, that shall become him.
Why should I not, had I the heart to do it, Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death, Kill what I love?--a savage jealousy That sometimes savours nobly. But hear me this: Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, And that I partly know the instrument That screws me from my true place in your favour, Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still; But this your minion, whom I know you love, And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly, Him will I tear out of that cruel eye, Where he sits crowned in his master's spite. Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief: I'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, To spite a raven's heart within a dove.
And I, most jocund, apt and willingly, To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.
Where goes Cesario?
After him I love More than I love these eyes, more than my life, More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife. If I do feign, you witnesses above Punish my life for tainting of my love!
Ay me, detested! how am I beguiled!
Who does beguile you? who does do you wrong?
Hast thou forgot thyself? is it so long? Call forth the holy father.
Come, away!
Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.
Husband!
Ay, husband: can he that deny?
Her husband, sirrah!
No, my lord, not I.
Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear That makes thee strangle thy propriety: Fear not, Cesario; take thy fortunes up; Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art As great as that thou fear'st. O, welcome, father! Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence, Here to unfold, though lately we intended To keep in darkness what occasion now Reveals before 'tis ripe, what thou dost know Hath newly pass'd between this youth and me.
A contract of eternal bond of love, Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands, Attested by the holy close of lips, Strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings; And all the ceremony of this compact Seal'd in my function, by my testimony: Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave I have travell'd but two hours.
O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case? Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow, That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow? Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.
My lord, I do protest--
O, do not swear! Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear.
For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently to Sir Toby.
What's the matter?
He has broke my head across and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too: for the love of God, your help! I had rather than forty pound I were at home.
Who has done this, Sir Andrew?
The count's gentleman, one Cesario: we took him for a coward, but he's the very devil incardinate.
My gentleman, Cesario?
'Od's lifelings, here he is! You broke my head for nothing; and that that I did, I was set on to do't by Sir Toby.
Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you: You drew your sword upon me without cause; But I bespoke you fair, and hurt you not.
If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me: I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby halting; you shall hear more: but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled you othergates than he did.
How now, gentleman! how is't with you?
That's all one: has hurt me, and there's the end on't. Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot?
O, he's drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at eight i' the morning.
Then he's a rogue, and a passy measures panyn: I hate a drunken rogue.
Away with him! Who hath made this havoc with them?
I'll help you, Sir Toby, because well be dressed together.
Will you help? an ass-head and a coxcomb and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull!
Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look'd to.
I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman: But, had it been the brother of my blood, I must have done no less with wit and safety. You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that I do perceive it hath offended you: Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows We made each other but so late ago.
One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons, A natural perspective, that is and is not!
Antonio, O my dear Antonio! How have the hours rack'd and tortured me, Since I have lost thee!
Sebastian are you?
Fear'st thou that, Antonio?
How have you made division of yourself? An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?
Most wonderful!
Do I stand there? I never had a brother; Nor can there be that deity in my nature, Of here and every where. I had a sister, Whom the blind waves and surges have devour'd. Of charity, what kin are you to me? What countryman? what name? what parentage?
Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father; Such a Sebastian was my brother too, So went he suited to his watery tomb: If spirits can assume both form and suit You come to fright us.
A spirit I am indeed; But am in that dimension grossly clad Which from the womb I did participate. Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, I should my tears let fall upon your cheek, And say 'Thrice-welcome, drowned Viola!'
My father had a mole upon his brow.
And so had mine.
And died that day when Viola from her birth Had number'd thirteen years.
O, that record is lively in my soul! He finished indeed his mortal act That day that made my sister thirteen years.
If nothing lets to make us happy both But this my masculine usurp'd attire, Do not embrace me till each circumstance Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump That I am Viola: which to confirm, I'll bring you to a captain in this town, Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help I was preserved to serve this noble count. All the occurrence of my fortune since Hath been between this lady and this lord.
[To OLIVIA]  So comes it, lady, you have been mistook: But nature to her bias drew in that. You would have been contracted to a maid; Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived, You are betroth'd both to a maid and man.
Be not amazed; right noble is his blood. If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, I shall have share in this most happy wreck. Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.
And all those sayings will I overswear; And those swearings keep as true in soul As doth that orbed continent the fire That severs day from night.
Give me thy hand; And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds.
The captain that did bring me first on shore Hath my maid's garments: he upon some action Is now in durance, at Malvolio's suit, A gentleman, and follower of my lady's.
He shall enlarge him: fetch Malvolio hither: And yet, alas, now I remember me, They say, poor gentleman, he's much distract. A most extracting frenzy of mine own From my remembrance clearly banish'd his. How does he, sirrah?
Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the staves's end as well as a man in his case may do: has here writ a letter to you; I should have given't you to-day morning, but as a madman's epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are delivered.
Open't, and read it.
Look then to be well edified when the fool delivers the madman. 'By the Lord, madam,'--
How now! art thou mad?
No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must allow Vox.
Prithee, read i' thy right wits.
So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to read thus: therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear.
Read it you, sirrah.
[Reads]  'By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it: though you have put me into darkness and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt not but to do myself much right, or you much shame. Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of and speak out of my injury. THE MADLY-USED MALVOLIO.'
Did he write this?
Ay, madam.
This savours not much of distraction.
See him deliver'd, Fabian; bring him hither. My lord so please you, these things further thought on, To think me as well a sister as a wife, One day shall crown the alliance on't, so please you, Here at my house and at my proper cost.
Madam, I am most apt to embrace your offer. Your master quits you; and for your service done him, So much against the mettle of your sex, So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, And since you call'd me master for so long, Here is my hand: you shall from this time be Your master's mistress.
A sister! you are she.
Is this the madman?
Ay, my lord, this same. How now, Malvolio!
Madam, you have done me wrong, Notorious wrong.
Have I, Malvolio? no.
Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that letter. You must not now deny it is your hand: Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase; Or say 'tis not your seal, nor your invention: You can say none of this: well, grant it then And tell me, in the modesty of honour, Why you have given me such clear lights of favour, Bade me come smiling and cross-garter'd to you, To put on yellow stockings and to frown Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people; And, acting this in an obedient hope, Why have you suffer'd me to be imprison'd, Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, And made the most notorious geck and gull That e'er invention play'd on? tell me why.
Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, Though, I confess, much like the character But out of question 'tis Maria's hand. And now I do bethink me, it was she First told me thou wast mad; then camest in smiling, And in such forms which here were presupposed Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content: This practise hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee; But when we know the grounds and authors of it, Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge Of thine own cause.
Good madam, hear me speak, And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come Taint the condition of this present hour, Which I have wonder'd at. In hope it shall not, Most freely I confess, myself and Toby Set this device against Malvolio here, Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts We had conceived against him: Maria writ The letter at Sir Toby's great importance; In recompense whereof he hath married her. How with a sportful malice it was follow'd, May rather pluck on laughter than revenge; If that the injuries be justly weigh'd That have on both sides pass'd.
Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!
Why, 'some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon them.' I was one, sir, in this interlude; one Sir Topas, sir; but that's all one. 'By the Lord, fool, I am not mad.' But do you remember? 'Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? an you smile not, he's gagged:' and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
I'll be revenged on the whole pack of you.
He hath been most notoriously abused.
Pursue him and entreat him to a peace: He hath not told us of the captain yet: When that is known and golden time convents, A solemn combination shall be made Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister, We will not part from hence. Cesario, come; For so you shall be, while you are a man; But when in other habits you are seen, Orsino's mistress and his fancy's queen.
[Sings] When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho,  & c. 'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain,  & c. But when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho,  & c. By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain,  & c. But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho,  & c. With toss-pots still had drunken heads, For the rain,  & c. A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho,  & c. But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day.
Escalus.
My lord.
Of government the properties to unfold, Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse; Since I am put to know that your own science Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice My strength can give you: then no more remains, But that to your sufficiency as your Worth is able, And let them work. The nature of our people, Our city's institutions, and the terms For common justice, you're as pregnant in As art and practise hath enriched any That we remember. There is our commission, From which we would not have you warp. Call hither, I say, bid come before us Angelo. What figure of us think you he will bear? For you must know, we have with special soul Elected him our absence to supply, Lent him our terror, dress'd him with our love, And given his deputation all the organs Of our own power: what think you of it?
If any in Vienna be of worth To undergo such ample grace and honour, It is Lord Angelo.
Look where he comes.
Always obedient to your grace's will, I come to know your pleasure.
Angelo, There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings Are not thine own so proper as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines Herself the glory of a creditor, Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech To one that can my part in him advertise; Hold therefore, Angelo:-- In our remove be thou at full ourself; Mortality and mercy in Vienna Live in thy tongue and heart: old Escalus, Though first in question, is thy secondary. Take thy commission.
Now, good my lord, Let there be some more test made of my metal, Before so noble and so great a figure Be stamp'd upon it.
No more evasion: We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours. Our haste from hence is of so quick condition That it prefers itself and leaves unquestion'd Matters of needful value. We shall write to you, As time and our concernings shall importune, How it goes with us, and do look to know What doth befall you here. So, fare you well; To the hopeful execution do I leave you Of your commissions.
Yet give leave, my lord, That we may bring you something on the way.
My haste may not admit it; Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do With any scruple; your scope is as mine own So to enforce or qualify the laws As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand: I'll privily away. I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes: Through it do well, I do not relish well Their loud applause and Aves vehement; Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does affect it. Once more, fare you well.
The heavens give safety to your purposes!
Lead forth and bring you back in happiness!
I thank you. Fare you well.
I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave To have free speech with you; and it concerns me To look into the bottom of my place: A power I have, but of what strength and nature I am not yet instructed.
'Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together, And we may soon our satisfaction have Touching that point.
I'll wait upon your honour.
If the duke with the other dukes come not to composition with the King of Hungary, why then all the dukes fall upon the king.
Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King of Hungary's!
Amen.
Thou concludest like the sanctimonious pirate, that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scraped one out of the table.
'Thou shalt not steal'?
Ay, that he razed.
Why, 'twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions: they put forth to steal. There's not a soldier of us all, that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition well that prays for peace.
I never heard any soldier dislike it.
I believe thee; for I think thou never wast where grace was said.
No? a dozen times at least.
What, in metre?
In any proportion or in any language.
I think, or in any religion.
Ay, why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy: as, for example, thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all grace.
Well, there went but a pair of shears between us.
I grant; as there may between the lists and the velvet. Thou art the list.
And thou the velvet: thou art good velvet; thou'rt a three-piled piece, I warrant thee: I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now?
I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech: I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee.
I think I have done myself wrong, have I not?
Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free.
Behold, behold. where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchased as many diseases under her roof as come to--
To what, I pray?
Judge.
To three thousand dolours a year.
Ay, and more.
A French crown more.
Thou art always figuring diseases in me; but thou art full of error; I am sound.
Nay, not as one would say, healthy; but so sound as things that are hollow: thy bones are hollow; impiety has made a feast of thee.
How now! which of your hips has the most profound sciatica?
Well, well; there's one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you all.
Who's that, I pray thee?
Marry, sir, that's Claudio, Signior Claudio.
Claudio to prison? 'tis not so.
Nay, but I know 'tis so: I saw him arrested, saw him carried away; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopped off.
But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of this?
I am too sure of it: and it is for getting Madam Julietta with child.
Believe me, this may be: he promised to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping.
Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose.
But, most of all, agreeing with the proclamation.
Away! let's go learn the truth of it.
Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk. How now! what's the news with you?
Yonder man is carried to prison.
Well; what has he done?
A woman.
But what's his offence?
Groping for trouts in a peculiar river.
What, is there a maid with child by him?
No, but there's a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you?
What proclamation, man?
All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked down.
And what shall become of those in the city?
They shall stand for seed: they had gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them.
But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down?
To the ground, mistress.
Why, here's a change indeed in the commonwealth! What shall become of me?
Come; fear you not: good counsellors lack no clients: though you change your place, you need not change your trade; I'll be your tapster still. Courage! there will be pity taken on you: you that have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you will be considered.
What's to do here, Thomas tapster? let's withdraw.
Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison; and there's Madam Juliet.
Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world? Bear me to prison, where I am committed.
I do it not in evil disposition, But from Lord Angelo by special charge.
Thus can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offence by weight The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still 'tis just.
Why, how now, Claudio! whence comes this restraint?
From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty: As surfeit is the father of much fast, So every scope by the immoderate use Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, A thirsty evil; and when we drink we die.
If could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors: and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What's thy offence, Claudio?
What but to speak of would offend again.
What, is't murder?
No.
Lechery?
Call it so.
Away, sir! you must go.
One word, good friend. Lucio, a word with you.
A hundred, if they'll do you any good. Is lechery so look'd after?
Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract I got possession of Julietta's bed: You know the lady; she is fast my wife, Save that we do the denunciation lack Of outward order: this we came not to, Only for propagation of a dower Remaining in the coffer of her friends, From whom we thought it meet to hide our love Till time had made them for us. But it chances The stealth of our most mutual entertainment With character too gross is writ on Juliet.
With child, perhaps?
Unhappily, even so. And the new deputy now for the duke-- Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, Or whether that the body public be A horse whereon the governor doth ride, Who, newly in the seat, that it may know He can command, lets it straight feel the spur; Whether the tyranny be in his place, Or in his emmence that fills it up, I stagger in:--but this new governor Awakes me all the enrolled penalties Which have, like unscour'd armour, hung by the wall So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round And none of them been worn; and, for a name, Now puts the drowsy and neglected act Freshly on me: 'tis surely for a name.
I warrant it is: and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the duke and appeal to him.
I have done so, but he's not to be found. I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service: This day my sister should the cloister enter And there receive her approbation: Acquaint her with the danger of my state: Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him: I have great hope in that; for in her youth There is a prone and speechless dialect, Such as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art When she will play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade.
I pray she may; as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I'll to her.
I thank you, good friend Lucio.
Within two hours.
Come, officer, away!
No, holy father; throw away that thought; Believe not that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee To give me secret harbour, hath a purpose More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends Of burning youth.
May your grace speak of it?
My holy sir, none better knows than you How I have ever loved the life removed And held in idle price to haunt assemblies Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery keeps. I have deliver'd to Lord Angelo, A man of stricture and firm abstinence, My absolute power and place here in Vienna, And he supposes me travell'd to Poland; For so I have strew'd it in the common ear, And so it is received. Now, pious sir, You will demand of me why I do this?
Gladly, my lord.
We have strict statutes and most biting laws. The needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds, Which for this nineteen years we have let slip; Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave, That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers, Having bound up the threatening twigs of birch, Only to stick it in their children's sight For terror, not to use, in time the rod Becomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees, Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead; And liberty plucks justice by the nose; The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart Goes all decorum.
It rested in your grace To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleased: And it in you more dreadful would have seem'd Than in Lord Angelo.
I do fear, too dreadful: Sith 'twas my fault to give the people scope, 'Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them For what I bid them do: for we bid this be done, When evil deeds have their permissive pass And not the punishment. Therefore indeed, my father, I have on Angelo imposed the office; Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home, And yet my nature never in the fight To do in slander. And to behold his sway, I will, as 'twere a brother of your order, Visit both prince and people: therefore, I prithee, Supply me with the habit and instruct me How I may formally in person bear me Like a true friar. More reasons for this action At our more leisure shall I render you; Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise; Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses That his blood flows, or that his appetite Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see, If power change purpose, what our seemers be.
And have you nuns no farther privileges?
Are not these large enough?
Yes, truly; I speak not as desiring more; But rather wishing a more strict restraint Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.
[Within]  Ho! Peace be in this place!
Who's that which calls?
It is a man's voice. Gentle Isabella, Turn you the key, and know his business of him; You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn. When you have vow'd, you must not speak with men But in the presence of the prioress: Then, if you speak, you must not show your face, Or, if you show your face, you must not speak. He calls again; I pray you, answer him.
Peace and prosperity! Who is't that calls
Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses Proclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me As bring me to the sight of Isabella, A novice of this place and the fair sister To her unhappy brother Claudio?
Why 'her unhappy brother'? let me ask, The rather for I now must make you know I am that Isabella and his sister.
Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets you: Not to be weary with you, he's in prison.
Woe me! for what?
For that which, if myself might be his judge, He should receive his punishment in thanks: He hath got his friend with child.
Sir, make me not your story.
It is true. I would not--though 'tis my familiar sin With maids to seem the lapwing and to jest, Tongue far from heart--play with all virgins so: I hold you as a thing ensky'd and sainted. By your renouncement an immortal spirit, And to be talk'd with in sincerity, As with a saint.
You do blaspheme the good in mocking me.
Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, 'tis thus: Your brother and his lover have embraced: As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time That from the seedness the bare fallow brings To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry.
Some one with child by him? My cousin Juliet?
Is she your cousin?
Adoptedly; as school-maids change their names By vain though apt affection.
She it is.
O, let him marry her.
This is the point. The duke is very strangely gone from hence; Bore many gentlemen, myself being one, In hand and hope of action: but we do learn By those that know the very nerves of state, His givings-out were of an infinite distance From his true-meant design. Upon his place, And with full line of his authority, Governs Lord Angelo; a man whose blood Is very snow-broth; one who never feels The wanton stings and motions of the sense, But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge With profits of the mind, study and fast. He--to give fear to use and liberty, Which have for long run by the hideous law, As mice by lions--hath pick'd out an act, Under whose heavy sense your brother's life Falls into forfeit: he arrests him on it; And follows close the rigour of the statute, To make him an example. All hope is gone, Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer To soften Angelo: and that's my pith of business 'Twixt you and your poor brother.
Doth he so seek his life?
Has censured him Already; and, as I hear, the provost hath A warrant for his execution.
Alas! what poor ability's in me To do him good?
Assay the power you have.
My power? Alas, I doubt--
Our doubts are traitors And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo, And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel, All their petitions are as freely theirs As they themselves would owe them.
I'll see what I can do.
But speedily.
I will about it straight; No longer staying but to give the mother Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you: Commend me to my brother: soon at night I'll send him certain word of my success.
I take my leave of you.
Good sir, adieu.
We must not make a scarecrow of the law, Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, And let it keep one shape, till custom make it Their perch and not their terror.
Ay, but yet Let us be keen, and rather cut a little, Than fall, and bruise to death. Alas, this gentleman Whom I would save, had a most noble father! Let but your honour know, Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue, That, in the working of your own affections, Had time cohered with place or place with wishing, Or that the resolute acting of your blood Could have attain'd the effect of your own purpose, Whether you had not sometime in your life Err'd in this point which now you censure him, And pull'd the law upon you.
'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus, Another thing to fall. I not deny, The jury, passing on the prisoner's life, May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two Guiltier than him they try. What's open made to justice, That justice seizes: what know the laws That thieves do pass on thieves? 'Tis very pregnant, The jewel that we find, we stoop and take't Because we see it; but what we do not see We tread upon, and never think of it. You may not so extenuate his offence For I have had such faults; but rather tell me, When I, that censure him, do so offend, Let mine own judgment pattern out my death, And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.
Be it as your wisdom will.
Where is the provost?
Here, if it like your honour.
See that Claudio Be executed by nine to-morrow morning: Bring him his confessor, let him be prepared; For that's the utmost of his pilgrimage.
[Aside]  Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all! Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall: Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none: And some condemned for a fault alone.
Come, bring them away: if these be good people in a commonweal that do nothing but use their abuses in common houses, I know no law: bring them away.
How now, sir! What's your name? and what's the matter?
If it Please your honour, I am the poor duke's constable, and my name is Elbow: I do lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here before your good honour two notorious benefactors.
Benefactors? Well; what benefactors are they? are they not malefactors?
If it? please your honour, I know not well what they are: but precise villains they are, that I am sure of; and void of all profanation in the world that good Christians ought to have.
This comes off well; here's a wise officer.
Go to: what quality are they of? Elbow is your name? why dost thou not speak, Elbow?
He cannot, sir; he's out at elbow.
What are you, sir?
He, sir! a tapster, sir; parcel-bawd; one that serves a bad woman; whose house, sir, was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs; and now she professes a hot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house too.
How know you that?
My wife, sir, whom I detest before heaven and your honour,--
How? thy wife?
Ay, sir; whom, I thank heaven, is an honest woman,--
Dost thou detest her therefore?
I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd's house, it is pity of her life, for it is a naughty house.
How dost thou know that, constable?
Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had been a woman cardinally given, might have been accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there.
By the woman's means?
Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone's means: but as she spit in his face, so she defied him.
Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so.
Prove it before these varlets here, thou honourable man; prove it.
Do you hear how he misplaces?
Sir, she came in great with child; and longing, saving your honour's reverence, for stewed prunes; sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit-dish, a dish of some three-pence; your honours have seen such dishes; they are not China dishes, but very good dishes,--
Go to, go to: no matter for the dish, sir.
No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein in the right: but to the point. As I say, this Mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and being great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes; and having but two in the dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very honestly; for, as you know, Master Froth, I could not give you three-pence again.
No, indeed.
Very well: you being then, if you be remembered, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes,--
Ay, so I did indeed.
Why, very well; I telling you then, if you be remembered, that such a one and such a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept very good diet, as I told you,--
All this is true.
Why, very well, then,--
Come, you are a tedious fool: to the purpose. What was done to Elbow's wife, that he hath cause to complain of? Come me to what was done to her.
Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet.
No, sir, nor I mean it not.
Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour's leave. And, I beseech you, look into Master Froth here, sir; a man of four-score pound a year; whose father died at Hallowmas: was't not at Hallowmas, Master Froth?
All-hallond eve.
Why, very well; I hope here be truths. He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir; 'twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where indeed you have a delight to sit, have you not?
I have so; because it is an open room and good for winter.
Why, very well, then; I hope here be truths.
This will last out a night in Russia, When nights are longest there: I'll take my leave. And leave you to the hearing of the cause; Hoping you'll find good cause to whip them all.
I think no less. Good morrow to your lordship. Now, sir, come on: what was done to Elbow's wife, once more?
Once, sir? there was nothing done to her once.
I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did to my wife.
I beseech your honour, ask me.
Well, sir; what did this gentleman to her?
I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman's face. Good Master Froth, look upon his honour; 'tis for a good purpose. Doth your honour mark his face?
Ay, sir, very well.
Nay; I beseech you, mark it well.
Well, I do so.
Doth your honour see any harm in his face?
Why, no.
I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him. Good, then; if his face be the worst thing about him, how could Master Froth do the constable's wife any harm? I would know that of your honour.
He's in the right. Constable, what say you to it?
First, an it like you, the house is a respected house; next, this is a respected fellow; and his mistress is a respected woman.
By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected person than any of us all.
Varlet, thou liest; thou liest, wicked varlet! the time has yet to come that she was ever respected with man, woman, or child.
Sir, she was respected with him before he married with her.
Which is the wiser here? Justice or Iniquity? Is this true?
O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked Hannibal! I respected with her before I was married to her! If ever I was respected with her, or she with me, let not your worship think me the poor duke's officer. Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or I'll have mine action of battery on thee.
If he took you a box o' the ear, you might have your action of slander too.
Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is't your worship's pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff?
Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou knowest what they are.
Marry, I thank your worship for it. Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what's come upon thee: thou art to continue now, thou varlet; thou art to continue.
Where were you born, friend?
Here in Vienna, sir.
Are you of fourscore pounds a year?
Yes, an't please you, sir.
So. What trade are you of, sir?
Tapster; a poor widow's tapster.
Your mistress' name?
Mistress Overdone.
Hath she had any more than one husband?
Nine, sir; Overdone by the last.
Nine! Come hither to me, Master Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with tapsters: they will draw you, Master Froth, and you will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no more of you.
I thank your worship. For mine own part, I never come into any room in a tap-house, but I am drawn in.
Well, no more of it, Master Froth: farewell. Come you hither to me, Master tapster. What's your name, Master tapster?
Pompey.
What else?
Bum, sir.
Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you; so that in the beastliest sense you are Pompey the Great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tapster, are you not? come, tell me true: it shall be the better for you.
Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that would live.
How would you live, Pompey? by being a bawd? What do you think of the trade, Pompey? is it a lawful trade?
If the law would allow it, sir.
But the law will not allow it, Pompey; nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna.
Does your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth of the city?
No, Pompey.
Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will to't then. If your worship will take order for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the bawds.
There are pretty orders beginning, I can tell you: it is but heading and hanging.
If you head and hang all that offend that way but for ten year together, you'll be glad to give out a commission for more heads: if this law hold in Vienna ten year, I'll rent the fairest house in it after three-pence a bay: if you live to see this come to pass, say Pompey told you so.
Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital of your prophecy, hark you: I advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any complaint whatsoever; no, not for dwelling where you do: if I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Caesar to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipt: so, for this time, Pompey, fare you well.
I thank your worship for your good counsel: but I shall follow it as the flesh and fortune shall better determine. Whip me? No, no; let carman whip his jade: The valiant heart is not whipt out of his trade.
Come hither to me, Master Elbow; come hither, Master constable. How long have you been in this place of constable?
Seven year and a half, sir.
I thought, by your readiness in the office, you had continued in it some time. You say, seven years together?
And a half, sir.
Alas, it hath been great pains to you. They do you wrong to put you so oft upon 't: are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it?
Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters: as they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them; I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all.
Look you bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish.
To your worship's house, sir?
To my house. Fare you well. What's o'clock, think you?
Eleven, sir.
I pray you home to dinner with me.
I humbly thank you.
It grieves me for the death of Claudio; But there's no remedy.
Lord Angelo is severe.
It is but needful: Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so; Pardon is still the nurse of second woe: But yet,--poor Claudio! There is no remedy. Come, sir.
He's hearing of a cause; he will come straight I'll tell him of you.
Pray you, do. I'll know His pleasure; may be he will relent. Alas, He hath but as offended in a dream! All sects, all ages smack of this vice; and he To die for't!
Now, what's the matter. Provost?
Is it your will Claudio shall die tomorrow?
Did not I tell thee yea? hadst thou not order? Why dost thou ask again?
Lest I might be too rash: Under your good correction, I have seen, When, after execution, judgment hath Repented o'er his doom.
Go to; let that be mine: Do you your office, or give up your place, And you shall well be spared.
I crave your honour's pardon. What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet? She's very near her hour.
Dispose of her To some more fitter place, and that with speed.
Here is the sister of the man condemn'd Desires access to you.
Hath he a sister?
Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid, And to be shortly of a sisterhood, If not already.
Well, let her be admitted. See you the fornicatress be removed: Let have needful, but not lavish, means; There shall be order for't.
God save your honour!
Stay a little while. You're welcome: what's your will?
I am a woeful suitor to your honour, Please but your honour hear me.
Well; what's your suit?
There is a vice that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice; For which I would not plead, but that I must; For which I must not plead, but that I am At war 'twixt will and will not.
Well; the matter?
I have a brother is condemn'd to die: I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother.
[Aside]  Heaven give thee moving graces!
Condemn the fault and not the actor of it? Why, every fault's condemn'd ere it be done: Mine were the very cipher of a function, To fine the faults whose fine stands in record, And let go by the actor.
O just but severe law! I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your honour!
[Aside to ISABELLA]  Give't not o'er so: to him again, entreat him; Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown: You are too cold; if you should need a pin, You could not with more tame a tongue desire it: To him, I say!
Must he needs die?
Maiden, no remedy.
Yes; I do think that you might pardon him, And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy.
I will not do't.
But can you, if you would?
Look, what I will not, that I cannot do.
But might you do't, and do the world no wrong, If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse A s mine is to him?
He's sentenced; 'tis too late.
[Aside to ISABELLA]  You are too cold.
Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word. May call it back again. Well, believe this, No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, Become them with one half so good a grace As mercy does. If he had been as you and you as he, You would have slipt like him; but he, like you, Would not have been so stern.
Pray you, be gone.
I would to heaven I had your potency, And you were Isabel! should it then be thus? No; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge, And what a prisoner.
[Aside to ISABELLA] Ay, touch him; there's the vein.
Your brother is a forfeit of the law, And you but waste your words.
Alas, alas! Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once; And He that might the vantage best have took Found out the remedy. How would you be, If He, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are? O, think on that; And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made.
Be you content, fair maid; It is the law, not I condemn your brother: Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, It should be thus with him: he must die tomorrow.
To-morrow! O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him! He's not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve heaven With less respect than we do minister To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you; Who is it that hath died for this offence? There's many have committed it.
[Aside to ISABELLA]           Ay, well said.
The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept: Those many had not dared to do that evil, If the first that did the edict infringe Had answer'd for his deed: now 'tis awake Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet, Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils, Either new, or by remissness new-conceived, And so in progress to be hatch'd and born, Are now to have no successive degrees, But, ere they live, to end.
Yet show some pity.
I show it most of all when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall; And do him right that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied; Your brother dies to-morrow; be content.
So you must be the first that gives this sentence, And he, that suffer's. O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant.
[Aside to ISABELLA]   That's well said.
Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, For every pelting, petty officer Would use his heaven for thunder; Nothing but thunder! Merciful Heaven, Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak Than the soft myrtle: but man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens, Would all themselves laugh mortal.
[Aside to ISABELLA]  O, to him, to him, wench! he will relent; He's coming; I perceive 't.
[Aside]  Pray heaven she win him!
We cannot weigh our brother with ourself: Great men may jest with saints; 'tis wit in them, But in the less foul profanation.
Thou'rt i' the right, girl; more o, that.
That in the captain's but a choleric word, Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
[Aside to ISABELLA]  Art avised o' that? more on 't.
Why do you put these sayings upon me?
Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, That skins the vice o' the top. Go to your bosom; Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know That's like my brother's fault: if it confess A natural guiltiness such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother's life.
[Aside]                  She speaks, and 'tis Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you well.
Gentle my lord, turn back.
I will bethink me: come again tomorrow.
Hark how I'll bribe you: good my lord, turn back.
How! bribe me?
Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you.
[Aside to ISABELLA]  You had marr'd all else.
Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, Or stones whose rates are either rich or poor As fancy values them; but with true prayers That shall be up at heaven and enter there Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls, From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate To nothing temporal.
Well; come to me to-morrow.
[Aside to ISABELLA]  Go to; 'tis well; away!
Heaven keep your honour safe!
[Aside]	Amen: For I am that way going to temptation, Where prayers cross.
At what hour to-morrow Shall I attend your lordship?
At any time 'fore noon.
'Save your honour!
From thee, even from thy virtue! What's this, what's this? Is this her fault or mine? The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Ha! Not she: nor doth she tempt: but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be That modesty may more betray our sense Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough, Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie! What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo? Dost thou desire her foully for those things That make her good? O, let her brother live! Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves. What, do I love her, That I desire to hear her speak again, And feast upon her eyes? What is't I dream on? O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous Is that temptation that doth goad us on To sin in loving virtue: never could the strumpet, With all her double vigour, art and nature, Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid Subdues me quite. Even till now, When men were fond, I smiled and wonder'd how.
Hail to you, provost! so I think you are.
I am the provost. What's your will, good friar?
Bound by my charity and my blest order, I come to visit the afflicted spirits Here in the prison. Do me the common right To let me see them and to make me know The nature of their crimes, that I may minister To them accordingly.
I would do more than that, if more were needful. Look, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine, Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth, Hath blister'd her report: she is with child; And he that got it, sentenced; a young man More fit to do another such offence Than die for this.
When must he die?
As I do think, to-morrow. I have provided for you: stay awhile, And you shall be conducted.
Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry?
I do; and bear the shame most patiently.
I'll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience, And try your penitence, if it be sound, Or hollowly put on.
I'll gladly learn.
Love you the man that wrong'd you?
Yes, as I love the woman that wrong'd him.
So then it seems your most offenceful act Was mutually committed?
Mutually.
Then was your sin of heavier kind than his.
I do confess it, and repent it, father.
'Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent, As that the sin hath brought you to this shame, Which sorrow is always towards ourselves, not heaven, Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it, But as we stand in fear,--
I do repent me, as it is an evil, And take the shame with joy.
There rest. Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow, And I am going with instruction to him. Grace go with you, Benedicite!
Must die to-morrow! O injurious love, That respites me a life, whose very comfort Is still a dying horror!
'Tis pity of him.
When I would pray and think, I think and pray To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words; Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue, Anchors on Isabel: Heaven in my mouth, As if I did but only chew his name; And in my heart the strong and swelling evil Of my conception. The state, whereon I studied Is like a good thing, being often read, Grown fear'd and tedious; yea, my gravity, Wherein--let no man hear me--I take pride, Could I with boot change for an idle plume, Which the air beats for vain. O place, O form, How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, Wrench awe from fools and tie the wiser souls To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood: Let's write good angel on the devil's horn: 'Tis not the devil's crest. How now! who's there?
One Isabel, a sister, desires access to you.
Teach her the way. O heavens! Why does my blood thus muster to my heart, Making both it unable for itself, And dispossessing all my other parts Of necessary fitness? So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons; Come all to help him, and so stop the air By which he should revive: and even so The general, subject to a well-wish'd king, Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love Must needs appear offence. How now, fair maid?
I am come to know your pleasure.
That you might know it, would much better please me Than to demand what 'tis. Your brother cannot live.
Even so. Heaven keep your honour!
Yet may he live awhile; and, it may be,
yet he must die.
Under your sentence?
Yea.
When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve, Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted That his soul sicken not.
Ha! fie, these filthy vices! It were as good To pardon him that hath from nature stolen A man already made, as to remit Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven's image In stamps that are forbid: 'tis all as easy Falsely to take away a life true made As to put metal in restrained means To make a false one.
'Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth.
Say you so? then I shall pose you quickly. Which had you rather, that the most just law Now took your brother's life; or, to redeem him, Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness As she that he hath stain'd?
Sir, believe this, I had rather give my body than my soul.
I talk not of your soul: our compell'd sins Stand more for number than for accompt.
How say you?
Nay, I'll not warrant that; for I can speak Against the thing I say. Answer to this: I, now the voice of the recorded law, Pronounce a sentence on your brother's life: Might there not be a charity in sin To save this brother's life?
Please you to do't, I'll take it as a peril to my soul, It is no sin at all, but charity.
Pleased you to do't at peril of your soul, Were equal poise of sin and charity.
That I do beg his life, if it be sin, Heaven let me bear it! you granting of my suit, If that be sin, I'll make it my morn prayer To have it added to the faults of mine, And nothing of your answer.
Nay, but hear me. Your sense pursues not mine: either you are ignorant, Or seem so craftily; and that's not good.
Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, But graciously to know I am no better.
Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright When it doth tax itself; as these black masks Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder Than beauty could, display'd. But mark me; To be received plain, I'll speak more gross: Your brother is to die.
So.
And his offence is so, as it appears, Accountant to the law upon that pain.
True.
Admit no other way to save his life,-- As I subscribe not that, nor any other, But in the loss of question,--that you, his sister, Finding yourself desired of such a person, Whose credit with the judge, or own great place, Could fetch your brother from the manacles Of the all-building law; and that there were No earthly mean to save him, but that either You must lay down the treasures of your body To this supposed, or else to let him suffer; What would you do?
As much for my poor brother as myself: That is, were I under the terms of death, The impression of keen whips I'ld wear as rubies, And strip myself to death, as to a bed That longing have been sick for, ere I'ld yield My body up to shame.
Then must your brother die.
And 'twere the cheaper way: Better it were a brother died at once, Than that a sister, by redeeming him, Should die for ever.
Were not you then as cruel as the sentence That you have slander'd so?
Ignomy in ransom and free pardon Are of two houses: lawful mercy Is nothing kin to foul redemption.
You seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant; And rather proved the sliding of your brother A merriment than a vice.
O, pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out, To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean: I something do excuse the thing I hate, For his advantage that I dearly love.
We are all frail.
Else let my brother die, If not a feodary, but only he Owe and succeed thy weakness.
Nay, women are frail too.
Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves; Which are as easy broke as they make forms. Women! Help Heaven! men their creation mar In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail; For we are soft as our complexions are, And credulous to false prints.
I think it well: And from this testimony of your own sex,-- Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger Than faults may shake our frames,--let me be bold; I do arrest your words. Be that you are, That is, a woman; if you be more, you're none; If you be one, as you are well express'd By all external warrants, show it now, By putting on the destined livery.
I have no tongue but one: gentle my lord, Let me entreat you speak the former language.
Plainly conceive, I love you.
My brother did love Juliet, And you tell me that he shall die for it.
He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.
I know your virtue hath a licence in't, Which seems a little fouler than it is, To pluck on others.
Believe me, on mine honour, My words express my purpose.
Ha! little honour to be much believed, And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming! I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for't: Sign me a present pardon for my brother, Or with an outstretch'd throat I'll tell the world aloud What man thou art.
Who will believe thee, Isabel? My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life, My vouch against you, and my place i' the state, Will so your accusation overweigh, That you shall stifle in your own report And smell of calumny. I have begun, And now I give my sensual race the rein: Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite; Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes, That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will; Or else he must not only die the death, But thy unkindness shall his death draw out To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow, Or, by the affection that now guides me most, I'll prove a tyrant to him. As for you, Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your true.
To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, Who would believe me? O perilous mouths, That bear in them one and the self-same tongue, Either of condemnation or approof; Bidding the law make court'sy to their will: Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite, To follow as it draws! I'll to my brother: Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood, Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour. That, had he twenty heads to tender down On twenty bloody blocks, he'ld yield them up, Before his sister should her body stoop To such abhorr'd pollution. Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die: More than our brother is our chastity. I'll tell him yet of Angelo's request, And fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest.
So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo?
The miserable have no other medicine But only hope: I've hope to live, and am prepared to die.
Be absolute for death; either death or life Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences, That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st, Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool; For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun And yet runn'st toward him still. Thou art not noble; For all the accommodations that thou bear'st Are nursed by baseness. Thou'rt by no means valiant; For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provokest; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself; For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not; For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get, And what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not certain; For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor; For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear's thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none; For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, The mere effusion of thy proper loins, Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age, But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich, Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this That bears the name of life? Yet in this life Lie hid moe thousand deaths: yet death we fear, That makes these odds all even.
I humbly thank you. To sue to live, I find I seek to die; And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.
[Within]  What, ho! Peace here; grace and good company!
Who's there? come in: the wish deserves a welcome.
Dear sir, ere long I'll visit you again.
Most holy sir, I thank you.
My business is a word or two with Claudio.
And very welcome. Look, signior, here's your sister.
Provost, a word with you.
As many as you please.
Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be concealed.
Now, sister, what's the comfort?
Why, As all comforts are; most good, most good indeed. Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven, Intends you for his swift ambassador, Where you shall be an everlasting leiger: Therefore your best appointment make with speed; To-morrow you set on.
Is there no remedy?
None, but such remedy as, to save a head, To cleave a heart in twain.
But is there any?
Yes, brother, you may live: There is a devilish mercy in the judge, If you'll implore it, that will free your life, But fetter you till death.
Perpetual durance?
Ay, just; perpetual durance, a restraint, Though all the world's vastidity you had, To a determined scope.
But in what nature?
In such a one as, you consenting to't, Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear, And leave you naked.
Let me know the point.
O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake, Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain, And six or seven winters more respect Than a perpetual honour. Darest thou die? The sense of death is most in apprehension; And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
Why give you me this shame? Think you I can a resolution fetch From flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, And hug it in mine arms.
There spake my brother; there my father's grave Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die: Thou art too noble to conserve a life In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy, Whose settled visage and deliberate word Nips youth i' the head and follies doth emmew As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil His filth within being cast, he would appear A pond as deep as hell.
The prenzie Angelo!
O, 'tis the cunning livery of hell, The damned'st body to invest and cover In prenzie guards! Dost thou think, Claudio? If I would yield him my virginity, Thou mightst be freed.
O heavens! it cannot be.
Yes, he would give't thee, from this rank offence, So to offend him still. This night's the time That I should do what I abhor to name, Or else thou diest to-morrow.
Thou shalt not do't.
O, were it but my life, I'ld throw it down for your deliverance As frankly as a pin.
Thanks, dear Isabel.
Be ready, Claudio, for your death tomorrow.
Yes. Has he affections in him, That thus can make him bite the law by the nose, When he would force it? Sure, it is no sin, Or of the deadly seven, it is the least.
Which is the least?
If it were damnable, he being so wise, Why would he for the momentary trick Be perdurably fined? O Isabel!
What says my brother?
Death is a fearful thing.
And shamed life a hateful.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world; or to be worse than worst Of those that lawless and incertain thought Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible! The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury and imprisonment Can lay on nature is a paradise To what we fear of death.
Alas, alas!
Sweet sister, let me live: What sin you do to save a brother's life, Nature dispenses with the deed so far That it becomes a virtue.
O you beast! O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch! Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice? Is't not a kind of incest, to take life From thine own sister's shame? What should I think? Heaven shield my mother play'd my father fair! For such a warped slip of wilderness Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance! Die, perish! Might but my bending down Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed: I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, No word to save thee.
Nay, hear me, Isabel.
O, fie, fie, fie! Thy sin's not accidental, but a trade. Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd: 'Tis best thou diest quickly.
O hear me, Isabella!
Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word.
What is your will?
Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and by have some speech with you: the satisfaction I would require is likewise your own benefit.
I have no superfluous leisure; my stay must be stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you awhile.
Son, I have overheard what hath passed between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an essay of her virtue to practise his judgment with the disposition of natures: she, having the truth of honour in her, hath made him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive. I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to death: do not satisfy your resolution with hopes that are fallible: tomorrow you must die; go to your knees and make ready.
Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it.
Hold you there: farewell. Provost, a word with you!
What's your will, father
That now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me awhile with the maid: my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my company.
In good time.
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good: the goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath conveyed to my understanding; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How will you do to content this substitute, and to save your brother?
I am now going to resolve him: I had rather my brother die by the law than my son should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good duke deceived in Angelo! If ever he return and I can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover his government.
That shall not be much amiss: Yet, as the matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation; he made trial of you only. Therefore fasten your ear on my advisings: to the love I have in doing good a remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your brother from the angry law; do no stain to your own gracious person; and much please the absent duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have hearing of this business.
Let me hear you speak farther. I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.
Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of Frederick the great soldier who miscarried at sea?
I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name.
She should this Angelo have married; was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed: between which time of the contract and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman: there she lost a noble and renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural; with him, the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage-dowry; with both, her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo.
Can this be so? did Angelo so leave her?
Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few, bestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not.
What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid from the world! What corruption in this life, that it will let this man live! But how out of this can she avail?
It is a rupture that you may easily heal: and the cure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it.
Show me how, good father.
This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance of her first affection: his unjust unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made it more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo; answer his requiring with a plausible obedience; agree with his demands to the point; only refer yourself to this advantage, first, that your stay with him may not be long; that the time may have all shadow and silence in it; and the place answer to convenience. This being granted in course,--and now follows all,--we shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your appointment, go in your place; if the encounter acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him to her recompense: and here, by this, is your brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame and make fit for his attempt. If you think well to carry this as you may, the doubleness of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof. What think you of it?
The image of it gives me content already; and I trust it will grow to a most prosperous perfection.
It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily to Angelo: if for this night he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will presently to Saint Luke's: there, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana. At that place call upon me; and dispatch with Angelo, that it may be quickly.
I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father.
Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs buy and sell men and women like beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and white bastard.
O heavens! what stuff is here
'Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him warm; and furred with fox and lamb-skins too, to signify, that craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing.
Come your way, sir. 'Bless you, good father friar.
And you, good brother father. What offence hath this man made you, sir?
Marry, sir, he hath offended the law: and, sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have found upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have sent to the deputy.
Fie, sirrah! a bawd, a wicked bawd! The evil that thou causest to be done, That is thy means to live. Do thou but think What 'tis to cram a maw or clothe a back From such a filthy vice: say to thyself, From their abominable and beastly touches I drink, I eat, array myself, and live. Canst thou believe thy living is a life, So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend.
Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but yet, sir, I would prove--
Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin, Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer: Correction and instruction must both work Ere this rude beast will profit.
He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him warning: the deputy cannot abide a whoremaster: if he be a whoremonger, and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand.
That we were all, as some would seem to be, From our faults, as faults from seeming, free!
His neck will come to your waist,--a cord, sir.
I spy comfort; I cry bail. Here's a gentleman and a friend of mine.
How now, noble Pompey! What, at the wheels of Caesar? art thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion's images, newly made woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutch'd? What reply, ha? What sayest thou to this tune, matter and method? Is't not drowned i' the last rain, ha? What sayest thou, Trot? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words? or how? The trick of it?
Still thus, and thus; still worse!
How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha?
Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub.
Why, 'tis good; it is the right of it; it must be so: ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd: an unshunned consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey?
Yes, faith, sir.
Why, 'tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell: go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? or how?
For being a bawd, for being a bawd.
Well, then, imprison him: if imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why, 'tis his right: bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity too; bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey: you will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house.
I hope, sir, your good worship will be my bail.
No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage: If you take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey. 'Bless you, friar.
And you.
Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha?
Come your ways, sir; come.
You will not bail me, then, sir?
Then, Pompey, nor now. What news abroad, friar? what news?
Come your ways, sir; come.
Go to kennel, Pompey; go. What news, friar, of the duke?
I know none. Can you tell me of any?
Some say he is with the Emperor of Russia; other some, he is in Rome: but where is he, think you?
I know not where; but wheresoever, I wish him well.
It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state, and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence; he puts transgression to 't.
He does well in 't.
A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him: something too crabbed that way, friar.
It is too general a vice, and severity must cure it.
Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred; it is well allied: but it is impossible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put down. They say this Angelo was not made by man and woman after this downright way of creation: is it true, think you?
How should he be made, then?
Some report a sea-maid spawned him; some, that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true: and he is a motion generative; that's infallible.
You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace.
Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of a man! Would the duke that is absent have done this? Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand: he had some feeling of the sport: he knew the service, and that instructed him to mercy.
I never heard the absent duke much detected for women; he was not inclined that way.
O, sir, you are deceived.
'Tis not possible.
Who, not the duke? yes, your beggar of fifty; and his use was to put a ducat in her clack-dish: the duke had crotchets in him. He would be drunk too; that let me inform you.
You do him wrong, surely.
Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the duke: and I believe I know the cause of his withdrawing.
What, I prithee, might be the cause?
No, pardon; 'tis a secret must be locked within the teeth and the lips: but this I can let you understand, the greater file of the subject held the duke to be wise.
Wise! why, no question but he was.
A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow.
Either this is the envy in you, folly, or mistaking: the very stream of his life and the business he hath helmed must upon a warranted need give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own bringings-forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully: or if your knowledge be more it is much darkened in your malice.
Sir, I know him, and I love him.
Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.
Come, sir, I know what I know.
I can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if ever the duke return, as our prayers are he may, let me desire you to make your answer before him. If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it: I am bound to call upon you; and, I pray you, your name?
Sir, my name is Lucio; well known to the duke.
He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you.
I fear you not.
O, you hope the duke will return no more; or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But indeed I can do you little harm; you'll forswear this again.
I'll be hanged first: thou art deceived in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die to-morrow or no?
Why should he die, sir?
Why? For filling a bottle with a tundish. I would the duke we talk of were returned again: the ungenitured agent will unpeople the province with continency; sparrows must not build in his house-eaves, because they are lecherous. The duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered; he would never bring them to light: would he were returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar: I prithee, pray for me. The duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. He's not past it yet, and I say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar, though she smelt brown bread and garlic: say that I said so. Farewell.
No might nor greatness in mortality Can censure 'scape; back-wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue? But who comes here?
Go; away with her to prison!
Good my lord, be good to me; your honour is accounted a merciful man; good my lord.
Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind! This would make mercy swear and play the tyrant.
A bawd of eleven years' continuance, may it please your honour.
My lord, this is one Lucio's information against me. Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the duke's time; he promised her marriage: his child is a year and a quarter old, come Philip and Jacob: I have kept it myself; and see how he goes about to abuse me!
That fellow is a fellow of much licence: let him be called before us. Away with her to prison! Go to; no more words. Provost, my brother Angelo will not be altered; Claudio must die to-morrow: let him be furnished with divines, and have all charitable preparation. if my brother wrought by my pity, it should not be so with him.
So please you, this friar hath been with him, and advised him for the entertainment of death.
Good even, good father.
Bliss and goodness on you!
Of whence are you?
Not of this country, though my chance is now To use it for my time: I am a brother Of gracious order, late come from the See In special business from his holiness.
What news abroad i' the world?
None, but that there is so great a fever on goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it: novelty is only in request; and it is as dangerous to be aged in any kind of course, as it is virtuous to be constant in any undertaking. There is scarce truth enough alive to make societies secure; but security enough to make fellowships accurst: much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is every day's news. I pray you, sir, of what disposition was the duke?
One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know himself.
What pleasure was he given to?
Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at any thing which professed to make him rejoice: a gentleman of all temperance. But leave we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous; and let me desire to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am made to understand that you have lent him visitation.
He professes to have received no sinister measure from his judge, but most willingly humbles himself to the determination of justice: yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life; which I by my good leisure have discredited to him, and now is he resolved to die.
You have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I have laboured for the poor gentleman to the extremest shore of my modesty: but my brother justice have I found so severe, that he hath forced me to tell him he is indeed Justice.
If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself.
I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you well.
Peace be with you! He who the sword of heaven will bear Should be as holy as severe; Pattern in himself to know, Grace to stand, and virtue go; More nor less to others paying Than by self-offences weighing. Shame to him whose cruel striking Kills for faults of his own liking! Twice treble shame on Angelo, To weed my vice and let his grow! O, what may man within him hide, Though angel on the outward side! How may likeness made in crimes, Making practise on the times, To draw with idle spiders' strings Most ponderous and substantial things! Craft against vice I must apply: With Angelo to-night shall lie His old betrothed but despised; So disguise shall, by the disguised, Pay with falsehood false exacting, And perform an old contracting. Take, O, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn: But my kisses bring again, bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.
Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away: Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often still'd my brawling discontent. I cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish You had not found me here so musical: Let me excuse me, and believe me so, My mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe.
'Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm To make bad good, and good provoke to harm. I pray, you, tell me, hath any body inquired for me here to-day? much upon this time have I promised here to meet.
You have not been inquired after: I have sat here all day.
I do constantly believe you. The time is come even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little: may be I will call upon you anon, for some advantage to yourself.
I am always bound to you.
Very well met, and well come. What is the news from this good deputy?
He hath a garden circummured with brick, Whose western side is with a vineyard back'd; And to that vineyard is a planched gate, That makes his opening with this bigger key: This other doth command a little door Which from the vineyard to the garden leads; There have I made my promise Upon the heavy middle of the night To call upon him.
But shall you on your knowledge find this way?
I have ta'en a due and wary note upon't: With whispering and most guilty diligence, In action all of precept, he did show me The way twice o'er.
Are there no other tokens Between you 'greed concerning her observance?
No, none, but only a repair i' the dark; And that I have possess'd him my most stay Can be but brief; for I have made him know I have a servant comes with me along, That stays upon me, whose persuasion is I come about my brother.
'Tis well borne up. I have not yet made known to Mariana A word of this. What, ho! within! come forth! I pray you, be acquainted with this maid; She comes to do you good.
I do desire the like.
Do you persuade yourself that I respect you?
Good friar, I know you do, and have found it.
Take, then, this your companion by the hand, Who hath a story ready for your ear. I shall attend your leisure: but make haste; The vaporous night approaches.
Will't please you walk aside?
O place and greatness! millions of false eyes Are stuck upon thee: volumes of report Run with these false and most contrarious quests Upon thy doings: thousand escapes of wit Make thee the father of their idle dreams And rack thee in their fancies. Welcome, how agreed?
She'll take the enterprise upon her, father, If you advise it.
It is not my consent, But my entreaty too.
Little have you to say When you depart from him, but, soft and low, 'Remember now my brother.'
Fear me not.
Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all. He is your husband on a pre-contract: To bring you thus together, 'tis no sin, Sith that the justice of your title to him Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go: Our corn's to reap, for yet our tithe's to sow.
Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a man's head?
If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can; but if he be a married man, he's his wife's head, and I can never cut off a woman's head.
Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our prison a common executioner, who in his office lacks a helper: if you will take it on you to assist him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your full time of imprisonment and your deliverance with an unpitied whipping, for you have been a notorious bawd.
Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time out of mind; but yet I will be content to be a lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive some instruction from my fellow partner.
What, ho! Abhorson! Where's Abhorson, there?
Do you call, sir?
Sirrah, here's a fellow will help you to-morrow in your execution. If you think it meet, compound with him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if not, use him for the present and dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd.
A bawd, sir? fie upon him! he will discredit our mystery.
Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather will turn the scale.
Pray, sir, by your good favour,--for surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you have a hanging look,--do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery?
Ay, sir; a mystery
Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and your whores, sir, being members of my occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery: but what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine.
Sir, it is a mystery.
Proof?
Every true man's apparel fits your thief: if it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough: so every true man's apparel fits your thief.
Are you agreed?
Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd; he doth oftener ask forgiveness.
You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe to-morrow four o'clock.
Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my trade; follow.
I do desire to learn, sir: and I hope, if you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find me yare; for truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you a good turn.
Call hither Barnardine and Claudio: The one has my pity; not a jot the other, Being a murderer, though he were my brother. Look, here's the warrant, Claudio, for thy death: 'Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow Thou must be made immortal. Where's Barnardine?
As fast lock'd up in sleep as guiltless labour When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones: He will not wake.
Who can do good on him? Well, go, prepare yourself. But, hark, what noise? Heaven give your spirits comfort! By and by. I hope it is some pardon or reprieve For the most gentle Claudio. Welcome father.
The best and wholesomest spirts of the night Envelope you, good Provost! Who call'd here of late?
None, since the curfew rung.
Not Isabel?
No.
They will, then, ere't be long.
What comfort is for Claudio?
There's some in hope.
It is a bitter deputy.
Not so, not so; his life is parallel'd Even with the stroke and line of his great justice: He doth with holy abstinence subdue That in himself which he spurs on his power To qualify in others: were he meal'd with that Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous; But this being so, he's just. Now are they come. This is a gentle provost: seldom when The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. How now! what noise? That spirit's possessed with haste That wounds the unsisting postern with these strokes.
There he must stay until the officer Arise to let him in: he is call'd up.
Have you no countermand for Claudio yet, But he must die to-morrow?
None, sir, none.
As near the dawning, provost, as it is, You shall hear more ere morning.
Happily You something know; yet I believe there comes No countermand; no such example have we: Besides, upon the very siege of justice Lord Angelo hath to the public ear Profess'd the contrary. This is his lordship's man.
And here comes Claudio's pardon.
[Giving a paper] My lord hath sent you this note; and by me this further charge, that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or other circumstance. Good morrow; for, as I take it, it is almost day.
I shall obey him.
[Aside]  This is his pardon, purchased by such sin For which the pardoner himself is in. Hence hath offence his quick celerity, When it is born in high authority: When vice makes mercy, mercy's so extended, That for the fault's love is the offender friended. Now, sir, what news?
I told you. Lord Angelo, belike thinking me remiss in mine office, awakens me with this unwonted putting-on; methinks strangely, for he hath not used it before.
Pray you, let's hear.
[Reads] 'Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock; and in the afternoon Barnardine: for my better satisfaction, let me have Claudio's head sent me by five. Let this be duly performed; with a thought that more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril.' What say you to this, sir?
What is that Barnardine who is to be executed in the afternoon?
A Bohemian born, but here nursed un and bred; one that is a prisoner nine years old.
How came it that the absent duke had not either delivered him to his liberty or executed him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so.
His friends still wrought reprieves for him: and, indeed, his fact, till now in the government of Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof.
It is now apparent?
Most manifest, and not denied by himself.
Hath he born himself penitently in prison? how seems he to be touched?
A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless of what's past, present, or to come; insensible of mortality, and desperately mortal.
He wants advice.
He will hear none: he hath evermore had the liberty of the prison; give him leave to escape hence, he would not: drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and showed him a seeming warrant for it: it hath not moved him at all.
More of him anon. There is written in your brow, provost, honesty and constancy: if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me; but, in the boldness of my cunning, I will lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than Angelo who hath sentenced him. To make you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but four days' respite; for the which you are to do me both a present and a dangerous courtesy.
Pray, sir, in what?
In the delaying death.
A lack, how may I do it, having the hour limited, and an express command, under penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may make my case as Claudio's, to cross this in the smallest.
By the vow of mine order I warrant you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head born to Angelo.
Angelo hath seen them both, and will discover the favour.
O, death's a great disguiser; and you may add to it. Shave the head, and tie the beard; and say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared before his death: you know the course is common. If any thing fall to you upon this, more than thanks and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will plead against it with my life.
Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath.
Were you sworn to the duke, or to the deputy?
To him, and to his substitutes.
You will think you have made no offence, if the duke avouch the justice of your dealing?
But what likelihood is in that?
Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, integrity, nor persuasion can with ease attempt you, I will go further than I meant, to pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and seal of the duke: you know the character, I doubt not; and the signet is not strange to you.
I know them both.
The contents of this is the return of the duke: you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure; where you shall find, within these two days he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not; for he this very day receives letters of strange tenor; perchance of the duke's death; perchance entering into some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, the unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into amazement how these things should be: all difficulties are but easy when they are known. Call your executioner, and off with Barnardine's head: I will give him a present shrift and advise him for a better place. Yet you are amazed; but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear dawn.
I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house of profession: one would think it were Mistress Overdone's own house, for here be many of her old customers. First, here's young Master Rash; he's in for a commodity of brown paper and old ginger, ninescore and seventeen pounds; of which he made five marks, ready money: marry, then ginger was not much in request, for the old women were all dead. Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of Master Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of peach-coloured satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we here young Dizy, and young Master Deep-vow, and Master Copperspur, and Master Starve-lackey the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that killed lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight the tilter, and brave Master Shooty the great traveller, and wild Half-can that stabbed Pots, and, I think, forty more; all great doers in our trade, and are now 'for the Lord's sake.'
Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither.
Master Barnardine! you must rise and be hanged. Master Barnardine!
What, ho, Barnardine!
[Within]  A pox o' your throats! Who makes that noise there? What are you?
Your friends, sir; the hangman. You must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death.
[Within]  Away, you rogue, away! I am sleepy.
Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too.
Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are executed, and sleep afterwards.
Go in to him, and fetch him out.
He is coming, sir, he is coming; I hear his straw rustle.
Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?
Very ready, sir.
How now, Abhorson? what's the news with you?
Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your prayers; for, look you, the warrant's come.
You rogue, I have been drinking all night; I am not fitted for 't.
O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night, and is hanged betimes in the morning, may sleep the sounder all the next day.
Look you, sir; here comes your ghostly father: do we jest now, think you?
Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you and pray with you.
Friar, not I	I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains with billets: I will not consent to die this day, that's certain.
O, sir, you must: and therefore I beseech you Look forward on the journey you shall go.
I swear I will not die to-day for any man's persuasion.
But hear you.
Not a word: if you have any thing to say to me, come to my ward; for thence will not I to-day.
Unfit to live or die: O gravel heart! After him, fellows; bring him to the block.
Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner?
A creature unprepared, unmeet for death; And to transport him in the mind he is Were damnable.
Here in the prison, father, There died this morning of a cruel fever One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, A man of Claudio's years; his beard and head Just of his colour. What if we do omit This reprobate till he were well inclined; And satisfy the deputy with the visage Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio?
O, 'tis an accident that heaven provides! Dispatch it presently; the hour draws on Prefix'd by Angelo: see this be done, And sent according to command; whiles I Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die.
This shall be done, good father, presently. But Barnardine must die this afternoon: And how shall we continue Claudio, To save me from the danger that might come If he were known alive?
Let this be done. Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and Claudio: Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting To the under generation, you shall find Your safety manifested.
I am your free dependant.
Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo. Now will I write letters to Angelo,-- The provost, he shall bear them, whose contents Shall witness to him I am near at home, And that, by great injunctions, I am bound To enter publicly: him I'll desire To meet me at the consecrated fount A league below the city; and from thence, By cold gradation and well-balanced form, We shall proceed with Angelo.
Here is the head; I'll carry it myself.
Convenient is it. Make a swift return; For I would commune with you of such things That want no ear but yours.
I'll make all speed.
[Within]  Peace, ho, be here!
The tongue of Isabel. She's come to know If yet her brother's pardon be come hither: But I will keep her ignorant of her good, To make her heavenly comforts of despair, When it is least expected.
Ho, by your leave!
Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter.
The better, given me by so holy a man. Hath yet the deputy sent my brother's pardon?
He hath released him, Isabel, from the world: His head is off and sent to Angelo.
Nay, but it is not so.
It is no other: show your wisdom, daughter, In your close patience.
O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes!
You shall not be admitted to his sight.
Unhappy Claudio! wretched Isabel! Injurious world! most damned Angelo!
This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot; Forbear it therefore; give your cause to heaven. Mark what I say, which you shall find By every syllable a faithful verity: The duke comes home to-morrow; nay, dry your eyes; One of our convent, and his confessor, Gives me this instance: already he hath carried Notice to Escalus and Angelo, Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, There to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom In that good path that I would wish it go, And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, Grace of the duke, revenges to your heart, And general honour.
I am directed by you.
This letter, then, to Friar Peter give; 'Tis that he sent me of the duke's return: Say, by this token, I desire his company At Mariana's house to-night. Her cause and yours I'll perfect him withal, and he shall bring you Before the duke, and to the head of Angelo Accuse him home and home. For my poor self, I am combined by a sacred vow And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter: Command these fretting waters from your eyes With a light heart; trust not my holy order, If I pervert your course. Who's here?
Good even. Friar, where's the provost?
Not within, sir.
O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red: thou must be patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not for my head fill my belly; one fruitful meal would set me to 't. But they say the duke will be here to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother: if the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived.
Sir, the duke is marvellous little beholding to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them.
Friar, thou knowest not the duke so well as I do: he's a better woodman than thou takest him for.
Well, you'll answer this one day. Fare ye well.
Nay, tarry; I'll go along with thee I can tell thee pretty tales of the duke.
You have told me too many of him already, sir, if they be true; if not true, none were enough.
I was once before him for getting a wench with child.
Did you such a thing?
Yes, marry, did I	but I was fain to forswear it; they would else have married me to the rotten medlar.
Sir, your company is fairer than honest. Rest you well.
By my troth, I'll go with thee to the lane's end: if bawdy talk offend you, we'll have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.
Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other.
In most uneven and distracted manner. His actions show much like to madness: pray heaven his wisdom be not tainted! And why meet him at the gates, and redeliver our authorities there
I guess not.
And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his entering, that if any crave redress of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street?
He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch of complaints, and to deliver us from devices hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand against us.
Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed betimes i' the morn; I'll call you at your house: give notice to such men of sort and suit as are to meet him.
I shall, sir. Fare you well.
Good night. This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant And dull to all proceedings. A deflower'd maid! And by an eminent body that enforced The law against it! But that her tender shame Will not proclaim against her maiden loss, How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no; For my authority bears of a credent bulk, That no particular scandal once can touch But it confounds the breather. He should have lived, Save that riotous youth, with dangerous sense, Might in the times to come have ta'en revenge, By so receiving a dishonour'd life With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had lived! A lack, when once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right: we would, and we would not.
These letters at fit time deliver me The provost knows our purpose and our plot. The matter being afoot, keep your instruction, And hold you ever to our special drift; Though sometimes you do blench from this to that, As cause doth minister. Go call at Flavius' house, And tell him where I stay: give the like notice To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus, And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate; But send me Flavius first.
It shall be speeded well.
I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast made good haste: Come, we will walk. There's other of our friends Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius.
To speak so indirectly I am loath: I would say the truth; but to accuse him so, That is your part: yet I am advised to do it; He says, to veil full purpose.
Be ruled by him.
Besides, he tells me that, if peradventure He speak against me on the adverse side, I should not think it strange; for 'tis a physic That's bitter to sweet end.
I would Friar Peter--
O, peace! the friar is come.
Come, I have found you out a stand most fit, Where you may have such vantage on the duke, He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets sounded; The generous and gravest citizens Have hent the gates, and very near upon The duke is entering: therefore, hence, away!
My very worthy cousin, fairly met! Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.
Happy return be to your royal grace!
Many and hearty thankings to you both. We have made inquiry of you; and we hear Such goodness of your justice, that our soul Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, Forerunning more requital.
You make my bonds still greater.
O, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it, To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, When it deserves, with characters of brass, A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand, And let the subject see, to make them know That outward courtesies would fain proclaim Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus, You must walk by us on our other hand; And good supporters are you.
Now is your time: speak loud and kneel before him.
Justice, O royal duke! Vail your regard Upon a wrong'd, I would fain have said, a maid! O worthy prince, dishonour not your eye By throwing it on any other object Till you have heard me in my true complaint And given me justice, justice, justice, justice!
Relate your wrongs; in what? by whom? be brief. Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice: Reveal yourself to him.
O worthy duke, You bid me seek redemption of the devil: Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak Must either punish me, not being believed, Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O hear me, here!
My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm: She hath been a suitor to me for her brother Cut off by course of justice,--
By course of justice!
And she will speak most bitterly and strange.
Most strange, but yet most truly, will I speak: That Angelo's forsworn; is it not strange? That Angelo's a murderer; is 't not strange? That Angelo is an adulterous thief, An hypocrite, a virgin-violator; Is it not strange and strange?
Nay, it is ten times strange.
It is not truer he is Angelo Than this is all as true as it is strange: Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth To the end of reckoning.
Away with her! Poor soul, She speaks this in the infirmity of sense.
O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believest There is another comfort than this world, That thou neglect me not, with that opinion That I am touch'd with madness! Make not impossible That which but seems unlike: 'tis not impossible But one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground, May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute As Angelo; even so may Angelo, In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, Be an arch-villain; believe it, royal prince: If he be less, he's nothing; but he's more, Had I more name for badness.
By mine honesty, If she be mad,--as I believe no other,-- Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense, Such a dependency of thing on thing, As e'er I heard in madness.
O gracious duke, Harp not on that, nor do not banish reason For inequality; but let your reason serve To make the truth appear where it seems hid, And hide the false seems true.
Many that are not mad Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say?
I am the sister of one Claudio, Condemn'd upon the act of fornication To lose his head; condemn'd by Angelo: I, in probation of a sisterhood, Was sent to by my brother; one Lucio As then the messenger,--
That's I, an't like your grace: I came to her from Claudio, and desired her To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo For her poor brother's pardon.
That's he indeed.
You were not bid to speak.
No, my good lord; Nor wish'd to hold my peace.
I wish you now, then; Pray you, take note of it: and when you have A business for yourself, pray heaven you then Be perfect.
I warrant your honour.
The warrants for yourself; take heed to't.
This gentleman told somewhat of my tale,--
Right.
It may be right; but you are i' the wrong To speak before your time. Proceed.
I went To this pernicious caitiff deputy,--
That's somewhat madly spoken.
Pardon it; The phrase is to the matter.
Mended again. The matter; proceed.
In brief, to set the needless process by, How I persuaded, how I pray'd, and kneel'd, How he refell'd me, and how I replied,-- For this was of much length,--the vile conclusion I now begin with grief and shame to utter: He would not, but by gift of my chaste body To his concupiscible intemperate lust, Release my brother; and, after much debatement, My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour, And I did yield to him: but the next morn betimes, His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant For my poor brother's head.
This is most likely!
O, that it were as like as it is true!
By heaven, fond wretch, thou knowist not what thou speak'st, Or else thou art suborn'd against his honour In hateful practise. First, his integrity Stands without blemish. Next, it imports no reason That with such vehemency he should pursue Faults proper to himself: if he had so offended, He would have weigh'd thy brother by himself And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you on: Confess the truth, and say by whose advice Thou camest here to complain.
And is this all? Then, O you blessed ministers above, Keep me in patience, and with ripen'd time Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up In countenance! Heaven shield your grace from woe, As I, thus wrong'd, hence unbelieved go!
I know you'ld fain be gone. An officer! To prison with her! Shall we thus permit A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall On him so near us? This needs must be a practise. Who knew of Your intent and coming hither?
One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.
A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick?
My lord, I know him; 'tis a meddling friar; I do not like the man: had he been lay, my lord For certain words he spake against your grace In your retirement, I had swinged him soundly.
Words against me? this is a good friar, belike! And to set on this wretched woman here Against our substitute! Let this friar be found.
But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar, I saw them at the prison: a saucy friar, A very scurvy fellow.
Blessed be your royal grace! I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard Your royal ear abused. First, hath this woman Most wrongfully accused your substitute, Who is as free from touch or soil with her As she from one ungot.
We did believe no less. Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of?
I know him for a man divine and holy; Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler, As he's reported by this gentleman; And, on my trust, a man that never yet Did, as he vouches, misreport your grace.
My lord, most villanously; believe it.
Well, he in time may come to clear himself; But at this instant he is sick my lord, Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, Being come to knowledge that there was complaint Intended 'gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither, To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know Is true and false; and what he with his oath And all probation will make up full clear, Whensoever he's convented. First, for this woman. To justify this worthy nobleman, So vulgarly and personally accused, Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes, Till she herself confess it.
Good friar, let's hear it. Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo? O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools! Give us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo; In this I'll be impartial; be you judge Of your own cause. Is this the witness, friar? First, let her show her face, and after speak.
Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face Until my husband bid me.
What, are you married?
No, my lord.
Are you a maid?
No, my lord.
A widow, then?
Neither, my lord.
Why, you are nothing then: neither maid, widow, nor wife?
My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife.
Silence that fellow: I would he had some cause To prattle for himself.
Well, my lord.
My lord; I do confess I ne'er was married; And I confess besides I am no maid: I have known my husband; yet my husband Knows not that ever he knew me.
He was drunk then, my lord: it can be no better.
For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too!
Well, my lord.
This is no witness for Lord Angelo.
Now I come to't my lord She that accuses him of fornication, In self-same manner doth accuse my husband, And charges him my lord, with such a time When I'll depose I had him in mine arms With all the effect of love.
Charges she more than me?
Not that I know.
No? you say your husband.
Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo, Who thinks he knows that he ne'er knew my body, But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel's.
This is a strange abuse. Let's see thy face.
My husband bids me; now I will unmask. This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, Which once thou sworest was worth the looking on; This is the hand which, with a vow'd contract, Was fast belock'd in thine; this is the body That took away the match from Isabel, And did supply thee at thy garden-house In her imagined person.
Know you this woman?
Carnally, she says.
Sirrah, no more!
Enough, my lord.
My lord, I must confess I know this woman: And five years since there was some speech of marriage Betwixt myself and her; which was broke off, Partly for that her promised proportions Came short of composition, but in chief For that her reputation was disvalued In levity: since which time of five years I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her, Upon my faith and honour.
Noble prince, As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, I am affianced this man's wife as strongly As words could make up vows: and, my good lord, But Tuesday night last gone in's garden-house He knew me as a wife. As this is true, Let me in safety raise me from my knees Or else for ever be confixed here, A marble monument!
I did but smile till now: Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice My patience here is touch'd. I do perceive These poor informal women are no more But instruments of some more mightier member That sets them on: let me have way, my lord, To find this practise out.
Ay, with my heart And punish them to your height of pleasure. Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman, Compact with her that's gone, think'st thou thy oaths, Though they would swear down each particular saint, Were testimonies against his worth and credit That's seal'd in approbation? You, Lord Escalus, Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains To find out this abuse, whence 'tis derived. There is another friar that set them on; Let him be sent for.
Would he were here, my lord! for he indeed Hath set the women on to this complaint: Your provost knows the place where he abides And he may fetch him.
Go do it instantly. And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, Do with your injuries as seems you best, In any chastisement: I for a while will leave you; But stir not you till you have well determined Upon these slanderers.
My lord, we'll do it throughly. Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person?
'Cucullus non facit monachum:' honest in nothing but in his clothes; and one that hath spoke most villanous speeches of the duke.
We shall entreat you to abide here till he come and enforce them against him: we shall find this friar a notable fellow.
As any in Vienna, on my word.
Call that same Isabel here once again; I would speak with her. Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall see how I'll handle her.
Not better than he, by her own report.
Say you?
Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately, she would sooner confess: perchance, publicly, she'll be ashamed.
I will go darkly to work with her.
That's the way; for women are light at midnight.
Come on, mistress: here's a gentlewoman denies all that you have said.
My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of; here with the provost.
In very good time: speak not you to him till we call upon you.
Mum.
Come, sir: did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo? they have confessed you did.
'Tis false.
How! know you where you are?
Respect to your great place! and let the devil Be sometime honour'd for his burning throne! Where is the duke? 'tis he should hear me speak.
The duke's in us; and we will hear you speak: Look you speak justly.
Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls, Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox? Good night to your redress! Is the duke gone? Then is your cause gone too. The duke's unjust, Thus to retort your manifest appeal, And put your trial in the villain's mouth Which here you come to accuse.
This is the rascal; this is he I spoke of.
Why, thou unreverend and unhallow'd friar, Is't not enough thou hast suborn'd these women To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth And in the witness of his proper ear, To call him villain? and then to glance from him To the duke himself, to tax him with injustice? Take him hence; to the rack with him! We'll touse you Joint by joint, but we will know his purpose. What 'unjust'!
Be not so hot; the duke Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he Dare rack his own: his subject am I not, Nor here provincial. My business in this state Made me a looker on here in Vienna, Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble Till it o'er-run the stew; laws for all faults, But faults so countenanced, that the strong statutes Stand like the forfeits in a barber's shop, As much in mock as mark.
Slander to the state! Away with him to prison!
What can you vouch against him, Signior Lucio? Is this the man that you did tell us of?
'Tis he, my lord. Come hither, goodman baldpate: do you know me?
I remember you, sir, by the sound of your voice: I met you at the prison, in the absence of the duke.
O, did you so? And do you remember what you said of the duke?
Most notedly, sir.
Do you so, sir? And was the duke a fleshmonger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be?
You must, sir, change persons with me, ere you make that my report: you, indeed, spoke so of him; and much more, much worse.
O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches?
I protest I love the duke as I love myself.
Hark, how the villain would close now, after his treasonable abuses!
Such a fellow is not to be talked withal. Away with him to prison! Where is the provost? Away with him to prison! lay bolts enough upon him: let him speak no more. Away with those giglots too, and with the other confederate companion!
[To Provost]  Stay, sir; stay awhile.
What, resists he? Help him, Lucio.
Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; foh, sir! Why, you bald-pated, lying rascal, you must be hooded, must you? Show your knave's visage, with a pox to you! show your sheep-biting face, and be hanged an hour! Will't not off?
Thou art the first knave that e'er madest a duke. First, provost, let me bail these gentle three. Sneak not away, sir; for the friar and you Must have a word anon. Lay hold on him.
This may prove worse than hanging.
[To ESCALUS]  What you have spoke I pardon: sit you down: We'll borrow place of him. Sir, by your leave. Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, That yet can do thee office? If thou hast, Rely upon it till my tale be heard, And hold no longer out.
O my dread lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, To think I can be undiscernible, When I perceive your grace, like power divine, Hath look'd upon my passes. Then, good prince, No longer session hold upon my shame, But let my trial be mine own confession: Immediate sentence then and sequent death Is all the grace I beg.
Come hither, Mariana. Say, wast thou e'er contracted to this woman?
I was, my lord.
Go take her hence, and marry her instantly. Do you the office, friar; which consummate, Return him here again. Go with him, provost.
My lord, I am more amazed at his dishonour Than at the strangeness of it.
Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince: as I was then Advertising and holy to your business, Not changing heart with habit, I am still Attorney'd at your service.
O, give me pardon, That I, your vassal, have employ'd and pain'd Your unknown sovereignty!
You are pardon'd, Isabel: And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. Your brother's death, I know, sits at your heart; And you may marvel why I obscured myself, Labouring to save his life, and would not rather Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid, It was the swift celerity of his death, Which I did think with slower foot came on, That brain'd my purpose. But, peace be with him! That life is better life, past fearing death, Than that which lives to fear: make it your comfort, So happy is your brother.
I do, my lord.
For this new-married man approaching here, Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong'd Your well defended honour, you must pardon For Mariana's sake: but as he adjudged your brother,-- Being criminal, in double violation Of sacred chastity and of promise-breach Thereon dependent, for your brother's life,-- The very mercy of the law cries out Most audible, even from his proper tongue, 'An Angelo for Claudio, death for death!' Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure; Like doth quit like, and MEASURE still FOR MEASURE. Then, Angelo, thy fault's thus manifested; Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee vantage. We do condemn thee to the very block Where Claudio stoop'd to death, and with like haste. Away with him!
O my most gracious lord, I hope you will not mock me with a husband.
It is your husband mock'd you with a husband. Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, I thought your marriage fit; else imputation, For that he knew you, might reproach your life And choke your good to come; for his possessions, Although by confiscation they are ours, We do instate and widow you withal, To buy you a better husband.
O my dear lord, I crave no other, nor no better man.
Never crave him; we are definitive.
Gentle my liege,--
You do but lose your labour. Away with him to death! Now, sir, to you.
O my good lord! Sweet Isabel, take my part; Lend me your knees, and all my life to come I'll lend you all my life to do you service.
Against all sense you do importune her: Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break, And take her hence in horror.
Isabel, Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me; Hold up your hands, say nothing; I'll speak all. They say, best men are moulded out of faults; And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad: so may my husband. O Isabel, will you not lend a knee?
He dies for Claudio's death.
Most bounteous sir, Look, if it please you, on this man condemn'd, As if my brother lived: I partly think A due sincerity govern'd his deeds, Till he did look on me: since it is so, Let him not die. My brother had but justice, In that he did the thing for which he died: For Angelo, His act did not o'ertake his bad intent, And must be buried but as an intent That perish'd by the way: thoughts are no subjects; Intents but merely thoughts.
Merely, my lord.
Your suit's unprofitable; stand up, I say. I have bethought me of another fault. Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded At an unusual hour?
It was commanded so.
Had you a special warrant for the deed?
No, my good lord; it was by private message.
For which I do discharge you of your office: Give up your keys.
Pardon me, noble lord: I thought it was a fault, but knew it not; Yet did repent me, after more advice; For testimony whereof, one in the prison, That should by private order else have died, I have reserved alive.
What's he?
His name is Barnardine.
I would thou hadst done so by Claudio. Go fetch him hither; let me look upon him.
I am sorry, one so learned and so wise As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear'd, Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood. And lack of temper'd judgment afterward.
I am sorry that such sorrow I procure: And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart That I crave death more willingly than mercy; 'Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it.
Which is that Barnardine?
This, my lord.
There was a friar told me of this man. Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul. That apprehends no further than this world, And squarest thy life according. Thou'rt condemn'd: But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all; And pray thee take this mercy to provide For better times to come. Friar, advise him; I leave him to your hand. What muffled fellow's that?
This is another prisoner that I saved. Who should have died when Claudio lost his head; As like almost to Claudio as himself.
[To ISABELLA]  If he be like your brother, for his sake Is he pardon'd; and, for your lovely sake, Give me your hand and say you will be mine. He is my brother too: but fitter time for that. By this Lord Angelo perceives he's safe; Methinks I see a quickening in his eye. Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well: Look that you love your wife; her worth worth yours. I find an apt remission in myself; And yet here's one in place I cannot pardon. You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward, One all of luxury, an ass, a madman; Wherein have I so deserved of you, That you extol me thus?
'Faith, my lord. I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may; but I had rather it would please you I might be whipt.
Whipt first, sir, and hanged after. Proclaim it, provost, round about the city. Is any woman wrong'd by this lewd fellow, As I have heard him swear himself there's one Whom he begot with child, let her appear, And he shall marry her: the nuptial finish'd, Let him be whipt and hang'd.
I beseech your highness, do not marry me to a whore. Your highness said even now, I made you a duke: good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold.
Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her. Thy slanders I forgive; and therewithal Remit thy other forfeits. Take him to prison; And see our pleasure herein executed.
Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging.
Slandering a prince deserves it. She, Claudio, that you wrong'd, look you restore. Joy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo: I have confess'd her and I know her virtue. Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness: There's more behind that is more gratulate. Thanks, provost, for thy care and secrecy: We shill employ thee in a worthier place. Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home The head of Ragozine for Claudio's: The offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, I have a motion much imports your good; Whereto if you'll a willing ear incline, What's mine is yours and what is yours is mine. So, bring us to our palace; where we'll show What's yet behind, that's meet you all should know.