
                  Enter CASSANDRA, raving

  CASSANDRA. Cry, Troyans, cry. Lend me ten thousand eyes,
    And I will fill them with prophetic tears.
  HECTOR. Peace, sister, peace.
  CASSANDRA. 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, Troyans, cry. Practise your eyes with tears.
    Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand;
    Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all.
    Cry, Troyans, cry, A Helen and a woe!  
    Cry, cry. Troy burns, or else let Helen go.                  Exit
  HECTOR. 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?
  TROILUS. 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 engag'd
    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.
  PARIS. 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 of
    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.
  PRIAM. 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.
  PARIS. 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
    Wip'd 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 unfam'd
    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.
  HECTOR. Paris and Troilus, you have both said well;
    And on the cause and question now in hand
    Have gloz'd, but superficially; not much
    Unlike young men, whom Aristode thought
    Unfit to hear moral philosophy.
    The reasons you allege do more conduce
    To the hot passion of distemp'red 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 rend'red 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'er the less,  
    My spritely brethren, I propend to you
    In resolution to keep Helen still;
    For 'tis a cause that hath no mean dependence
    Upon our joint and several dignities.
  TROILUS. 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 Troyan 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 promis'd glory
    As smiles upon the forehead of this action
    For the wide world's revenue.
  HECTOR. I am yours,
    You valiant offspring of great Priamus.
    I have a roisting challenge sent amongst  
    The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks
    Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits.
    I was advertis'd their great general slept,
    Whilst emulation in the army crept.
    This, I presume, will wake him.                            Exeunt




ACT II. SCENE 3.
The Grecian camp. Before the tent of ACHILLES

Enter THERSITES, solus

  THERSITES. 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 rail'd 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 engineer! 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-arm'd 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 Neapolitan
    bone-ache! for that, methinks, is the curse depending on those
    that war for a placket. I have said my prayers; and devil Envy  
    say 'Amen.' What ho! my Lord Achilles!

                      Enter PATROCLUS

  PATROCLUS. Who's there? Thersites! Good Thersites, come in and
    rail.
  THERSITES. If I could 'a rememb'red a gilt counterfeit, thou
    wouldst not have slipp'd 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?
  PATROCLUS. What, art thou devout? Wast thou in prayer?
  THERSITES. Ay, the heavens hear me!
  PATROCLUS. Amen.

                      Enter ACHILLES
  
  ACHILLES. Who's there?
  PATROCLUS. Thersites, my lord.
  ACHILLES. Where, where? O, 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?
  THERSITES. Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what's
    Achilles?
  PATROCLUS. Thy lord, Thersites. Then tell me, I pray thee, what's
    Thersites?
  THERSITES. Thy knower, Patroclus. Then tell me, Patroclus, what art
    thou?
  PATROCLUS. Thou must tell that knowest.
  ACHILLES. O, tell, tell,
  THERSITES. I'll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands
    Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus' knower; and
    Patroclus is a fool.
  PATROCLUS. You rascal!
  THERSITES. Peace, fool! I have not done.
  ACHILLES. He is a privileg'd man. Proceed, Thersites.
  THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites is a  
    fool; and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool.
  ACHILLES. Derive this; come.
  THERSITES. 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 this Patroclus is a fool positive.
  PATROCLUS. Why am I a fool?
  THERSITES. Make that demand of the Creator. It suffices me thou
    art. Look you, who comes here?
  ACHILLES. Come, Patroclus, I'll speak with nobody. Come in with me,
    Thersites.                                                   Exit
  THERSITES. Here is such patchery, such juggling, and such knavery.
    All the argument is a whore and a cuckold-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!               Exit

         Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, NESTOR, DIOMEDES,
                   AJAX, and CALCHAS

  AGAMEMNON. Where is Achilles?
  PATROCLUS. Within his tent; but ill-dispos'd, my lord.  
  AGAMEMNON. Let it be known to him that we are here.
    He shent our messengers; and we lay by
    Our appertainings, 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.
  PATROCLUS. I shall say so to him.                              Exit
  ULYSSES. We saw him at the opening of his tent.
    He is not sick.
  AJAX. 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 a cause. A word, my lord.
                                              [Takes AGAMEMNON aside]
  NESTOR. What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?
  ULYSSES. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.
  NESTOR.Who, Thersites?
  ULYSSES. He.
  NESTOR. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument
  ULYSSES. No; you see he is his argument that has his argument-
    Achilles.  
  NESTOR. All the better; their fraction is more our wish than their
    faction. But it was a strong composure a fool could disunite!
  ULYSSES. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie.

                    Re-enter PATROCLUS

    Here comes Patroclus.
  NESTOR. No Achilles with him.
  ULYSSES. The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy; his legs
    are legs for necessity, not for flexure.
  PATROCLUS. 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,
    An after-dinner's breath.
  AGAMEMNON. 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 ad
    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.
  PATROCLUS. I shall, and bring his answer presently.            Exit
  AGAMEMNON. In second voice we'll not be satisfied;
    We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you.
                                                         Exit ULYSSES
  AJAX. What is he more than another?
  AGAMEMNON. No more than what he thinks he is.
  AJAX. Is he so much? Do you not think he thinks himself a better
    man than I am?
  AGAMEMNON. No question.
  AJAX. Will you subscribe his thought and say he is?
  AGAMEMNON. No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise,
    no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable.
  AJAX. Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I know not
    what pride is.
  AGAMEMNON. 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.

                      Re-enter ULYSSES

  AJAX. I do hate a proud man as I do hate the engend'ring of toads.
  NESTOR. [Aside] And yet he loves himself: is't not strange?
  ULYSSES. Achilles will not to the field to-morrow.
  AGAMEMNON. What's his excuse?
  ULYSSES. 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.
  AGAMEMNON. Why will he not, upon our fair request,
    Untent his person and share the air with us?
  ULYSSES. 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. Imagin'd worth
    Holds in his blood such swol'n 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.'
  AGAMEMNON. 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.
  ULYSSES. 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 doth 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
    Shall not so stale his palm, nobly acquir'd,
    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.'
  NESTOR. [Aside] O, this is well! He rubs the vein of him.
  DIOMEDES. [Aside] And how his silence drinks up this applause!
  AJAX. If I go to him, with my armed fist I'll pash him o'er the
    face.
  AGAMEMNON. O, no, you shall not go.
  AJAX. An 'a be proud with me I'll pheeze his pride.
    Let me go to him.
  ULYSSES. Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel.
  AJAX. A paltry, insolent fellow!
  NESTOR. [Aside] How he describes himself!
  AJAX. Can he not be sociable?
  ULYSSES. [Aside] The raven chides blackness.
  AJAX. I'll let his humours blood.
  AGAMEMNON. [Aside] He will be the physician that should be the  
    patient.
  AJAX. An all men were a my mind-
  ULYSSES. [Aside] Wit would be out of fashion.
  AJAX. 'A should not bear it so, 'a should eat's words first.
    Shall pride carry it?
  NESTOR. [Aside] An 'twould, you'd carry half.
  ULYSSES. [Aside] 'A would have ten shares.
  AJAX. I will knead him, I'll make him supple.
  NESTOR. [Aside] He's not yet through warm. Force him with praises;
    pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry.
  ULYSSES. [To AGAMEMNON] My lord, you feed too much on this dislike.
  NESTOR. Our noble general, do not do so.
  DIOMEDES. You must prepare to fight without Achilles.
  ULYSSES. Why 'tis this naming of him does him harm.
    Here is a man-but 'tis before his face;
    I will be silent.
  NESTOR. Wherefore should you so?
    He is not emulous, as Achilles is.
  ULYSSES. Know the whole world, he is as valiant.
  AJAX. A whoreson dog, that shall palter with us thus!  
    Would he were a Troyan!
  NESTOR. What a vice were it in Ajax now-
  ULYSSES. If he were proud.
  DIOMEDES. Or covetous of praise.
  ULYSSES. Ay, or surly borne.
  DIOMEDES. Or strange, or self-affected.
  ULYSSES. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure
    Praise him that gat thee, she that gave thee suck;
    Fam'd be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature
    Thrice-fam'd beyond, beyond all erudition;
    But he that disciplin'd thine 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;
    But 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.
  AJAX. Shall I call you father?
  NESTOR. Ay, my good son.
  DIOMEDES. Be rul'd by him, Lord Ajax.
  ULYSSES. 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.
  AGAMEMNON. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep.
    Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.
    Exeunt




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ACT III. SCENE 1.
Troy. PRIAM'S palace

Music sounds within. Enter PANDARUS and a SERVANT

  PANDARUS. Friend, you-pray you, a word. Do you not follow the young
    Lord Paris?
  SERVANT. Ay, sir, when he goes before me.
  PANDARUS. You depend upon him, I mean?
  SERVANT. Sir, I do depend upon the lord.
  PANDARUS. You depend upon a notable gentleman; I must needs praise
    him.
  SERVANT. The lord be praised!
  PANDARUS. You know me, do you not?
  SERVANT. Faith, sir, superficially.
  PANDARUS. Friend, know me better: I am the Lord Pandarus.
  SERVANT. I hope I shall know your honour better.
  PANDARUS. I do desire it.
  SERVANT. You are in the state of grace.
  PANDARUS. Grace! Not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles.
    What music is this?
  SERVANT. I do but partly know, sir; it is music in parts.  
  PANDARUS. Know you the musicians?
  SERVANT. Wholly, sir.
  PANDARUS. Who play they to?
  SERVANT. To the hearers, sir.
  PANDARUS. At whose pleasure, friend?
  SERVANT. At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.
  PANDARUS. Command, I mean, friend.
  SERVANT. Who shall I command, sir?
  PANDARUS. Friend, we understand not one another: I am to courtly,
    and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play?
  SERVANT. That's to't, indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at the request of
    Paris my lord, who is there in person; with him the mortal Venus,
    the heart-blood of beauty, love's invisible soul-
  PANDARUS. Who, my cousin, Cressida?
  SERVANT. No, sir, Helen. Could not you find out that by her
    attributes?
  PANDARUS. 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.  
  SERVANT. Sodden business! There's a stew'd phrase indeed!

              Enter PARIS and HELEN, attended

  PANDARUS. 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.
  HELEN. Dear lord, you are full of fair words.
  PANDARUS. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince,
    here is good broken music.
  PARIS. 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.
  HELEN. He is full of harmony.
  PANDARUS. Truly, lady, no.
  HELEN. O, sir-
  PANDARUS. Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude.
  PARIS. Well said, my lord. Well, you say so in fits.
  PANDARUS. I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you
    vouchsafe me a word?  
  HELEN. Nay, this shall not hedge us out. We'll hear you sing,
    certainly-
  PANDARUS. Well sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry,
    thus, my lord: my dear lord and most esteemed friend, your
    brother Troilus-
  HELEN. My Lord Pandarus, honey-sweet lord-
  PANDARUS. Go to, sweet queen, go to-commends himself most
    affectionately to you-
  HELEN. You shall not bob us out of our melody. If you do, our
    melancholy upon your head!
  PANDARUS. Sweet queen, sweet queen; that's a sweet queen, i' faith.
  HELEN. And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence.
  PANDARUS. Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall it 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.
  HELEN. My Lord Pandarus!
  PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen, my very very sweet queen?
  PARIS. What exploit's in hand? Where sups he to-night?
  HELEN. Nay, but, my lord-  
  PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen?-My cousin will fall out with
    you.
  HELEN. You must not know where he sups.
  PARIS. I'll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida.
  PANDARUS. No, no, no such matter; you are wide. Come, your disposer
    is sick.
  PARIS. Well, I'll make's excuse.
  PANDARUS. Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida?
    No, your poor disposer's sick.
  PARIS. I spy.
  PANDARUS. You spy! What do you spy?-Come, give me an instrument.
    Now, sweet queen.
  HELEN. Why, this is kindly done.
  PANDARUS. My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet
    queen.
  HELEN. She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Lord Paris.
  PANDARUS. He! No, she'll none of him; they two are twain.
  HELEN. Falling in, after falling out, may make them three.
  PANDARUS. Come, come. I'll hear no more of this; I'll sing you a
    song now.  
  HELEN. Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a
    fine forehead.
  PANDARUS. Ay, you may, you may.
  HELEN. Let thy song be love. This love will undo us all. O Cupid,
    Cupid, Cupid!
  PANDARUS. Love! Ay, that it shall, i' faith.
  PARIS. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.
  PANDARUS. In good troth, it begins so.                      [Sings]

    Love, love, nothing but love, still love, still more!
           For, oh, love's bow
           Shoots buck and doe;
           The shaft confounds
           Not that it wounds,
    But tickles still the sore.
    These lovers cry, O ho, they die!
       Yet that which seems the wound to kill
    Doth turn O ho! to ha! ha! he!
       So dying love lives still.
    O ho! a while, but ha! ha! ha!  
    O ho! groans out for ha! ha! ha!-hey ho!

  HELEN. In love, i' faith, to the very tip of the nose.
  PARIS. 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.
  PANDARUS. 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 today?
  PARIS. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry
    of Troy. I would fain have arm'd to-day, but my Nell would not
    have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not?
  HELEN. He hangs the lip at something. You know all, Lord Pandarus.
  PANDARUS. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they spend
    to-day. You'll remember your brother's excuse?
  PARIS. To a hair.
  PANDARUS. Farewell, sweet queen.
  HELEN. Commend me to your niece.
  PANDARUS. I will, sweet queen.                Exit. Sound a retreat
  PARIS. They're come from the 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.
  HELEN. '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.
  PARIS. Sweet, above thought I love thee.                     Exeunt




ACT III. SCENE 2.
Troy. PANDARUS' orchard

Enter PANDARUS and TROILUS' BOY, meeting

  PANDARUS. How now! Where's thy master? At my cousin Cressida's?
  BOY. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him thither.

                      Enter TROILUS

  PANDARUS. O, here he comes. How now, how now!
  TROILUS. Sirrah, walk off.                                 Exit Boy
  PANDARUS. Have you seen my cousin?
  TROILUS. 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 these fields
    Where I may wallow in the lily beds
    Propos'd for the deserver! O gentle Pandar,
    From Cupid's shoulder pluck his painted wings,
    And fly with me to Cressid!
  PANDARUS. Walk here i' th' orchard, I'll bring her straight.  
      Exit
  TROILUS. I am giddy; expectation whirls me round.
    Th' imaginary relish is so sweet
    That it enchants my sense; what will it be
    When that the wat'ry palate tastes indeed
    Love's thrice-repured nectar? Death, I fear me;
    Swooning destruction; or some joy too fine,
    Too subtle-potent, tun'd 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.

                     Re-enter PANDARUS

  PANDARUS. 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 fray'd with a sprite. I'll fetch her. It is the
    prettiest villain; she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta'en  
    sparrow.                                                     Exit
  TROILUS. 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 encount'ring
    The eye of majesty.

              Re-enter PANDARUS With CRESSIDA

  PANDARUS. 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 watch'd ere you be made
    tame, must you? Come your ways, come your ways; an you draw
    backward, we'll put you i' th' 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'd 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' th' river. Go to, go  
    to.
  TROILUS. You have bereft me of all words, lady.
  PANDARUS. Words pay no debts, give her deeds; but she'll bereave
    you o' th' 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.
      Exit
  CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord?
  TROILUS. O Cressid, how often have I wish'd me thus!
  CRESSIDA. Wish'd, my lord! The gods grant-O my lord!
  TROILUS. What should they grant? What makes this pretty abruption?
    What too curious dreg espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our
    love?
  CRESSIDA. More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes.
  TROILUS. Fears make devils of cherubims; they never see truly.
  CRESSIDA. Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer footing
    than blind reason stumbling without fear. To fear the worst oft
    cures the worse.
  TROILUS. O, let my lady apprehend no fear! In all Cupid's pageant
    there is presented no monster.  
  CRESSIDA. Nor nothing monstrous neither?
  TROILUS. Nothing, but our undertakings when we vow to weep seas,
    live in fire, cat 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 confin'd; that the desire
    is boundless, and the act a slave to limit.
  CRESSIDA. 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?
  TROILUS. 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.  
  CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord?

                    Re-enter PANDARUS

  PANDARUS. What, blushing still? Have you not done talking yet?
  CRESSIDA. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate to you.
  PANDARUS. 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.
  TROILUS. You know now your hostages: your uncle's word and my firm
    faith.
  PANDARUS. 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.
  CRESSIDA. Boldness comes to me now and brings me heart.
    Prince Troilus, I have lov'd you night and day
    For many weary months.
  TROILUS. Why was my Cressid then so hard to win?
  CRESSIDA. 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 till now not 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 lov'd 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.
  TROILUS. And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence.
  PANDARUS. Pretty, i' faith.
  CRESSIDA. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me;
    'Twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss.
    I am asham'd. O heavens! what have I done?  
    For this time will I take my leave, my lord.
  TROILUS. Your leave, sweet Cressid!
  PANDARUS. Leave! An you take leave till to-morrow morning-
  CRESSIDA. Pray you, content you.
  TROILUS. What offends you, lady?
  CRESSIDA. Sir, mine own company.
  TROILUS. You cannot shun yourself.
  CRESSIDA. 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.
  TROILUS. Well know they what they speak that speak so wisely.
  CRESSIDA. 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.
  TROILUS. O that I thought it could be in a woman-
    As, if it can, I will presume in you-  
    To feed for aye her lamp 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 winnowed 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.
  CRESSIDA. In that I'll war with you.
  TROILUS. 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 truth by Troilus, when their rhymes,
    Full of protest, of oath, and big compare,
    Want similes, truth tir'd 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 th' 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.
  CRESSIDA. 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 th' have said 'As false
    As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth,
    As fox to lamb, or 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.'
  PANDARUS. 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 call'd 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.'
  TROILUS. Amen.
  CRESSIDA. Amen.
  PANDARUS. Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber
    and 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, pander, to provide this gear!                Exeunt




ACT III. SCENE 3.
The Greek camp

Flourish. Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, DIOMEDES, NESTOR, AJAX, MENELAUS,
and CALCHAS

  CALCHAS. Now, Princes, for the service I have done,
    Th' 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 come,
    I have abandon'd Troy, left my possession,
    Incurr'd a traitor's name, expos'd myself
    From certain and possess'd conveniences
    To doubtful fortunes, sequest'ring 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 regist'red in promise,
    Which you say live to come in my behalf.  
  AGAMEMNON. What wouldst thou of us, Troyan? Make demand.
  CALCHAS. You have a Troyan prisoner call'd Antenor,
    Yesterday took; Troy holds him very dear.
    Oft have you-often have you thanks therefore-
    Desir'd 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.
  AGAMEMNON. 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.  
  DIOMEDES. This shall I undertake; and 'tis a burden
    Which I am proud to bear.
                                          Exeunt DIOMEDES and CALCHAS

           ACHILLES and PATROCLUS stand in their tent

  ULYSSES. Achilles stands i' th' entrance of his tent.
    Please it our general 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, why turn'd on him?
    If so, I have derision med'cinable
    To use between your strangeness and his pride,
    Which his own will shall have desire to drink.
    It may do good. Pride hath no other glass
    To show itself but pride; for supple knees
    Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees.
  AGAMEMNON. 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.
  ACHILLES. What comes the general to speak with me?
    You know my mind. I'll fight no more 'gainst Troy.
  AGAMEMNON. What says Achilles? Would he aught with us?
  NESTOR. Would you, my lord, aught with the general?
  ACHILLES. No.
  NESTOR. Nothing, my lord.
  AGAMEMNON. The better.
                                          Exeunt AGAMEMNON and NESTOR
  ACHILLES. Good day, good day.
  MENELAUS. How do you? How do you?                              Exit
  ACHILLES. What, does the cuckold scorn me?
  AJAX. How now, Patroclus?
  ACHILLES. Good morrow, Ajax.
  AJAX. Ha?
  ACHILLES. Good morrow.
  AJAX. Ay, and good next day too.                               Exit
  ACHILLES. What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles?  
  PATROCLUS. They pass by strangely. They were us'd to bend,
    To send their smiles before them to Achilles,
    To come as humbly as they us'd to creep
    To holy altars.
  ACHILLES. What, am I poor of late?
    'Tis certain, greatness, once fall'n out with fortune,
    Must fall out with men too. What the declin'd 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, and 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,
    Doth 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!
  ULYSSES. Now, great Thetis' son!
  ACHILLES. What are you reading?
  ULYSSES. 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.
  ACHILLES. 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.
  ULYSSES. 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 anything,
    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 formed in th' applause
    Where th' are extended; who, like an arch, reverb'rate
    The voice again; or, like a gate of steel
    Fronting the sun, receives and renders back
    His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this;
    And apprehended here immediately
    Th' 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 shrinking.
  ACHILLES. 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?
  ULYSSES. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
    Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,  
    A great-siz'd 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 mock'ry. 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 ent'red 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 th' hand;  
    And with his arms out-stretch'd, as he would fly,
    Grasps in the corner. The 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 stirs not. 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.
  ACHILLES. Of this my privacy
    I have strong reasons.
  ULYSSES. 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.
  ACHILLES. Ha! known!
  ULYSSES. Is that a wonder?
    The providence that's in a watchful state
    Knows almost every grain of Plutus' gold;
    Finds bottom in th' uncomprehensive deeps;
    Keeps place with thought, and almost, like the gods,
    Do 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 island 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.          Exit
  PATROCLUS. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov'd you.
    A woman impudent and mannish grown
    Is not more loath'd 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 airy air.
  ACHILLES. Shall Ajax fight with Hector?
  PATROCLUS. Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by him.
  ACHILLES. I see my reputation is at stake;
    My fame is shrewdly gor'd.
  PATROCLUS. 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 they sit idly in the sun.
  ACHILLES. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus.
    I'll send the fool to Ajax, and desire him
    T' invite the Troyan 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.  

                     Enter THERSITES

    A labour sav'd!
  THERSITES. A wonder!
  ACHILLES. What?
  THERSITES. Ajax goes up and down the field asking for himself.
  ACHILLES. How so?
  THERSITES. He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector, and is so
    prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he raves in
    saying nothing.
  ACHILLES. How can that be?
  THERSITES. Why, 'a stalks up and down like a peacock-a stride and a
    stand; ruminaies 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 for ever; for if Hector break not his neck i' th' combat,
    he'll break't himself in vainglory. 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, languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion! A man may
    wear it on both sides, like leather jerkin.
  ACHILLES. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites.
  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 his demands
    to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax.
  ACHILLES. To him, Patroclus. Tell him I humbly desire the valiant
    Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarm'd to my
    tent; and to procure safe conduct for his person of the
    magnanimous and most illustrious six-or-seven-times-honour'd
    Captain General of the Grecian army, et cetera, Agamemnon. Do
    this.
  PATROCLUS. Jove bless great Ajax!
  THERSITES. Hum!
  PATROCLUS. I come from the worthy Achilles-
  THERSITES. Ha!
  PATROCLUS. Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his  
    tent-
  THERSITES. Hum!
  PATROCLUS. And to procure safe conduct from Agamemnon.
  THERSITES. Agamemnon!
  PATROCLUS. Ay, my lord.
  THERSITES. Ha!
  PATROCLUS. What you say to't?
  THERSITES. God buy you, with all my heart.
  PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir.
  THERSITES. If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven of the clock it
    will go one way or other. Howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he
    has me.
  PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir.
  THERSITES. Fare ye well, with all my heart.
  ACHILLES. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he?
  THERSITES. No, but he's out a tune thus. What music will be in him
    when Hector has knock'd out his brains I know not; but, I am sure,
    none; unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings
    on.
  ACHILLES. Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.  
  THERSITES. Let me carry another to his horse; for that's the more
    capable creature.
  ACHILLES. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd;
    And I myself see not the bottom of it.
                                        Exeunt ACHILLES and PATROCLUS
  THERSITES. 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.                                    Exit




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ACT IV. SCENE 1.
Troy. A street

Enter, at one side, AENEAS, and servant with a torch; at another,
PARIS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, DIOMEDES the Grecian, and others, with torches

  PARIS. See, ho! Who is that there?
  DEIPHOBUS. It is the Lord Aeneas.
  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.
  DIOMEDES. That's my mind too. Good morrow, Lord Aeneas.
  PARIS. 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.
  AENEAS. 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.  
  DIOMEDES. 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.
  AENEAS. 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.
  DIOMEDES. We sympathise. 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!
  AENEAS. We know each other well.
  DIOMEDES.We do; and long to know each other worse.
  PARIS. This is the most despiteful'st gentle greeting
    The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of.  
    What business, lord, so early?
  AENEAS. I was sent for to the King; but why, I know not.
  PARIS. 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 believe-
    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.
  AENEAS. That I assure you:
    Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece
    Than Cressid borne from Troy.
  PARIS. There is no help;
    The bitter disposition of the time
    Will have it so. On, lord; we'll follow you.
  AENEAS. Good morrow, all.                         Exit with servant
  PARIS. And tell me, noble Diomed-faith, tell me true,  
    Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship-
    Who in your thoughts deserves fair Helen best,
    Myself or Menelaus?
  DIOMEDES. 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 pleas'd to breed out your inheritors.
    Both merits pois'd, each weighs nor less nor more;
    But he as he, the heavier for a whore.
  PARIS. You are too bitter to your country-woman.
  DIOMEDES. 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 Troyan hath been slain; since she could speak,
    She hath not given so many good words breath
    As for her Greeks and Troyans suff'red death.
  PARIS. 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 not commend what we intend to sell.
    Here lies our way.                                         Exeunt




ACT IV. SCENE 2.
Troy. The court of PANDARUS' house

Enter TROILUS and CRESSIDA

  TROILUS. Dear, trouble not yourself; the morn is cold.
  CRESSIDA. Then, sweet my lord, I'll call mine uncle down;
    He shall unbolt the gates.
  TROILUS. 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!
  CRESSIDA. Good morrow, then.
  TROILUS. I prithee now, to bed.
  CRESSIDA. Are you aweary of me?
  TROILUS. O Cressida! but that the busy day,
    Wak'd by the lark, hath rous'd the ribald crows,
    And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer,
    I would not from thee.
  CRESSIDA. Night hath been too brief.
  TROILUS. 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.
  CRESSIDA. 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.
  PANDARUS. [Within] What's all the doors open here?
  TROILUS. It is your uncle.

                     Enter PANDARUS

  CRESSIDA. A pestilence on him! Now will he be mocking.
    I shall have such a life!
  PANDARUS. How now, how now! How go maidenheads?
    Here, you maid! Where's my cousin Cressid?
  CRESSIDA. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle.
    You bring me to do, and then you flout me too.
  PANDARUS. To do what? to do what? Let her say what.
    What have I brought you to do?
  CRESSIDA. Come, come, beshrew your heart! You'll ne'er be good,  
    Nor suffer others.
  PANDARUS. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! a poor capocchia! hast not
    slept to-night? Would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep? A
    bugbear take him!
  CRESSIDA. Did not I tell you? Would he were knock'd i' th' head!
                                                         [One knocks]
    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.
  TROILUS. Ha! ha!
  CRESSIDA. Come, you are deceiv'd, I think of no such thing.
   [Knock]
    How earnestly they knock! Pray you come in:
    I would not for half Troy have you seen here.
                                          Exeunt TROILUS and CRESSIDA
  PANDARUS. Who's there? What's the matter? Will you beat down the
    door? How now? What's the matter?

                          Enter AENEAS  
  AENEAS. Good morrow, lord, good morrow.
  PANDARUS. Who's there? My lord Aeneas? By my troth,
    I knew you not. What news with you so early?
  AENEAS. Is not Prince Troilus here?
  PANDARUS. Here! What should he do here?
  AENEAS. Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him.
    It doth import him much to speak with me.
  PANDARUS. Is he here, say you? It's more than I know, I'll be
    sworn. For my own part, I came in late. What should he do here?
  AENEAS. Who!-nay, then. Come, come, you'll do him wrong ere you are
    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.

                       Re-enter TROILUS

  TROILUS. How now! What's the matter?
  AENEAS. 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.
  TROILUS. Is it so concluded?
  AENEAS. By Priam, and the general state of Troy.
    They are at hand and ready to effect it.
  TROILUS. How my achievements mock me!
    I will go meet them; and, my lord Aeneas,
    We met by chance; you did not find me here.
  AENEAS. Good, good, my lord, the secrets of neighbour Pandar
    Have not more gift in taciturnity.
                                            Exeunt TROILUS and AENEAS
  PANDARUS. 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.

                     Re-enter CRESSIDA

  CRESSIDA. How now! What's the matter? Who was here?  
  PANDARUS. Ah, ah!
  CRESSIDA. Why sigh you so profoundly? Where's my lord? Gone? Tell
    me, sweet uncle, what's the matter?
  PANDARUS. Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above!
  CRESSIDA. O the gods! What's the matter?
  PANDARUS. Pray thee, get thee in. Would thou hadst ne'er been born!
    I knew thou wouldst be his death! O, poor gentleman! A plague
    upon Antenor!
  CRESSIDA. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I beseech you,
    what's the matter?
  PANDARUS. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art
    chang'd for Antenor; thou must to thy father, and be gone from
    Troilus. 'Twill be his death; 'twill be his bane; he cannot bear
    it.
  CRESSIDA. O you immortal gods! I will not go.
  PANDARUS. Thou must.
  CRESSIDA. 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-
  PANDARUS. Do, do.
  CRESSIDA. 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.
    Exeunt




ACT IV. SCENE 3.
Troy. A street before PANDARUS' house

Enter PARIS, TROILUS, AENEAS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, and DIOMEDES

  PARIS. It is great morning; and the hour prefix'd
    For 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.
  TROILUS. 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 off'ring to it his own heart.                Exit
  PARIS. I know what 'tis to love,
    And would, as I shall pity, I could help!
    Please you walk in, my lords.                              Exeunt




ACT IV. SCENE 4.
Troy. PANDARUS' house

Enter PANDARUS and CRESSIDA

  PANDARUS. Be moderate, be moderate.
  CRESSIDA. 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 affections
    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.

                    Enter TROILUS

  PANDARUS. Here, here, here he comes. Ah, sweet ducks!
  CRESSIDA. O Troilus! Troilus! [Embracing him]
  PANDARUS. 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!
  TROILUS. 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.
  CRESSIDA. Have the gods envy?
  PANDARUS. Ay, ay, ay; 'tis too plain a case.
  CRESSIDA. And is it true that I must go from Troy?
  TROILUS. A hateful truth.
  CRESSIDA. What, and from Troilus too?
  TROILUS. From Troy and Troilus.
  CRESSIDA. Is't possible?
  TROILUS. 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 loose adieu,
    And scants us with a single famish'd kiss,
    Distasted with the salt of broken tears.
  AENEAS. [Within] My lord, is the lady ready?
  TROILUS. 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.
  PANDARUS. Where are my tears? Rain, to lay this wind, or my heart  
    will be blown up by th' root?                                Exit
  CRESSIDA. I must then to the Grecians?
  TROILUS. No remedy.
  CRESSIDA. A woeful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks!
    When shall we see again?
  TROILUS. Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart-
  CRESSIDA. I true! how now! What wicked deem is this?
  TROILUS. 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.
  CRESSIDA. O, you shall be expos'd, my lord, to dangers
    As infinite as imminent! But I'll be true.
  TROILUS. And I'll grow friend with danger. Wear this sleeve.
  CRESSIDA. And you this glove. When shall I see you?
  TROILUS. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels  
    To give thee nightly visitation.
    But yet be true.
  CRESSIDA. O heavens! 'Be true' again!
  TROILUS. Hear why I speak it, love.
    The Grecian youths are full of quality;
    They're loving, well compos'd with gifts of nature,
    And flowing o'er with arts and exercise.
    How novelties may move, and parts with person,
    Alas, a kind of godly jealousy,
    Which I beseech you call a virtuous sin,
    Makes me afeard.
  CRESSIDA. O heavens! you love me not.
  TROILUS. 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.
  CRESSIDA. Do you think I will?
  TROILUS. 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.
  AENEAS. [Within] Nay, good my lord!
  TROILUS. Come, kiss; and let us part.
  PARIS. [Within] Brother Troilus!
  TROILUS. Good brother, come you hither;
    And bring Aeneas and the Grecian with you.
  CRESSIDA. My lord, will you be true?
  TROILUS. 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.

      Enter AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, DEIPHOBUS, and DIOMEDES  

    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 Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe
    As Priam is in Ilion.
  DIOMEDES. 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.
  TROILUS. Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously
    To shame the zeal of my petition to the
    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.
  DIOMEDES. O, be not mov'd, Prince Troilus.
    Let me be privileg'd 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 priz'd. But that you say 'Be't so,'
    I speak it in my spirit and honour, 'No.'
  TROILUS. 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.
                               Exeunt TROILUS, CRESSIDA, and DIOMEDES
                                                      [Sound trumpet]
  PARIS. Hark! Hector's trumpet.
  AENEAS. How have we spent this morning!  
    The Prince must think me tardy and remiss,
    That swore to ride before him to the field.
  PARIS. 'Tis Troilus' fault. Come, come to field with him.
  DEIPHOBUS. Let us make ready straight.
  AENEAS. 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.                     Exeunt




ACT IV. SCENE 5.
The Grecian camp. Lists set out

Enter AJAX, armed; AGAMEMNON, ACHILLES, PATROCLUS, MENELAUS, ULYSSES,
NESTOR, and others

  AGAMEMNON. 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.
  AJAX. Thou, trumpet, there's my purse.
    Now crack thy lungs and split thy brazen pipe;
    Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek
    Out-swell the colic of puff Aquilon'd.
    Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood:
    Thou blowest for Hector.                         [Trumpet sounds]
  ULYSSES. No trumpet answers.
  ACHILLES. 'Tis but early days.

                Enter DIOMEDES, with CRESSIDA  

  AGAMEMNON. Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas' daughter?
  ULYSSES. '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.
  AGAMEMNON. Is this the lady Cressid?
  DIOMEDES. Even she.
  AGAMEMNON. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.
  NESTOR. Our general doth salute you with a kiss.
  ULYSSES. Yet is the kindness but particular;
    'Twere better she were kiss'd in general.
  NESTOR. And very courtly counsel: I'll begin.
    So much for Nestor.
  ACHILLES. I'll take that winter from your lips, fair lady.
    Achilles bids you welcome.
  MENELAUS. I had good argument for kissing once.
  PATROCLUS. But that's no argument for kissing now;
    For thus popp'd Paris in his hardiment,
    And parted thus you and your argument.
  ULYSSES. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns!  
    For which we lose our heads to gild his horns.
  PATROCLUS. The first was Menelaus' kiss; this, mine-
                                                   [Kisses her again]
    Patroclus kisses you.
  MENELAUS. O, this is trim!
  PATROCLUS. Paris and I kiss evermore for him.
  MENELAUS. I'll have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave.
  CRESSIDA. In kissing, do you render or receive?
  PATROCLUS. Both take and give.
  CRESSIDA. I'll make my match to live,
    The kiss you take is better than you give;
    Therefore no kiss.
  MENELAUS. I'll give you boot; I'll give you three for one.
  CRESSIDA. You are an odd man; give even or give none.
  MENELAUS. An odd man, lady? Every man is odd.
  CRESSIDA. No, Paris is not; for you know 'tis true
    That you are odd, and he is even with you.
  MENELAUS. You fillip me o' th' head.
  CRESSIDA. No, I'll be sworn.
  ULYSSES. It were no match, your nail against his horn.  
    May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you?
  CRESSIDA. You may.
  ULYSSES. I do desire it.
  CRESSIDA. Why, beg then.
  ULYSSES. Why then, for Venus' sake give me a kiss
    When Helen is a maid again, and his.
  CRESSIDA. I am your debtor; claim it when 'tis due.
  ULYSSES. Never's my day, and then a kiss of you.
  DIOMEDES. Lady, a word. I'll bring you to your father.
                                                   Exit with CRESSIDA
  NESTOR. A woman of quick sense.
  ULYSSES. 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 encounters so glib of tongue
    That give a coasting 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.                       [Trumpet within]
  ALL. The Troyans' trumpet.

        Enter HECTOR, armed; AENEAS, TROILUS, PARIS, HELENUS,
                 and other Trojans, with attendants

  AGAMEMNON. Yonder comes the troop.
  AENEAS. Hail, all the 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 they be divided
    By any voice or order of the field?
    Hector bade ask.
  AGAMEMNON. Which way would Hector have it?
  AENEAS. He cares not; he'll obey conditions.
  ACHILLES. 'Tis done like Hector; but securely done,
    A little proudly, and great deal misprizing
    The knight oppos'd.
  AENEAS. If not Achilles, sir,  
    What is your name?
  ACHILLES. If not Achilles, nothing.
  AENEAS. 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 Troyan and half Greek.
  ACHILLES. A maiden battle then? O, I perceive you!

                   Re-enter DIOMEDES

  AGAMEMNON. Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight,
    Stand by our Ajax. As you and Lord ]Eneas
    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.
                                    [AJAX and HECTOR enter the lists]
  ULYSSES. They are oppos'd already.
  AGAMEMNON. What Troyan is that same that looks so heavy?
  ULYSSES. 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 provok'd, nor being provok'd 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 impair 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.
                                      [Alarum. HECTOR and AJAX fight]
  AGAMEMNON. They are in action.
  NESTOR. Now, Ajax, hold thine own!
  TROILUS. Hector, thou sleep'st;
    Awake thee.
  AGAMEMNON. His blows are well dispos'd. There, Ajax!
                                                     [Trumpets cease]
  DIOMEDES. You must no more.
  AENEAS. Princes, enough, so please you.
  AJAX. I am not warm yet; let us fight again.
  DIOMEDES. As Hector pleases.
  HECTOR. 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 Troyan so
    That thou could'st say 'This hand is Grecian all,  
    And this is Troyan; 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 drained! 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!
  AJAX. 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.
  HECTOR. 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.
  AENEAS. There is expectance here from both the sides
    What further you will do.
  HECTOR. We'll answer it:
    The issue is embracement. Ajax, farewell.
  AJAX. If I might in entreaties find success,
    As seld I have the chance, I would desire
    My famous cousin to our Grecian tents.
  DIOMEDES. 'Tis Agamemnon's wish; and great Achilles
    Doth long to see unarm'd the valiant Hector.
  HECTOR. Aeneas, call my brother Troilus to me,
    And signify this loving interview
    To the expecters of our Troyan part;
    Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin;
    I will go eat with thee, and see your knights.

        AGAMEMNON and the rest of the Greeks come forward

  AJAX. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here.
  HECTOR. The worthiest of them tell me name by name;  
    But for Achilles, my own searching eyes
    Shall find him by his large and portly size.
  AGAMEMNON.Worthy all 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.
  HECTOR. I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon.
  AGAMEMNON. [To Troilus] My well-fam'd lord of Troy, no less to you.
  MENELAUS. Let me confirm my princely brother's greeting.
    You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither.
  HECTOR. Who must we answer?
  AENEAS. The noble Menelaus.
  HECTOR. 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.
  MENELAUS. Name her not now, sir; she's a deadly theme.
  HECTOR. O, pardon; I offend.
  NESTOR. I have, thou gallant Troyan, 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' th' 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 like thee. O, let an old man embrace thee;  
    And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents.
  AENEAS. 'Tis the old Nestor.
  HECTOR. 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.
  NESTOR. I would my arms could match thee in contention
    As they contend with thee in courtesy.
  HECTOR. I would they could.
  NESTOR. Ha!
    By this white beard, I'd fight with thee to-morrow.
    Well, welcome, welcome! I have seen the time.
  ULYSSES. I wonder now how yonder city stands,
    When we have here her base and pillar by us.
  HECTOR. I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well.
    Ah, sir, there's many a Greek and Troyan dead,
    Since first I saw yourself and Diomed
    In Ilion on your Greekish embassy.
  ULYSSES. 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.
  HECTOR. 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.
  ULYSSES. 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.
  ACHILLES. I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou!
    Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee;
    I have with exact view perus'd thee, Hector,
    And quoted joint by joint.
  HECTOR. Is this Achilles?
  ACHILLES. I am Achilles.
  HECTOR. Stand fair, I pray thee; let me look on thee.
  ACHILLES. Behold thy fill.  
  HECTOR. Nay, I have done already.
  ACHILLES. Thou art too brief. I will the second time,
    As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb.
  HECTOR. 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?
  ACHILLES. 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.
  HECTOR. 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?
  ACHILLES. I tell thee yea.
  HECTOR. 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 everywhere, 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-
  AJAX. 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.
  HECTOR. I pray you let us see you in the field;
    We have had pelting wars since you refus'd
    The Grecians' cause.
  ACHILLES. Dost thou entreat me, Hector?
    To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death;
    To-night all friends.
  HECTOR. Thy hand upon that match.
  AGAMEMNON. 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 tambourines, let the trumpets blow,
    That this great soldier may his welcome know.
                                   Exeunt all but TROILUS and ULYSSES
  TROILUS. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you,
    In what place of the field doth Calchas keep?
  ULYSSES. 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.
  TROILUS. Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to you so much,
    After we part from Agamemnon's tent,
    To bring me thither?
  ULYSSES. 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?  
  TROILUS. O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars
    A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord?
    She was belov'd, she lov'd; she is, and doth;
    But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth.          Exeunt




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ACT V. SCENE 1.
The Grecian camp. Before the tent of ACHILLES

Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS

  ACHILLES. 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.
  PATROCLUS. Here comes Thersites.

                   Enter THERSITES

  ACHILLES. How now, thou core of envy!
    Thou crusty batch of nature, what's the news?
  THERSITES. Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of
    idiot worshippers, here's a letter for thee.
  ACHILLES. From whence, fragment?
  THERSITES. Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.
  PATROCLUS. Who keeps the tent now?
  THERSITES. The surgeon's box or the patient's wound.
  PATROCLUS. Well said, Adversity! and what needs these tricks?
  THERSITES. Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk; thou  
    art said to be Achilles' male varlet.
  PATROCLUS. Male varlet, you rogue! What's that?
  THERSITES. Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of
    the south, the guts-griping ruptures, catarrhs, loads o' gravel
    in the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten
    livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas,
    limekilns i' th' palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-
    simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous
    discoveries!
  PATROCLUS. Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou
    to curse thus?
  THERSITES. Do I curse thee?
  PATROCLUS. Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whoreson
    indistinguishable cur, no.
  THERSITES. No! Why art thou, then, exasperate, thou idle immaterial
    skein of sleid silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye,
    thou tassel of a prodigal's purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is
    pest'red with such water-flies-diminutives of nature!
  PATROCLUS. Out, gall!
  THERSITES. Finch egg!  
  ACHILLES. 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!                              Exit with PATROCLUS
  THERSITES. With too much blood and too little brain these two may
    run mad; but, if with too much brain and to 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 ear-wax; 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 put-tock, 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!
    sprites and fires!

         Enter HECTOR, TROILUS, AJAX, AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES,
            NESTOR, MENELAUS, and DIOMEDES, with lights

  AGAMEMNON. We go wrong, we go wrong.
  AJAX. No, yonder 'tis;
    There, where we see the lights.
  HECTOR. I trouble you.
  AJAX. No, not a whit.

                    Re-enter ACHILLES

  ULYSSES. Here comes himself to guide you.  
  ACHILLES. Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, Princes all.
  AGAMEMNON. So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid good night;
    Ajax commands the guard to tend on you.
  HECTOR. Thanks, and good night to the Greeks' general.
  MENELAUS. Good night, my lord.
  HECTOR. Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus.
  THERSITES. Sweet draught! 'Sweet' quoth 'a?
    Sweet sink, sweet sewer!
  ACHILLES. Good night and welcome, both at once, to those
    That go or tarry.
  AGAMEMNON. Good night.
                                        Exeunt AGAMEMNON and MENELAUS
  ACHILLES. Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed,
    Keep Hector company an hour or two.
  DIOMEDES. I cannot, lord; I have important business,
    The tide whereof is now. Good night, great Hector.
  HECTOR. Give me your hand.
  ULYSSES. [Aside to TROILUS] Follow his torch; he goes to
    Calchas' tent; I'll keep you company.
  TROILUS. Sweet sir, you honour me.  
  HECTOR. And so, good night.
                         Exit DIOMEDES; ULYSSES and TROILUS following
  ACHILLES. Come, come, enter my tent.
                                             Exeunt all but THERSITES
  THERSITES. 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
    Troyan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas' tent. I'll after.
    Nothing but lechery! All incontinent varlets!                Exit




ACT V. SCENE 2.
The Grecian camp. Before CALCHAS' tent

Enter DIOMEDES

  DIOMEDES. What, are you up here, ho? Speak.
  CALCHAS. [Within] Who calls?
  DIOMEDES. Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where's your daughter?
  CALCHAS. [Within] She comes to you.

      Enter TROILUS and ULYSSES, at a distance; after them
                        THERSITES

  ULYSSES. Stand where the torch may not discover us.

                     Enter CRESSIDA

  TROILUS. Cressid comes forth to him.
  DIOMEDES. How now, my charge!
  CRESSIDA. Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word with you.
[Whispers]
  TROILUS. Yea, so familiar!  
  ULYSSES. She will sing any man at first sight.
  THERSITES. And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff;
    she's noted.
  DIOMEDES. Will you remember?
  CRESSIDA. Remember? Yes.
  DIOMEDES. Nay, but do, then;
    And let your mind be coupled with your words.
  TROILUS. What shall she remember?
  ULYSSES. List!
  CRESSIDA. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.
  THERSITES. Roguery!
  DIOMEDES. Nay, then-
  CRESSIDA. I'll tell you what-
  DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! come, tell a pin; you are a forsworn-
  CRESSIDA. In faith, I cannot. What would you have me do?
  THERSITES. A juggling trick, to be secretly open.
  DIOMEDES. What did you swear you would bestow on me?
  CRESSIDA. I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath;
    Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek.
  DIOMEDES. Good night.  
  TROILUS. Hold, patience!
  ULYSSES. How now, Troyan!
  CRESSIDA. Diomed!
  DIOMEDES. No, no, good night; I'll be your fool no more.
  TROILUS. Thy better must.
  CRESSIDA. Hark! a word in your ear.
  TROILUS. O plague and madness!
  ULYSSES. You are moved, Prince; let us depart, I pray,
    Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself
    To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous;
    The time right deadly; I beseech you, go.
  TROILUS. Behold, I pray you.
  ULYSSES. Nay, good my lord, go off;
    You flow to great distraction; come, my lord.
  TROILUS. I prithee stay.
  ULYSSES. You have not patience; come.
  TROILUS. I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell's torments,
    I will not speak a word.
  DIOMEDES. And so, good night.
  CRESSIDA. Nay, but you part in anger.  
  TROILUS. Doth that grieve thee? O withered truth!
  ULYSSES. How now, my lord?
  TROILUS. By Jove, I will be patient.
  CRESSIDA. Guardian! Why, Greek!
  DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! adieu! you palter.
  CRESSIDA. In faith, I do not. Come hither once again.
  ULYSSES. You shake, my lord, at something; will you go?
    You will break out.
  TROILUS. She strokes his cheek.
  ULYSSES. Come, come.
  TROILUS. 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.
  THERSITES. How the devil luxury, with his fat rump and potato
    finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!
  DIOMEDES. But will you, then?
  CRESSIDA. In faith, I will, lo; never trust me else.
  DIOMEDES. Give me some token for the surety of it.
  CRESSIDA. I'll fetch you one.                                  Exit
  ULYSSES. You have sworn patience.  
  TROILUS. Fear me not, my lord;
    I will not be myself, nor have cognition
    Of what I feel. I am all patience.

                    Re-enter CRESSIDA

  THERSITES. Now the pledge; now, now, now!
  CRESSIDA. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.
  TROILUS. O beauty! where is thy faith?
  ULYSSES. My lord!
  TROILUS. I will be patient; outwardly I will.
  CRESSIDA. You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.
    He lov'd me-O false wench!-Give't me again.
  DIOMEDES. Whose was't?
  CRESSIDA. It is no matter, now I ha't again.
    I will not meet with you to-morrow night.
    I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.
  THERSITES. Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone.
  DIOMEDES. I shall have it.
  CRESSIDA. What, this?  
  DIOMEDES. Ay, that.
  CRESSIDA. O all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge!
    Thy master now lies thinking on 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.
  DIOMEDES. I had your heart before; this follows it.
  TROILUS. I did swear patience.
  CRESSIDA. You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not;
    I'll give you something else.
  DIOMEDES. I will have this. Whose was it?
  CRESSIDA. It is no matter.
  DIOMEDES. Come, tell me whose it was.
  CRESSIDA. 'Twas one's that lov'd me better than you will.
    But, now you have it, take it.
  DIOMEDES. Whose was it?
  CRESSIDA. By all Diana's waiting women yond,
    And by herself, I will not tell you whose.
  DIOMEDES. To-morrow will I wear it on my helm,  
    And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.
  TROILUS. Wert thou the devil and wor'st it on thy horn,
    It should be challeng'd.
  CRESSIDA. Well, well, 'tis done, 'tis past; and yet it is not;
    I will not keep my word.
  DIOMEDES. Why, then farewell;
    Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.
  CRESSIDA. You shall not go. One cannot speak a word
    But it straight starts you.
  DIOMEDES. I do not like this fooling.
  THERSITES. Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes not you
    Pleases me best.
  DIOMEDES. What, shall I come? The hour-
  CRESSIDA. Ay, come-O Jove! Do come. I shall be plagu'd.
  DIOMEDES. Farewell till then.
  CRESSIDA. Good night. I prithee come.                 Exit DIOMEDES
    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.                  Exit
  THERSITES. A proof of strength she could not publish more,
    Unless she said 'My mind is now turn'd whore.'
  ULYSSES. All's done, my lord.
  TROILUS. It is.
  ULYSSES. Why stay we, then?
  TROILUS. To make a recordation to my soul
    Of every syllable that here was spoke.
    But if I tell how these two did coact,
    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 th' attest of eyes and ears;
    As if those organs had deceptious functions
    Created only to calumniate.
    Was Cressid here?
  ULYSSES. I cannot conjure, Troyan.
  TROILUS. She was not, sure.
  ULYSSES. Most sure she was.  
  TROILUS. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.
  ULYSSES. Nor mine, my lord. Cressid was here but now.
  TROILUS. Let it not be believ'd 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.
  ULYSSES. What hath she done, Prince, that can soil our mothers?
  TROILUS. Nothing at all, unless that this were she.
  THERSITES. Will 'a swagger himself out on's own eyes?
  TROILUS. 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 god's delight,
    If there be rule in unity itself,
    This was not she. O madness of discourse,
    That cause sets up with and against itself!
    Bifold 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, dissolv'd, and loos'd;
    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.
  ULYSSES. May worthy Troilus be half-attach'd
    With that which here his passion doth express?
  TROILUS. Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well
    In characters as red as Mars his heart
    Inflam'd 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 compos'd by Vulcan's skill
    My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout
    Which shipmen do the hurricano call,
    Constring'd 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.
  THERSITES. He'll tickle it for his concupy.
  TROILUS. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false!
    Let all untruths stand by thy stained name,
    And they'll seem glorious.
  ULYSSES. O, contain yourself;
    Your passion draws ears hither.

                       Enter AENEAS

  AENEAS. 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.
  TROILUS. Have with you, Prince. My courteous lord, adieu.
    Fairwell, revolted fair!-and, Diomed,
    Stand fast and wear a castle on thy head.
  ULYSSES. I'll bring you to the gates.
  TROILUS. Accept distracted thanks.

            Exeunt TROILUS, AENEAS. and ULYSSES

  THERSITES. Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like
    a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me
    anything 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!                                     Exit




ACT V. SCENE 3.
Troy. Before PRIAM'S palace

Enter HECTOR and ANDROMACHE

  ANDROMACHE. When was my lord so much ungently temper'd
    To stop his ears against admonishment?
    Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day.
  HECTOR. You train me to offend you; get you in.
    By all the everlasting gods, I'll go.
  ANDROMACHE. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.
  HECTOR. No more, I say.

                    Enter CASSANDRA

  CASSANDRA. Where is my brother Hector?
  ANDROMACHE. Here, sister, arm'd, and bloody in intent.
    Consort with me in loud and dear petition,
    Pursue we him on knees; for I have dreamt
    Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night
    Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.
  CASSANDRA. O, 'tis true!  
  HECTOR. Ho! bid my trumpet sound.
  CASSANDRA. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother!
  HECTOR. Be gone, I say. The gods have heard me swear.
  CASSANDRA. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows;
    They are polluted off'rings, more abhorr'd
    Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
  ANDROMACHE. 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.
  CASSANDRA. It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;
    But vows to every purpose must not hold.
    Unarm, sweet Hector.
  HECTOR. Hold you still, I say.
    Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate.
    Life every man holds dear; but the dear man
    Holds honour far more precious dear than life.

                      Enter TROILUS
  
    How now, young man! Mean'st thou to fight to-day?
  ANDROMACHE. Cassandra, call my father to persuade.
                                                       Exit CASSANDRA
  HECTOR. No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth;
    I am to-day i' th' 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.
  TROILUS. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you
    Which better fits a lion than a man.
  HECTOR. What vice is that, good Troilus?
    Chide me for it.
  TROILUS. When many times the captive Grecian falls,
    Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,
    You bid them rise and live.
  HECTOR. O, 'tis fair play!
  TROILUS. Fool's play, by heaven, Hector.
  HECTOR. How now! how now!
  TROILUS. For th' love of all the gods,  
    Let's leave the hermit Pity with our mother;
    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!
  HECTOR. Fie, savage, fie!
  TROILUS. Hector, then 'tis wars.
  HECTOR. Troilus, I would not have you fight to-day.
  TROILUS. Who should withhold me?
    Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars
    Beck'ning with fiery truncheon my retire;
    Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees,
    Their eyes o'ergalled with recourse of tears;
    Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn,
    Oppos'd to hinder me, should stop my way,
    But by my ruin.

              Re-enter CASSANDRA, with PRIAM

  CASSANDRA. 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.
  PRIAM. Come, Hector, come, go back.
    Thy wife hath dreamt; 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.
  HECTOR. Aeneas is a-field;
    And I do stand engag'd to many Greeks,
    Even in the faith of valour, to appear
    This morning to them.
  PRIAM. Ay, but thou shalt not go.
  HECTOR. 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.
  CASSANDRA. O Priam, yield not to him!
  ANDROMACHE. Do not, dear father.  
  HECTOR. Andromache, I am offended with you.
    Upon the love you bear me, get you in.
                                                      Exit ANDROMACHE
  TROILUS. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl
    Makes all these bodements.
  CASSANDRA. 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!
  TROILUS. Away, away!
  CASSANDRA. Farewell!-yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave.
    Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.                  Exit
  HECTOR. You are amaz'd, 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.
  PRIAM. Farewell. The gods with safety stand about thee!  
                           Exeunt severally PRIAM and HECTOR. Alarums
  TROILUS. They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, believe,
    I come to lose my arm or win my sleeve.

                     Enter PANDARUS

  PANDARUS. Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear?
  TROILUS. What now?
  PANDARUS. Here's a letter come from yond poor girl.
  TROILUS. Let me read.
  PANDARUS. 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' th's days; and I have
    a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that
    unless a man were curs'd I cannot tell what to think on't. What
    says she there?
  TROILUS. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart;
    Th' effect doth operate another way.
                                                 [Tearing the letter]
    Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together.  
    My love with words and errors still she feeds,
    But edifies another with her deeds.              Exeunt severally




ACT V. SCENE 4.
The plain between Troy and the Grecian camp

Enter THERSITES. Excursions

  THERSITES. Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I'll go look
    on. That dissembling abominable varlet, 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 Troyan ass
    that loves the whore there might send that Greekish whoremasterly
    villain with the sleeve back to the dissembling luxurious drab of
    a sleeve-less errand. A th' 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 prov'd worth 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.

             Enter DIOMEDES, TROILUS following
  
    Soft! here comes sleeve, and t'other.
  TROILUS. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx
    I would swim after.
  DIOMEDES. Thou dost miscall retire.
    I do not fly; but advantageous care
    Withdrew me from the odds of multitude.
    Have at thee.
  THERSITES. Hold thy whore, Grecian; now for thy whore,
    Troyan-now the sleeve, now the sleeve!
                                 Exeunt TROILUS and DIOMEDES fighting

                        Enter HECTOR

  HECTOR. What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector's match?
    Art thou of blood and honour?
  THERSITES. No, no-I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very
    filthy rogue.
  HECTOR. I do believe thee. Live.                               Exit
  THERSITES. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague
    break thy neck for frighting 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.                                                        Exit




ACT V. SCENE 5.
Another part of the plain

Enter DIOMEDES and A SERVANT

  DIOMEDES. 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 chastis'd the amorous Troyan,
    And am her knight by proof.
  SERVANT. I go, my lord.                                        Exit

                       Enter AGAMEMNON

  AGAMEMNON. Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamus
    Hath beat down enon; bastard Margarelon
    Hath Doreus prisoner,
    And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,
    Upon the pashed corses of the kings
    Epistrophus and Cedius. Polixenes is slain;
    Amphimacus and Thoas deadly hurt;
    Patroclus ta'en, or slain; and Palamedes  
    Sore hurt and bruis'd. The dreadful Sagittary
    Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed,
    To reinforcement, or we perish all.

                        Enter NESTOR

  NESTOR. Go, bear Patroclus' body to Achilles,
    And bid the snail-pac'd 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 everywhere, he leaves and takes;
    Dexterity so obeying appetite
    That what he will he does, and does so much
    That proof is call'd impossibility.
  
                       Enter ULYSSES

  ULYSSES. O, courage, courage, courage, Princes! Great
    Achilles Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance.
    Patroclus' wounds have rous'd 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.

                        Enter AJAX

  AJAX. Troilus! thou coward Troilus!                            Exit
  DIOMEDES. Ay, there, there.  
  NESTOR. So, so, we draw together.                              Exit
                      Enter ACHILLES

  ACHILLES. 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.            Exeunt




ACT V. SCENE 6.
Another part of the plain

Enter AJAX

  AJAX. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head.

                     Enter DIOMEDES

  DIOMEDES. Troilus, I say! Where's Troilus?
  AJAX. What wouldst thou?
  DIOMEDES. I would correct him.
  AJAX. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office
    Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus!

                      Enter TROILUS

  TROILUS. O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor,
    And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse.
  DIOMEDES. Ha! art thou there?
  AJAX. I'll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed.
  DIOMEDES. He is my prize. I will not look upon.  
  TROILUS. Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you
                                                      Exeunt fighting

                      Enter HECTOR

  HECTOR. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother!

                     Enter ACHILLES

  ACHILLES. Now do I see thee, ha! Have at thee, Hector!
  HECTOR. Pause, if thou wilt.
  ACHILLES. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Troyan.
    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.                              Exit
  HECTOR. Fare thee well.
    I would have been much more a fresher man,
    Had I expected thee.
  
                     Re-enter TROILUS

    How now, my brother!
  TROILUS. 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 thou end my life to-day.                   Exit

                    Enter one in armour

  HECTOR. 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.             Exeunt




ACT V. SCENE 7.
Another part of the plain

Enter ACHILLES, with Myrmidons

  ACHILLES. 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 arms.
    Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye.
    It is decreed Hector the great must die.                   Exeunt

      Enter MENELAUS and PARIS, fighting; then THERSITES

  THERSITES. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull!
    now, dog! 'Loo, Paris, 'loo! now my double-horn'd Spartan! 'loo,
    Paris, 'loo! The bull has the game. Ware horns, ho!
                                            Exeunt PARIS and MENELAUS

                      Enter MARGARELON  

  MARGARELON. Turn, slave, and fight.
  THERSITES. What art thou?
  MARGARELON. A bastard son of Priam's.
  THERSITES. I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a bastard
    begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in
    everything 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.
      Exit
  MARGARELON. The devil take thee, coward!                       Exit




ACT V. SCENE 8.
Another part of the plain

Enter HECTOR

  HECTOR. Most putrified 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!
 [Disarms]

              Enter ACHILLES and his Myrmidons

  ACHILLES. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set;
    How ugly night comes breathing at his heels;
    Even with the vail and dark'ning of the sun,
    To close the day up, Hector's life is done.
  HECTOR. I am unarm'd; forego this vantage, Greek.
  ACHILLES. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.
                                                       [HECTOR falls]
    So, Ilion, fall thou next! Come, Troy, sink down;
    Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone.  
    On, Myrmidons, and cry you an amain
    'Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.'
                                                  [A retreat sounded]
    Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part.
  MYRMIDON. The Troyan trumpets sound the like, my lord.
  ACHILLES. 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,
    Pleas'd with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.
                                                 [Sheathes his sword]
    Come, tie his body to my horse's tail;
    Along the field I will the Troyan trail.                   Exeunt




ACT V. SCENE 9.
Another part of the plain

Sound retreat. Shout. Enter AGAMEMNON, AJAX, MENELAUS, NESTOR, DIOMEDES,
and the rest, marching

  AGAMEMNON. Hark! hark! what shout is this?
  NESTOR. Peace, drums!
  SOLDIERS. [Within] Achilles! Achilles! Hector's slain. Achilles!
  DIOMEDES. The bruit is Hector's slain, and by Achilles.
  AJAX. If it be so, yet bragless let it be;
    Great Hector was as good a man as he.
  AGAMEMNON. 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.
    Exeunt




ACT V. SCENE 10.
Another part of the plain

Enter AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, and DEIPHOBUS

  AENEAS. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field.
    Never go home; here starve we out the night.

                         Enter TROILUS

  TROILUS. Hector is slain.
  ALL. Hector! The gods forbid!
  TROILUS. 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.
  AENEAS. My lord, you do discomfort all the host.
  TROILUS. 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-siz'd 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.

                        Enter PANDARUS  

  PANDARUS. But hear you, hear you!
  TROILUS. Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame
    Pursue thy life and live aye with thy name!
                                              Exeunt all but PANDARUS
  PANDARUS. A goodly medicine for my aching bones! world! world! thus
    is the poor agent despis'd! traitors and bawds, how earnestly are
    you set a work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be
    so lov'd, 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 subdu'd in armed trail,
          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 bequeath you my diseases.                   Exit

THE END



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
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1602


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

by William Shakespeare



DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  ORSINO, Duke of Illyria
  SEBASTIAN, brother of Viola
  ANTONIO, a sea captain, friend of Sebastian
  A SEA CAPTAIN, friend of Viola
  VALENTINE, gentleman attending on the Duke
  CURIO, gentleman attending on the Duke
  SIR TOBY BELCH, uncle of Olivia
  SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK
  MALVOLIO, steward to Olivia
  FABIAN, servant to Olivia
  FESTE, a clown, servant to Olivia

  OLIVIA, a rich countess
  VIOLA, sister of Sebastian
  MARIA, Olivia's waiting woman

  Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and Attendants




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



SCENE:
A city in Illyria; and the sea-coast near it



ACT I. SCENE I.
The DUKE'S palace

Enter ORSINO, Duke of Illyria, CURIO, and other LORDS; MUSICIANS attending

  DUKE. 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.
  CURIO. Will you go hunt, my lord?  
  DUKE. What, Curio?
  CURIO. The hart.
  DUKE. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have.
    O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
    Methought she purg'd 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.

                     Enter VALENTINE

    How now! what news from her?
  VALENTINE. 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.
  DUKE. 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 flow'rs:
    Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bow'rs.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE II.
The sea-coast

Enter VIOLA, a CAPTAIN, and SAILORS

  VIOLA. What country, friends, is this?
  CAPTAIN. This is Illyria, lady.
  VIOLA. And what should I do in Illyria?
    My brother he is in Elysium.
    Perchance he is not drown'd- what think you, sailors?
  CAPTAIN. It is perchance that you yourself were saved.
  VIOLA. O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.
  CAPTAIN. 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 practice-
    To a strong mast that liv'd 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.  
  VIOLA. 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?
  CAPTAIN. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born
    Not three hours' travel from this very place.
  VIOLA. Who governs here?
  CAPTAIN. A noble duke, in nature as in name.
  VIOLA. What is his name?
  CAPTAIN. Orsino.
  VIOLA. Orsino! I have heard my father name him.
    He was a bachelor then.
  CAPTAIN. 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.
  VIOLA. What's she?
  CAPTAIN. 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 abjur'd the company
    And sight of men.
  VIOLA. O that I serv'd that lady,
    And might not be delivered to the world,
    Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
    What my estate is!
  CAPTAIN. That were hard to compass,
    Because she will admit no kind of suit-
    No, not the Duke's.
  VIOLA. There is a fair behaviour 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 shalt 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 silence to my wit.
  CAPTAIN. Be you his eunuch and your mute I'll be;
    When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.
  VIOLA. I thank thee. Lead me on.                        Exeunt




SCENE III.
OLIVIA'S house

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA

  SIR TOBY. What a plague means my niece to take the death of her
    brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.
  MARIA. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights;
    your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.
  SIR TOBY. Why, let her except before excepted.
  MARIA. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits
    of order.
  SIR TOBY. 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.
  MARIA. 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.
  SIR TOBY. Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek?
  MARIA. Ay, he.
  SIR TOBY. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
  MARIA. What's that to th' purpose?  
  SIR TOBY. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.
  MARIA. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a
    very fool and a prodigal.
  SIR TOBY. Fie that you'll say so! He plays o' th' viol-de-gamboys,
    and speaks three or four languages word for word without book,
    and hath all the good gifts of nature.
  MARIA. 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.
  SIR TOBY. By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that
    say so of him. Who are they?
  MARIA. They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.
  SIR TOBY. 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' th' toe like a parish-top. What, wench!
    Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.

                    Enter SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK  

  AGUECHEEK. Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch!
  SIR TOBY. Sweet Sir Andrew!
  AGUECHEEK. Bless you, fair shrew.
  MARIA. And you too, sir.
  SIR TOBY. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
  AGUECHEEK. What's that?
  SIR TOBY. My niece's chambermaid.
  AGUECHEEK. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
  MARIA. My name is Mary, sir.
  AGUECHEEK. Good Mistress Mary Accost-
  SIR Toby. You mistake, knight. 'Accost' is front her, board her,
    woo her, assail her.
  AGUECHEEK. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company.
    Is that the meaning of 'accost'?
  MARIA. Fare you well, gentlemen.
  SIR TOBY. An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never
    draw sword again!
  AGUECHEEK. An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw
    sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?  
  MARIA. Sir, I have not you by th' hand.
  AGUECHEEK. Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
  MARIA. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to
    th' buttry-bar and let it drink.
  AGUECHEEK. Wherefore, sweetheart? What's your metaphor?
  MARIA. It's dry, sir.
  AGUECHEEK. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my
    hand dry. But what's your jest?
  MARIA. A dry jest, sir.
  AGUECHEEK. Are you full of them?
  MARIA. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends; marry, now I let
    go your hand, I am barren.                        Exit MARIA
  SIR TOBY. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary! When did I see
    thee so put down?
  AGUECHEEK. 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 great eater of beef, and I
    believe that does harm to my wit.
  SIR TOBY. No question.
  AGUECHEEK. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home  
    to-morrow, Sir Toby.
  SIR TOBY. Pourquoi, my dear knight?
  AGUECHEEK. 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. Oh, had I but followed the arts!
  SIR TOBY. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.
  AGUECHEEK. Why, would that have mended my hair?
  SIR TOBY. Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.
  AGUECHEEK. But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
  SIR TOBY. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff, and I hope to
    see a huswife take thee between her legs and spin it off.
  AGUECHEEK. 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.
  SIR TOBY. She'll none o' th' 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.
  AGUECHEEK. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' th' strangest
    mind i' th' world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes
    altogether.  
  SIR TOBY. Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?
  AGUECHEEK. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the
    degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.
  SIR TOBY. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
  AGUECHEEK. Faith, I can cut a caper.
  SIR TOBY. And I can cut the mutton to't.
  AGUECHEEK. And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as
    any man in Illyria.
  SIR TOBY. 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 form'd under the
    star of a galliard.
  AGUECHEEK. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in
    flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels?
  SIR TOBY. What shall we do else? Were we not born under Taurus?
  AGUECHEEK. Taurus? That's sides and heart.  
  SIR TOBY. No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the caper. Ha,
    higher! Ha, ha, excellent!                            Exeunt




SCENE IV.
The DUKE'S palace

Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire

  VALENTINE. If the Duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario,
    you are like to be much advanc'd; he hath known you but three
    days, and already you are no stranger.
  VIOLA. 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?
  VALENTINE. No, believe me.

                  Enter DUKE, CURIO, and ATTENDANTS

  VIOLA. I thank you. Here comes the Count.
  DUKE. Who saw Cesario, ho?
  VIOLA. On your attendance, my lord, here.
  DUKE. Stand you awhile 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.
  VIOLA. Sure, my noble lord,
    If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
    As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
  DUKE. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds,
    Rather than make unprofited return.
  VIOLA. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?
  DUKE. 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.
  VIOLA. I think not so, my lord.
  DUKE. 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.
  VIOLA. I'll do my best
    To woo your lady. [Aside] Yet, a barful strife!
    Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.




SCENE V.
OLIVIA'S house

Enter MARIA and CLOWN

  MARIA. 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.
  CLOWN. Let her hang me. He that is well hang'd in this world needs
    to fear no colours.
  MARIA. Make that good.
  CLOWN. He shall see none to fear.
  MARIA. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where that saying was
    born, of 'I fear no colours.'
  CLOWN. Where, good Mistress Mary?
  MARIA. In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your
    foolery.
  CLOWN. Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are
    fools, let them use their talents.
  MARIA. Yet you will be hang'd for being so long absent; or to be
    turn'd away- is not that as good as a hanging to you?
  CLOWN. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning  
    away, let summer bear it out.
  MARIA. You are resolute, then?
  CLOWN. Not so, neither; but I am resolv'd on two points.
  MARIA. That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break,
    your gaskins fall.
  CLOWN. 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.
  MARIA. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my lady. Make
    your excuse wisely, you were best.                      Exit

                     Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO

  CLOWN. 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!
  OLIVIA. Take the fool away.
  CLOWN. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.  
  OLIVIA. Go to, y'are a dry fool; I'll no more of you. Besides, you
    grow dishonest.
  CLOWN. 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. Anything
    that's mended is but patch'd; virtue that transgresses is but
    patch'd with sin, and sin that amends is but patch'd 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.
  OLIVIA. Sir, I bade them take away you.
  CLOWN. 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.
  OLIVIA. Can you do it?
  CLOWN. Dexteriously, good madonna.
  OLIVIA. Make your proof.
  CLOWN. I must catechize you for it, madonna.  
    Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.
  OLIVIA. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your
    proof.
  CLOWN. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?
  OLIVIA. Good fool, for my brother's death.
  CLOWN. I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
  OLIVIA. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
  CLOWN. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul
    being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.
  OLIVIA. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? Doth he not mend?
  MALVOLIO. Yes, and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him.
    Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
  CLOWN. 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 twopence that you are no fool.
  OLIVIA. How say you to that, Malvolio?
  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 gagg'd. I protest I take these wise men that crow so at
    these set kind of fools no better than the fools' zanies.
  OLIVIA. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a
    distemper'd 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 allow'd fool, though he
    do nothing but rail; nor no railing in known discreet man, though
    he do nothing but reprove.
  CLOWN. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st well
    of fools!

                             Re-enter MARIA

  MARIA. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires
    to speak with you.
  OLIVIA. From the Count Orsino, is it?
  MARIA. I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.
  OLIVIA. Who of my people hold him in delay?
  MARIA. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
  OLIVIA. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman.  
    Fie on him! [Exit MARIA] Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from
    the Count, I am sick, or not at home- what you will to dismiss
    it. [Exit MALVOLIO] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old,
    and people dislike it.
  CLOWN. 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.

                         Enter SIR TOBY

  OLIVIA. By mine honour, half drunk! What is he at the gate, cousin?
  SIR TOBY. A gentleman.
  OLIVIA. A gentleman! What gentleman?
  SIR TOBY. 'Tis a gentleman here. [Hiccups] A plague o' these
    pickle-herring! How now, sot!
  CLOWN. Good Sir Toby!
  OLIVIA. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this
    lethargy?
  SIR TOBY. Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.
  OLIVIA. Ay, marry; what is he?  
  SIR TOBY. Let him be the devil an he will, I care not; give me
    faith, say I. Well, it's all one.                       Exit
  OLIVIA. What's a drunken man like, fool?
  CLOWN. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above
    heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns
    him.
  OLIVIA. Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my coz;
    for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd; go look
    after him.
  CLOWN. He is but mad yet, madonna, and the fool shall look to the
    madman.                                                 Exit

                           Re-enter MALVOLIO

  MALVOLIO. 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.  
  OLIVIA. Tell him he shall not speak with me.
  MALVOLIO. 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.
  OLIVIA. What kind o' man is he?
  MALVOLIO. Why, of mankind.
  OLIVIA. What manner of man?
  MALVOLIO. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.
  OLIVIA. Of what personage and years is he?
  MALVOLIO. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy;
    as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis
    almost an apple; 'tis with him in standing water, between boy and
    man. He is very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one
    would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.
  OLIVIA. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.
  MALVOLIO. Gentlewoman, my lady calls.                     Exit

                          Re-enter MARIA

  OLIVIA. Give me my veil; come, throw it o'er my face;  
    We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

                             Enter VIOLA

  VIOLA. The honourable lady of the house, which is she?
  OLIVIA. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?
  VIOLA. 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 penn'd, 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.
  OLIVIA. Whence came you, sir?
  VIOLA. 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.
  OLIVIA. Are you a comedian?
  VIOLA. 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?  
  OLIVIA. If I do not usurp myself, I am.
  VIOLA. 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.
  OLIVIA. Come to what is important in't. I forgive you the praise.
  VIOLA. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.
  OLIVIA. It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I
    heard you were saucy at my gates, and allow'd 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 dialogue.
  MARIA. Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way.
  VIOLA. No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little longer.
    Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.
  OLIVIA. Tell me your mind.
  VIOLA. I am a messenger.
  OLIVIA. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the
    courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.
  VIOLA. 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
    full of peace as matter.
  OLIVIA. Yet you began rudely. What are you? What would you?
  VIOLA. The rudeness that hath appear'd in me have I learn'd from my
    entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as
    maidenhead- to your cars, divinity; to any other's, profanation.
  OLIVIA. Give us the place alone; we will hear this divinity.
    [Exeunt MARIA and ATTENDANTS] Now, sir, what is your text?
  VIOLA. Most sweet lady-
  OLIVIA. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.
    Where lies your text?
  VIOLA. In Orsino's bosom.
  OLIVIA. In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?
  VIOLA. To answer by the method: in the first of his heart.
  OLIVIA. O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?
  VIOLA. Good madam, let me see your face.
  OLIVIA. 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. [Unveiling] Look you, sir, such a one I
    was this present. Is't not well done?  
  VIOLA. Excellently done, if God did all.
  OLIVIA. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.
  VIOLA. '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.
  OLIVIA. 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 labell'd 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?
  VIOLA. 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 recompens'd though you were crown'd
    The nonpareil of beauty!
  OLIVIA. How does he love me?
  VIOLA. With adorations, fertile tears,
    With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.  
  OLIVIA. 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 divulg'd, 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.
  VIOLA. If I did love you in my master's flame,
    With such a suff'ring, such a deadly life,
    In your denial I would find no sense;
    I would not understand it.
  OLIVIA. Why, what would you?
  VIOLA. 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 hals,
    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!
  OLIVIA. You might do much.
    What is your parentage?
  VIOLA. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
    I am a gentleman.
  OLIVIA. 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.
  VIOLA. 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 fervour, like my master's, be
    Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.             Exit
  OLIVIA. '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!

                        Re-enter MALVOLIO

  MALVOLIO. Here, madam, at your service.
  OLIVIA. 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.
  MALVOLIO. Madam, I will.                                  Exit
  OLIVIA. 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!                Exit




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ACT II. SCENE I.
The sea-coast

Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN

  ANTONIO. Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with
    you?
  SEBASTIAN. 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 know of you whither you are bound.
  SEBASTIAN. 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 call'd 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 pleas'd, would we had so ended! But you, sir, alter'd that;
    for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was  
    my sister drown'd.
  ANTONIO. Alas the day!
  SEBASTIAN. 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 mind that envy could not but call
    fair. She is drown'd already, sir, with salt water, though I seem
    to drown her remembrance again with more.
  ANTONIO. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
  SEBASTIAN. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.
  ANTONIO. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your
    servant.
  SEBASTIAN. If you will not undo what you have done- that is, kill
    him whom you have recover'd-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.
 Exit
  ANTONIO. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
    I have many cnemies 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.            Exit




SCENE II.
A street

Enter VIOLA and MALVOLIO at several doors

  MALVOLIO. Were you not ev'n now with the Countess Olivia?
  VIOLA. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arriv'd but
    hither.
  MALVOLIO. 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.
  VIOLA. She took the ring of me; I'll none of it.
  MALVOLIO. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is
    it should be so return'd. If it be worth stooping for, there it
    lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.
 Exit
  VIOLA. 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 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 t' untie!                  Exit




SCENE III.
OLIVIA'S house

Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW

  SIR TOBY. Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be abed after midnight is to
    be up betimes; and 'diluculo surgere' thou know'st-
  AGUECHEEK. Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late
    is to be up late.
  SIR TOBY. A false conclusion! I hate it as an unfill'd 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 lives
    consist of the four elements?
  AGUECHEEK. Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of
    eating and drinking.
  SIR TOBY. Th'art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.
    Marian, I say! a stoup of wine.

                          Enter CLOWN

  AGUECHEEK. Here comes the fool, i' faith.
  CLOWN. How now, my hearts! Did you never see the picture of 'we  
    three'?
  SIR TOBY. Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.
  AGUECHEEK. 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 spok'st of Pigrogromitus,
    of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very
    good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman; hadst it?
  CLOWN. 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.
  AGUECHEEK. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is
    done. Now, a song.
  SIR TOBY. Come on, there is sixpence for you. Let's have a song.
  AGUECHEEK. There's a testril of me too; if one knight give a-
CLOWN. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?
  SIR TOBY. A love-song, a love-song.
  AGUECHEEK. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

                         CLOWN 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.

  AGUECHEEK. Excellent good, i' faith!
  SIR TOBY. Good, good!

                         CLOWN 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.

  AGUECHEEK. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.  
  SIR TOBY. A contagious breath.
  AGUECHEEK. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.
  SIR TOBY. 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?
  AGUECHEEK. An you love me, let's do't. I am dog at a catch.
  CLOWN. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
  AGUECHEEK. Most certain. Let our catch be 'Thou knave.'
  CLOWN. 'Hold thy peace, thou knave' knight? I shall be constrain'd
    in't to call thee knave, knight.
  AGUECHEEK. 'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call
    me knave. Begin, fool: it begins 'Hold thy peace.'
  CLOWN. I shall never begin if I hold my peace.
  AGUECHEEK. Good, i' faith! Come, begin.           [Catch sung]

                         Enter MARIA

  MARIA. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not
    call'd up her steward Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of  
    doors, never trust me.
  SIR TOBY. My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's a
    Peg-a-Ramsey, and                                    [Sings]
                  Three merry men be we.
    Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally,
    lady.                                                [Sings]
              There dwelt a man in Babylon,
              Lady, lady.
  CLOWN. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
  AGUECHEEK. Ay, he does well enough if he be dispos'd, and so do I
    too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
  SIR TOBY. [Sings] O' the twelfth day of December-
  MARIA. For the love o' God, peace!

                       Enter MALVOLIO

  MALVOLIO. My masters, are you mad? Or what are you? Have you no
    wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this
    time of night? Do ye make an ale-house 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?
  SIR TOBY. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
  MALVOLIO. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell
    you that, though she harbours you as her kins-man, she's nothing
    allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your
    misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, and it would
    please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you
    farewell.
  SIR TOBY. [Sings] Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.
  MARIA. Nay, good Sir Toby.
  CLOWN. [Sings] His eyes do show his days are almost done.
  MALVOLIO. Is't even so?
  SIR TOBY. [Sings] But I will never die.           [Falls down]
  CLOWN. [Sings] Sir Toby, there you lie.
  MALVOLIO. This is much credit to you.
  SIR TOBY. [Sings] Shall I bid him go?
  CLOWN. [Sings] What an if you do?
  SIR TOBY. [Sings] Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
  CLOWN. [Sings] O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.  
  SIR TOBY. [Rising] 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?
  CLOWN. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' th' mouth
    too.
 SIR TOBY. Th' art i' th' right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs.
    A stoup of wine, Maria!
  MALVOLIO. Mistress Mary, if you priz'd my lady's favour at anything
    more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil
    rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.
 Exit
  MARIA. Go shake your ears.
  AGUECHEEK. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's ahungry,
    to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him
    and make a fool of him.
  SIR TOBY. Do't, knight. I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll
    deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
  MARIA. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of
    the Count's was to-day with my 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.
  SIR TOBY. Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
  MARIA. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.
  AGUECHEEK. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.
  SIR TOBY. What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear
    knight?
  AGUECHEEK. I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good
    enough.
  MARIA. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a
    time-pleaser; an affection'd ass that cons state without book and
     utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so
    cramm'd, 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.
  SIR TOBY. What wilt thou do?
  MARIA. 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 forgotten matter we
    can hardly make distinction of our hands.
  SIR TOBY. Excellent! I smell a device.
  AGUECHEEK. I have't in my nose too.
  SIR TOBY. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that
    they come from my niece, and that she's in love with him.
  MARIA. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
  AGUECHEEK. And your horse now would make him an ass.
  MARIA. Ass, I doubt not.
  AGUECHEEK. O, 'twill be admirable!
  MARIA. 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.
 Exit
  SIR TOBY. Good night, Penthesilea.
  AGUECHEEK. Before me, she's a good wench.
  SIR TOBY. She's a beagle true-bred, and one that adores me.
    What o' that?
  AGUECHEEK. I was ador'd once too.  
  SIR TOBY. Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more
    money.
  AGUECHEEK. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
  SIR TOBY. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' th' end,
    call me Cut.
  AGUECHEEK. If I do not, never trust me; take it how you will.
  SIR TOBY. Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go
    to bed now. Come, knight; come, knight.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE IV.
The DUKE'S palace

Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and OTHERS

  DUKE. 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.
  CURIO. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing
    it.
  DUKE. Who was it?
  CURIO. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia's
    father took much delight in. He is about the house.
  DUKE. Seek him out, and play the tune the while.
                                       Exit CURIO. [Music plays]
    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 belov'd. How dost thou like this tune?
  VIOLA. It gives a very echo to the seat
    Where Love is thron'd.
  DUKE. 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?
  VIOLA. A little, by your favour.
  DUKE. What kind of woman is't?
  VIOLA. Of your complexion.
  DUKE. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?
  VIOLA. About your years, my lord.
  DUKE. 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 won,  
    Than women's are.
  VIOLA. I think it well, my lord.
  DUKE. Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
    Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;
    For women are as roses, whose fair flow'r
    Being once display'd doth fall that very hour.
  VIOLA. And so they are; alas, that they are so!
    To die, even when they to perfection grow!

                  Re-enter CURIO and CLOWN

  DUKE. 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.
  CLOWN. Are you ready, sir?
  DUKE. Ay; prithee, sing.                               [Music]  

                     FESTE'S 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 to save,
                 Lay me, O, where
          Sad true lover never find my grave,
                 To weep there!  

  DUKE. There's for thy pains.
  CLOWN. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.
  DUKE. I'll pay thy pleasure, then.
  CLOWN. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.
  DUKE. Give me now leave to leave thee.
  CLOWN. 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 everything, and their intent everywhere: for that's it
    that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.
                                                      Exit CLOWN
  DUKE. Let all the rest give place.
                                     Exeunt CURIO and ATTENDANTS
    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.
  VIOLA. But if she cannot love you, sir?
  DUKE. I cannot be so answer'd.
  VIOLA. Sooth, but you must.
    Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,
    Hath for your love as 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?
  DUKE. 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.  
  VIOLA. Ay, but I know-
  DUKE. What dost thou know?
  VIOLA. Too well what love women to men may owe.
    In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
    My father had a daughter lov'd a man,
    As it might be perhaps, were I a woman,
    I should your lordship.
  DUKE. And what's her history?
  VIOLA. A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
    But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
    Feed on her damask cheek. She pin'd 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.
  DUKE. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
  VIOLA. 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?
  DUKE. Ay, that's the theme.
    To her in haste. Give her this jewel; say
    My love can give no place, bide no denay.             Exeunt




SCENE V.
OLIVIA'S garden

Enter SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN

  SIR TOBY. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
  FABIAN. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport let me be
    boil'd to death with melancholy.
  SIR TOBY. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally
    sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
  FABIAN. I would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' favour
    with my lady about a bear-baiting here.
  SIR TOBY. To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will fool
    him black and blue- shall we not, Sir Andrew?
  AGUECHEEK. And we do not, it is pity of our lives.

                       Enter MARIA

  SIR TOBY. Here comes the little villain.
    How now, my metal of India!
  MARIA. Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio's coming down
    this walk. He has been yonder i' the sun practising behaviour 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! [As the men hide she drops
    a letter] Lie thou there; for here comes the trout that must be
    caught with tickling.
 Exit

                      Enter MALVOLIO

  MALVOLIO. '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?
  SIR TOBY. Here's an overweening rogue!
  FABIAN. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him;
    how he jets under his advanc'd plumes!
  AGUECHEEK. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue-
  SIR TOBY. Peace, I say.
  MALVOLIO. To be Count Malvolio!  
  SIR TOBY. Ah, rogue!
  AGUECHEEK. Pistol him, pistol him.
  SIR TOBY. Peace, peace!
  MALVOLIO. There is example for't: the Lady of the Strachy married
    the yeoman of the wardrobe.
  AGUECHEEK. Fie on him, Jezebel!
  FABIAN. O, peace! Now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows
    him.
  MALVOLIO. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my
    state-
  SIR TOBY. O, for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!
  MALVOLIO. Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown,
    having come from a day-bed- where I have left Olivia sleeping-
  SIR TOBY. Fire and brimstone!
  FABIAN. O, peace, peace!
  MALVOLIO. 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 ask for my kinsman Toby-
  SIR TOBY. Bolts and shackles!
  FABIAN. O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.  
  MALVOLIO. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for
    him. I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch, or play
    with my- some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me-
  SIR TOBY. Shall this fellow live?
  FABIAN. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.
  MALVOLIO. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile
   with an austere regard of control-
  SIR TOBY. And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?
  MALVOLIO. Saying 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your
    niece give me this prerogative of speech'-
  SIR TOBY. What, what?
  MALVOLIO. 'You must amend your drunkenness'-
  SIR TOBY. Out, scab!
  FABIAN. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
  MALVOLIO. 'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a
    foolish knight'-
  AGUECHEEK. That's me, I warrant you.
  MALVOLIO. 'One Sir Andrew.'
  AGUECHEEK. I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.
  MALVOLIO. What employment have we here?  
                                          [Taking up the letter]
  FABIAN. Now is the woodcock near the gin.
  SIR TOBY. O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading
    aloud to him!
  MALVOLIO. 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.
  AGUECHEEK. Her C's, her U's, and her T's. Why that?
  MALVOLIO. [Reads] 'To the unknown belov'd, 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?
  FABIAN. This wins him, liver and all.
  MALVOLIO. [Reads]

                    Jove knows I love,
                      But who?
                    Lips, do not move;
                    No man must know.'
  
    'No man must know.' What follows? The numbers alter'd!
    'No man must know.' If this should be thee, Malvolio?
  SIR TOBY. Marry, hang thee, brock!
  MALVOLIO. [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.'

  FABIAN. A fustian riddle!
  SIR TOBY. Excellent wench, say I.
  MALVOLIO. 'M. O. A. I. doth sway my life.'
    Nay, but first let me see, let me see, let me see.
  FABIAN. What dish o' poison has she dress'd him!
  SIR TOBY. And with what wing the staniel checks at it!
  MALVOLIO. '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.-
  SIR TOBY. O, ay, make up that! He is now at a cold scent.
  FABIAN. Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank
    as a fox.
  MALVOLIO. M- Malvolio; M- why, that begins my name.
  FABIAN. Did not I say he would work it out?
    The cur is excellent at faults.
  MALVOLIO. M- But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that
    suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does.
  FABIAN. And O shall end, I hope.
  SIR TOBY. Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry 'O!'
  MALVOLIO. And then I comes behind.
  FABIAN. Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more
    detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.
  MALVOLIO. 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.
                                                         [Reads]
      '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
    wish'd to see thee ever cross-garter'd. I say, remember, Go to,
    thou art made, if thou desir'st 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 champain 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-garter'd; 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-garter'd, even with the swiftness of
    putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a
    postscript.

    [Reads] 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
    entertain'st 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.                                           Exit
  FABIAN. I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of
    thousands to be paid from the Sophy.
  SIR TOBY. I could marry this wench for this device.
  AGUECHEEK. So could I too.
  SIR TOBY. And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.
  
                          Enter MARIA

  AGUECHEEK. Nor I neither.
  FABIAN. Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
  SIR TOBY. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?
  AGUECHEEK. Or o' mine either?
  SIR TOBY. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy
    bond-slave?
  AGUECHEEK. I' faith, or I either?
  SIR TOBY. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream that when the
    image of it leaves him he must run mad.
  MARIA. Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?
  SIR TOBY. Like aqua-vita! with a midwife.
  AIARIA. 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-garter'd, 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.  
  SIR TOBY. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!
  AGUECHEEK. I'll make one too.                           Exeunt




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ACT III. SCENE I.
OLIVIA'S garden

Enter VIOLA, and CLOWN with a tabor

  VIOLA. Save thee, friend, and thy music!
    Dost thou live by thy tabor?
  CLOWN. No, sir, I live by the church.
  VIOLA. Art thou a churchman?
  CLOWN. 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.
  VIOLA. So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar
    dwell near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor
    stand by the church.
  CLOWN. You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a
    chev'ril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be
    turn'd outward!
  VIOLA. Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with words may
    quickly make them wanton.
  CLOWN. I would, therefore, my sister had had name, sir.
  VIOLA. Why, man?
  CLOWN. 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 disgrac'd them.
  VIOLA. Thy reason, man?
  CLOWN. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words, and words
    are grown so false I am loath to prove reason with them.
  VIOLA. I warrant thou art a merry fellow and car'st for nothing.
  CLOWN. 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.
  VIOLA. Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?
  CLOWN. 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 pilchers are to herrings- the husband's the bigger. I am
    indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words.
  VIOLA. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.
  CLOWN. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun- it
    shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be
    as oft with your master as with my mistress: think I saw your
    wisdom there.
  VIOLA. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee.  
    Hold, there's expenses for thee.             [Giving a coin]
  CLOWN. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send the a beard!
  VIOLA. By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one;
    [Aside] though I would not have it grow on my chin.- Is thy lady
    within?
  CLOWN. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?
  VIOLA. Yes, being kept together and put to use.
  CLOWN. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a
    Cressida to this Troilus.
  VIOLA. I understand you, sir; 'tis well begg'd.
                                           [Giving another coin]
  CLOWN. 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 overworn.
                                                      Exit CLOWN
  VIOLA. 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, check at every feather
    That comes before his eye. This is a practice
    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.

                Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW

  SIR TOBY. Save you, gentleman!
  VIOLA. And you, sir.
  AGUECHEEK. Dieu vous garde, monsieur.
  VIOLA. Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.
  AGUECHEEK. I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.
  SIR TOBY. Will you encounter the house? My niece is desirous you
    should enter, if your trade be to her.
  VIOLA. I am bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the list of my
    voyage.
  SIR TOBY. Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.
  VIOLA. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what
    you mean by bidding me taste my legs.  
  SIR TOBY. I mean, to go, sir, to enter.
  VIOLA. I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we are
    prevented.

                  Enter OLIVIA and MARIA

    Most excellent accomplish'd lady, the heavens rain odours on you!
  AGUECHEEK. That youth's a rare courtier- 'Rain odours' well!
  VIOLA. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant
    and vouchsafed car.
  AGUECHEEK. 'Odours,' 'pregnant,' and 'vouchsafed'- I'll get 'em all
    three all ready.
  OLIVIA. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.
    [Exeunt all but OLIVIA and VIOLA] Give me your hand, sir.
  VIOLA. My duty, madam, and most humble service.
  OLIVIA. What is your name?
  VIOLA. Cesario is your servant's name, fair Princess.
  OLIVIA. My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world
    Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment.
    Y'are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.  
  VIOLA. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours:
    Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.
  OLIVIA. For him, I think not on him; for his thoughts,
    Would they were blanks rather than fill'd with me!
  VIOLA. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
    On his behalf.
  OLIVIA. 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.
  VIOLA. Dear lady-
  OLIVIA. 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 th' unmuzzled thoughts
    That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
    Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,
    Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak.
  VIOLA. I Pity YOU.
  OLIVIA. That's a degree to love.
  VIOLA. No, not a grize; for 'tis a vulgar proof
    That very oft we pity enemies.
  OLIVIA. 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!       [Clock strikes]
    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 wife is like to reap a proper man.
    There lies your way, due west.
  VIOLA. Then westward-ho!
    Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship!
    You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?  
  OLIVIA. Stay.
    I prithee tell me what thou think'st of me.
  VIOLA. That you do think you are not what you are.
  OLIVIA. If I think so, I think the same of you.
  VIOLA. Then think you right: I am not what I am.
  OLIVIA. I would you were as I would have you be!
  VIOLA. Would it be better, madam, than I am?
    I wish it might, for now I am your fool.
  OLIVIA. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
    In the contempt and anger of his lip!
    A murd'rous 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 is better.  
  VIOLA. 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.
  OLIVIA. Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move
    That heart which now abhors to like his love.         Exeunt




SCENE II.
OLIVIA'S house

Enter SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW and FABIAN

  AGUECHEEK. No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.
  SIR TOBY. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.
  FABIAN. You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
  AGUECHEEK. Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the Count's
    servingman than ever she bestow'd upon me; I saw't i' th'
    orchard.
  SIR TOBY. Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me that.
  AGUECHEEK. As plain as I see you now.
  FABIAN. This was a great argument of love in her toward you.
  AGUECHEEK. 'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?
  FABIAN. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment
    and reason.
  SIR TOBY. And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a
    sailor.
  FABIAN. 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 bang'd the youth into dumbness. This was
    look'd for at your hand, and this was baulk'd. The double gilt of
    this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sail'd
    into the north of my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an
    icicle on Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some
    laudable attempt either of valour or policy.
  AGUECHEEK. An't be any way, it must be with valour, for policy I
    hate; I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.
  SIR TOBY. 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.
  FABIAN. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
  AGUECHEEK. Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?
  SIR TOBY. Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is
    no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention.
    Taunt him with the license 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.
  AGUECHEEK. Where shall I find you?
  SIR TOBY. We'll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.
                                                 Exit SIR ANDREW
  FABIAN. This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.
  SIR TOBY. I have been dear to him, lad- some two thousand strong,
    or so.
  FABIAN. We shall have a rare letter from him; but you'll not
    deliver't?
  SIR TOBY. 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 open'd and you find so much
    blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the
    rest of th' anatomy.
  FABIAN. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great
    presage of cruelty.
  
                         Enter MARIA

  SIR TOBY. Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.
  MARIA. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves 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.
  SIR TOBY. And cross-garter'd?
  MARIA. Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' th'
    church. I have dogg'd him like his murderer. He does obey every
    point of the letter that I dropp'd 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.
  SIR TOBY. Come, bring us, bring us where he is.         Exeunt




SCENE III.
A street

Enter SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO

  SEBASTIAN. I would not by my will have troubled you;
    But since you make your pleasure of your pains,
    I will no further chide you.
  ANTONIO. 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.
  SEBASTIAN. My kind Antonio,
    I can no other answer make but thanks,
    And thanks, and ever thanks; and oft good turns
    Are shuffl'd 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?
  ANTONIO. To-morrow, sir; best first go see your lodging.
  SEBASTIAN. 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.
  ANTONIO. Would you'd 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.
  SEBASTIAN. Belike you slew great number of his people.
  ANTONIO.Th' 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.
  SEBASTIAN. Do not then walk too open.
  ANTONIO. 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.
  SEBASTIAN. Why I your purse?
  ANTONIO. Haply your eye shall light upon some toy
    You have desire to purchase; and your store,
    I think, is not for idle markets, sir.
  SEBASTIAN. I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for
    An hour.
  ANTONIO. To th' Elephant.
  SEBASTIAN. I do remember.                               Exeunt




SCENE IV.
OLIVIA'S garden

Enter OLIVIA and MARIA

  OLIVIA. 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's Malvolio? He is sad and civil,
    And suits well for a servant with my fortunes.
    Where is Malvolio?
  MARIA. He's coming, madam; but in very strange manner.
    He is sure possess'd, madam.
  OLIVIA. Why, what's the matter? Does he rave?
  MARIA. 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.
  OLIVIA. Go call him hither.                         Exit MARIA
    I am as mad as he,
    If sad and merry madness equal be.
  
               Re-enter MARIA with MALVOLIO

    How now, Malvolio!
  MALVOLIO. Sweet lady, ho, ho.
  OLIVIA. Smil'st thou?
    I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.
  MALVOLIO. 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.'
  OLIVIA. Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee?
  MALVOLIO. 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.
  OLIVIA. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
  MALVOLIO. To bed? Ay, sweetheart, and I'll come to thee.
  OLIVIA. God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand
    so oft?
  MARIA. How do you, Malvolio?
  MALVOLIO. At your request? Yes, nightingales answer daws!  
  MARIA. Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?
  MALVOLIO. 'Be not afraid of greatness.' 'Twas well writ.
  OLIVIA. What mean'st thou by that, Malvolio?
  AIALVOLIO. 'Some are born great,'-
  OLIVIA. Ha?
  MALVOLIO. 'Some achieve greatness,'-
  OLIVIA. What say'st thou?
  MALVOLIO. 'And some have greatness thrust upon them.'
  OLIVIA. Heaven restore thee!
  MALVOLIO. 'Remember who commended thy yellow stockings,'-
  OLIVIA. 'Thy yellow stockings?'
  MALVOLIO. 'And wish'd to see thee cross-garterd.'
  OLIVIA. 'Cross-garter'd?'
  MALVOLIO. 'Go to, thou an made, if thou desir'st to be so';-
  OLIVIA. Am I made?
  MALVOLIO. 'If not, let me see thee a servant still.'
  OLIVIA. Why, this is very midsummer madness.

                     Enter SERVANT
  
  SERVANT. Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino's is
    return'd; I could hardly entreat him back; he attends your
    ladyship's pleasure.
  OLIVIA. I'll come to him. [Exit SERVANT] Good Maria, let this
    fellow be look'd 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.
                                         Exeunt OLIVIA and MARIA
  MALVOLIO. 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 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 lim'd her; but it is
    Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when she went away
    now- 'Let this fellow be look'd to.' 'Fellow,' not 'Malvolio' nor
    after my degree, but 'fellow.' Why, everything 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.

             Re-enter MARIA, with SIR TOBY and FABIAN

  SIR TOBY. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the
    devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possess'd
    him, yet I'll speak to him.
  FABIAN. Here he is, here he is. How is't with you, sir?
  SIR TOBY. How is't with you, man?
  MALVOLIO. Go off; I discard you. Let me enjoy my private; go off.
  MARIA. 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.
  MALVOLIO. Ah, ha! does she so?
  SIR TOBY. 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.  
  MALVOLIO. Do you know what you say?
  MARIA. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at
    heart! Pray God he be not bewitched.
  FABIAN. Carry his water to th' wise woman.
  MARIA. Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I live. My
    lady would not lose him for more than I'll say.
  MALVOLIO. How now, mistress!
  MARIA. O Lord!
  SIR TOBY. Prithee hold thy peace; this is not the way. Do you not
    see you move him? Let me alone with him.
  FABIAN. No way but gentleness- gently, gently. The fiend is rough,
    and will not be roughly us'd.
  SIR TOBY. Why, how now, my bawcock!
    How dost thou, chuck?
  MALVOLIO. Sir!
  SIR TOBY. Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man, 'tis not for gravity
    to play at cherrypit with Satan. Hang him, foul collier!
  MARIA. Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.
  MALVOLIO. My prayers, minx!
  MARIA. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.  
  MALVOLIO. Go, hang yourselves all! You are idle shallow things; I
    am not of your element; you shall know more hereafter.
 Exit
  SIR TOBY. Is't possible?
  FABIAN. If this were play'd upon a stage now, I could condemn it as
    an improbable fiction.
  SIR TOBY. His very genius hath taken the infection of the device,
    man.
  MARIA. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.
  FABIAN. Why, we shall make him mad indeed.
  MARIA. The house will be the quieter.
  SIR TOBY. 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.

                     Enter SIR ANDREW
  
  FABIAN. More matter for a May morning.
  AGUECHEEK. Here's the challenge; read it. I warrant there's vinegar
    and pepper in't.
  FABIAN. Is't so saucy?
  AGUECHEEK. Ay, is't, I warrant him; do but read.
  SIR TOBY. Give me. [Reads] 'Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art
    but a scurvy fellow.'
  FABIAN. Good and valiant.
  SIR TOBY. [Reads] 'Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do
    call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't.'
  FABIAN. A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law.
  SIR TOBY. [Reads] 'Thou com'st 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.'
  FABIAN. Very brief, and to exceeding good sense- less.
  SIR TOBY. [Reads] 'I will waylay thee going home; where if it be
    thy chance to kill me'-
  FABIAN. Good.
  SIR TOBY. 'Thou kill'st me like a rogue and a villain.'
  FABIAN. Still you keep o' th' windy side of the law. Good!  
  SIR TOBY. [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.
  MARIA. You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some
    commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.
  SIR TOBY. Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the
    orchard, like a bum-baily; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw;
    and as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft
    that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd
    off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would
    have earn'd him. Away.
  AGUECHEEK. Nay, let me alone for swearing.                Exit
  SIR TOBY. Now will not I deliver his letter; for the behaviour 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 notable report of valour, and drive the
    gentleman- as 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.

                Re-enter OLIVIA. With VIOLA

  FABIAN. Here he comes with your niece; give them way till he take
    leave, and presently after him.
  SIR TOBY. I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a
    challenge.
                              Exeunt SIR TOBY, FABIAN, and MARIA
  OLIVIA. 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.  
  VIOLA. With the same haviour that your passion bears
    Goes on my master's griefs.
  OLIVIA. 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 sav'd may upon asking give?
  VIOLA. Nothing but this- your true love for my master.
  OLIVIA. How with mine honour may I give him that
    Which I have given to you?
  VIOLA. I will acquit you.
  OLIVIA. Well, come again to-morrow. Fare thee well;
    A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.           Exit

              Re-enter SIR TOBY and SIR FABIAN

  SIR TOBY. Gentleman, God save thee.
  VIOLA. And you, sir.
  SIR TOBY. That defence thou hast, betake thee tot. 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.
  VIOLA. 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.
  SIR TOBY. 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.
  VIOLA. I pray you, sir, what is he?
  SIR TOBY. He is knight, dubb'd with unhatch'd rapier and on carpet
    consideration; but he is a devil in private brawl. Souls and
    bodies hath he divorc'd 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.
  VIOLA. 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 TOBY. 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.
  VIOLA. 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.
  SIR TOBY. I Will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman
    till my return.                                Exit SIR TOBY
  VIOLA. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?
  FABIAN. I know the knight is incens'd against you, even to a mortal
    arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.
  VIOLA. I beseech you, what manner of man is he?
  FABIAN. 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.  
  VIOLA. I shall be much bound to you for't. I am one that would
    rather go with sir priest than sir knight. I care not who knows
    so much of my mettle.                                 Exeunt

                Re-enter SIR TOBY With SIR ANDREW

  SIR TOBY. 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.
  AGUECHEEK. Pox on't, I'll not meddle with him.
  SIR TOBY. Ay, but he will not now be pacified; Fabian can scarce
    hold him yonder.
  AGUECHEEK. Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so
    cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I'd have
    challeng'd him. Let him let the matter slip, and I'll give him
    my horse, grey Capilet.
  SIR TOBY. I'll make the motion. Stand here, make a good show on't;  
    this shall end without the perdition of souls. [Aside] Marry,
    I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.

              Re-enter FABIAN and VIOLA

    [To FABIAN] I have his horse to take up the quarrel; I have
    persuaded him the youth's a devil.
  FABIAN. [To SIR TOBY] He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants
   and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels.
  SIR TOBY. [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.
  VIOLA. [Aside] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me
    tell them how much I lack of a man.
  FABIAN. Give ground if you see him furious.
  SIR TOBY. 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 promis'd me, as he is a gentleman and  
    a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to't.
  AGUECHEEK. Pray God he keep his oath!                [They draw]

                      Enter ANTONIO

  VIOLA. I do assure you 'tis against my will.
  ANTONIO. 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.
  SIR TOBY. You, sir! Why, what are you?
  ANTONIO. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more
    Than you have heard him brag to you he will.
  SIR TOBY. Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.
                                                     [They draw]

                         Enter OFFICERS

  FABIAN. O good Sir Toby, hold! Here come the officers.
  SIR TOBY. [To ANTONIO] I'll be with you anon.
  VIOLA. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.  
  AGUECHEEK. Marry, will I, sir; and for that I promis'd you, I'll be
    as good as my word. He will bear you easily and reins well.
  FIRST OFFICER. This is the man; do thy office.
  SECOND OFFICER. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
    Of Count Orsino.
  ANTONIO. You do mistake me, sir.
  FIRST OFFICER. 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.
  ANTONIO. I Must obey. [To VIOLA] 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 amaz'd;
    But be of comfort.
  SECOND OFFICER. Come, sir, away.
  ANTONIO. I must entreat of you some of that money.
  VIOLA. 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.
  ANTONIO. 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.
  VIOLA. 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.
  ANTONIO. O heavens themselves!
  SECOND OFFICER. Come, sir, I pray you go.
  ANTONIO. Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here  
    I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death,
    Reliev'd him with such sanctity of love,
    And to his image, which methought did promise
    Most venerable worth, did I devotion.
  FIRST OFFICER. What's that to us? The time goes by; away.
  ANTONIO. 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.
  FIRST OFFICER. The man grows mad. Away with him.
    Come, come, sir.
  ANTONIO. Lead me on.                        Exit with OFFICERS
  VIOLA. 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!
  SIR TOBY. Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian; we'll whisper
    o'er a couplet or two of most sage saws.  
  VIOLA. He nam'd 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!        Exit
  SIR TOBY. 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.
  FABIAN. A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.
  AGUECHEEK. 'Slid, I'll after him again and beat him.
  SIR TOBY. Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.
  AGUECHEEK. And I do not-                                  Exit
  FABIAN. Come, let's see the event.
  SIR TOBY. I dare lay any money 'twill be nothing yet.
                                                          Exeunt




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ACT IV. SCENE I.
Before OLIVIA'S house

Enter SEBASTIAN and CLOWN

  CLOWN. Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?
  SEBASTIAN. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; let me be clear
    of thee.
  CLOWN. 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.
  SEBASTIAN. I prithee vent thy folly somewhere else.
    Thou know'st not me.
  CLOWN. 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?
  SEBASTIAN. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me;
    There's money for thee; if you tarry longer
    I shall give worse payment.  
  CLOWN. By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men that
    give fools money get themselves a good report after fourteen
    years' purchase.

             Enter SIR ANDREW, SIR TOBY, and FABIAN

  AGUECHEEK. Now, sir, have I met you again?
    [Striking SEBASTIAN] There's for you.
  SEBASTIAN. Why, there's for thee, and there, and there.
    Are all the people mad?
  SIR TOBY. Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.
                                             [Holding SEBASTIAN]
  CLOWN. This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of
    your coats for two-pence.                               Exit
  SIR TOBY. Come on, sir; hold.
  AGUECHEEK. 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.
  SEBASTIAN. Let go thy hand.  
  SIR TOBY. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier,
    put up your iron; you are well flesh'd. Come on.
  SEBASTIAN. I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now?
    If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword.     [Draws]
  SIR TOBY. What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this
    malapert blood from you. [Draws]

                        Enter OLIVIA

  OLIVIA. Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee hold.
  SIR TOBY. Madam!
  OLIVIA. 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!
                         Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN
    I prithee, gentle friend,
    Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
    In this uncivil and 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.
  SEBASTIAN. 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!
  OLIVIA. Nay, come, I prithee. Would thou'dst be rul'd by me!
  SEBASTIAN. Madam, I will.
  OLIVIA. O, say so, and so be!                           Exeunt




SCENE II.
OLIVIA'S house

Enter MARIA and CLOWN

  MARIA. 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.                                    Exit
  CLOWN. 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.

                 Enter SIR TOBY and MARIA

  SIR TOBY. Jove bless thee, Master Parson.
  CLOWN. Bonos dies, Sir Toby; for as the old hermit of Prague, that
    never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to 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?  
  SIR TOBY. To him, Sir Topas.
  CLOWN. What ho, I say! Peace in this prison!
  SIR TOBY. The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.
  MALVOLIO. [Within] Who calls there?
  CLOWN. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the
    lunatic.
  MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.
  CLOWN. Out, hyperbolical fiend! How vexest thou this man!
    Talkest thou nothing but of ladies?
  SIR TOBY. Well said, Master Parson.
  MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged. Good Sir Topas, do
    not think I am mad; they have laid me here in hideous darkness.
  CLOWN. 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. Say'st thou that house is dark?
  MALVOLIO. As hell, Sir Topas.
  CLOWN. Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the
    clerestories toward the south north are as lustrous as ebony; and
    yet complainest thou of obstruction?
  MALVOLIO. I am not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you this house is dark.  
  CLOWN. Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but
    ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in
    their fog.
  MALVOLIO. I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though
    ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man
    thus abus'd. I am no more mad than you are; make the trial of it
    in any constant question.
  CLOWN. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl?
  MALVOLIO. That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.
  CLOWN. What think'st thou of his opinion?
  MALVOLIO. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his
    opinion.
  CLOWN. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt
   hold th' 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.
  MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas!
  SIR TOBY. My most exquisite Sir Topas!
  CLOWN. Nay, I am for all waters.
  MARIA. Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown: he  
    sees thee not.
  SIR TOBY. To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou
    find'st him. I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may
    be conveniently deliver'd, 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.
                                                 Exit with MARIA
  CLOWN. [Sings] Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,
    Tell me how thy lady does.
  MALVOLIO. Fool!
  CLOWN. [Sings] My lady is unkind, perdy.
  MALVOLIO. Fool!
  CLOWN. [Sings] Alas, why is she so?
  MALVOLIO. Fool I say!
  CLOWN. [Sings] She loves another- Who calls, ha?
  MALVOLIO. 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.
  CLOWN. Master Malvolio?
  MALVOLIO. Ay, good fool.  
  CLOWN. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?
  MALVOLIO. Fool, there was never man so notoriously abus'd;
    I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.
  CLOWN. But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in
    your wits than a fool.
  MALVOLIO. 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.
  CLOWN. Advise you what. you say: the minister is here.
    [Speaking as SIR TOPAS] Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore!
    Endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble-babble.
  MALVOLIO. Sir Topas!
  CLOWN. Maintain no words with him, good fellow.- Who, I, sir? Not
    I, sir. God buy you, good Sir Topas.- Marry, amen.- I will sir, I
    will.
  MALVOLIO. Fool, fool, fool, I say!
  CLOWN. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for
    speaking to you.
  MALVOLIO. 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.  
  CLOWN. Well-a-day that you were, sir!
  MALVOLIO. 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.
  CLOWN. I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad
    indeed, or do you but counterfeit?
  MALVOLIO. Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.
  CLOWN. Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see his brains.
    I will fetch you light and paper and ink.
  MALVOLIO. Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree; I prithe be
    gone.
  CLOWN. [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, goodman devil.                    Exit




SCENE III.
OLIVIA'S garden

Enter SEBASTIAN

  SEBASTIAN. 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 deceivable. But here the lady comes.

                Enter OLIVIA and PRIEST

  OLIVIA. 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 fun 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?
  SEBASTIAN. I'll follow this good man, and go with you;
    And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.
  OLIVIA. Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine  
    That they may fairly note this act of mine!           Exeunt




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
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ACT V. SCENE I.
Before OLIVIA's house

Enter CLOWN and FABIAN

  FABIAN. Now, as thou lov'st me, let me see his letter.
  CLOWN. Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.
  FABIAN. Anything.
  CLOWN. Do not desire to see this letter.
  FABIAN. This is to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog
    again.

             Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and LORDS

  DUKE. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?
  CLOWN. Ay, sir, we are some of her trappings.
  DUKE. I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow?
  CLOWN. Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my
    friends.
  DUKE. Just the contrary: the better for thy friends.
  CLOWN. No, sir, the worse.
  DUKE. How can that be?  
  CLOWN. 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.
  DUKE. Why, this is excellent.
  CLOWN. By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my
    friends.
  DUKE. Thou shalt not be the worse for me. There's gold.
  CLOWN. But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could
    make it another.
  DUKE. O, you give me ill counsel.
  CLOWN. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let
    your flesh and blood obey it.
  DUKE. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer.
    There's another.
  CLOWN. 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.
  DUKE. 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.
  CLOWN. 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.                       Exit

                 Enter ANTONIO and OFFICERS

  VIOLA. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.
  DUKE. 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 baubling 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 los  
    Cried fame and honour on him. What's the matter?
  FIRST OFFICER. 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.
  VIOLA. He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side;
    But in conclusion put strange speech upon me.
    I know not what 'twas but distraction.
  DUKE. 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?
  ANTONIO. Orsino, noble sir,
    Be pleas'd 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 enrag'd and foamy mouth
    Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was.
    His life I gave him, and did thereto ad
    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.
  VIOLA. How can this be?
  DUKE. When came he to this town?
  ANTONIO. To-day, my lord; and for three months before,
    No int'rim, not a minute's vacancy,
    Both day and night did we keep company.  

              Enter OLIVIA and ATTENDANTS

  DUKE. 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.
  OLIVIA. What would my lord, but that he may not have,
    Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?
    Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
  VIOLA. Madam?
  DUKE. Gracious Olivia-
  OLIVIA. What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord-
  VIOLA. My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.
  OLIVIA. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,
    It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear
    As howling after music.
  DUKE. Still so cruel?
  OLIVIA. Still so constant, lord.
  DUKE. What, to perverseness? You uncivil lady,  
    To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars
    My soul the faithfull'st off'rings hath breath'd out
    That e'er devotion tender'd! What shall I do?
  OLIVIA. Even what it please my lord, that shall become him.
  DUKE. 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 sometime 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.
  VIOLA. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,  
    To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.
  OLIVIA. Where goes Cesario?
  VIOLA. 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!
  OLIVIA. Ay me, detested! How am I beguil'd!
  VIOLA. Who does beguile you? Who does do you wrong?
  OLIVIA. Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?
    Call forth the holy father.                Exit an ATTENDANT
  DUKE. Come, away!
  OLIVIA. Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.
  DUKE. Husband?
  OLIVIA. Ay, husband; can he that deny?
  DUKE. Her husband, sirrah?
  VIOLA. No, my lord, not I.
  OLIVIA. 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.

                   Enter PRIEST

    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.
  PRIEST. A contract of eternal bond of love,
    Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands,
    Attested by the holy close of lips,
    Strength'ned 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.
  DUKE. 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.
  VIOLA. My lord, I do protest-
  OLIVIA. O, do not swear!
    Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear.

                  Enter SIR ANDREW

  AGUECHEEK. For the love of God, a surgeon!
    Send one presently to Sir Toby.
  OLIVIA. What's the matter?
  AGUECHEEK. 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.
  OLIVIA. Who has done this, Sir Andrew?
  AGUECHEEK. The Count's gentleman, one Cesario. We took him for a
    coward, but he's the very devil incardinate.  
  DUKE. My gentleman, Cesario?
  AGUECHEEK. Od's lifelings, here he is! You broke my head for
    nothing; and that that did, I was set on to do't by Sir Toby.
  VIOLA. Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you.
    You drew your sword upon me without cause;
    But I bespake you fair and hurt you not.

                Enter SIR TOBY and CLOWN

  AGUECHEEK. 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 tickl'd you othergates than he did.
  DUKE. How now, gentleman? How is't with you?
  SIR TOBY. That's all one; has hurt me, and there's th' end on't.
    Sot, didst see Dick Surgeon, sot?
  CLOWN. O, he's drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at
    eight i' th' morning.
  SIR TOBY. Then he's a rogue and a passy measures pavin. I hate a
    drunken rogue.  
  OLIVIA. Away with him. Who hath made this havoc with them?
  AGUECHEEK. I'll help you, Sir Toby, because we'll be dress'd
    together.
  SIR TOBY. Will you help- an ass-head and a coxcomb and a knave, a
    thin fac'd knave, a gull?
  OLIVIA. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look'd to.
                  Exeunt CLOWN, FABIAN, SIR TOBY, and SIR ANDREW

                      Enter SEBASTIAN

  SEBASTIAN. 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.
  DUKE. One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!
    A natural perspective, that is and is not.
  SEBASTIAN. Antonio, O my dear Antonio!  
    How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd me
    Since I have lost thee!
  ANTONIO. Sebastian are you?
  SEBASTIAN. Fear'st thou that, Antonio?
  ANTONIO. How have you made division of yourself?
    An apple cleft in two is not more twin
    Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?
  OLIVIA. Most wonderful!
  SEBASTIAN. Do I stand there? I never had a brother;
    Nor can there be that deity in my nature
    Of here and everywhere. 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?
  VIOLA. 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.
  SEBASTIAN. 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!'
  VIOLA. My father had a mole upon his brow.
  SEBASTIAN. And so had mine.
  VIOLA. And died that day when Viola from her birth
    Had numb'red thirteen years.
  SEBASTIAN. O, that record is lively in my soul!
    He finished indeed his mortal act
    That day that made my sister thirteen years.
  VIOLA. 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 preserv'd to serve this noble Count.  
    All the occurrence of my fortune since
    Hath been between this lady and this lord.
  SEBASTIAN. [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, deceiv'd;
    You are betroth'd both to a maid and man.
  DUKE. Be not amaz'd; right noble is his blood.
    If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,
    I shall have share in this most happy wreck.
    [To VIOLA] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times
    Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.
  VIOLA. And all those sayings will I overswear;
    And all those swearings keep as true in soul
    As doth that orbed continent the fire
    That severs day from night.
  DUKE. Give me thy hand;
    And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds.
  VIOLA. 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.
  OLIVIA. He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither;
    And yet, alas, now I remember me,
    They say, poor gentleman, he's much distract.

        Re-enter CLOWN, with a letter, and FABIAN

    A most extracting frenzy of mine own
    From my remembrance clearly banish'd his.
    How does he, sirrah?
  CLOWN. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave'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
    deliver'd.
  OLIVIA. Open't, and read it.
  CLOWN. Look then to be well edified when the fool delivers the
    madman. [Reads madly ] 'By the Lord, madam-'
  OLIVIA. How now! Art thou mad?  
  CLOWN. No, madam, I do but read madness. An your ladyship will have
    it as it ought to be, you must allow vox.
  OLIVIA. Prithee read i' thy right wits.
  CLOWN. So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to read
    thus; therefore perpend, my Princess, and give ear.
  OLIVIA. [To FABIAN] Read it you, sirrah.
  FABIAN. [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-US'D MALVOLIO'

  OLIVIA. Did he write this?
  CLOWN. Ay, Madam.
  DUKE. This savours not much of distraction.
  OLIVIA. See him deliver'd, Fabian; bring him hither.  
                                                     Exit FABIAN
    My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,
    To think me as well a sister as a wife,
    One day shall crown th' alliance on't, so please you,
    Here at my house, and at my proper cost.
  DUKE. Madam, I am most apt t' embrace your offer.
    [To VIOLA] 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
    You master's mistress.
  OLIVIA. A sister! You are she.

                Re-enter FABIAN, with MALVOLIO

  DUKE. Is this the madman?
  OLIVIA. Ay, my lord, this same.
    How now, Malvolio!  
  MALVOLIO. Madam, you have done me wrong,
    Notorious wrong.
  OLIVIA. Have I, Malvolio? No.
  MALVOLIO. 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, not 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 gul
    That e'er invention play'd on? Tell me why.
  OLIVIA. 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 cam'st in smiling,
    And in such forms which here were presuppos'd
    Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content;
    This practice 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.
  FABIAN. Good madam, hear me speak,
    And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come
    Taint the condition of this present hour,
    Which I have wond'red 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 conceiv'd 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.
  OLIVIA. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffl'd thee!
  CLOWN. 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 gagg'd'? And thus
    the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
  MALVOLIO. I'll be reveng'd on the whole pack of you.
 Exit
  OLIVIA. He hath been most notoriously abus'd.
  DUKE. 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.
                                        Exeunt all but the CLOWN

                        CLOWN 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, the wind and the rain,
           'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
             For the rain it raineth every day.

           But when I came, alas! to wive,
             With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
           By swaggering could I never thrive,
             For the rain it raineth every day.  

           But when I came unto my beds,
             With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
           With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
             For the rain it raineth every day.

           A great while ago the world begun,
             With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
           But that's all one, our play is done,
           And we'll strive to please you every day.
 Exit

THE END



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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1595

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

by William Shakespeare



DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  DUKE OF MILAN, father to Silvia
  VALENTINE, one of the two gentlemen
  PROTEUS,    "  "   "   "     "
  ANTONIO, father to Proteus
  THURIO, a foolish rival to Valentine
  EGLAMOUR, agent for Silvia in her escape
  SPEED, a clownish servant to Valentine
  LAUNCE, the like to Proteus
  PANTHINO, servant to Antonio
  HOST, where Julia lodges in Milan
  OUTLAWS, with Valentine

  JULIA, a lady of Verona, beloved of Proteus
  SILVIA, the Duke's daughter, beloved of Valentine
  LUCETTA, waiting-woman to Julia

  SERVANTS
  MUSICIANS




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
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SCENE:  
Verona; Milan; the frontiers of Mantua


ACT I. SCENE I.
Verona. An open place

Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS

  VALENTINE. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus:
    Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
    Were't not affection chains thy tender days
    To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love,
    I rather would entreat thy company
    To see the wonders of the world abroad,
    Than, living dully sluggardiz'd at home,
    Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
    But since thou lov'st, love still, and thrive therein,
    Even as I would, when I to love begin.
  PROTEUS. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu!
    Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest
    Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel.
    Wish me partaker in thy happiness
    When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger,
    If ever danger do environ thee,
    Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,  
    For I will be thy headsman, Valentine.
  VALENTINE. And on a love-book pray for my success?
  PROTEUS. Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee.
  VALENTINE. That's on some shallow story of deep love:
    How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.
  PROTEUS. That's a deep story of a deeper love;
    For he was more than over shoes in love.
  VALENTINE. 'Tis true; for you are over boots in love,
    And yet you never swum the Hellespont.
  PROTEUS. Over the boots! Nay, give me not the boots.
  VALENTINE. No, I will not, for it boots thee not.
  PROTEUS. What?
  VALENTINE. To be in love- where scorn is bought with groans,
    Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment's mirth
    With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights;
    If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;
    If lost, why then a grievous labour won;
    However, but a folly bought with wit,
    Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
  PROTEUS. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.  
  VALENTINE. So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove.
  PROTEUS. 'Tis love you cavil at; I am not Love.
  VALENTINE. Love is your master, for he masters you;
    And he that is so yoked by a fool,
    Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.
  PROTEUS. Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud
    The eating canker dwells, so eating love
    Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
  VALENTINE. And writers say, as the most forward bud
    Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,
    Even so by love the young and tender wit
    Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud,
    Losing his verdure even in the prime,
    And all the fair effects of future hopes.
    But wherefore waste I time to counsel the
    That art a votary to fond desire?
    Once more adieu. My father at the road
    Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd.
  PROTEUS. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.
  VALENTINE. Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave.  
    To Milan let me hear from thee by letters
    Of thy success in love, and what news else
    Betideth here in absence of thy friend;
    And I likewise will visit thee with mine.
  PROTEUS. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!
  VALENTINE. As much to you at home; and so farewell!
                                                  Exit VALENTINE
  PROTEUS. He after honour hunts, I after love;
    He leaves his friends to dignify them more:
    I leave myself, my friends, and all for love.
    Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphis'd me,
    Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,
    War with good counsel, set the world at nought;
    Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.

                         Enter SPEED

  SPEED. Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master?
  PROTEUS. But now he parted hence to embark for Milan.
  SPEED. Twenty to one then he is shipp'd already,  
    And I have play'd the sheep in losing him.
  PROTEUS. Indeed a sheep doth very often stray,
    An if the shepherd be awhile away.
  SPEED. You conclude that my master is a shepherd then, and
    I a sheep?
  PROTEUS. I do.
  SPEED. Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep.
  PROTEUS. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep.
  SPEED. This proves me still a sheep.
  PROTEUS. True; and thy master a shepherd.
  SPEED. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance.
  PROTEUS. It shall go hard but I'll prove it by another.
  SPEED. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the
    shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me;
    therefore, I am no sheep.
  PROTEUS. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd for
    food follows not the sheep: thou for wages followest thy master;
    thy master for wages follows not thee. Therefore, thou art a
    sheep.
  SPEED. Such another proof will make me cry 'baa.'  
  PROTEUS. But dost thou hear? Gav'st thou my letter to Julia?
  SPEED. Ay, sir; I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a lac'd
    mutton; and she, a lac'd mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing
    for my labour.
  PROTEUS. Here's too small a pasture for such store of muttons.
  SPEED. If the ground be overcharg'd, you were best stick her.
  PROTEUS. Nay, in that you are astray: 'twere best pound you.
  SPEED. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your
    letter.
  PROTEUS. You mistake; I mean the pound- a pinfold.
  SPEED. From a pound to a pin? Fold it over and over,
    'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover.
  PROTEUS. But what said she?
  SPEED.  [Nodding]  Ay.
  PROTEUS. Nod- ay. Why, that's 'noddy.'
  SPEED. You mistook, sir; I say she did nod; and you ask me if she
    did nod; and I say 'Ay.'
  PROTEUS. And that set together is 'noddy.'
  SPEED. Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for
    your pains.  
  PROTEUS. No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter.
  SPEED. Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you.
  PROTEUS. Why, sir, how do you bear with me?
  SPEED. Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing but the
    word 'noddy' for my pains.
  PROTEUS. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.
  SPEED. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.
  PROTEUS. Come, come, open the matter; in brief, what said she?
  SPEED. Open your purse, that the money and the matter may be both
    at once delivered.
  PROTEUS. Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she?
  SPEED. Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her.
  PROTEUS. Why, couldst thou perceive so much from her?
  SPEED. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no, not so
    much as a ducat for delivering your letter; and being so hard to
    me that brought your mind, I fear she'll prove as hard to you in
    telling your mind. Give her no token but stones, for she's as
    hard as steel.
  PROTEUS. What said she? Nothing?
  SPEED. No, not so much as 'Take this for thy pains.' To testify  
    your bounty, I thank you, you have testern'd me; in requital
    whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself; and so, sir,
    I'll commend you to my master.
  PROTEUS. Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck,
    Which cannot perish, having thee aboard,
    Being destin'd to a drier death on shore.         Exit SPEED
    I must go send some better messenger.
    I fear my Julia would not deign my lines,
    Receiving them from such a worthless post.              Exit




SCENE II.
Verona. The garden Of JULIA'S house

Enter JULIA and LUCETTA

  JULIA. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,
    Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?
  LUCETTA. Ay, madam; so you stumble not unheedfully.
  JULIA. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen
    That every day with parle encounter me,
    In thy opinion which is worthiest love?
  LUCETTA. Please you, repeat their names; I'll show my mind
    According to my shallow simple skill.
  JULIA. What think'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?
  LUCETTA. As of a knight well-spoken, neat, and fine;
    But, were I you, he never should be mine.
  JULIA. What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio?
  LUCETTA. Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so.
  JULIA. What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus?
  LUCETTA. Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us!
  JULIA. How now! what means this passion at his name?
  LUCETTA. Pardon, dear madam; 'tis a passing shame  
    That I, unworthy body as I am,
    Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.
  JULIA. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest?
  LUCETTA. Then thus: of many good I think him best.
  JULIA. Your reason?
  LUCETTA. I have no other but a woman's reason:
    I think him so, because I think him so.
  JULIA. And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him?
  LUCETTA. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away.
  JULIA. Why, he, of all the rest, hath never mov'd me.
  LUCETTA. Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye.
  JULIA. His little speaking shows his love but small.
  LUCETTA. Fire that's closest kept burns most of all.
  JULIA. They do not love that do not show their love.
  LUCETTA. O, they love least that let men know their love.
  JULIA. I would I knew his mind.
  LUCETTA. Peruse this paper, madam.
  JULIA. 'To Julia'- Say, from whom?
  LUCETTA. That the contents will show.
  JULIA. Say, say, who gave it thee?  
  LUCETTA. Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from Proteus.
    He would have given it you; but I, being in the way,
    Did in your name receive it; pardon the fault, I pray.
  JULIA. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!
    Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines?
    To whisper and conspire against my youth?
    Now, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth,
    And you an officer fit for the place.
    There, take the paper; see it be return'd;
    Or else return no more into my sight.
  LUCETTA. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.
  JULIA. Will ye be gone?
  LUCETTA. That you may ruminate.                           Exit
  JULIA. And yet, I would I had o'erlook'd the letter.
    It were a shame to call her back again,
    And pray her to a fault for which I chid her.
    What fool is she, that knows I am a maid
    And would not force the letter to my view!
    Since maids, in modesty, say 'No' to that
    Which they would have the profferer construe 'Ay.'  
    Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love,
    That like a testy babe will scratch the nurse,
    And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod!
    How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,
    When willingly I would have had her here!
    How angerly I taught my brow to frown,
    When inward joy enforc'd my heart to smile!
    My penance is to call Lucetta back
    And ask remission for my folly past.
    What ho! Lucetta!

                     Re-enter LUCETTA

  LUCETTA. What would your ladyship?
  JULIA. Is't near dinner time?
  LUCETTA. I would it were,
    That you might kill your stomach on your meat
    And not upon your maid.
  JULIA. What is't that you took up so gingerly?
  LUCETTA. Nothing.  
  JULIA. Why didst thou stoop then?
  LUCETTA. To take a paper up that I let fall.
  JULIA. And is that paper nothing?
  LUCETTA. Nothing concerning me.
  JULIA. Then let it lie for those that it concerns.
  LUCETTA. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns,
    Unless it have a false interpreter.
  JULIA. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.
  LUCETTA. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune.
    Give me a note; your ladyship can set.
  JULIA. As little by such toys as may be possible.
    Best sing it to the tune of 'Light o' Love.'
  LUCETTA. It is too heavy for so light a tune.
  JULIA. Heavy! belike it hath some burden then.
  LUCETTA. Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it.
  JULIA. And why not you?
  LUCETTA. I cannot reach so high.
  JULIA. Let's see your song.     [LUCETTA withholds the letter]
    How now, minion!
  LUCETTA. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out.  
    And yet methinks I do not like this tune.
  JULIA. You do not!
  LUCETTA. No, madam; 'tis too sharp.
  JULIA. You, minion, are too saucy.
  LUCETTA. Nay, now you are too flat
    And mar the concord with too harsh a descant;
    There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.
  JULIA. The mean is drown'd with your unruly bass.
  LUCETTA. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.
  JULIA. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
    Here is a coil with protestation!         [Tears the letter]
    Go, get you gone; and let the papers lie.
    You would be fing'ring them, to anger me.
  LUCETTA. She makes it strange; but she would be best pleas'd
    To be so ang'red with another letter.                   Exit
  JULIA. Nay, would I were so ang'red with the same!
    O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!
    Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey
    And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!
    I'll kiss each several paper for amends.  
    Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia,
    As in revenge of thy ingratitude,
    I throw thy name against the bruising stones,
    Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.
    And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.'
    Poor wounded name! my bosom,,as a bed,
    Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly heal'd;
    And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
    But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.
    Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away
    Till I have found each letter in the letter-
    Except mine own name; that some whirlwind bear
    Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock,
    And throw it thence into the raging sea.
    Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ:
    'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
    To the sweet Julia.' That I'll tear away;
    And yet I will not, sith so prettily
    He couples it to his complaining names.
    Thus will I fold them one upon another;  
    Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.

                        Re-enter LUCETTA

  LUCETTA. Madam,
    Dinner is ready, and your father stays.
  JULIA. Well, let us go.
  LUCETTA. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here?
  JULIA. If you respect them, best to take them up.
  LUCETTA. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down;
    Yet here they shall not lie for catching cold.
  JULIA. I see you have a month's mind to them.
  LUCETTA. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see;
    I see things too, although you judge I wink.
  JULIA. Come, come; will't please you go?                Exeunt




SCENE III.
Verona. ANTONIO'S house

Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO

  ANTONIO. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that
    Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?
  PANTHINO. 'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.
  ANTONIO. Why, what of him?
  PANTHINO. He wond'red that your lordship
    Would suffer him to spend his youth at home,
    While other men, of slender reputation,
    Put forth their sons to seek preferment out:
    Some to the wars, to try their fortune there;
    Some to discover islands far away;
    Some to the studious universities.
    For any, or for all these exercises,
    He said that Proteus, your son, was meet;
    And did request me to importune you
    To let him spend his time no more at home,
    Which would be great impeachment to his age,
    In having known no travel in his youth.  
  ANTONIO. Nor need'st thou much importune me to that
    Whereon this month I have been hammering.
    I have consider'd well his loss of time,
    And how he cannot be a perfect man,
    Not being tried and tutor'd in the world:
    Experience is by industry achiev'd,
    And perfected by the swift course of time.
    Then tell me whither were I best to send him.
  PANTHINO. I think your lordship is not ignorant
    How his companion, youthful Valentine,
    Attends the Emperor in his royal court.
  ANTONIO. I know it well.
  PANTHINO. 'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither:
    There shall he practise tilts and tournaments,
    Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen,
    And be in eye of every exercise
    Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.
  ANTONIO. I like thy counsel; well hast thou advis'd;
    And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it,
    The execution of it shall make known:  
    Even with the speediest expedition
    I will dispatch him to the Emperor's court.
  PANTHINO. To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso
    With other gentlemen of good esteem
    Are journeying to salute the Emperor,
    And to commend their service to his will.
  ANTONIO. Good company; with them shall Proteus go.

                        Enter PROTEUS

    And- in good time!- now will we break with him.
  PROTEUS. Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life!
    Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;
    Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn.
    O that our fathers would applaud our loves,
    To seal our happiness with their consents!
    O heavenly Julia!
  ANTONIO. How now! What letter are you reading there?
  PROTEUS. May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two
    Of commendations sent from Valentine,  
    Deliver'd by a friend that came from him.
  ANTONIO. Lend me the letter; let me see what news.
  PROTEUS. There is no news, my lord; but that he writes
    How happily he lives, how well-belov'd
    And daily graced by the Emperor;
    Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.
  ANTONIO. And how stand you affected to his wish?
  PROTEUS. As one relying on your lordship's will,
    And not depending on his friendly wish.
  ANTONIO. My will is something sorted with his wish.
    Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed;
    For what I will, I will, and there an end.
    I am resolv'd that thou shalt spend some time
    With Valentinus in the Emperor's court;
    What maintenance he from his friends receives,
    Like exhibition thou shalt have from me.
    To-morrow be in readiness to go-
    Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.
  PROTEUS. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided;
    Please you, deliberate a day or two.  
  ANTONIO. Look what thou want'st shall be sent after thee.
    No more of stay; to-morrow thou must go.
    Come on, Panthino; you shall be employ'd
    To hasten on his expedition.
                                     Exeunt ANTONIO and PANTHINO
  PROTEUS. Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning,
    And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd.
    I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter,
    Lest he should take exceptions to my love;
    And with the vantage of mine own excuse
    Hath he excepted most against my love.
    O, how this spring of love resembleth
    The uncertain glory of an April day,
    Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
    And by an by a cloud takes all away!

                       Re-enter PANTHINO

  PANTHINO. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you;
    He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go.  
  PROTEUS. Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto;
    And yet a thousand times it answers 'No.'             Exeunt




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ACT II. SCENE I.
Milan. The DUKE'S palace

Enter VALENTINE and SPEED

  SPEED. Sir, your glove.
  VALENTINE. Not mine: my gloves are on.
  SPEED. Why, then, this may be yours; for this is but one.
  VALENTINE. Ha! let me see; ay, give it me, it's mine;
    Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine!
    Ah, Silvia! Silvia!
  SPEED.  [Calling]  Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!
  VALENTINE. How now, sirrah?
  SPEED. She is not within hearing, sir.
  VALENTINE. Why, sir, who bade you call her?
  SPEED. Your worship, sir; or else I mistook.
  VALENTINE. Well, you'll still be too forward.
  SPEED. And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.
  VALENTINE. Go to, sir; tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?
  SPEED. She that your worship loves?
  VALENTINE. Why, how know you that I am in love?
  SPEED. Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learn'd, like  
    Sir Proteus, to wreath your arms like a malcontent; to relish a
    love-song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like one that
    had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his
    A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam;
    to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears
    robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were
    wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walk'd, to
    walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently
    after dinner; when you look'd sadly, it was for want of money.
    And now you are metamorphis'd with a mistress, that, when I look
    on you, I can hardly think you my master.
  VALENTINE. Are all these things perceiv'd in me?
  SPEED. They are all perceiv'd without ye.
  VALENTINE. Without me? They cannot.
  SPEED. Without you! Nay, that's certain; for, without you were so
    simple, none else would; but you are so without these follies
    that these follies are within you, and shine through you like the
    water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a
    physician to comment on your malady.
  VALENTINE. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?  
  SPEED. She that you gaze on so, as she sits at supper?
  VALENTINE. Hast thou observ'd that? Even she, I mean.
  SPEED. Why, sir, I know her not.
  VALENTINE. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet know'st
    her not?
  SPEED. Is she not hard-favour'd, sir?
  VALENTINE. Not so fair, boy, as well-favour'd.
  SPEED. Sir, I know that well enough.
  VALENTINE. What dost thou know?
  SPEED. That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favour'd.
  VALENTINE. I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour
    infinite.
  SPEED. That's because the one is painted, and the other out of all
    count.
  VALENTINE. How painted? and how out of count?
  SPEED. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no man counts
    of her beauty.
  VALENTINE. How esteem'st thou me? I account of her beauty.
  SPEED. You never saw her since she was deform'd.
  VALENTINE. How long hath she been deform'd?  
  SPEED. Ever since you lov'd her.
  VALENTINE. I have lov'd her ever since I saw her, and still
    I see her beautiful.
  SPEED. If you love her, you cannot see her.
  VALENTINE. Why?
  SPEED. Because Love is blind. O that you had mine eyes; or your own
    eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir
    Proteus for going ungarter'd!
  VALENTINE. What should I see then?
  SPEED. Your own present folly and her passing deformity; for he,
    being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being
    in love, cannot see to put on your hose.
  VALENTINE. Belike, boy, then you are in love; for last morning you
    could not see to wipe my shoes.
  SPEED. True, sir; I was in love with my bed. I thank you, you
    swing'd me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you
    for yours.
  VALENTINE. In conclusion, I stand affected to her.
  SPEED. I would you were set, so your affection would cease.
  VALENTINE. Last night she enjoin'd me to write some lines to one  
    she loves.
  SPEED. And have you?
  VALENTINE. I have.
  SPEED. Are they not lamely writ?
  VALENTINE. No, boy, but as well as I can do them.

                           Enter SILVIA

    Peace! here she comes.
  SPEED.  [Aside]  O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet!
    Now will he interpret to her.
  VALENTINE. Madam and mistress, a thousand good morrows.
  SPEED.  [Aside]  O, give ye good ev'n!
    Here's a million of manners.
  SILVIA. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand.
  SPEED.  [Aside]  He should give her interest, and she gives it him.
  VALENTINE. As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter
    Unto the secret nameless friend of yours;
    Which I was much unwilling to proceed in,
    But for my duty to your ladyship.  
  SILVIA. I thank you, gentle servant. 'Tis very clerkly done.
  VALENTINE. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off;
    For, being ignorant to whom it goes,
    I writ at random, very doubtfully.
  SILVIA. Perchance you think too much of so much pains?
  VALENTINE. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write,
    Please you command, a thousand times as much;
    And yet-
  SILVIA. A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel;
    And yet I will not name it- and yet I care not.
    And yet take this again- and yet I thank you-
    Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.
  SPEED.  [Aside]  And yet you will; and yet another' yet.'
  VALENTINE. What means your ladyship? Do you not like it?
  SILVIA. Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ;
    But, since unwillingly, take them again.
    Nay, take them.                      [Gives hack the letter]
  VALENTINE. Madam, they are for you.
  SILVIA. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request;
    But I will none of them; they are for you:  
    I would have had them writ more movingly.
  VALENTINE. Please you, I'll write your ladyship another.
  SILVIA. And when it's writ, for my sake read it over;
    And if it please you, so; if not, why, so.
  VALENTINE. If it please me, madam, what then?
  SILVIA. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour.
    And so good morrow, servant.                     Exit SILVIA
  SPEED. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,
    As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple!
    My master sues to her; and she hath taught her suitor,
    He being her pupil, to become her tutor.
    O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better,
    That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter?
  VALENTINE. How now, sir! What are you reasoning with yourself?
  SPEED. Nay, I was rhyming: 'tis you that have the reason.
  VALENTINE. To do what?
  SPEED. To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia?
  VALENTINE. To whom?
  SPEED. To yourself; why, she woos you by a figure.
  VALENTINE. What figure?  
  SPEED. By a letter, I should say.
  VALENTINE. Why, she hath not writ to me.
  SPEED. What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself?
    Why, do you not perceive the jest?
  VALENTINE. No, believe me.
  SPEED. No believing you indeed, sir. But did you perceive her
    earnest?
  VALENTINE. She gave me none except an angry word.
  SPEED. Why, she hath given you a letter.
  VALENTINE. That's the letter I writ to her friend.
  SPEED. And that letter hath she deliver'd, and there an end.
  VALENTINE. I would it were no worse.
  SPEED. I'll warrant you 'tis as well.
    'For often have you writ to her; and she, in modesty,
    Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;
    Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover,
    Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.'
    All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you,
    sir? 'Tis dinner time.
  VALENTINE. I have din'd.  
  SPEED. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on
    the air, I am one that am nourish'd by my victuals, and would
    fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress! Be moved, be moved.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE II.
Verona. JULIA'S house

Enter PROTEUS and JULIA

  PROTEUS. Have patience, gentle Julia.
  JULIA. I must, where is no remedy.
  PROTEUS. When possibly I can, I will return.
  JULIA. If you turn not, you will return the sooner.
    Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake.
                                                 [Giving a ring]
  PROTEUS. Why, then, we'll make exchange. Here, take you this.
  JULIA. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.
  PROTEUS. Here is my hand for my true constancy;
    And when that hour o'erslips me in the day
    Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake,
    The next ensuing hour some foul mischance
    Torment me for my love's forgetfulness!
    My father stays my coming; answer not;
    The tide is now- nay, not thy tide of tears:
    That tide will stay me longer than I should.
    Julia, farewell!                                  Exit JULIA  
    What, gone without a word?
    Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;
    For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

                          Enter PANTHINO

  PANTHINO. Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for.
  PROTEUS. Go; I come, I come.
    Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb.          Exeunt




SCENE III.
Verona. A street

Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog

  LAUNCE. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the
    kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have receiv'd my
    proportion, like the Prodigious Son, and am going with Sir
    Proteus to the Imperial's court. I think Crab my dog be the
    sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping, my father
    wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her
    hands, and all our house in a great perplexity; yet did not this
    cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. He is a stone, a very pebble
    stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog. A Jew would have
    wept to have seen our parting; why, my grandam having no eyes,
    look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I'll show you
    the manner of it. This shoe is my father; no, this left shoe is
    my father; no, no, left shoe is my mother; nay, that cannot be so
    neither; yes, it is so, it is so, it hath the worser sole. This
    shoe with the hole in it is my mother, and this my father. A
    vengeance on 't! There 'tis. Now, sir, this staff is my sister,
    for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand;  
    this hat is Nan our maid; I am the dog; no, the dog is himself,
    and I am the dog- O, the dog is me, and I am myself; ay, so, so.
    Now come I to my father: 'Father, your blessing.' Now should not
    the shoe speak a word for weeping; now should I kiss my father;
    well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother. O that she could
    speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her- why there 'tis;
    here's my mother's breath up and down. Now come I to my sister;
    mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a
    tear, nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my
    tears.

                            Enter PANTHINO

  PANTHINO. Launce, away, away, aboard! Thy master is shipp'd, and
    thou art to post after with oars. What's the matter? Why weep'st
    thou, man? Away, ass! You'll lose the tide if you tarry any
    longer.
  LAUNCE. It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the
    unkindest tied that ever any man tied.
  PANTHINO. What's the unkindest tide?  
  LAUNCE. Why, he that's tied here, Crab, my dog.
  PANTHINO. Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood, and, in losing
    the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy
    master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, and, in
    losing thy service- Why dost thou stop my mouth?
  LAUNCE. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.
  PANTHINO. Where should I lose my tongue?
  LAUNCE. In thy tale.
  PANTHINO. In thy tail!
  LAUNCE. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the
    service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able
    to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive
    the boat with my sighs.
  PANTHINO. Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee.
  LAUNCE. Sir, call me what thou dar'st.
  PANTHINO. Will thou go?
  LAUNCE. Well, I will go.                                Exeunt




SCENE IV.
Milan. The DUKE'S palace

Enter SILVIA, VALENTINE, THURIO, and SPEED

  SILVIA. Servant!
  VALENTINE. Mistress?
  SPEED. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.
  VALENTINE. Ay, boy, it's for love.
  SPEED. Not of you.
  VALENTINE. Of my mistress, then.
  SPEED. 'Twere good you knock'd him.                       Exit
  SILVIA. Servant, you are sad.
  VALENTINE. Indeed, madam, I seem so.
  THURIO. Seem you that you are not?
  VALENTINE. Haply I do.
  THURIO. So do counterfeits.
  VALENTINE. So do you.
  THURIO. What seem I that I am not?
  VALENTINE. Wise.
  THURIO. What instance of the contrary?
  VALENTINE. Your folly.  
  THURIO. And how quote you my folly?
  VALENTINE. I quote it in your jerkin.
  THURIO. My jerkin is a doublet.
  VALENTINE. Well, then, I'll double your folly.
  THURIO. How?
  SILVIA. What, angry, Sir Thurio! Do you change colour?
  VALENTINE. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon.
  THURIO. That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your
    air.
  VALENTINE. You have said, sir.
  THURIO. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.
  VALENTINE. I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin.
  SILVIA. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off.
  VALENTINE. 'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver.
  SILVIA. Who is that, servant?
  VALENTINE. Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio
    borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks, and spends what he
    borrows kindly in your company.
  THURIO. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your
    wit bankrupt.  
  VALENTINE. I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words,
    and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers; for it
    appears by their bare liveries that they live by your bare words.

                             Enter DUKE

  SILVIA. No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father.
  DUKE. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.
    Sir Valentine, your father is in good health.
    What say you to a letter from your friends
    Of much good news?
  VALENTINE. My lord, I will be thankful
    To any happy messenger from thence.
  DUKE. Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman?
  VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman
    To be of worth and worthy estimation,
    And not without desert so well reputed.
  DUKE. Hath he not a son?
  VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves
    The honour and regard of such a father.  
  DUKE. You know him well?
  VALENTINE. I knew him as myself; for from our infancy
    We have convers'd and spent our hours together;
    And though myself have been an idle truant,
    Omitting the sweet benefit of time
    To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,
    Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that's his name,
    Made use and fair advantage of his days:
    His years but young, but his experience old;
    His head unmellowed, but his judgment ripe;
    And, in a word, for far behind his worth
    Comes all the praises that I now bestow,
    He is complete in feature and in mind,
    With all good grace to grace a gentleman.
  DUKE. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good,
    He is as worthy for an empress' love
    As meet to be an emperor's counsellor.
    Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me
    With commendation from great potentates,
    And here he means to spend his time awhile.  
    I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you.
  VALENTINE. Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he.
  DUKE. Welcome him, then, according to his worth-
    Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio;
    For Valentine, I need not cite him to it.
    I will send him hither to you presently.           Exit DUKE
  VALENTINE. This is the gentleman I told your ladyship
    Had come along with me but that his mistresss
    Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks.
  SILVIA. Belike that now she hath enfranchis'd them
    Upon some other pawn for fealty.
  VALENTINE. Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still.
  SILVIA. Nay, then, he should be blind; and, being blind,
    How could he see his way to seek out you?
  VALENTINE. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes.
  THURIO. They say that Love hath not an eye at all.
  VALENTINE. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself;
    Upon a homely object Love can wink.              Exit THURIO

                         Enter PROTEUS  

  SILVIA. Have done, have done; here comes the gentleman.
  VALENTINE. Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you
    Confirm his welcome with some special favour.
  SILVIA. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither,
    If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from.
  VALENTINE. Mistress, it is; sweet lady, entertain him
    To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.
  SILVIA. Too low a mistress for so high a servant.
  PROTEUS. Not so, sweet lady; but too mean a servant
    To have a look of such a worthy mistress.
  VALENTINE. Leave off discourse of disability;
    Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.
  PROTEUS. My duty will I boast of, nothing else.
  SILVIA. And duty never yet did want his meed.
    Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.
  PROTEUS. I'll die on him that says so but yourself.
  SILVIA. That you are welcome?
  PROTEUS. That you are worthless.
  
                          Re-enter THURIO

  THURIO. Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.
  SILVIA. I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio,
    Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome.
    I'll leave you to confer of home affairs;
    When you have done we look to hear from you.
  PROTEUS. We'll both attend upon your ladyship.
                                        Exeunt SILVIA and THURIO
  VALENTINE. Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came?
  PROTEUS. Your friends are well, and have them much commended.
  VALENTINE. And how do yours?
  PROTEUS. I left them all in health.
  VALENTINE. How does your lady, and how thrives your love?
  PROTEUS. My tales of love were wont to weary you;
    I know you joy not in a love-discourse.
  VALENTINE. Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now;
    I have done penance for contemning Love,
    Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me
    With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,  
    With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs;
    For, in revenge of my contempt of love,
    Love hath chas'd sleep from my enthralled eyes
    And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow.
    O gentle Proteus, Love's a mighty lord,
    And hath so humbled me as I confess
    There is no woe to his correction,
    Nor to his service no such joy on earth.
    Now no discourse, except it be of love;
    Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep,
    Upon the very naked name of love.
  PROTEUS. Enough; I read your fortune in your eye.
    Was this the idol that you worship so?
  VALENTINE. Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint?
  PROTEUS. No; but she is an earthly paragon.
  VALENTINE. Call her divine.
  PROTEUS. I will not flatter her.
  VALENTINE. O, flatter me; for love delights in praises!
  PROTEUS. When I was sick you gave me bitter pills,
    And I must minister the like to you.  
  VALENTINE. Then speak the truth by her; if not divine,
    Yet let her be a principality,
    Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.
  PROTEUS. Except my mistress.
  VALENTINE. Sweet, except not any;
    Except thou wilt except against my love.
  PROTEUS. Have I not reason to prefer mine own?
  VALENTINE. And I will help thee to prefer her too:
    She shall be dignified with this high honour-
    To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth
    Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss
    And, of so great a favour growing proud,
    Disdain to root the summer-swelling flow'r
    And make rough winter everlastingly.
  PROTEUS. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this?
  VALENTINE. Pardon me, Proteus; all I can is nothing
    To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing;
    She is alone.
  PROTEUS. Then let her alone.
  VALENTINE. Not for the world! Why, man, she is mine own;  
    And I as rich in having such a jewel
    As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
    The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.
    Forgive me that I do not dream on thee,
    Because thou seest me dote upon my love.
    My foolish rival, that her father likes
    Only for his possessions are so huge,
    Is gone with her along; and I must after,
    For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy.
  PROTEUS. But she loves you?
  VALENTINE. Ay, and we are betroth'd; nay more, our marriage-hour,
    With all the cunning manner of our flight,
    Determin'd of- how I must climb her window,
    The ladder made of cords, and all the means
    Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness.
    Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,
    In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.
  PROTEUS. Go on before; I shall enquire you forth;
    I must unto the road to disembark
    Some necessaries that I needs must use;  
    And then I'll presently attend you.
  VALENTINE. Will you make haste?
  PROTEUS. I will.                                Exit VALENTINE
    Even as one heat another heat expels
    Or as one nail by strength drives out another,
    So the remembrance of my former love
    Is by a newer object quite forgotten.
    Is it my mind, or Valentinus' praise,
    Her true perfection, or my false transgression,
    That makes me reasonless to reason thus?
    She is fair; and so is Julia that I love-
    That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd;
    Which like a waxen image 'gainst a fire
    Bears no impression of the thing it was.
    Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,
    And that I love him not as I was wont.
    O! but I love his lady too too much,
    And that's the reason I love him so little.
    How shall I dote on her with more advice
    That thus without advice begin to love her!  
    'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,
    And that hath dazzled my reason's light;
    But when I look on her perfections,
    There is no reason but I shall be blind.
    If I can check my erring love, I will;
    If not, to compass her I'll use my skill.               Exit




SCENE V.
Milan. A street

Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally

  SPEED. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Padua.
  LAUNCE. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I
    reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hang'd,
    nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid, and
    the hostess say 'Welcome!'
  SPEED. Come on, you madcap; I'll to the alehouse with you
    presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have
    five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with
    Madam Julia?
  LAUNCE. Marry, after they clos'd in earnest, they parted very
    fairly in jest.
  SPEED. But shall she marry him?
  LAUNCE. No.
  SPEED. How then? Shall he marry her?
  LAUNCE. No, neither.
  SPEED. What, are they broken?
  LAUNCE. No, they are both as whole as a fish.  
  SPEED. Why then, how stands the matter with them?
  LAUNCE. Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it stands well
    with her.
  SPEED. What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.
  LAUNCE. What a block art thou that thou canst not! My staff
    understands me.
  SPEED. What thou say'st?
  LAUNCE. Ay, and what I do too; look thee, I'll but lean, and my
    staff understands me.
  SPEED. It stands under thee, indeed.
  LAUNCE. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one.
  SPEED. But tell me true, will't be a match?
  LAUNCE. Ask my dog. If he say ay, it will; if he say no, it will;
    if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.
  SPEED. The conclusion is, then, that it will.
  LAUNCE. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a
    parable.
  SPEED. 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how say'st thou
    that my master is become a notable lover?
  LAUNCE. I never knew him otherwise.  
  SPEED. Than how?
  LAUNCE. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.
  SPEED. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak'st me.
  LAUNCE. Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant thy master.
  SPEED. I tell thee my master is become a hot lover.
  LAUNCE. Why, I tell thee I care not though he burn himself in love.
    If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an
    Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian.
  SPEED. Why?
  LAUNCE. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to
    the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?
  SPEED. At thy service.                                  Exeunt




SCENE VI.
Milan. The DUKE's palace

Enter PROTEUS

  PROTEUS. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;
    To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;
    To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn;
    And ev'n that pow'r which gave me first my oath
    Provokes me to this threefold perjury:
    Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear.
    O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn'd,
    Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it!
    At first I did adore a twinkling star,
    But now I worship a celestial sun.
    Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken;
    And he wants wit that wants resolved will
    To learn his wit t' exchange the bad for better.
    Fie, fie, unreverend tongue, to call her bad
    Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd
    With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths!
    I cannot leave to love, and yet I do;  
    But there I leave to love where I should love.
    Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose;
    If I keep them, I needs must lose myself;
    If I lose them, thus find I by their loss:
    For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia.
    I to myself am dearer than a friend;
    For love is still most precious in itself;
    And Silvia- witness heaven, that made her fair!-
    Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.
    I will forget that Julia is alive,
    Rememb'ring that my love to her is dead;
    And Valentine I'll hold an enemy,
    Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend.
    I cannot now prove constant to myself
    Without some treachery us'd to Valentine.
    This night he meaneth with a corded ladder
    To climb celestial Silvia's chamber window,
    Myself in counsel, his competitor.
    Now presently I'll give her father notice
    Of their disguising and pretended flight,  
    Who, all enrag'd, will banish Valentine,
    For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter;
    But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross
    By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding.
    Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,
    As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift.            Exit




SCENE VII.
Verona. JULIA'S house

Enter JULIA and LUCETTA

  JULIA. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me;
    And, ev'n in kind love, I do conjure thee,
    Who art the table wherein all my thoughts
    Are visibly character'd and engrav'd,
    To lesson me and tell me some good mean
    How, with my honour, I may undertake
    A journey to my loving Proteus.
  LUCETTA. Alas, the way is wearisome and long!
  JULIA. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary
    To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;
    Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly,
    And when the flight is made to one so dear,
    Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.
  LUCETTA. Better forbear till Proteus make return.
  JULIA. O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?
    Pity the dearth that I have pined in
    By longing for that food so long a time.  
    Didst thou but know the inly touch of love.
    Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow
    As seek to quench the fire of love with words.
  LUCETTA. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,
    But qualify the fire's extreme rage,
    Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
  JULIA. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns.
    The current that with gentle murmur glides,
    Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
    But when his fair course is not hindered,
    He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,
    Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
    He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
    And so by many winding nooks he strays,
    With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
    Then let me go, and hinder not my course.
    I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,
    And make a pastime of each weary step,
    Till the last step have brought me to my love;
    And there I'll rest as, after much turmoil,  
    A blessed soul doth in Elysium.
  LUCETTA. But in what habit will you go along?
  JULIA. Not like a woman, for I would prevent
    The loose encounters of lascivious men;
    Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds
    As may beseem some well-reputed page.
  LUCETTA. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair.
  JULIA. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings
    With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots-
    To be fantastic may become a youth
    Of greater time than I shall show to be.
  LUCETTA. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches?
  JULIA. That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord,
    What compass will you wear your farthingale.'
    Why ev'n what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta.
  LUCETTA. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.
  JULIA. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favour'd.
  LUCETTA. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin,
    Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.
  JULIA. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have  
    What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly.
    But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me
    For undertaking so unstaid a journey?
    I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd.
  LUCETTA. If you think so, then stay at home and go not.
  JULIA. Nay, that I will not.
  LUCETTA. Then never dream on infamy, but go.
    If Proteus like your journey when you come,
    No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone.
    I fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal.
  JULIA. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:
    A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,
    And instances of infinite of love,
    Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.
  LUCETTA. All these are servants to deceitful men.
  JULIA. Base men that use them to so base effect!
    But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth;
    His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,
    His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,
    His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,  
    His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.
  LUCETTA. Pray heav'n he prove so when you come to him.
  JULIA. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong
    To bear a hard opinion of his truth;
    Only deserve my love by loving him.
    And presently go with me to my chamber,
    To take a note of what I stand in need of
    To furnish me upon my longing journey.
    All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,
    My goods, my lands, my reputation;
    Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.
    Come, answer not, but to it presently;
    I am impatient of my tarriance.                       Exeunt




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ACT III. SCENE I.
Milan. The DUKE'S palace

Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS

  DUKE. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;
    We have some secrets to confer about.            Exit THURIO
    Now tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me?
  PROTEUS. My gracious lord, that which I would discover
    The law of friendship bids me to conceal;
    But, when I call to mind your gracious favours
    Done to me, undeserving as I am,
    My duty pricks me on to utter that
    Which else no worldly good should draw from me.
    Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend,
    This night intends to steal away your daughter;
    Myself am one made privy to the plot.
    I know you have determin'd to bestow her
    On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;
    And should she thus be stol'n away from you,
    It would be much vexation to your age.
    Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose  
    To cross my friend in his intended drift
    Than, by concealing it, heap on your head
    A pack of sorrows which would press you down,
    Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.
  DUKE. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care,
    Which to requite, command me while I live.
    This love of theirs myself have often seen,
    Haply when they have judg'd me fast asleep,
    And oftentimes have purpos'd to forbid
    Sir Valentine her company and my court;
    But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err
    And so, unworthily, disgrace the man,
    A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd,
    I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find
    That which thyself hast now disclos'd to me.
    And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this,
    Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,
    I nightly lodge her in an upper tow'r,
    The key whereof myself have ever kept;
    And thence she cannot be convey'd away.  
  PROTEUS. Know, noble lord, they have devis'd a mean
    How he her chamber window will ascend
    And with a corded ladder fetch her down;
    For which the youthful lover now is gone,
    And this way comes he with it presently;
    Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.
    But, good my lord, do it so cunningly
    That my discovery be not aimed at;
    For love of you, not hate unto my friend,
    Hath made me publisher of this pretence.
  DUKE. Upon mine honour, he shall never know
    That I had any light from thee of this.
  PROTEUS. Adieu, my lord; Sir Valentine is coming.         Exit

                        Enter VALENTINE

  DUKE. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?
  VALENTINE. Please it your Grace, there is a messenger
    That stays to bear my letters to my friends,
    And I am going to deliver them.  
  DUKE. Be they of much import?
  VALENTINE. The tenour of them doth but signify
    My health and happy being at your court.
  DUKE. Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile;
    I am to break with thee of some affairs
    That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret.
    'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought
    To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.
  VALENTINE. I know it well, my lord; and, sure, the match
    Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman
    Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities
    Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter.
    Cannot your grace win her to fancy him?
  DUKE. No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward,
    Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty;
    Neither regarding that she is my child
    Nor fearing me as if I were her father;
    And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers,
    Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;
    And, where I thought the remnant of mine age  
    Should have been cherish'd by her childlike duty,
    I now am full resolv'd to take a wife
    And turn her out to who will take her in.
    Then let her beauty be her wedding-dow'r;
    For me and my possessions she esteems not.
  VALENTINE. What would your Grace have me to do in this?
  DUKE. There is a lady, in Verona here,
    Whom I affect; but she is nice, and coy,
    And nought esteems my aged eloquence.
    Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor-
    For long agone I have forgot to court;
    Besides, the fashion of the time is chang'd-
    How and which way I may bestow myself
    To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.
  VALENTINE. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words:
    Dumb jewels often in their silent kind
    More than quick words do move a woman's mind.
  DUKE. But she did scorn a present that I sent her.
  VALENTINE. A woman sometime scorns what best contents her.
    Send her another; never give her o'er,  
    For scorn at first makes after-love the more.
    If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you,
    But rather to beget more love in you;
    If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone,
    For why, the fools are mad if left alone.
    Take no repulse, whatever she doth say;
    For 'Get you gone' she doth not mean 'Away!'
    Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces;
    Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces.
    That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
    If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.
  DUKE. But she I mean is promis'd by her friends
    Unto a youthful gentleman of worth;
    And kept severely from resort of men,
    That no man hath access by day to her.
  VALENTINE. Why then I would resort to her by night.
  DUKE. Ay, but the doors be lock'd and keys kept safe,
    That no man hath recourse to her by night.
  VALENTINE. What lets but one may enter at her window?
  DUKE. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground,  
    And built so shelving that one cannot climb it
    Without apparent hazard of his life.
  VALENTINE. Why then a ladder, quaintly made of cords,
    To cast up with a pair of anchoring hooks,
    Would serve to scale another Hero's tow'r,
    So bold Leander would adventure it.
  DUKE. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,
    Advise me where I may have such a ladder.
  VALENTINE. When would you use it? Pray, sir, tell me that.
  DUKE. This very night; for Love is like a child,
    That longs for everything that he can come by.
  VALENTINE. By seven o'clock I'll get you such a ladder.
  DUKE. But, hark thee; I will go to her alone;
    How shall I best convey the ladder thither?
  VALENTINE. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it
    Under a cloak that is of any length.
  DUKE. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn?
  VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord.
  DUKE. Then let me see thy cloak.
    I'll get me one of such another length.  
  VALENTINE. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord.
  DUKE. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak?
    I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me.
    What letter is this same? What's here? 'To Silvia'!
    And here an engine fit for my proceeding!
    I'll be so bold to break the seal for once.          [Reads]
      'My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly,
        And slaves they are to me, that send them flying.
      O, could their master come and go as lightly,
        Himself would lodge where, senseless, they are lying!
      My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them,
        While I, their king, that thither them importune,
      Do curse the grace that with such grace hath blest them,
        Because myself do want my servants' fortune.
      I curse myself, for they are sent by me,
        That they should harbour where their lord should be.'
    What's here?
      'Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.'
    'Tis so; and here's the ladder for the purpose.
    Why, Phaethon- for thou art Merops' son-  
    Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car,
    And with thy daring folly burn the world?
    Wilt thou reach stars because they shine on thee?
    Go, base intruder, over-weening slave,
    Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates;
    And think my patience, more than thy desert,
    Is privilege for thy departure hence.
    Thank me for this more than for all the favours
    Which, all too much, I have bestow'd on thee.
    But if thou linger in my territories
    Longer than swiftest expedition
    Will give thee time to leave our royal court,
    By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love
    I ever bore my daughter or thyself.
    Be gone; I will not hear thy vain excuse,
    But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from hence.    Exit
  VALENTINE. And why not death rather than living torment?
    To die is to be banish'd from myself,
    And Silvia is myself; banish'd from her
    Is self from self, a deadly banishment.  
    What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
    What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
    Unless it be to think that she is by,
    And feed upon the shadow of perfection.
    Except I be by Silvia in the night,
    There is no music in the nightingale;
    Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
    There is no day for me to look upon.
    She is my essence, and I leave to be
    If I be not by her fair influence
    Foster'd, illumin'd, cherish'd, kept alive.
    I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom:
    Tarry I here, I but attend on death;
    But fly I hence, I fly away from life.

                      Enter PROTEUS and LAUNCE

  PROTEUS. Run, boy, run, run, seek him out.
  LAUNCE. So-ho, so-ho!
  PROTEUS. What seest thou?  
  LAUNCE. Him we go to find: there's not a hair on 's head but 'tis a
    Valentine.
  PROTEUS. Valentine?
  VALENTINE. No.
  PROTEUS. Who then? his spirit?
  VALENTINE. Neither.
  PROTEUS. What then?
  VALENTINE. Nothing.
  LAUNCE. Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?
  PROTEUS. Who wouldst thou strike?
  LAUNCE. Nothing.
  PROTEUS. Villain, forbear.
  LAUNCE. Why, sir, I'll strike nothing. I pray you-
  PROTEUS. Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, a word.
  VALENTINE. My ears are stopp'd and cannot hear good news,
    So much of bad already hath possess'd them.
  PROTEUS. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,
    For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad.
  VALENTINE. Is Silvia dead?
  PROTEUS. No, Valentine.  
  VALENTINE. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia.
    Hath she forsworn me?
  PROTEUS. No, Valentine.
  VALENTINE. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me.
    What is your news?
  LAUNCE. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished.
  PROTEUS. That thou art banished- O, that's the news!-
    From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.
  VALENTINE. O, I have fed upon this woe already,
    And now excess of it will make me surfeit.
    Doth Silvia know that I am banished?
  PROTEUS. Ay, ay; and she hath offered to the doom-
    Which, unrevers'd, stands in effectual force-
    A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears;
    Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd;
    With them, upon her knees, her humble self,
    Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them
    As if but now they waxed pale for woe.
    But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,
    Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears,  
    Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire-
    But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.
    Besides, her intercession chaf'd him so,
    When she for thy repeal was suppliant,
    That to close prison he commanded her,
    With many bitter threats of biding there.
  VALENTINE. No more; unless the next word that thou speak'st
    Have some malignant power upon my life:
    If so, I pray thee breathe it in mine ear,
    As ending anthem of my endless dolour.
  PROTEUS. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,
    And study help for that which thou lament'st.
    Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.
    Here if thou stay thou canst not see thy love;
    Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.
    Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that,
    And manage it against despairing thoughts.
    Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence,
    Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd
    Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.  
    The time now serves not to expostulate.
    Come, I'll convey thee through the city gate;
    And, ere I part with thee, confer at large
    Of all that may concern thy love affairs.
    As thou lov'st Silvia, though not for thyself,
    Regard thy danger, and along with me.
  VALENTINE. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy,
    Bid him make haste and meet me at the Northgate.
  PROTEUS. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine.
  VALENTINE. O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine!
                                    Exeunt VALENTINE and PROTEUS
  LAUNCE. I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have the wit to think
    my master is a kind of a knave; but that's all one if he be but
    one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love; yet I am
    in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor
    who 'tis I love; and yet 'tis a woman; but what woman I will not
    tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet 'tis not a maid, for
    she hath had gossips; yet 'tis a maid, for she is her master's
    maid and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a
    water-spaniel- which is much in a bare Christian. Here is the  
    cate-log  [Pulling out a paper]  of her condition. 'Inprimis: She
    can fetch and carry.' Why, a horse can do no more; nay, a horse
    cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a
    jade. 'Item: She can milk.' Look you, a sweet virtue in a maid
    with clean hands.

                             Enter SPEED

  SPEED. How now, Signior Launce! What news with your mastership?
  LAUNCE. With my master's ship? Why, it is at sea.
  SPEED. Well, your old vice still: mistake the word. What news,
    then, in your paper?
  LAUNCE. The black'st news that ever thou heard'st.
  SPEED. Why, man? how black?
  LAUNCE. Why, as black as ink.
  SPEED. Let me read them.
  LAUNCE. Fie on thee, jolt-head; thou canst not read.
  SPEED. Thou liest; I can.
  LAUNCE. I will try thee. Tell me this: Who begot thee?
  SPEED. Marry, the son of my grandfather.  
  LAUNCE. O illiterate loiterer. It was the son of thy grandmother.
    This proves that thou canst not read.
  SPEED. Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper.
  LAUNCE.  [Handing over the paper]  There; and Saint Nicholas be thy
    speed.
  SPEED.  [Reads]  'Inprimis: She can milk.'
  LAUNCE. Ay, that she can.
  SPEED. 'Item: She brews good ale.'
  LAUNCE. And thereof comes the proverb: Blessing of your heart, you
    brew good ale.
  SPEED. 'Item: She can sew.'
  LAUNCE. That's as much as to say 'Can she so?'
  SPEED. 'Item: She can knit.'
  LAUNCE. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can
    knit him a stock.
  SPEED. 'Item: She can wash and scour.'
  LAUNCE. A special virtue; for then she need not be wash'd and
    scour'd.
  SPEED. 'Item: She can spin.'
  LAUNCE. Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for  
    her living.
  SPEED. 'Item: She hath many nameless virtues.'
  LAUNCE. That's as much as to say 'bastard virtues'; that indeed
    know not their fathers, and therefore have no names.
  SPEED. 'Here follow her vices.'
  LAUNCE. Close at the heels of her virtues.
  SPEED. 'Item: She is not to be kiss'd fasting, in respect of her
    breath.'
  LAUNCE. Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast.
    Read on.
  SPEED. 'Item: She hath a sweet mouth.'
  LAUNCE. That makes amends for her sour breath.
  SPEED. 'Item: She doth talk in her sleep.'
  LAUNCE. It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk.
  SPEED. 'Item: She is slow in words.'
  LAUNCE. O villain, that set this down among her vices! To be slow
    in words is a woman's only virtue. I pray thee, out with't; and
    place it for her chief virtue.
  SPEED. 'Item: She is proud.'
  LAUNCE. Out with that too; it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en  
    from her.
  SPEED. 'Item: She hath no teeth.'
  LAUNCE. I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.
  SPEED. 'Item: She is curst.'
  LAUNCE. Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite.
  SPEED. 'Item: She will often praise her liquor.'
  LAUNCE. If her liquor be good, she shall; if she will not, I will;
    for good things should be praised.
  SPEED. 'Item: She is too liberal.'
  LAUNCE. Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down she is slow
    of; of her purse she shall not, for that I'll keep shut. Now of
    another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed.
  SPEED. 'Item: She hath more hair than wit, and more faults
    than hairs, and more wealth than faults.'
  LAUNCE. Stop there; I'll have her; she was mine, and not mine,
    twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more.
  SPEED. 'Item: She hath more hair than wit'-
  LAUNCE. More hair than wit. It may be; I'll prove it: the cover of
    the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt;
    the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the  
    greater hides the less. What's next?
  SPEED. 'And more faults than hairs'-
  LAUNCE. That's monstrous. O that that were out!
  SPEED. 'And more wealth than faults.'
  LAUNCE. Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I'll have
    her; an if it be a match, as nothing is impossible-
  SPEED. What then?
  LAUNCE. Why, then will I tell thee- that thy master stays for thee
    at the Northgate.
  SPEED. For me?
  LAUNCE. For thee! ay, who art thou? He hath stay'd for a better man
    than thee.
  SPEED. And must I go to him?
  LAUNCE. Thou must run to him, for thou hast stay'd so long that
    going will scarce serve the turn.
  SPEED. Why didst not tell me sooner? Pox of your love letters!
 Exit
  LAUNCE. Now will he be swing'd for reading my letter. An unmannerly
    slave that will thrust himself into secrets! I'll after, to
    rejoice in the boy's correction.                        Exit




SCENE II.
Milan. The DUKE'S palace

Enter DUKE and THURIO

  DUKE. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you
    Now Valentine is banish'd from her sight.
  THURIO. Since his exile she hath despis'd me most,
    Forsworn my company and rail'd at me,
    That I am desperate of obtaining her.
  DUKE. This weak impress of love is as a figure
    Trenched in ice, which with an hour's heat
    Dissolves to water and doth lose his form.
    A little time will melt her frozen thoughts,
    And worthless Valentine shall be forgot.

                          Enter PROTEUS

    How now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman,
    According to our proclamation, gone?
  PROTEUS. Gone, my good lord.
  DUKE. My daughter takes his going grievously.  
  PROTEUS. A little time, my lord, will kill that grief.
  DUKE. So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so.
    Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee-
    For thou hast shown some sign of good desert-
    Makes me the better to confer with thee.
  PROTEUS. Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace
    Let me not live to look upon your Grace.
  DUKE. Thou know'st how willingly I would effect
    The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter.
  PROTEUS. I do, my lord.
  DUKE. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant
    How she opposes her against my will.
  PROTEUS. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here.
  DUKE. Ay, and perversely she persevers so.
    What might we do to make the girl forget
    The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio?
  PROTEUS. The best way is to slander Valentine
    With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent-
    Three things that women highly hold in hate.
  DUKE. Ay, but she'll think that it is spoke in hate.  
  PROTEUS. Ay, if his enemy deliver it;
    Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken
    By one whom she esteemeth as his friend.
  DUKE. Then you must undertake to slander him.
  PROTEUS. And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do:
    'Tis an ill office for a gentleman,
    Especially against his very friend.
  DUKE. Where your good word cannot advantage him,
    Your slander never can endamage him;
    Therefore the office is indifferent,
    Being entreated to it by your friend.
  PROTEUS. You have prevail'd, my lord; if I can do it
    By aught that I can speak in his dispraise,
    She shall not long continue love to him.
    But say this weed her love from Valentine,
    It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio.
  THURIO. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him,
    Lest it should ravel and be good to none,
    You must provide to bottom it on me;
    Which must be done by praising me as much  
    As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine.
  DUKE. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind,
    Because we know, on Valentine's report,
    You are already Love's firm votary
    And cannot soon revolt and change your mind.
    Upon this warrant shall you have access
    Where you with Silvia may confer at large-
    For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy,
    And, for your friend's sake, will be glad of you-
    Where you may temper her by your persuasion
    To hate young Valentine and love my friend.
  PROTEUS. As much as I can do I will effect.
    But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough;
    You must lay lime to tangle her desires
    By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes
    Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows.
  DUKE. Ay,
    Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.
  PROTEUS. Say that upon the altar of her beauty
    You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart;  
    Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears
    Moist it again, and frame some feeling line
    That may discover such integrity;
    For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews,
    Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,
    Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans
    Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.
    After your dire-lamenting elegies,
    Visit by night your lady's chamber window
    With some sweet consort; to their instruments
    Tune a deploring dump- the night's dead silence
    Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance.
    This, or else nothing, will inherit her.
  DUKE. This discipline shows thou hast been in love.
  THURIO. And thy advice this night I'll put in practice;
    Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver,
    Let us into the city presently
    To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music.
    I have a sonnet that will serve the turn
    To give the onset to thy good advice.  
  DUKE. About it, gentlemen!
  PROTEUS. We'll wait upon your Grace till after supper,
    And afterward determine our proceedings.
  DUKE. Even now about it! I will pardon you.             Exeunt




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ACT IV. SCENE I.
The frontiers of Mantua. A forest

Enter certain OUTLAWS

  FIRST OUTLAW. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.
  SECOND OUTLAW. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em.

                  Enter VALENTINE and SPEED

  THIRD OUTLAW. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye;
    If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you.
  SPEED. Sir, we are undone; these are the villains
    That all the travellers do fear so much.
  VALENTINE. My friends-
  FIRST OUTLAW. That's not so, sir; we are your enemies.
  SECOND OUTLAW. Peace! we'll hear him.
  THIRD OUTLAW. Ay, by my beard, will we; for he is a proper man.
  VALENTINE. Then know that I have little wealth to lose;
    A man I am cross'd with adversity;
    My riches are these poor habiliments,
    Of which if you should here disfurnish me,  
    You take the sum and substance that I have.
  SECOND OUTLAW. Whither travel you?
  VALENTINE. To Verona.
  FIRST OUTLAW. Whence came you?
  VALENTINE. From Milan.
  THIRD OUTLAW. Have you long sojourn'd there?
  VALENTINE. Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay'd,
    If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.
  FIRST OUTLAW. What, were you banish'd thence?
  VALENTINE. I was.
  SECOND OUTLAW. For what offence?
  VALENTINE. For that which now torments me to rehearse:
    I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent;
    But yet I slew him manfully in fight,
    Without false vantage or base treachery.
  FIRST OUTLAW. Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so.
    But were you banish'd for so small a fault?
  VALENTINE. I was, and held me glad of such a doom.
  SECOND OUTLAW. Have you the tongues?
  VALENTINE. My youthful travel therein made me happy,  
    Or else I often had been miserable.
  THIRD OUTLAW. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar,
    This fellow were a king for our wild faction!
  FIRST OUTLAW. We'll have him. Sirs, a word.
  SPEED. Master, be one of them; it's an honourable kind of thievery.
  VALENTINE. Peace, villain!
  SECOND OUTLAW. Tell us this: have you anything to take to?
  VALENTINE. Nothing but my fortune.
  THIRD OUTLAW. Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen,
    Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth
    Thrust from the company of awful men;
    Myself was from Verona banished
    For practising to steal away a lady,
    An heir, and near allied unto the Duke.
  SECOND OUTLAW. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman
    Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart.
  FIRST OUTLAW. And I for such-like petty crimes as these.
    But to the purpose- for we cite our faults
    That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives;
    And, partly, seeing you are beautified  
    With goodly shape, and by your own report
    A linguist, and a man of such perfection
    As we do in our quality much want-
  SECOND OUTLAW. Indeed, because you are a banish'd man,
    Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you.
    Are you content to be our general-
    To make a virtue of necessity,
    And live as we do in this wilderness?
  THIRD OUTLAW. What say'st thou? Wilt thou be of our consort?
    Say 'ay' and be the captain of us all.
    We'll do thee homage, and be rul'd by thee,
    Love thee as our commander and our king.
  FIRST OUTLAW. But if thou scorn our courtesy thou diest.
  SECOND OUTLAW. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer'd.
  VALENTINE. I take your offer, and will live with you,
    Provided that you do no outrages
    On silly women or poor passengers.
  THIRD OUTLAW. No, we detest such vile base practices.
    Come, go with us; we'll bring thee to our crews,
    And show thee all the treasure we have got;  
    Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose.       Exeunt




SCENE II.
Milan. Outside the DUKE'S palace, under SILVIA'S window

Enter PROTEUS

  PROTEUS. Already have I been false to Valentine,
    And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.
    Under the colour of commending him
    I have access my own love to prefer;
    But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy,
    To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
    When I protest true loyalty to her,
    She twits me with my falsehood to my friend;
    When to her beauty I commend my vows,
    She bids me think how I have been forsworn
    In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov'd;
    And notwithstanding all her sudden quips,
    The least whereof would quell a lover's hope,
    Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love
    The more it grows and fawneth on her still.

                 Enter THURIO and MUSICIANS  

    But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her window,
    And give some evening music to her ear.
  THURIO. How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept before us?
  PROTEUS. Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love
    Will creep in service where it cannot go.
  THURIO. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here.
  PROTEUS. Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence.
  THURIO. Who? Silvia?
  PROTEUS. Ay, Silvia- for your sake.
  THURIO. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen,
    Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile.

    Enter at a distance, HOST, and JULIA in boy's clothes

  HOST. Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly; I pray you,
    why is it?
  JULIA. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.
  HOST. Come, we'll have you merry; I'll bring you where you shall
    hear music, and see the gentleman that you ask'd for.  
  JULIA. But shall I hear him speak?
  HOST. Ay, that you shall.                        [Music plays]
  JULIA. That will be music.
  HOST. Hark, hark!
  JULIA. Is he among these?
  HOST. Ay; but peace! let's hear 'em.

                   SONG
         Who is Silvia? What is she,
           That all our swains commend her?
         Holy, fair, and wise is she;
           The heaven such grace did lend her,
         That she might admired be.

         Is she kind as she is fair?
           For beauty lives with kindness.
         Love doth to her eyes repair,
           To help him of his blindness;
         And, being help'd, inhabits there.
  
         Then to Silvia let us sing
           That Silvia is excelling;
         She excels each mortal thing
           Upon the dull earth dwelling.
         'To her let us garlands bring.

  HOST. How now, are you sadder than you were before?
    How do you, man? The music likes you not.
  JULIA. You mistake; the musician likes me not.
  HOST. Why, my pretty youth?
  JULIA. He plays false, father.
  HOST. How, out of tune on the strings?
  JULIA. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very
    heart-strings.
  HOST. You have a quick ear.
  JULIA. Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart.
  HOST. I perceive you delight not in music.
  JULIA. Not a whit, when it jars so.
  HOST. Hark, what fine change is in the music!
  JULIA. Ay, that change is the spite.  
  HOST. You would have them always play but one thing?
  JULIA. I would always have one play but one thing.
    But, Host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk on,
    Often resort unto this gentlewoman?
  HOST. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he lov'd her out of
    all nick.
  JULIA. Where is Launce?
  HOST. Gone to seek his dog, which to-morrow, by his master's
    command, he must carry for a present to his lady.
  JULIA. Peace, stand aside; the company parts.
  PROTEUS. Sir Thurio, fear not you; I will so plead
    That you shall say my cunning drift excels.
  THURIO. Where meet we?
  PROTEUS. At Saint Gregory's well.
  THURIO. Farewell.                  Exeunt THURIO and MUSICIANS

                  Enter SILVIA above, at her window

  PROTEUS. Madam, good ev'n to your ladyship.
  SILVIA. I thank you for your music, gentlemen.  
    Who is that that spake?
  PROTEUS. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth,
    You would quickly learn to know him by his voice.
  SILVIA. Sir Proteus, as I take it.
  PROTEUS. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.
  SILVIA. What's your will?
  PROTEUS. That I may compass yours.
  SILVIA. You have your wish; my will is even this,
    That presently you hie you home to bed.
    Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man,
    Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,
    To be seduced by thy flattery
    That hast deceiv'd so many with thy vows?
    Return, return, and make thy love amends.
    For me, by this pale queen of night I swear,
    I am so far from granting thy request
    That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit,
    And by and by intend to chide myself
    Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.
  PROTEUS. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady;  
    But she is dead.
  JULIA.  [Aside]  'Twere false, if I should speak it;
    For I am sure she is not buried.
  SILVIA. Say that she be; yet Valentine, thy friend,
    Survives, to whom, thyself art witness,
    I am betroth'd; and art thou not asham'd
    To wrong him with thy importunacy?
  PROTEUS. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.
  SILVIA. And so suppose am I; for in his grave
    Assure thyself my love is buried.
  PROTEUS. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.
  SILVIA. Go to thy lady's grave, and call hers thence;
    Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.
  JULIA.  [Aside]  He heard not that.
  PROTEUS. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate,
    Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love,
    The picture that is hanging in your chamber;
    To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep;
    For, since the substance of your perfect self
    Is else devoted, I am but a shadow;  
    And to your shadow will I make true love.
  JULIA.  [Aside]  If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it
    And make it but a shadow, as I am.
  SILVIA. I am very loath to be your idol, sir;
    But since your falsehood shall become you well
    To worship shadows and adore false shapes,
    Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it;
    And so, good rest.
  PROTEUS. As wretches have o'ernight
    That wait for execution in the morn.
                                       Exeunt PROTEUS and SILVIA
  JULIA. Host, will you go?
  HOST. By my halidom, I was fast asleep.
  JULIA. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?
  HOST. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis almost day.
  JULIA. Not so; but it hath been the longest night
    That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest.           Exeunt




SCENE III.
Under SILVIA'S window

Enter EGLAMOUR

  EGLAMOUR. This is the hour that Madam Silvia
    Entreated me to call and know her mind;
    There's some great matter she'd employ me in.
    Madam, madam!

             Enter SILVIA above, at her window

  SILVIA. Who calls?
  EGLAMOUR. Your servant and your friend;
    One that attends your ladyship's command.
  SILVIA. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow!
  EGLAMOUR. As many, worthy lady, to yourself!
    According to your ladyship's impose,
    I am thus early come to know what service
    It is your pleasure to command me in.
  SILVIA. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman-
    Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not-  
    Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish'd.
    Thou art not ignorant what dear good will
    I bear unto the banish'd Valentine;
    Nor how my father would enforce me marry
    Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors.
    Thyself hast lov'd; and I have heard thee say
    No grief did ever come so near thy heart
    As when thy lady and thy true love died,
    Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity.
    Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,
    To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode;
    And, for the ways are dangerous to pass,
    I do desire thy worthy company,
    Upon whose faith and honour I repose.
    Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour,
    But think upon my grief, a lady's grief,
    And on the justice of my flying hence
    To keep me from a most unholy match,
    Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.
    I do desire thee, even from a heart  
    As full of sorrows as the sea of sands,
    To bear me company and go with me;
    If not, to hide what I have said to thee,
    That I may venture to depart alone.
  EGLAMOUR. Madam, I pity much your grievances;
    Which since I know they virtuously are plac'd,
    I give consent to go along with you,
    Recking as little what betideth me
    As much I wish all good befortune you.
    When will you go?
  SILVIA. This evening coming.
  EGLAMOUR. Where shall I meet you?
  SILVIA. At Friar Patrick's cell,
    Where I intend holy confession.
  EGLAMOUR. I will not fail your ladyship. Good morrow, gentle lady.
  SILVIA. Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour.                 Exeunt




SCENE IV.
Under SILVIA'S Window

Enter LAUNCE with his dog

  LAUNCE. When a man's servant shall play the cur with him, look you,
    it goes hard- one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I sav'd
    from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers and
    sisters went to it. I have taught him, even as one would say
    precisely 'Thus I would teach a dog.' I was sent to deliver him
    as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no
    sooner into the dining-chamber, but he steps me to her trencher
    and steals her capon's leg. O, 'tis a foul thing when a cur
    cannot keep himself in all companies! I would have, as one should
    say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it
    were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to
    take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been
    hang'd for't; sure as I live, he had suffer'd for't. You shall
    judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of three or four
    gentleman-like dogs under the Duke's table; he had not been
    there, bless the mark, a pissing while but all the chamber smelt
    him. 'Out with the dog' says one; 'What cur is that?' says  
    another; 'Whip him out' says the third; 'Hang him up' says the
    Duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it
    was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs.
    'Friend,' quoth I 'you mean to whip the dog.' 'Ay, marry do I'
    quoth he. 'You do him the more wrong,' quoth I; "twas I did the
    thing you wot of.' He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of
    the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant? Nay,
    I'll be sworn, I have sat in the stock for puddings he hath
    stol'n, otherwise he had been executed; I have stood on the
    pillory for geese he hath kill'd, otherwise he had suffer'd
    for't. Thou think'st not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick
    you serv'd me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia. Did not I bid
    thee still mark me and do as I do? When didst thou see me heave
    up my leg and make water against a gentlewoman's farthingale?
    Didst thou ever see me do such a trick?

               Enter PROTEUS, and JULIA in boy's clothes

  PROTEUS. Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well,
    And will employ thee in some service presently.  
  JULIA. In what you please; I'll do what I can.
  PROTEUS..I hope thou wilt.  [To LAUNCE]  How now, you whoreson
      peasant!
    Where have you been these two days loitering?
  LAUNCE. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me.
  PROTEUS. And what says she to my little jewel?
  LAUNCE. Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you currish
    thanks is good enough for such a present.
  PROTEUS. But she receiv'd my dog?
  LAUNCE. No, indeed, did she not; here have I brought him back
    again.
  PROTEUS. What, didst thou offer her this from me?
  LAUNCE. Ay, sir; the other squirrel was stol'n from me by the
    hangman's boys in the market-place; and then I offer'd her mine
    own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift
    the greater.
  PROTEUS. Go, get thee hence and find my dog again,
    Or ne'er return again into my sight.
    Away, I say. Stayest thou to vex me here?        Exit LAUNCE
    A slave that still an end turns me to shame!  
    Sebastian, I have entertained thee
    Partly that I have need of such a youth
    That can with some discretion do my business,
    For 'tis no trusting to yond foolish lout,
    But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour,
    Which, if my augury deceive me not,
    Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth;
    Therefore, know thou, for this I entertain thee.
    Go presently, and take this ring with thee,
    Deliver it to Madam Silvia-
    She lov'd me well deliver'd it to me.
  JULIA. It seems you lov'd not her, to leave her token.
    She is dead, belike?
  PROTEUS. Not so; I think she lives.
  JULIA. Alas!
  PROTEUS. Why dost thou cry 'Alas'?
  JULIA. I cannot choose
    But pity her.
  PROTEUS. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her?
  JULIA. Because methinks that she lov'd you as well  
    As you do love your lady Silvia.
    She dreams on him that has forgot her love:
    You dote on her that cares not for your love.
    'Tis pity love should be so contrary;
    And thinking on it makes me cry 'Alas!'
  PROTEUS. Well, give her that ring, and therewithal
    This letter. That's her chamber. Tell my lady
    I claim the promise for her heavenly picture.
    Your message done, hie home unto my chamber,
    Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary.      Exit PROTEUS
  JULIA. How many women would do such a message?
    Alas, poor Proteus, thou hast entertain'd
    A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.
    Alas, poor fool, why do I pity him
    That with his very heart despiseth me?
    Because he loves her, he despiseth me;
    Because I love him, I must pity him.
    This ring I gave him, when he parted from me,
    To bind him to remember my good will;
    And now am I, unhappy messenger,  
    To plead for that which I would not obtain,
    To carry that which I would have refus'd,
    To praise his faith, which I would have disprais'd.
    I am my master's true confirmed love,
    But cannot be true servant to my master
    Unless I prove false traitor to myself.
    Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly
    As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed.

                     Enter SILVIA, attended

    Gentlewoman, good day! I pray you be my mean
    To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia.
  SILVIA. What would you with her, if that I be she?
  JULIA. If you be she, I do entreat your patience
    To hear me speak the message I am sent on.
  SILVIA. From whom?
  JULIA. From my master, Sir Proteus, madam.
  SILVIA. O, he sends you for a picture?
  JULIA. Ay, madam.  
  SILVIA. Ursula, bring my picture there.
    Go, give your master this. Tell him from me,
    One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget,
    Would better fit his chamber than this shadow.
  JULIA. Madam, please you peruse this letter.
    Pardon me, madam; I have unadvis'd
    Deliver'd you a paper that I should not.
    This is the letter to your ladyship.
  SILVIA. I pray thee let me look on that again.
  JULIA. It may not be; good madam, pardon me.
  SILVIA. There, hold!
    I will not look upon your master's lines.
    I know they are stuff'd with protestations,
    And full of new-found oaths, which he wul break
    As easily as I do tear his paper.
  JULIA. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring.
  SILVIA. The more shame for him that he sends it me;
    For I have heard him say a thousand times
    His Julia gave it him at his departure.
    Though his false finger have profan'd the ring,  
    Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong.
  JULIA. She thanks you.
  SILVIA. What say'st thou?
  JULIA. I thank you, madam, that you tender her.
    Poor gentlewoman, my master wrongs her much.
  SILVIA. Dost thou know her?
  JULIA. Almost as well as I do know myself.
    To think upon her woes, I do protest
    That I have wept a hundred several times.
  SILVIA. Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her.
  JULIA. I think she doth, and that's her cause of sorrow.
  SILVIA. Is she not passing fair?
  JULIA. She hath been fairer, madam, than she is.
    When she did think my master lov'd her well,
    She, in my judgment, was as fair as you;
    But since she did neglect her looking-glass
    And threw her sun-expelling mask away,
    The air hath starv'd the roses in her cheeks
    And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face,
    That now she is become as black as I.  
  SILVIA. How tall was she?
  JULIA. About my stature; for at Pentecost,
    When all our pageants of delight were play'd,
    Our youth got me to play the woman's part,
    And I was trimm'd in Madam Julia's gown;
    Which served me as fit, by all men's judgments,
    As if the garment had been made for me;
    Therefore I know she is about my height.
    And at that time I made her weep a good,
    For I did play a lamentable part.
    Madam, 'twas Ariadne passioning
    For Theseus' perjury and unjust flight;
    Which I so lively acted with my tears
    That my poor mistress, moved therewithal,
    Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead
    If I in thought felt not her very sorrow.
  SILVIA. She is beholding to thee, gentle youth.
    Alas, poor lady, desolate and left!
    I weep myself, to think upon thy words.
    Here, youth, there is my purse; I give thee this  
    For thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lov'st her.
    Farewell.                        Exit SILVIA with ATTENDANTS
  JULIA. And she shall thank you for't, if e'er you know her.
    A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful!
    I hope my master's suit will be but cold,
    Since she respects my mistress' love so much.
    Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
    Here is her picture; let me see. I think,
    If I had such a tire, this face of mine
    Were full as lovely as is this of hers;
    And yet the painter flatter'd her a little,
    Unless I flatter with myself too much.
    Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow;
    If that be all the difference in his love,
    I'll get me such a colour'd periwig.
    Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine;
    Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high.
    What should it be that he respects in her
    But I can make respective in myself,
    If this fond Love were not a blinded god?  
    Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up,
    For 'tis thy rival. O thou senseless form,
    Thou shalt be worshipp'd, kiss'd, lov'd, and ador'd!
    And were there sense in his idolatry
    My substance should be statue in thy stead.
    I'll use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake,
    That us'd me so; or else, by Jove I vow,
    I should have scratch'd out your unseeing eyes,
    To make my master out of love with thee.                Exit




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ACT V. SCENE I.
Milan. An abbey

Enter EGLAMOUR

  EGLAMOUR. The sun begins to gild the western sky,
    And now it is about the very hour
    That Silvia at Friar Patrick's cell should meet me.
    She will not fail, for lovers break not hours
    Unless it be to come before their time,
    So much they spur their expedition.

                         Enter SILVIA

    See where she comes. Lady, a happy evening!
  SILVIA. Amen, amen! Go on, good Eglamour,
    Out at the postern by the abbey wall;
    I fear I am attended by some spies.
  EGLAMOUR. Fear not. The forest is not three leagues off;
    If we recover that, we are sure enough.               Exeunt




SCENE II.
Milan. The DUKE'S palace

Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA as SEBASTIAN

  THURIO. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit?
  PROTEUS. O, sir, I find her milder than she was;
    And yet she takes exceptions at your person.
  THURIO. What, that my leg is too long?
  PROTEUS. No; that it is too little.
  THURIO. I'll wear a boot to make it somewhat rounder.
  JULIA.  [Aside]  But love will not be spurr'd to what it loathes.
  THURIO. What says she to my face?
  PROTEUS. She says it is a fair one.
  THURIO. Nay, then, the wanton lies; my face is black.
  PROTEUS. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is:
    Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes.
  JULIA.  [Aside]  'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies' eyes;
    For I had rather wink than look on them.
  THURIO. How likes she my discourse?
  PROTEUS. Ill, when you talk of war.
  THURIO. But well when I discourse of love and peace?  
  JULIA.  [Aside]  But better, indeed, when you hold your peace.
  THURIO. What says she to my valour?
  PROTEUS. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that.
  JULIA.  [Aside]  She needs not, when she knows it cowardice.
  THURIO. What says she to my birth?
  PROTEUS. That you are well deriv'd.
  JULIA.  [Aside]  True; from a gentleman to a fool.
  THURIO. Considers she my possessions?
  PROTEUS. O, ay; and pities them.
  THURIO. Wherefore?
  JULIA.  [Aside]  That such an ass should owe them.
  PROTEUS. That they are out by lease.
  JULIA. Here comes the Duke.

                          Enter DUKE

  DUKE. How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio!
    Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late?
  THURIO. Not I.
  PROTEUS. Nor I.  
  DUKE. Saw you my daughter?
  PROTEUS. Neither.
  DUKE. Why then,
    She's fled unto that peasant Valentine;
    And Eglamour is in her company.
    'Tis true; for Friar Lawrence met them both
    As he in penance wander'd through the forest;
    Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she,
    But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it;
    Besides, she did intend confession
    At Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not.
    These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence;
    Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse,
    But mount you presently, and meet with me
    Upon the rising of the mountain foot
    That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled.
    Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me.               Exit
  THURIO. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl
    That flies her fortune when it follows her.
    I'll after, more to be reveng'd on Eglamour  
    Than for the love of reckless Silvia.                   Exit
  PROTEUS. And I will follow, more for Silvia's love
    Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her.              Exit
  JULIA. And I will follow, more to cross that love
    Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love.            Exit




SCENE III.
The frontiers of Mantua. The forest

Enter OUTLAWS with SILVA

  FIRST OUTLAW. Come, come.
    Be patient; we must bring you to our captain.
  SILVIA. A thousand more mischances than this one
    Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently.
  SECOND OUTLAW. Come, bring her away.
  FIRST OUTLAW. Where is the gentleman that was with her?
  SECOND OUTLAW. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us,
    But Moyses and Valerius follow him.
    Go thou with her to the west end of the wood;
    There is our captain; we'll follow him that's fled.
    The thicket is beset; he cannot 'scape.
  FIRST OUTLAW. Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave;
    Fear not; he bears an honourable mind,
    And will not use a woman lawlessly.
  SILVIA. O Valentine, this I endure for thee!            Exeunt




SCENE IV.
Another part of the forest

Enter VALENTINE

  VALENTINE. How use doth breed a habit in a man!
    This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
    I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.
    Here can I sit alone, unseen of any,
    And to the nightingale's complaining notes
    Tune my distresses and record my woes.
    O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
    Leave not the mansion so long tenantless,
    Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall
    And leave no memory of what it was!
    Repair me with thy presence, Silvia:
    Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain.
    What halloing and what stir is this to-day?
    These are my mates, that make their wills their law,
    Have some unhappy passenger in chase.
    They love me well; yet I have much to do
    To keep them from uncivil outrages.  
    Withdraw thee, Valentine. Who's this comes here?
                                                   [Steps aside]

          Enter PROTEUS, SILVIA, and JULIA as Sebastian

  PROTEUS. Madam, this service I have done for you,
    Though you respect not aught your servant doth,
    To hazard life, and rescue you from him
    That would have forc'd your honour and your love.
    Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look;
    A smaller boon than this I cannot beg,
    And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give.
  VALENTINE.  [Aside]  How like a dream is this I see and hear!
    Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile.
  SILVIA. O miserable, unhappy that I am!
  PROTEUS. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came;
    But by my coming I have made you happy.
  SILVIA. By thy approach thou mak'st me most unhappy.
  JULIA.  [Aside]  And me, when he approacheth to your presence.
  SILVIA. Had I been seized by a hungry lion,  
    I would have been a breakfast to the beast
    Rather than have false Proteus rescue me.
    O, heaven be judge how I love Valentine,
    Whose life's as tender to me as my soul!
    And full as much, for more there cannot be,
    I do detest false, perjur'd Proteus.
    Therefore be gone; solicit me no more.
  PROTEUS. What dangerous action, stood it next to death,
    Would I not undergo for one calm look?
    O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approv'd,
    When women cannot love where they're belov'd!
  SILVIA. When Proteus cannot love where he's belov'd!
    Read over Julia's heart, thy first best love,
    For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith
    Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths
    Descended into perjury, to love me.
    Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou'dst two,
    And that's far worse than none; better have none
    Than plural faith, which is too much by one.
    Thou counterfeit to thy true friend!  
  PROTEUS. In love,
    Who respects friend?
  SILVIA. All men but Proteus.
  PROTEUS. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words
    Can no way change you to a milder form,
    I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end,
    And love you 'gainst the nature of love- force ye.
  SILVIA. O heaven!
  PROTEUS. I'll force thee yield to my desire.
  VALENTINE. Ruffian! let go that rude uncivil touch;
    Thou friend of an ill fashion!
  PROTEUS. Valentine!
  VALENTINE. Thou common friend, that's without faith or love-
    For such is a friend now; treacherous man,
    Thou hast beguil'd my hopes; nought but mine eye
    Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say
    I have one friend alive: thou wouldst disprove me.
    Who should be trusted, when one's own right hand
    Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus,
    I am sorry I must never trust thee more,  
    But count the world a stranger for thy sake.
    The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst!
    'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!
  PROTEUS. My shame and guilt confounds me.
    Forgive me, Valentine; if hearty sorrow
    Be a sufficient ransom for offence,
    I tender 't here; I do as truly suffer
    As e'er I did commit.
  VALENTINE. Then I am paid;
    And once again I do receive thee honest.
    Who by repentance is not satisfied
    Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleas'd;
    By penitence th' Eternal's wrath's appeas'd.
    And, that my love may appear plain and free,
    All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.
  JULIA. O me unhappy!                                  [Swoons]
  PROTEUS. Look to the boy.
  VALENTINE. Why, boy! why, wag! how now!
    What's the matter? Look up; speak.
  JULIA. O good sir, my master charg'd me to deliver a ring to Madam  
    Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never done.
  PROTEUS. Where is that ring, boy?
  JULIA. Here 'tis; this is it.
  PROTEUS. How! let me see. Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia.
  JULIA. O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook;
    This is the ring you sent to Silvia.
  PROTEUS. But how cam'st thou by this ring?
    At my depart I gave this unto Julia.
  JULIA. And Julia herself did give it me;
    And Julia herself have brought it hither.
  PROTEUS. How! Julia!
  JULIA. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths,
    And entertain'd 'em deeply in her heart.
    How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!
    O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush!
    Be thou asham'd that I have took upon me
    Such an immodest raiment- if shame live
    In a disguise of love.
    It is the lesser blot, modesty finds,
    Women to change their shapes than men their minds.  
  PROTEUS. Than men their minds! 'tis true. O heaven, were man
    But constant, he were perfect! That one error
    Fills him with faults; makes him run through all th' sins:
    Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.
    What is in Silvia's face but I may spy
    More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye?
  VALENTINE. Come, come, a hand from either.
    Let me be blest to make this happy close;
    'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.
  PROTEUS. Bear witness, heaven, I have my wish for ever.
  JULIA. And I mine.

                Enter OUTLAWS, with DUKE and THURIO

  OUTLAW. A prize, a prize, a prize!
  VALENTINE. Forbear, forbear, I say; it is my lord the Duke.
    Your Grace is welcome to a man disgrac'd,
    Banished Valentine.
  DUKE. Sir Valentine!
  THURIO. Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia's mine.  
  VALENTINE. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death;
    Come not within the measure of my wrath;
    Do not name Silvia thine; if once again,
    Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands
    Take but possession of her with a touch-
    I dare thee but to breathe upon my love.
  THURIO. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I;
    I hold him but a fool that will endanger
    His body for a girl that loves him not.
    I claim her not, and therefore she is thine.
  DUKE. The more degenerate and base art thou
    To make such means for her as thou hast done
    And leave her on such slight conditions.
    Now, by the honour of my ancestry,
    I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine,
    And think thee worthy of an empress' love.
    Know then, I here forget all former griefs,
    Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again,
    Plead a new state in thy unrivall'd merit,
    To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine,  
    Thou art a gentleman, and well deriv'd;
    Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv'd her.
  VALENTINE. I thank your Grace; the gift hath made me happy.
    I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake,
    To grant one boon that I shall ask of you.
  DUKE. I grant it for thine own, whate'er it be.
  VALENTINE. These banish'd men, that I have kept withal,
    Are men endu'd with worthy qualities;
    Forgive them what they have committed here,
    And let them be recall'd from their exile:
    They are reformed, civil, full of good,
    And fit for great employment, worthy lord.
  DUKE. Thou hast prevail'd; I pardon them, and thee;
    Dispose of them as thou know'st their deserts.
    Come, let us go; we will include all jars
    With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity.
  VALENTINE. And, as we walk along, I dare be bold
    With our discourse to make your Grace to smile.
    What think you of this page, my lord?
  DUKE. I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes.  
  VALENTINE. I warrant you, my lord- more grace than boy.
  DUKE. What mean you by that saying?
  VALENTINE. Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along,
    That you will wonder what hath fortuned.
    Come, Proteus, 'tis your penance but to hear
    The story of your loves discovered.
    That done, our day of marriage shall be yours;
    One feast, one house, one mutual happiness!     Exeunt

THE END



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
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PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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1611

THE WINTER'S TALE

by William Shakespeare



Dramatis Personae

  LEONTES, King of Sicilia
  MAMILLIUS, his son, the young Prince of Sicilia
  CAMILLO,    lord of Sicilia
  ANTIGONUS,    "   "     "
  CLEOMENES,    "   "     "
  DION,         "   "     "
  POLIXENES, King of Bohemia
  FLORIZEL, his son, Prince of Bohemia
  ARCHIDAMUS, a lord of Bohemia
  OLD SHEPHERD, reputed father of Perdita
  CLOWN, his son
  AUTOLYCUS, a rogue
  A MARINER
  A GAOLER
  TIME, as Chorus

  HERMIONE, Queen to Leontes
  PERDITA, daughter to Leontes and Hermione
  PAULINA, wife to Antigonus
  EMILIA, a lady attending on the Queen  
  MOPSA,   shepherdess
  DORCAS,        "

  Other Lords, Gentlemen, Ladies, Officers, Servants, Shepherds,
    Shepherdesses

                              SCENE:
                       Sicilia and Bohemia




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



ACT I. SCENE I.
Sicilia. The palace of LEONTES

Enter CAMILLO and ARCHIDAMUS

  ARCHIDAMUS. If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia, on the
    like occasion whereon my services are now on foot, you shall see,
    as I have said, great difference betwixt our Bohemia and your
    Sicilia.
  CAMILLO. I think this coming summer the King of Sicilia means to
    pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him.
  ARCHIDAMUS. Wherein our entertainment shall shame us we will be
    justified in our loves; for indeed-
  CAMILLO. Beseech you-
  ARCHIDAMUS. Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my knowledge: we
    cannot with such magnificence, in so rare- I know not what to
    say. We will give you sleepy drinks, that your senses,
    unintelligent of our insufficience, may, though they cannot
    praise us, as little accuse us.
  CAMILLO. You pay a great deal too dear for what's given freely.
  ARCHIDAMUS. Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me
    and as mine honesty puts it to utterance.  
  CAMILLO. Sicilia cannot show himself overkind to Bohemia. They were
    train'd together in their childhoods; and there rooted betwixt
    them then such an affection which cannot choose but branch now.
    Since their more mature dignities and royal necessities made
    separation of their society, their encounters, though not
    personal, have been royally attorneyed with interchange of gifts,
    letters, loving embassies; that they have seem'd to be together,
    though absent; shook hands, as over a vast; and embrac'd as it
    were from the ends of opposed winds. The heavens continue their
    loves!
  ARCHIDAMUS. I think there is not in the world either malice or
    matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable comfort of your young
    Prince Mamillius; it is a gentleman of the greatest promise that
    ever came into my note.
  CAMILLO. I very well agree with you in the hopes of him. It is a
    gallant child; one that indeed physics the subject, makes old
    hearts fresh; they that went on crutches ere he was born desire
    yet their life to see him a man.
  ARCHIDAMUS. Would they else be content to die?
  CAMILLO. Yes; if there were no other excuse why they should desire  
    to live.
  ARCHIDAMUS. If the King had no son, they would desire to live on
    crutches till he had one.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE II.
Sicilia. The palace of LEONTES

Enter LEONTES, POLIXENES, HERMIONE, MAMILLIUS, CAMILLO, and ATTENDANTS

  POLIXENES. Nine changes of the wat'ry star hath been
    The shepherd's note since we have left our throne
    Without a burden. Time as long again
    Would be fill'd up, my brother, with our thanks;
    And yet we should for perpetuity
    Go hence in debt. And therefore, like a cipher,
    Yet standing in rich place, I multiply
    With one 'We thank you' many thousands moe
    That go before it.
  LEONTES. Stay your thanks a while,
    And pay them when you part.
  POLIXENES. Sir, that's to-morrow.
    I am question'd by my fears of what may chance
    Or breed upon our absence, that may blow
    No sneaping winds at home, to make us say
    'This is put forth too truly.' Besides, I have stay'd  
    To tire your royalty.
  LEONTES. We are tougher, brother,
    Than you can put us to't.
  POLIXENES. No longer stay.
  LEONTES. One sev'night longer.
  POLIXENES. Very sooth, to-morrow.
  LEONTES. We'll part the time between's then; and in that
    I'll no gainsaying.
  POLIXENES. Press me not, beseech you, so.
    There is no tongue that moves, none, none i' th' world,
    So soon as yours could win me. So it should now,
    Were there necessity in your request, although
    'Twere needful I denied it. My affairs
    Do even drag me homeward; which to hinder
    Were in your love a whip to me; my stay
    To you a charge and trouble. To save both,
    Farewell, our brother.
  LEONTES. Tongue-tied, our Queen? Speak you.
  HERMIONE. I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until
    You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir,  
    Charge him too coldly. Tell him you are sure
    All in Bohemia's well- this satisfaction
    The by-gone day proclaim'd. Say this to him,
    He's beat from his best ward.
  LEONTES. Well said, Hermione.
  HERMIONE. To tell he longs to see his son were strong;
    But let him say so then, and let him go;
    But let him swear so, and he shall not stay;
    We'll thwack him hence with distaffs.
    [To POLIXENES]  Yet of your royal presence I'll
    adventure the borrow of a week. When at Bohemia
    You take my lord, I'll give him my commission
    To let him there a month behind the gest
    Prefix'd for's parting.- Yet, good deed, Leontes,
    I love thee not a jar o' th' clock behind
    What lady she her lord.- You'll stay?
  POLIXENES. No, madam.
  HERMIONE. Nay, but you will?
  POLIXENES. I may not, verily.
  HERMIONE. Verily!  
    You put me off with limber vows; but I,
    Though you would seek t' unsphere the stars with oaths,
    Should yet say 'Sir, no going.' Verily,
    You shall not go; a lady's 'verily' is
    As potent as a lord's. Will go yet?
    Force me to keep you as a prisoner,
    Not like a guest; so you shall pay your fees
    When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you?
    My prisoner or my guest? By your dread 'verily,'
    One of them you shall be.
  POLIXENES. Your guest, then, madam:
    To be your prisoner should import offending;
    Which is for me less easy to commit
    Than you to punish.
  HERMIONE. Not your gaoler then,
    But your kind. hostess. Come, I'll question you
    Of my lord's tricks and yours when you were boys.
    You were pretty lordings then!
  POLIXENES. We were, fair Queen,
    Two lads that thought there was no more behind  
    But such a day to-morrow as to-day,
    And to be boy eternal.
  HERMIONE. Was not my lord
    The verier wag o' th' two?
  POLIXENES. We were as twinn'd lambs that did frisk i' th' sun
    And bleat the one at th' other. What we chang'd
    Was innocence for innocence; we knew not
    The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream'd
    That any did. Had we pursu'd that life,
    And our weak spirits ne'er been higher rear'd
    With stronger blood, we should have answer'd heaven
    Boldly 'Not guilty,' the imposition clear'd
    Hereditary ours.
  HERMIONE. By this we gather
    You have tripp'd since.
  POLIXENES. O my most sacred lady,
    Temptations have since then been born to 's, for
    In those unfledg'd days was my wife a girl;
    Your precious self had then not cross'd the eyes
    Of my young playfellow.  
  HERMIONE. Grace to boot!
    Of this make no conclusion, lest you say
    Your queen and I are devils. Yet, go on;
    Th' offences we have made you do we'll answer,
    If you first sinn'd with us, and that with us
    You did continue fault, and that you slipp'd not
    With any but with us.
  LEONTES. Is he won yet?
  HERMIONE. He'll stay, my lord.
  LEONTES. At my request he would not.
    Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok'st
    To better purpose.
  HERMIONE. Never?
  LEONTES. Never but once.
  HERMIONE. What! Have I twice said well? When was't before?
    I prithee tell me; cram's with praise, and make's
    As fat as tame things. One good deed dying tongueless
    Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.
    Our praises are our wages; you may ride's
    With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere  
    With spur we heat an acre. But to th' goal:
    My last good deed was to entreat his stay;
    What was my first? It has an elder sister,
    Or I mistake you. O, would her name were Grace!
    But once before I spoke to th' purpose- When?
    Nay, let me have't; I long.
  LEONTES. Why, that was when
    Three crabbed months had sour'd themselves to death,
    Ere I could make thee open thy white hand
    And clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter
    'I am yours for ever.'
  HERMIONE. 'Tis Grace indeed.
    Why, lo you now, I have spoke to th' purpose twice:
    The one for ever earn'd a royal husband;
    Th' other for some while a friend.
                                  [Giving her hand to POLIXENES]
  LEONTES.  [Aside]  Too hot, too hot!
    To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.
    I have tremor cordis on me; my heart dances,
    But not for joy, not joy. This entertainment  
    May a free face put on; derive a liberty
    From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,
    And well become the agent. 'T may, I grant;
    But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers,
    As now they are, and making practis'd smiles
    As in a looking-glass; and then to sigh, as 'twere
    The mort o' th' deer. O, that is entertainment
    My bosom likes not, nor my brows! Mamillius,
    Art thou my boy?
  MAMILLIUS. Ay, my good lord.
  LEONTES. I' fecks!
    Why, that's my bawcock. What! hast smutch'd thy nose?
    They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, Captain,
    We must be neat- not neat, but cleanly, Captain.
    And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf,
    Are all call'd neat.- Still virginalling
    Upon his palm?- How now, you wanton calf,
    Art thou my calf?
  MAMILLIUS. Yes, if you will, my lord.
  LEONTES. Thou want'st a rough pash and the shoots that I have,  
    To be full like me; yet they say we are
    Almost as like as eggs. Women say so,
    That will say anything. But were they false
    As o'er-dy'd blacks, as wind, as waters- false
    As dice are to be wish'd by one that fixes
    No bourn 'twixt his and mine; yet were it true
    To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page,
    Look on me with your welkin eye. Sweet villain!
    Most dear'st! my collop! Can thy dam?- may't be?
    Affection! thy intention stabs the centre.
    Thou dost make possible things not so held,
    Communicat'st with dreams- how can this be?-
    With what's unreal thou coactive art,
    And fellow'st nothing. Then 'tis very credent
    Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost-
    And that beyond commission; and I find it,
    And that to the infection of my brains
    And hard'ning of my brows.
  POLIXENES. What means Sicilia?
  HERMIONE. He something seems unsettled.  
  POLIXENES. How, my lord!
    What cheer? How is't with you, best brother?
  HERMIONE. You look
    As if you held a brow of much distraction.
    Are you mov'd, my lord?
  LEONTES. No, in good earnest.
    How sometimes nature will betray its folly,
    Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime
    To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines
    Of my boy's face, methoughts I did recoil
    Twenty-three years; and saw myself unbreech'd,
    In my green velvet coat; my dagger muzzl'd,
    Lest it should bite its master and so prove,
    As ornaments oft do, too dangerous.
    How like, methought, I then was to this kernel,
    This squash, this gentleman. Mine honest friend,
    Will you take eggs for money?
  MAMILLIUS. No, my lord, I'll fight.
  LEONTES. You will? Why, happy man be's dole! My brother,
    Are you so fond of your young prince as we  
    Do seem to be of ours?
  POLIXENES. If at home, sir,
    He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter;
    Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy;
    My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all.
    He makes a July's day short as December,
    And with his varying childness cures in me
    Thoughts that would thick my blood.
  LEONTES. So stands this squire
    Offic'd with me. We two will walk, my lord,
    And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione,
    How thou lov'st us show in our brother's welcome;
    Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap;
    Next to thyself and my young rover, he's
    Apparent to my heart.
  HERMIONE. If you would seek us,
    We are yours i' th' garden. Shall's attend you there?
  LEONTES. To your own bents dispose you; you'll be found,
    Be you beneath the sky.  [Aside]  I am angling now,
    Though you perceive me not how I give line.  
    Go to, go to!
    How she holds up the neb, the bill to him!
    And arms her with the boldness of a wife
    To her allowing husband!

                      Exeunt POLIXENES, HERMIONE, and ATTENDANTS

    Gone already!
    Inch-thick, knee-deep, o'er head and ears a fork'd one!
    Go, play, boy, play; thy mother plays, and I
    Play too; but so disgrac'd a part, whose issue
    Will hiss me to my grave. Contempt and clamour
    Will be my knell. Go, play, boy, play. There have been,
    Or I am much deceiv'd, cuckolds ere now;
    And many a man there is, even at this present,
    Now while I speak this, holds his wife by th' arm
    That little thinks she has been sluic'd in's absence,
    And his pond fish'd by his next neighbour, by
    Sir Smile, his neighbour. Nay, there's comfort in't,
    Whiles other men have gates and those gates open'd,  
    As mine, against their will. Should all despair
    That hath revolted wives, the tenth of mankind
    Would hang themselves. Physic for't there's none;
    It is a bawdy planet, that will strike
    Where 'tis predominant; and 'tis pow'rfull, think it,
    From east, west, north, and south. Be it concluded,
    No barricado for a belly. Know't,
    It will let in and out the enemy
    With bag and baggage. Many thousand on's
    Have the disease, and feel't not. How now, boy!
  MAMILLIUS. I am like you, they say.
  LEONTES. Why, that's some comfort.
    What! Camillo there?
  CAMILLO. Ay, my good lord.
  LEONTES. Go play, Mamillius; thou'rt an honest man.
                                                  Exit MAMILLIUS
    Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer.
  CAMILLO. You had much ado to make his anchor hold;
    When you cast out, it still came home.
  LEONTES. Didst note it?  
  CAMILLO. He would not stay at your petitions; made
    His business more material.
  LEONTES. Didst perceive it?
    [Aside]  They're here with me already; whisp'ring, rounding,
    'Sicilia is a so-forth.' 'Tis far gone
    When I shall gust it last.- How came't, Camillo,
    That he did stay?
  CAMILLO. At the good Queen's entreaty.
  LEONTES. 'At the Queen's' be't. 'Good' should be pertinent;
    But so it is, it is not. Was this taken
    By any understanding pate but thine?
    For thy conceit is soaking, will draw in
    More than the common blocks. Not noted, is't,
    But of the finer natures, by some severals
    Of head-piece extraordinary? Lower messes
    Perchance are to this business purblind? Say.
  CAMILLO. Business, my lord? I think most understand
    Bohemia stays here longer.
  LEONTES. Ha?
  CAMILLO. Stays here longer.  
  LEONTES. Ay, but why?
  CAMILLO. To satisfy your Highness, and the entreaties
    Of our most gracious mistress.
  LEONTES. Satisfy
    Th' entreaties of your mistress! Satisfy!
    Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo,
    With all the nearest things to my heart, as well
    My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou
    Hast cleans'd my bosom- I from thee departed
    Thy penitent reform'd; but we have been
    Deceiv'd in thy integrity, deceiv'd
    In that which seems so.
  CAMILLO. Be it forbid, my lord!
  LEONTES. To bide upon't: thou art not honest; or,
    If thou inclin'st that way, thou art a coward,
    Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining
    From course requir'd; or else thou must be counted
    A servant grafted in my serious trust,
    And therein negligent; or else a fool
    That seest a game play'd home, the rich stake drawn,  
    And tak'st it all for jest.
  CAMILLO. My gracious lord,
    I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful:
    In every one of these no man is free
    But that his negligence, his folly, fear,
    Among the infinite doings of the world,
    Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord,
    If ever I were wilfull-negligent,
    It was my folly; if industriously
    I play'd the fool, it was my negligence,
    Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful
    To do a thing where I the issue doubted,
    Whereof the execution did cry out
    Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear
    Which oft infects the wisest. These, my lord,
    Are such allow'd infirmities that honesty
    Is never free of. But, beseech your Grace,
    Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass
    By its own visage; if I then deny it,
    'Tis none of mine.  
  LEONTES. Ha' not you seen, Camillo-
    But that's past doubt; you have, or your eye-glass
    Is thicker than a cuckold's horn- or heard-
    For to a vision so apparent rumour
    Cannot be mute- or thought- for cogitation
    Resides not in that man that does not think-
    My wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess-
    Or else be impudently negative,
    To have nor eyes nor ears nor thought- then say
    My wife's a hobby-horse, deserves a name
    As rank as any flax-wench that puts to
    Before her troth-plight. Say't and justify't.
  CAMILLO. I would not be a stander-by to hear
    My sovereign mistress clouded so, without
    My present vengeance taken. Shrew my heart!
    You never spoke what did become you less
    Than this; which to reiterate were sin
    As deep as that, though true.
  LEONTES. Is whispering nothing?
    Is leaning cheek to cheek? Is meeting noses?  
    Kissing with inside lip? Stopping the career
    Of laughter with a sigh?- a note infallible
    Of breaking honesty. Horsing foot on foot?
    Skulking in corners? Wishing clocks more swift;
    Hours, minutes; noon, midnight? And all eyes
    Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only,
    That would unseen be wicked- is this nothing?
    Why, then the world and all that's in't is nothing;
    The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing;
    My is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,
    If this be nothing.
  CAMILLO. Good my lord, be cur'd
    Of this diseas'd opinion, and betimes;
    For 'tis most dangerous.
  LEONTES. Say it be, 'tis true.
  CAMILLO. No, no, my lord.
  LEONTES. It is; you lie, you lie.
    I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee;
    Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave,
    Or else a hovering temporizer that  
    Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil,
    Inclining to them both. Were my wife's liver
    Infected as her life, she would not live
    The running of one glass.
  CAMILLO. Who does her?
  LEONTES. Why, he that wears her like her medal, hanging
    About his neck, Bohemia; who- if I
    Had servants true about me that bare eyes
    To see alike mine honour as their profits,
    Their own particular thrifts, they would do that
    Which should undo more doing. Ay, and thou,
    His cupbearer- whom I from meaner form
    Have bench'd and rear'd to worship; who mayst see,
    Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven,
    How I am gall'd- mightst bespice a cup
    To give mine enemy a lasting wink;
    Which draught to me were cordial.
  CAMILLO. Sir, my lord,
    I could do this; and that with no rash potion,
    But with a ling'ring dram that should not work  
    Maliciously like poison. But I cannot
    Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,
    So sovereignly being honourable.
    I have lov'd thee-
  LEONTES. Make that thy question, and go rot!
    Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled,
    To appoint myself in this vexation; sully
    The purity and whiteness of my sheets-
    Which to preserve is sleep, which being spotted
    Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps;
    Give scandal to the blood o' th' Prince, my son-
    Who I do think is mine, and love as mine-
    Without ripe moving to 't? Would I do this?
    Could man so blench?
  CAMILLO. I must believe you, sir.
    I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for't;
    Provided that, when he's remov'd, your Highness
    Will take again your queen as yours at first,
    Even for your son's sake; and thereby for sealing
    The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms  
    Known and allied to yours.
  LEONTES. Thou dost advise me
    Even so as I mine own course have set down.
    I'll give no blemish to her honour, none.
  CAMILLO. My lord,
    Go then; and with a countenance as clear
    As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia
    And with your queen. I am his cupbearer;
    If from me he have wholesome beverage,
    Account me not your servant.
  LEONTES. This is all:
    Do't, and thou hast the one half of my heart;
    Do't not, thou split'st thine own.
  CAMILLO. I'll do't, my lord.
  LEONTES. I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis'd me.   Exit
  CAMILLO. O miserable lady! But, for me,
    What case stand I in? I must be the poisoner
    Of good Polixenes; and my ground to do't
    Is the obedience to a master; one
    Who, in rebellion with himself, will have  
    All that are his so too. To do this deed,
    Promotion follows. If I could find example
    Of thousands that had struck anointed kings
    And flourish'd after, I'd not do't; but since
    Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment, bears not one,
    Let villainy itself forswear't. I must
    Forsake the court. To do't, or no, is certain
    To me a break-neck. Happy star reign now!
    Here comes Bohemia.

                     Enter POLIXENES

  POLIXENES. This is strange. Methinks
    My favour here begins to warp. Not speak?
    Good day, Camillo.
  CAMILLO. Hail, most royal sir!
  POLIXENES. What is the news i' th' court?
  CAMILLO. None rare, my lord.
  POLIXENES. The King hath on him such a countenance
    As he had lost some province, and a region  
    Lov'd as he loves himself; even now I met him
    With customary compliment, when he,
    Wafting his eyes to th' contrary and falling
    A lip of much contempt, speeds from me;
    So leaves me to consider what is breeding
    That changes thus his manners.
  CAMILLO. I dare not know, my lord.
  POLIXENES. How, dare not! Do not. Do you know, and dare not
    Be intelligent to me? 'Tis thereabouts;
    For, to yourself, what you do know, you must,
    And cannot say you dare not. Good Camillo,
    Your chang'd complexions are to me a mirror
    Which shows me mine chang'd too; for I must be
    A party in this alteration, finding
    Myself thus alter'd with't.
  CAMILLO. There is a sickness
    Which puts some of us in distemper; but
    I cannot name the disease; and it is caught
    Of you that yet are well.
  POLIXENES. How! caught of me?  
    Make me not sighted like the basilisk;
    I have look'd on thousands who have sped the better
    By my regard, but kill'd none so. Camillo-
    As you are certainly a gentleman; thereto
    Clerk-like experienc'd, which no less adorns
    Our gentry than our parents' noble names,
    In whose success we are gentle- I beseech you,
    If you know aught which does behove my knowledge
    Thereof to be inform'd, imprison't not
    In ignorant concealment.
  CAMILLO. I may not answer.
  POLIXENES. A sickness caught of me, and yet I well?
    I must be answer'd. Dost thou hear, Camillo?
    I conjure thee, by all the parts of man
    Which honour does acknowledge, whereof the least
    Is not this suit of mine, that thou declare
    What incidency thou dost guess of harm
    Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near;
    Which way to be prevented, if to be;
    If not, how best to bear it.  
  CAMILLO. Sir, I will tell you;
    Since I am charg'd in honour, and by him
    That I think honourable. Therefore mark my counsel,
    Which must be ev'n as swiftly followed as
    I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me
    Cry lost, and so goodnight.
  POLIXENES. On, good Camillo.
  CAMILLO. I am appointed him to murder you.
  POLIXENES. By whom, Camillo?
  CAMILLO. By the King.
  POLIXENES. For what?
  CAMILLO. He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears,
    As he had seen 't or been an instrument
    To vice you to't, that you have touch'd his queen
    Forbiddenly.
  POLIXENES. O, then my best blood turn
    To an infected jelly, and my name
    Be yok'd with his that did betray the Best!
    Turn then my freshest reputation to
    A savour that may strike the dullest nostril  
    Where I arrive, and my approach be shunn'd,
    Nay, hated too, worse than the great'st infection
    That e'er was heard or read!
  CAMILLO. Swear his thought over
    By each particular star in heaven and
    By all their influences, you may as well
    Forbid the sea for to obey the moon
    As or by oath remove or counsel shake
    The fabric of his folly, whose foundation
    Is pil'd upon his faith and will continue
    The standing of his body.
  POLIXENES. How should this grow?
  CAMILLO. I know not; but I am sure 'tis safer to
    Avoid what's grown than question how 'tis born.
    If therefore you dare trust my honesty,
    That lies enclosed in this trunk which you
    Shall bear along impawn'd, away to-night.
    Your followers I will whisper to the business;
    And will, by twos and threes, at several posterns,
    Clear them o' th' city. For myself, I'll put  
    My fortunes to your service, which are here
    By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain,
    For, by the honour of my parents, I
    Have utt'red truth; which if you seek to prove,
    I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer
    Than one condemn'd by the King's own mouth, thereon
    His execution sworn.
  POLIXENES. I do believe thee:
    I saw his heart in's face. Give me thy hand;
    Be pilot to me, and thy places shall
    Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready, and
    My people did expect my hence departure
    Two days ago. This jealousy
    Is for a precious creature; as she's rare,
    Must it be great; and, as his person's mighty,
    Must it be violent; and as he does conceive
    He is dishonour'd by a man which ever
    Profess'd to him, why, his revenges must
    In that be made more bitter. Fear o'ershades me.
    Good expedition be my friend, and comfort  
    The gracious Queen, part of this theme, but nothing
    Of his ill-ta'en suspicion! Come, Camillo;
    I will respect thee as a father, if
    Thou bear'st my life off hence. Let us avoid.
  CAMILLO. It is in mine authority to command
    The keys of all the posterns. Please your Highness
    To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away.             Exeunt




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ACT II. SCENE I.
Sicilia. The palace of LEONTES

Enter HERMIONE, MAMILLIUS, and LADIES

  HERMIONE. Take the boy to you; he so troubles me,
    'Tis past enduring.
  FIRST LADY. Come, my gracious lord,
    Shall I be your playfellow?
  MAMILLIUS. No, I'll none of you.
  FIRST LADY. Why, my sweet lord?
  MAMILLIUS. You'll kiss me hard, and speak to me as if
    I were a baby still. I love you better.
  SECOND LADY. And why so, my lord?
  MAMILLIUS. Not for because
    Your brows are blacker; yet black brows, they say,
    Become some women best; so that there be not
    Too much hair there, but in a semicircle
    Or a half-moon made with a pen.
  SECOND LADY. Who taught't this?
  MAMILLIUS. I learn'd it out of women's faces. Pray now,
    What colour are your eyebrows?  
  FIRST LADY. Blue, my lord.
  MAMILLIUS. Nay, that's a mock. I have seen a lady's nose
    That has been blue, but not her eyebrows.
  FIRST LADY. Hark ye:
    The Queen your mother rounds apace. We shall
    Present our services to a fine new prince
    One of these days; and then you'd wanton with us,
    If we would have you.
  SECOND LADY. She is spread of late
    Into a goodly bulk. Good time encounter her!
  HERMIONE. What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, sir, now
    I am for you again. Pray you sit by us,
    And tell's a tale.
  MAMILLIUS. Merry or sad shall't be?
  HERMIONE. As merry as you will.
  MAMILLIUS. A sad tale's best for winter. I have one
    Of sprites and goblins.
  HERMIONE. Let's have that, good sir.
    Come on, sit down; come on, and do your best
    To fright me with your sprites; you're pow'rfull at it.  
  MAMILLIUS. There was a man-
  HERMIONE. Nay, come, sit down; then on.
  MAMILLIUS. Dwelt by a churchyard- I will tell it softly;
    Yond crickets shall not hear it.
  HERMIONE. Come on then,
    And give't me in mine ear.

             Enter LEONTES, ANTIGONUS, LORDS, and OTHERS

  LEONTES. he met there? his train? Camillo with him?
  FIRST LORD. Behind the tuft of pines I met them; never
    Saw I men scour so on their way. I ey'd them
    Even to their ships.
  LEONTES. How blest am I
    In my just censure, in my true opinion!
    Alack, for lesser knowledge! How accurs'd
    In being so blest! There may be in the cup
    A spider steep'd, and one may drink, depart,
    And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge
    Is not infected; but if one present  
    Th' abhorr'd ingredient to his eye, make known
    How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides,
    With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the spider.
    Camillo was his help in this, his pander.
    There is a plot against my life, my crown;
    All's true that is mistrusted. That false villain
    Whom I employ'd was pre-employ'd by him;
    He has discover'd my design, and I
    Remain a pinch'd thing; yea, a very trick
    For them to play at will. How came the posterns
    So easily open?
  FIRST LORD. By his great authority;
    Which often hath no less prevail'd than so
    On your command.
  LEONTES. I know't too well.
    Give me the boy. I am glad you did not nurse him;
    Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you
    Have too much blood in him.
  HERMIONE. What is this? Sport?
  LEONTES. Bear the boy hence; he shall not come about her;  
    Away with him; and let her sport herself
                                          [MAMILLIUS is led out]
    With that she's big with- for 'tis Polixenes
    Has made thee swell thus.
  HERMIONE. But I'd say he had not,
    And I'll be sworn you would believe my saying,
    Howe'er you lean to th' nayward.
  LEONTES. You, my lords,
    Look on her, mark her well; be but about
    To say 'She is a goodly lady' and
    The justice of your hearts will thereto ad
    'Tis pity she's not honest- honourable.'
    Praise her but for this her without-door form,
    Which on my faith deserves high speech, and straight
    The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands
    That calumny doth use- O, I am out!-
    That mercy does, for calumny will sear
    Virtue itself- these shrugs, these hum's and ha's,
    When you have said she's goodly, come between,
    Ere you can say she's honest. But be't known,  
    From him that has most cause to grieve it should be,
    She's an adultress.
  HERMIONE. Should a villain say so,
    The most replenish'd villain in the world,
    He were as much more villain: you, my lord,
    Do but mistake.
  LEONTES. You have mistook, my lady,
    Polixenes for Leontes. O thou thing!
    Which I'll not call a creature of thy place,
    Lest barbarism, making me the precedent,
    Should a like language use to all degrees
    And mannerly distinguishment leave out
    Betwixt the prince and beggar. I have said
    She's an adultress; I have said with whom.
    More, she's a traitor; and Camillo is
    A federary with her, and one that knows
    What she should shame to know herself
    But with her most vile principal- that she's
    A bed-swerver, even as bad as those
    That vulgars give bold'st titles; ay, and privy  
    To this their late escape.
  HERMIONE. No, by my life,
    Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you,
    When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that
    You thus have publish'd me! Gentle my lord,
    You scarce can right me throughly then to say
    You did mistake.
  LEONTES. No; if I mistake
    In those foundations which I build upon,
    The centre is not big enough to bear
    A school-boy's top. Away with her to prison.
    He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty
    But that he speaks.
  HERMIONE. There's some ill planet reigns.
    I must be patient till the heavens look
    With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords,
    I am not prone to weeping, as our sex
    Commonly are- the want of which vain dew
    Perchance shall dry your pities- but I have
    That honourable grief lodg'd here which burns  
    Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lords,
    With thoughts so qualified as your charities
    Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so
    The King's will be perform'd!
  LEONTES.  [To the GUARD]  Shall I be heard?
  HERMIONE. Who is't that goes with me? Beseech your highness
    My women may be with me, for you see
    My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools;
    There is no cause; when you shall know your mistress
    Has deserv'd prison, then abound in tears
    As I come out: this action I now go on
    Is for my better grace. Adieu, my lord.
    I never wish'd to see you sorry; now
    I trust I shall. My women, come; you have leave.
  LEONTES. Go, do our bidding; hence!
                            Exeunt HERMIONE, guarded, and LADIES
  FIRST LORD. Beseech your Highness, call the Queen again.
  ANTIGONUS. Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice
    Prove violence, in the which three great ones suffer,
    Yourself, your queen, your son.  
  FIRST LORD. For her, my lord,
    I dare my life lay down- and will do't, sir,
    Please you t' accept it- that the Queen is spotless
    I' th' eyes of heaven and to you- I mean
    In this which you accuse her.
  ANTIGONUS. If it prove
    She's otherwise, I'll keep my stables where
    I lodge my wife; I'll go in couples with her;
    Than when I feel and see her no farther trust her;
    For every inch of woman in the world,
    Ay, every dram of woman's flesh is false,
    If she be.
  LEONTES. Hold your peaces.
  FIRST LORD. Good my lord-
  ANTIGONUS. It is for you we speak, not for ourselves.
    You are abus'd, and by some putter-on
    That will be damn'd for't. Would I knew the villain!
    I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw'd-
    I have three daughters: the eldest is eleven;
    The second and the third, nine and some five;  
    If this prove true, they'll pay for 't. By mine honour,
    I'll geld 'em all; fourteen they shall not see
    To bring false generations. They are co-heirs;
    And I had rather glib myself than they
    Should not produce fair issue.
  LEONTES. Cease; no more.
    You smell this business with a sense as cold
    As is a dead man's nose; but I do see't and feel't
    As you feel doing thus; and see withal
    The instruments that feel.
  ANTIGONUS. If it be so,
    We need no grave to bury honesty;
    There's not a grain of it the face to sweeten
    Of the whole dungy earth.
  LEONTES. What! Lack I credit?
  FIRST LORD. I had rather you did lack than I, my lord,
    Upon this ground; and more it would content me
    To have her honour true than your suspicion,
    Be blam'd for't how you might.
  LEONTES. Why, what need we  
    Commune with you of this, but rather follow
    Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative
    Calls not your counsels; but our natural goodness
    Imparts this; which, if you- or stupified
    Or seeming so in skill- cannot or will not
    Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves
    We need no more of your advice. The matter,
    The loss, the gain, the ord'ring on't, is all
    Properly ours.
  ANTIGONUS. And I wish, my liege,
    You had only in your silent judgment tried it,
    Without more overture.
  LEONTES. How could that be?
    Either thou art most ignorant by age,
    Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo's flight,
    Added to their familiarity-
    Which was as gross as ever touch'd conjecture,
    That lack'd sight only, nought for approbation
    But only seeing, all other circumstances
    Made up to th' deed- doth push on this proceeding.  
    Yet, for a greater confirmation-
    For, in an act of this importance, 'twere
    Most piteous to be wild- I have dispatch'd in post
    To sacred Delphos, to Apollo's temple,
    Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know
    Of stuff'd sufficiency. Now, from the oracle
    They will bring all, whose spiritual counsel had,
    Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well?
  FIRST LORD. Well done, my lord.
  LEONTES. Though I am satisfied, and need no more
    Than what I know, yet shall the oracle
    Give rest to th' minds of others such as he
    Whose ignorant credulity will not
    Come up to th' truth. So have we thought it good
    From our free person she should be confin'd,
    Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence
    Be left her to perform. Come, follow us;
    We are to speak in public; for this business
    Will raise us all.
  ANTIGONUS.  [Aside]  To laughter, as I take it,  
    If the good truth were known.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE II.
Sicilia. A prison

Enter PAULINA, a GENTLEMAN, and ATTENDANTS

  PAULINA. The keeper of the prison- call to him;
    Let him have knowledge who I am.              Exit GENTLEMAN
    Good lady!
    No court in Europe is too good for thee;
    What dost thou then in prison?

                 Re-enter GENTLEMAN with the GAOLER

    Now, good sir,
    You know me, do you not?
  GAOLER. For a worthy lady,
    And one who much I honour.
  PAULINA. Pray you, then,
    Conduct me to the Queen.
  GAOLER. I may not, madam;
    To the contrary I have express commandment.
  PAULINA. Here's ado, to lock up honesty and honour from  
    Th' access of gentle visitors! Is't lawful, pray you,
    To see her women- any of them? Emilia?
  GAOLER. So please you, madam,
    To put apart these your attendants,
    Shall bring Emilia forth.
  PAULINA. I pray now, call her.
    Withdraw yourselves.                       Exeunt ATTENDANTS
  GAOLER. And, madam,
    I must be present at your conference.
  PAULINA. Well, be't so, prithee.                   Exit GAOLER
    Here's such ado to make no stain a stain
    As passes colouring.

                 Re-enter GAOLER, with EMILIA

    Dear gentlewoman,
    How fares our gracious lady?
  EMILIA. As well as one so great and so forlorn
    May hold together. On her frights and griefs,
    Which never tender lady hath borne greater,  
    She is, something before her time, deliver'd.
  PAULINA. A boy?
  EMILIA. A daughter, and a goodly babe,
    Lusty, and like to live. The Queen receives
    Much comfort in't; says 'My poor prisoner,
    I am as innocent as you.'
  PAULINA. I dare be sworn.
    These dangerous unsafe lunes i' th' King, beshrew them!
    He must be told on't, and he shall. The office
    Becomes a woman best; I'll take't upon me;
    If I prove honey-mouth'd, let my tongue blister,
    And never to my red-look'd anger be
    The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia,
    Commend my best obedience to the Queen;
    If she dares trust me with her little babe,
    I'll show't the King, and undertake to be
    Her advocate to th' loud'st. We do not know
    How he may soften at the sight o' th' child:
    The silence often of pure innocence
    Persuades when speaking fails.  
  EMILIA. Most worthy madam,
    Your honour and your goodness is so evident
    That your free undertaking cannot miss
    A thriving issue; there is no lady living
    So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship
    To visit the next room, I'll presently
    Acquaint the Queen of your most noble offer
    Who but to-day hammer'd of this design,
    But durst not tempt a minister of honour,
    Lest she should be denied.
  PAULINA. Tell her, Emilia,
    I'll use that tongue I have; if wit flow from't
    As boldness from my bosom, let't not be doubted
    I shall do good.
  EMILIA. Now be you blest for it!
    I'll to the Queen. Please you come something nearer.
  GAOLER. Madam, if't please the Queen to send the babe,
    I know not what I shall incur to pass it,
    Having no warrant.
  PAULINA. You need not fear it, sir.  
    This child was prisoner to the womb, and is
    By law and process of great Nature thence
    Freed and enfranchis'd- not a party to
    The anger of the King, nor guilty of,
    If any be, the trespass of the Queen.
  GAOLER. I do believe it.
  PAULINA. Do not you fear. Upon mine honour, I
    Will stand betwixt you and danger.                    Exeunt




SCENE III.
Sicilia. The palace of LEONTES

Enter LEONTES, ANTIGONUS, LORDS, and SERVANTS

  LEONTES. Nor night nor day no rest! It is but weakness
    To bear the matter thus- mere weakness. If
    The cause were not in being- part o' th' cause,
    She, th' adultress; for the harlot king
    Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank
    And level of my brain, plot-proof; but she
    I can hook to me- say that she were gone,
    Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest
    Might come to me again. Who's there?
  FIRST SERVANT. My lord?
  LEONTES. How does the boy?
  FIRST SERVANT. He took good rest to-night;
    'Tis hop'd his sickness is discharg'd.
  LEONTES. To see his nobleness!
    Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,
    He straight declin'd, droop'd, took it deeply,
    Fasten'd and fix'd the shame on't in himself,  
    Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep,
    And downright languish'd. Leave me solely. Go,
    See how he fares.  [Exit SERVANT]  Fie, fie! no thought of him!
    The very thought of my revenges that way
    Recoil upon me- in himself too mighty,
    And in his parties, his alliance. Let him be,
    Until a time may serve; for present vengeance,
    Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes
    Laugh at me, make their pastime at my sorrow.
    They should not laugh if I could reach them; nor
    Shall she, within my pow'r.

                 Enter PAULINA, with a CHILD

  FIRST LORD. You must not enter.
  PAULINA. Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me.
    Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas,
    Than the Queen's life? A gracious innocent soul,
    More free than he is jealous.
  ANTIGONUS. That's enough.  
  SECOND SERVANT. Madam, he hath not slept to-night; commanded
    None should come at him.
  PAULINA. Not so hot, good sir;
    I come to bring him sleep. 'Tis such as you,
    That creep like shadows by him, and do sigh
    At each his needless heavings- such as you
    Nourish the cause of his awaking: I
    Do come with words as medicinal as true,
    Honest as either, to purge him of that humour
    That presses him from sleep.
  LEONTES. What noise there, ho?
  PAULINA. No noise, my lord; but needful conference
    About some gossips for your Highness.
  LEONTES. How!
    Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus,
    I charg'd thee that she should not come about me;
    I knew she would.
  ANTIGONUS. I told her so, my lord,
    On your displeasure's peril, and on mine,
    She should not visit you.  
  LEONTES. What, canst not rule her?
  PAULINA. From all dishonesty he can: in this,
    Unless he take the course that you have done-
    Commit me for committing honour- trust it,
    He shall not rule me.
  ANTIGONUS. La you now, you hear!
    When she will take the rein, I let her run;
    But she'll not stumble.
  PAULINA. Good my liege, I come-
    And I beseech you hear me, who professes
    Myself your loyal servant, your physician,
    Your most obedient counsellor; yet that dares
    Less appear so, in comforting your evils,
    Than such as most seem yours- I say I come
    From your good Queen.
  LEONTES. Good Queen!
  PAULINA. Good Queen, my lord, good Queen- I say good Queen;
    And would by combat make her good, so were I
    A man, the worst about you.
  LEONTES. Force her hence.  
  PAULINA. Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes
    First hand me. On mine own accord I'll off;
    But first I'll do my errand. The good Queen,
    For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter;
    Here 'tis; commends it to your blessing.
                                         [Laying down the child]
  LEONTES. Out!
    A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o' door!
    A most intelligencing bawd!
  PAULINA. Not so.
    I am as ignorant in that as you
    In so entitling me; and no less honest
    Than you are mad; which is enough, I'll warrant,
    As this world goes, to pass for honest.
  LEONTES. Traitors!
    Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard.
    [To ANTIGONUS]  Thou dotard, thou art woman-tir'd, unroosted
    By thy Dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard;
    Take't up, I say; give't to thy crone.
  PAULINA. For ever  
    Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou
    Tak'st up the Princess by that forced baseness
    Which he has put upon't!
  LEONTES. He dreads his wife.
  PAULINA. So I would you did; then 'twere past all doubt
    You'd call your children yours.
  LEONTES. A nest of traitors!
  ANTIGONUS. I am none, by this good light.
  PAULINA. Nor I; nor any
    But one that's here; and that's himself; for he
    The sacred honour of himself, his Queen's,
    His hopeful son's, his babe's, betrays to slander,
    Whose sting is sharper than the sword's; and will not-
    For, as the case now stands, it is a curse
    He cannot be compell'd to 't- once remove
    The root of his opinion, which is rotten
    As ever oak or stone was sound.
  LEONTES. A callat
    Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband,
    And now baits me! This brat is none of mine;  
    It is the issue of Polixenes.
    Hence with it, and together with the dam
    Commit them to the fire.
  PAULINA. It is yours.
    And, might we lay th' old proverb to your charge,
    So like you 'tis the worse. Behold, my lords,
    Although the print be little, the whole matter
    And copy of the father- eye, nose, lip,
    The trick of's frown, his forehead; nay, the valley,
    The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his smiles;
    The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger.
    And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it
    So like to him that got it, if thou hast
    The ordering of the mind too, 'mongst all colours
    No yellow in't, lest she suspect, as he does,
    Her children not her husband's!
  LEONTES. A gross hag!
    And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang'd
    That wilt not stay her tongue.
  ANTIGONUS. Hang all the husbands  
    That cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourself
    Hardly one subject.
  LEONTES. Once more, take her hence.
  PAULINA. A most unworthy and unnatural lord
    Can do no more.
  LEONTES. I'll ha' thee burnt.
  PAULINA. I care not.
    It is an heretic that makes the fire,
    Not she which burns in't. I'll not call you tyrant
    But this most cruel usage of your Queen-
    Not able to produce more accusation
    Than your own weak-hing'd fancy- something savours
    Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you,
    Yea, scandalous to the world.
  LEONTES. On your allegiance,
    Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant,
    Where were her life? She durst not call me so,
    If she did know me one. Away with her!
  PAULINA. I pray you, do not push me; I'll be gone.
    Look to your babe, my lord; 'tis yours. Jove send her  
    A better guiding spirit! What needs these hands?
    You that are thus so tender o'er his follies
    Will never do him good, not one of you.
    So, so. Farewell; we are gone.                          Exit
  LEONTES. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this.
    My child! Away with't. Even thou, that hast
    A heart so tender o'er it, take it hence,
    And see it instantly consum'd with fire;
    Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight.
    Within this hour bring me word 'tis done,
    And by good testimony, or I'll seize thy life,
    With that thou else call'st thine. If thou refuse,
    And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so;
    The bastard brains with these my proper hands
    Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire;
    For thou set'st on thy wife.
  ANTIGONUS. I did not, sir.
    These lords, my noble fellows, if they please,
    Can clear me in't.
  LORDS. We can. My royal liege,  
    He is not guilty of her coming hither.
  LEONTES. You're liars all.
  FIRST LORD. Beseech your Highness, give us better credit.
    We have always truly serv'd you; and beseech
    So to esteem of us; and on our knees we beg,
    As recompense of our dear services
    Past and to come, that you do change this purpose,
    Which being so horrible, so bloody, must
    Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel.
  LEONTES. I am a feather for each wind that blows.
    Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel
    And call me father? Better burn it now
    Than curse it then. But be it; let it live.
    It shall not neither.  [To ANTIGONUS]  You, Sir, come you hither.
    You that have been so tenderly officious
    With Lady Margery, your midwife there,
    To save this bastard's life- for 'tis a bastard,
    So sure as this beard's grey- what will you adventure
    To save this brat's life?
  ANTIGONUS. Anything, my lord,  
    That my ability may undergo,
    And nobleness impose. At least, thus much:
    I'll pawn the little blood which I have left
    To save the innocent- anything possible.
  LEONTES. It shall be possible. Swear by this sword
    Thou wilt perform my bidding.
  ANTIGONUS. I will, my lord.
  LEONTES. Mark, and perform it- seest thou? For the fail
    Of any point in't shall not only be
    Death to thyself, but to thy lewd-tongu'd wife,
    Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee,
    As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry
    This female bastard hence; and that thou bear it
    To some remote and desert place, quite out
    Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it,
    Without more mercy, to it own protection
    And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune
    It came to us, I do in justice charge thee,
    On thy soul's peril and thy body's torture,
    That thou commend it strangely to some place  
    Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.
  ANTIGONUS. I swear to do this, though a present death
    Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe.
    Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens
    To be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say,
    Casting their savageness aside, have done
    Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous
    In more than this deed does require! And blessing
    Against this cruelty fight on thy side,
    Poor thing, condemn'd to loss!           Exit with the child
  LEONTES. No, I'll not rear
    Another's issue.

                         Enter a SERVANT

  SERVANT. Please your Highness, posts
    From those you sent to th' oracle are come
    An hour since. Cleomenes and Dion,
    Being well arriv'd from Delphos, are both landed,
    Hasting to th' court.  
  FIRST LORD. So please you, sir, their speed
    Hath been beyond account.
  LEONTES. Twenty-three days
    They have been absent; 'tis good speed; foretells
    The great Apollo suddenly will have
    The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords;
    Summon a session, that we may arraign
    Our most disloyal lady; for, as she hath
    Been publicly accus'd, so shall she have
    A just and open trial. While she lives,
    My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me;
    And think upon my bidding.                            Exeunt




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ACT III. SCENE I.
Sicilia. On the road to the Capital

Enter CLEOMENES and DION

  CLEOMENES. The climate's delicate, the air most sweet,
    Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing
    The common praise it bears.
  DION. I shall report,
    For most it caught me, the celestial habits-
    Methinks I so should term them- and the reverence
    Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice!
    How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly,
    It was i' th' off'ring!
  CLEOMENES. But of all, the burst
    And the ear-deaf'ning voice o' th' oracle,
    Kin to Jove's thunder, so surpris'd my sense
    That I was nothing.
  DION. If th' event o' th' journey
    Prove as successful to the Queen- O, be't so!-
    As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy,
    The time is worth the use on't.  
  CLEOMENES. Great Apollo
    Turn all to th' best! These proclamations,
    So forcing faults upon Hermione,
    I little like.
  DION. The violent carriage of it
    Will clear or end the business. When the oracle-
    Thus by Apollo's great divine seal'd up-
    Shall the contents discover, something rare
    Even then will rush to knowledge. Go; fresh horses.
    And gracious be the issue!                            Exeunt




SCENE II.
Sicilia. A court of justice

Enter LEONTES, LORDS, and OFFICERS

  LEONTES. This sessions, to our great grief we pronounce,
    Even pushes 'gainst our heart- the party tried,
    The daughter of a king, our wife, and one
    Of us too much belov'd. Let us be clear'd
    Of being tyrannous, since we so openly
    Proceed in justice, which shall have due course,
    Even to the guilt or the purgation.
    Produce the prisoner.
  OFFICER. It is his Highness' pleasure that the Queen
    Appear in person here in court.

         Enter HERMIONE, as to her trial, PAULINA, and LADIES

    Silence!
  LEONTES. Read the indictment.
  OFFICER.  [Reads]  'Hermione, Queen to the worthy Leontes, King of
    Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of high treason, in  
    committing adultery with Polixenes, King of Bohemia; and
    conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign
    lord the King, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being by
    circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to the
    faith and allegiance of true subject, didst counsel and aid them,
    for their better safety, to fly away by night.'
  HERMIONE. Since what I am to say must be but that
    Which contradicts my accusation, and
    The testimony on my part no other
    But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me
    To say 'Not guilty.' Mine integrity
    Being counted falsehood shall, as I express it,
    Be so receiv'd. But thus- if pow'rs divine
    Behold our human actions, as they do,
    I doubt not then but innocence shall make
    False accusation blush, and tyranny
    Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know-
    Who least will seem to do so- my past life
    Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,
    As I am now unhappy; which is more  
    Than history can pattern, though devis'd
    And play'd to take spectators; for behold me-
    A fellow of the royal bed, which owe
    A moiety of the throne, a great king's daughter,
    The mother to a hopeful prince- here standing
    To prate and talk for life and honour fore
    Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it
    As I weigh grief, which I would spare; for honour,
    'Tis a derivative from me to mine,
    And only that I stand for. I appeal
    To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes
    Came to your court, how I was in your grace,
    How merited to be so; since he came,
    With what encounter so uncurrent I
    Have strain'd t' appear thus; if one jot beyond
    The bound of honour, or in act or will
    That way inclining, hard'ned be the hearts
    Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin
    Cry fie upon my grave!
  LEONTES. I ne'er heard yet  
    That any of these bolder vices wanted
    Less impudence to gainsay what they did
    Than to perform it first.
  HERMIONE. That's true enough;
    Though 'tis a saying, sir, not due to me.
  LEONTES. You will not own it.
  HERMIONE. More than mistress of
    Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not
    At all acknowledge. For Polixenes,
    With whom I am accus'd, I do confess
    I lov'd him as in honour he requir'd;
    With such a kind of love as might become
    A lady like me; with a love even such,
    So and no other, as yourself commanded;
    Which not to have done, I think had been in me
    Both disobedience and ingratitude
    To you and toward your friend; whose love had spoke,
    Ever since it could speak, from an infant, freely,
    That it was yours. Now for conspiracy:
    I know not how it tastes, though it be dish'd  
    For me to try how; all I know of it
    Is that Camillo was an honest man;
    And why he left your court, the gods themselves,
    Wotting no more than I, are ignorant.
  LEONTES. You knew of his departure, as you know
    What you have underta'en to do in's absence.
  HERMIONE. Sir,
    You speak a language that I understand not.
    My life stands in the level of your dreams,
    Which I'll lay down.
  LEONTES. Your actions are my dreams.
    You had a bastard by Polixenes,
    And I but dream'd it. As you were past all shame-
    Those of your fact are so- so past all truth;
    Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as
    Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself,
    No father owning it- which is indeed
    More criminal in thee than it- so thou
    Shalt feel our justice; in whose easiest passage
    Look for no less than death.  
  HERMIONE. Sir, spare your threats.
    The bug which you would fright me with I seek.
    To me can life be no commodity.
    The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,
    I do give lost, for I do feel it gone,
    But know not how it went; my second joy
    And first fruits of my body, from his presence
    I am barr'd, like one infectious; my third comfort,
    Starr'd most unluckily, is from my breast-
    The innocent milk in it most innocent mouth-
    Hal'd out to murder; myself on every post
    Proclaim'd a strumpet; with immodest hatred
    The child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs
    To women of all fashion; lastly, hurried
    Here to this place, i' th' open air, before
    I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,
    Tell me what blessings I have here alive
    That I should fear to die. Therefore proceed.
    But yet hear this- mistake me not: no life,
    I prize it not a straw, but for mine honour  
    Which I would free- if I shall be condemn'd
    Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else
    But what your jealousies awake, I tell you
    'Tis rigour, and not law. Your honours all,
    I do refer me to the oracle:
    Apollo be my judge!
  FIRST LORD. This your request
    Is altogether just. Therefore, bring forth,
    And in Apollo's name, his oracle.
                                         Exeunt certain OFFICERS
  HERMIONE. The Emperor of Russia was my father;
    O that he were alive, and here beholding
    His daughter's trial! that he did but see
    The flatness of my misery; yet with eyes
    Of pity, not revenge!

           Re-enter OFFICERS, with CLEOMENES and DION

  OFFICER. You here shall swear upon this sword of justice
    That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have  
    Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought
    This seal'd-up oracle, by the hand deliver'd
    Of great Apollo's priest; and that since then
    You have not dar'd to break the holy seal
    Nor read the secrets in't.
  CLEOMENES, DION. All this we swear.
  LEONTES. Break up the seals and read.
  OFFICER.  [Reads]  'Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless;
    Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his innocent
    babe truly begotten; and the King shall live without an heir, if
    that which is lost be not found.'
  LORDS. Now blessed be the great Apollo!
  HERMIONE. Praised!
  LEONTES. Hast thou read truth?
  OFFICER. Ay, my lord; even so
    As it is here set down.
  LEONTES. There is no truth at all i' th' oracle.
    The sessions shall proceed. This is mere falsehood.

                        Enter a SERVANT  

  SERVANT. My lord the King, the King!
  LEONTES. What is the business?
  SERVANT. O sir, I shall be hated to report it:
    The Prince your son, with mere conceit and fear
    Of the Queen's speed, is gone.
  LEONTES. How! Gone?
  SERVANT. Is dead.
  LEONTES. Apollo's angry; and the heavens themselves
    Do strike at my injustice.                 [HERMIONE swoons]
    How now, there!
  PAULINA. This news is mortal to the Queen. Look down
    And see what death is doing.
  LEONTES. Take her hence.
    Her heart is but o'ercharg'd; she will recover.
    I have too much believ'd mine own suspicion.
    Beseech you tenderly apply to her
    Some remedies for life.
                         Exeunt PAULINA and LADIES with HERMIONE
    Apollo, pardon  
    My great profaneness 'gainst thine oracle.
    I'll reconcile me to Polixenes,
    New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo-
    Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy.
    For, being transported by my jealousies
    To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose
    Camillo for the minister to poison
    My friend Polixenes; which had been done
    But that the good mind of Camillo tardied
    My swift command, though I with death and with
    Reward did threaten and encourage him,
    Not doing it and being done. He, most humane
    And fill'd with honour, to my kingly guest
    Unclasp'd my practice, quit his fortunes here,
    Which you knew great, and to the certain hazard
    Of all incertainties himself commended,
    No richer than his honour. How he glisters
    Thorough my rust! And how his piety
    Does my deeds make the blacker!
  
                      Re-enter PAULINA

  PAULINA. Woe the while!
    O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it,
    Break too!
  FIRST LORD. What fit is this, good lady?
  PAULINA. What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me?
    What wheels, racks, fires? what flaying, boiling
    In leads or oils? What old or newer torture
    Must I receive, whose every word deserves
    To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny
    Together working with thy jealousies,
    Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle
    For girls of nine- O, think what they have done,
    And then run mad indeed, stark mad; for all
    Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.
    That thou betray'dst Polixenes, 'twas nothing;
    That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant,
    And damnable ingrateful. Nor was't much
    Thou wouldst have poison'd good Camillo's honour,  
    To have him kill a king- poor trespasses,
    More monstrous standing by; whereof I reckon
    The casting forth to crows thy baby daughter
    To be or none or little, though a devil
    Would have shed water out of fire ere done't;
    Nor is't directly laid to thee, the death
    Of the young Prince, whose honourable thoughts-
    Thoughts high for one so tender- cleft the heart
    That could conceive a gross and foolish sire
    Blemish'd his gracious dam. This is not, no,
    Laid to thy answer; but the last- O lords,
    When I have said, cry 'Woe!'- the Queen, the Queen,
    The sweet'st, dear'st creature's dead; and vengeance
    For't not dropp'd down yet.
  FIRST LORD. The higher pow'rs forbid!
  PAULINA. I say she's dead; I'll swear't. If word nor oath
    Prevail not, go and see. If you can bring
    Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye,
    Heat outwardly or breath within, I'll serve you
    As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant!  
    Do not repent these things, for they are heavier
    Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee
    To nothing but despair. A thousand knees
    Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,
    Upon a barren mountain, and still winter
    In storm perpetual, could not move the gods
    To look that way thou wert.
  LEONTES. Go on, go on.
    Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserv'd
    All tongues to talk their bitt'rest.
  FIRST LORD. Say no more;
    Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault
    I' th' boldness of your speech.
  PAULINA. I am sorry for't.
    All faults I make, when I shall come to know them.
    I do repent. Alas, I have show'd too much
    The rashness of a woman! He is touch'd
    To th' noble heart. What's gone and what's past help
    Should be past grief. Do not receive affliction
    At my petition; I beseech you, rather  
    Let me be punish'd that have minded you
    Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege,
    Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman.
    The love I bore your queen- lo, fool again!
    I'll speak of her no more, nor of your children;
    I'll not remember you of my own lord,
    Who is lost too. Take your patience to you,
    And I'll say nothing.
  LEONTES. Thou didst speak but well
    When most the truth; which I receive much better
    Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me
    To the dead bodies of my queen and son.
    One grave shall be for both. Upon them shall
    The causes of their death appear, unto
    Our shame perpetual. Once a day I'll visit
    The chapel where they lie; and tears shed there
    Shall be my recreation. So long as nature
    Will bear up with this exercise, so long
    I daily vow to use it. Come, and lead me
    To these sorrows.                                     Exeunt




SCENE III.
Bohemia. The sea-coast

Enter ANTIGONUS with the CHILD, and a MARINER

  ANTIGONUS. Thou art perfect then our ship hath touch'd upon
    The deserts of Bohemia?
  MARINER. Ay, my lord, and fear
    We have landed in ill time; the skies look grimly
    And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,
    The heavens with that we have in hand are angry
    And frown upon 's.
  ANTIGONUS. Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard;
    Look to thy bark. I'll not be long before
    I call upon thee.
  MARINER. Make your best haste; and go not
    Too far i' th' land; 'tis like to be loud weather;
    Besides, this place is famous for the creatures
    Of prey that keep upon't.
  ANTIGONUS. Go thou away;
    I'll follow instantly.
  MARINER. I am glad at heart  
    To be so rid o' th' business.                           Exit
  ANTIGONUS. Come, poor babe.
    I have heard, but not believ'd, the spirits o' th' dead
    May walk again. If such thing be, thy mother
    Appear'd to me last night; for ne'er was dream
    So like a waking. To me comes a creature,
    Sometimes her head on one side some another-
    I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,
    So fill'd and so becoming; in pure white robes,
    Like very sanctity, she did approach
    My cabin where I lay; thrice bow'd before me;
    And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes
    Became two spouts; the fury spent, anon
    Did this break from her: 'Good Antigonus,
    Since fate, against thy better disposition,
    Hath made thy person for the thrower-out
    Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,
    Places remote enough are in Bohemia,
    There weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe
    Is counted lost for ever, Perdita  
    I prithee call't. For this ungentle business,
    Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see
    Thy wife Paulina more.' so, with shrieks,
    She melted into air. Affrighted much,
    I did in time collect myself, and thought
    This was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys;
    Yet, for this once, yea, superstitiously,
    I will be squar'd by this. I do believe
    Hermione hath suffer'd death, and that
    Apollo would, this being indeed the issue
    Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid,
    Either for life or death, upon the earth
    Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well!
                                         [Laying down the child]
    There lie, and there thy character; there these
                                          [Laying down a bundle]
    Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,
    And still rest thine. The storm begins. Poor wretch,
    That for thy mother's fault art thus expos'd
    To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot,  
    But my heart bleeds; and most accurs'd am I
    To be by oath enjoin'd to this. Farewell!
    The day frowns more and more. Thou'rt like to have
    A lullaby too rough; I never saw
    The heavens so dim by day.  [Noise of hunt within]  A savage
      clamour!
    Well may I get aboard! This is the chase;
    I am gone for ever.                  Exit, pursued by a bear

                      Enter an old SHEPHERD

  SHEPHERD. I would there were no age between ten and three and
    twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is
    nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging
    the ancientry, stealing, fighting-  [Horns]  Hark you now! Would
    any but these boil'd brains of nineteen and two and twenty hunt
    this weather? They have scar'd away two of my best sheep, which I
    fear the wolf will sooner find than the master. If any where I
    have them, 'tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an't
    be thy will! What have we here?  [Taking up the child]  Mercy  
    on's, a barne! A very pretty barne. A boy or a child, I wonder? A
    pretty one; a very pretty one- sure, some scape. Though I am not
    bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the scape. This
    has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door-work;
    they were warmer that got this than the poor thing is here. I'll
    take it up for pity; yet I'll tarry till my son come; he halloo'd
    but even now. Whoa-ho-hoa!

                          Enter CLOWN

  CLOWN. Hilloa, loa!
  SHEPHERD. What, art so near? If thou'lt see a thing to talk on when
    thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What ail'st thou, man?
  CLOWN. I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land! But I am
    not to say it is a sea, for it is now the sky; betwixt the
    firmament and it you cannot thrust a bodkin's point.
  SHEPHERD. Why, boy, how is it?
  CLOWN. I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it
    takes up the shore! But that's not to the point. O, the most
    piteous cry of the poor souls! Sometimes to see 'em, and not to  
    see 'em; now the ship boring the moon with her mainmast, and anon
    swallowed with yeast and froth, as you'd thrust a cork into a
    hogshead. And then for the land service- to see how the bear tore
    out his shoulder-bone; how he cried to me for help, and said his
    name was Antigonus, a nobleman! But to make an end of the ship-
    to see how the sea flap-dragon'd it; but first, how the poor
    souls roared, and the sea mock'd them; and how the poor gentleman
    roared, and the bear mock'd him, both roaring louder than the sea
    or weather.
  SHEPHERD. Name of mercy, when was this, boy?
  CLOWN. Now, now; I have not wink'd since I saw these sights; the
    men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half din'd on the
    gentleman; he's at it now.
  SHEPHERD. Would I had been by to have help'd the old man!
  CLOWN. I would you had been by the ship-side, to have help'd her;
    there your charity would have lack'd footing.
  SHEPHERD. Heavy matters, heavy matters! But look thee here, boy.
    Now bless thyself; thou met'st with things dying, I with things
    new-born. Here's a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for
    a squire's child! Look thee here; take up, take up, boy; open't.  
    So, let's see- it was told me I should be rich by the fairies.
    This is some changeling. Open't. What's within, boy?
  CLOWN. You're a made old man; if the sins of your youth are
    forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold! all gold!
  SHEPHERD. This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so. Up with't,
    keep it close. Home, home, the next way! We are lucky, boy; and
    to be so still requires nothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go.
    Come, good boy, the next way home.
  CLOWN. Go you the next way with your findings. I'll go see if the
    bear be gone from the gentleman, and how much he hath eaten. They
    are never curst but when they are hungry. If there be any of him
    left, I'll bury it.
  SHEPHERD. That's a good deed. If thou mayest discern by that which
    is left of him what he is, fetch me to th' sight of him.
  CLOWN. Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i' th' ground.
  SHEPHERD. 'Tis a lucky day, boy; and we'll do good deeds on't.
                                                          Exeunt




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ACT IV. SCENE I.

Enter TIME, the CHORUS

  TIME. I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror
    Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error,
    Now take upon me, in the name of Time,
    To use my wings. Impute it not a crime
    To me or my swift passage that I slide
    O'er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried
    Of that wide gap, since it is in my pow'r
    To o'erthrow law, and in one self-born hour
    To plant and o'erwhelm custom. Let me pass
    The same I am, ere ancient'st order was
    Or what is now receiv'd. I witness to
    The times that brought them in; so shall I do
    To th' freshest things now reigning, and make stale
    The glistering of this present, as my tale
    Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing,
    I turn my glass, and give my scene such growing
    As you had slept between. Leontes leaving-
    Th' effects of his fond jealousies so grieving  
    That he shuts up himself- imagine me,
    Gentle spectators, that I now may be
    In fair Bohemia; and remember well
    I mention'd a son o' th' King's, which Florizel
    I now name to you; and with speed so pace
    To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace
    Equal with wond'ring. What of her ensues
    I list not prophesy; but let Time's news
    Be known when 'tis brought forth. A shepherd's daughter,
    And what to her adheres, which follows after,
    Is th' argument of Time. Of this allow,
    If ever you have spent time worse ere now;
    If never, yet that Time himself doth say
    He wishes earnestly you never may.                      Exit




SCENE II.
Bohemia. The palace of POLIXENES

Enter POLIXENES and CAMILLO

  POLIXENES. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate: 'tis
    a sickness denying thee anything; a death to grant this.
  CAMILLO. It is fifteen years since I saw my country; though I have
    for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones
    there. Besides, the penitent King, my master, hath sent for me;
    to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay, or I o'erween to
    think so, which is another spur to my departure.
  POLIXENES. As thou lov'st me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy
    services by leaving me now. The need I have of thee thine own
    goodness hath made. Better not to have had thee than thus to want
    thee; thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can
    sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute them thyself, or
    take away with thee the very services thou hast done; which if I
    have not enough considered- as too much I cannot- to be more
    thankful to thee shall be my study; and my profit therein the
    heaping friendships. Of that fatal country Sicilia, prithee,
    speak no more; whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance  
    of that penitent, as thou call'st him, and reconciled king, my
    brother; whose loss of his most precious queen and children are
    even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when saw'st thou the
    Prince Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue
    not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they have
    approved their virtues.
  CAMILLO. Sir, it is three days since I saw the Prince. What his
    happier affairs may be are to me unknown; but I have missingly
    noted he is of late much retired from court, and is less frequent
    to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared.
  POLIXENES. I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care,
    so far that I have eyes under my service which look upon his
    removedness; from whom I have this intelligence, that he is
    seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd- a man, they say,
    that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his
    neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate.
  CAMILLO. I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of
    most rare note. The report of her is extended more than can be
    thought to begin from such a cottage.
  POLIXENES. That's likewise part of my intelligence; but, I fear, the  
    angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the
    place; where we will, not appearing what we are, have some
    question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not
    uneasy to get the cause of my son's resort thither. Prithee be my
    present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of
    Sicilia.
  CAMILLO. I willingly obey your command.
  POLIXENES. My best Camillo! We must disguise ourselves.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE III.
Bohemia. A road near the SHEPHERD'S cottage

Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing

      When daffodils begin to peer,
        With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
      Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year,
        For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

      The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
        With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!
      Doth set my pugging tooth on edge,
        For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

      The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,
        With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,
      Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
        While we lie tumbling in the hay.

    I have serv'd Prince Florizel, and in my time wore three-pile;
    but now I am out of service.  

      But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?
        The pale moon shines by night;
      And when I wander here and there,
        I then do most go right.

      If tinkers may have leave to live,
        And bear the sow-skin budget,
      Then my account I well may give
        And in the stocks avouch it.

    My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen.
    My father nam'd me Autolycus; who, being, I as am, litter'd under
    Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With
    die and drab I purchas'd this caparison; and my revenue is the
    silly-cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway;
    beating and hanging are terrors to me; for the life to come, I
    sleep out the thought of it. A prize! a prize!

                            Enter CLOWN  

  CLOWN. Let me see: every 'leven wether tods; every tod yields pound
    and odd shilling; fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?
  AUTOLYCUS.  [Aside]  If the springe hold, the cock's mine.
  CLOWN. I cannot do 't without counters. Let me see: what am I to
    buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound of sugar, five
    pound of currants, rice- what will this sister of mine do with
    rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she
    lays it on. She hath made me four and twenty nosegays for the
    shearers- three-man song-men all, and very good ones; but they
    are most of them means and bases; but one Puritan amongst them,
    and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron to colour
    the warden pies; mace; dates- none, that's out of my note;
    nutmegs, seven; race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four
    pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o' th' sun.
  AUTOLYCUS.  [Grovelling on the ground]  O that ever I was born!
  CLOWN. I' th' name of me!
  AUTOLYCUS. O, help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags; and then,
    death, death!
  CLOWN. Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay on  
    thee, rather than have these off.
  AUTOLYCUS. O sir, the loathsomeness of them offend me more than the
    stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions.
  CLOWN. Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great
    matter.
  AUTOLYCUS. I am robb'd, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta'en
    from me, and these detestable things put upon me.
  CLOWN. What, by a horseman or a footman?
  AUTOLYCUS. A footman, sweet sir, a footman.
  CLOWN. Indeed, he should be a footman, by the garments he has left
    with thee; if this be a horseman's coat, it hath seen very hot
    service. Lend me thy hand, I'll help thee. Come, lend me thy
    hand.                                       [Helping him up]
  AUTOLYCUS. O, good sir, tenderly, O!
  CLOWN. Alas, poor soul!
  AUTOLYCUS. O, good sir, softly, good sir; I fear, sir, my shoulder
    blade is out.
  CLOWN. How now! Canst stand?
  AUTOLYCUS. Softly, dear sir  [Picks his pocket];  good sir, softly.
    You ha' done me a charitable office.  
  CLOWN. Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.
  AUTOLYCUS. No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir. I have a
    kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was
    going; I shall there have money or anything I want. Offer me no
    money, I pray you; that kills my heart.
  CLOWN. What manner of fellow was he that robb'd you?
  AUTOLYCUS. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with
    troll-my-dames; I knew him once a servant of the Prince. I cannot
    tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was
    certainly whipt out of the court.
  CLOWN. His vices, you would say; there's no virtue whipt out of the
    court. They cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no
    more but abide.
  AUTOLYCUS. Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well; he hath
    been since an ape-bearer; then a process-server, a bailiff; then
    he compass'd a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker's
    wife within a mile where my land and living lies; and, having
    flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue.
    Some call him Autolycus.
  CLOWN. Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig! He haunts wakes,  
    fairs, and bear-baitings.
  AUTOLYCUS. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the rogue that put
    me into this apparel.
  CLOWN. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia; if you had but
    look'd big and spit at him, he'd have run.
  AUTOLYCUS. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter; I am false
    of heart that way, and that he knew, I warrant him.
  CLOWN. How do you now?
  AUTOLYCUS. Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can stand and walk.
    I will even take my leave of you and pace softly towards my
    kinsman's.
  CLOWN. Shall I bring thee on the way?
  AUTOLYCUS. No, good-fac'd sir; no, sweet sir.
  CLOWN. Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our
    sheep-shearing.
  AUTOLYCUS. Prosper you, sweet sir!                  Exit CLOWN
    Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I'll be with
    you at your sheep-shearing too. If I make not this cheat bring
    out another, and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unroll'd,
    and my name put in the book of virtue!  
                                                         [Sings]
            Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
              And merrily hent the stile-a;
            A merry heart goes all the day,
              Your sad tires in a mile-a.                   Exit




SCENE IV.
Bohemia. The SHEPHERD'S cottage

Enter FLORIZEL and PERDITA

  FLORIZEL. These your unusual weeds to each part of you
    Do give a life- no shepherdess, but Flora
    Peering in April's front. This your sheep-shearing
    Is as a meeting of the petty gods,
    And you the Queen on't.
  PERDITA. Sir, my gracious lord,
    To chide at your extremes it not becomes me-
    O, pardon that I name them! Your high self,
    The gracious mark o' th' land, you have obscur'd
    With a swain's wearing; and me, poor lowly maid,
    Most goddess-like prank'd up. But that our feasts
    In every mess have folly, and the feeders
    Digest it with a custom, I should blush
    To see you so attir'd; swoon, I think,
    To show myself a glass.
  FLORIZEL. I bless the time
    When my good falcon made her flight across  
    Thy father's ground.
  PERDITA. Now Jove afford you cause!
    To me the difference forges dread; your greatness
    Hath not been us'd to fear. Even now I tremble
    To think your father, by some accident,
    Should pass this way, as you did. O, the Fates!
    How would he look to see his work, so noble,
    Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how
    Should I, in these my borrowed flaunts, behold
    The sternness of his presence?
  FLORIZEL. Apprehend
    Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves,
    Humbling their deities to love, have taken
    The shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter
    Became a bull and bellow'd; the green Neptune
    A ram and bleated; and the fire-rob'd god,
    Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain,
    As I seem now. Their transformations
    Were never for a piece of beauty rarer,
    Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires  
    Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts
    Burn hotter than my faith.
  PERDITA. O, but, sir,
    Your resolution cannot hold when 'tis
    Oppos'd, as it must be, by th' pow'r of the King.
    One of these two must be necessities,
    Which then will speak, that you must change this purpose,
    Or I my life.
  FLORIZEL. Thou dearest Perdita,
    With these forc'd thoughts, I prithee, darken not
    The mirth o' th' feast. Or I'll be thine, my fair,
    Or not my father's; for I cannot be
    Mine own, nor anything to any, if
    I be not thine. To this I am most constant,
    Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle;
    Strangle such thoughts as these with any thing
    That you behold the while. Your guests are coming.
    Lift up your countenance, as it were the day
    Of celebration of that nuptial which
    We two have sworn shall come.  
  PERDITA. O Lady Fortune,
    Stand you auspicious!
  FLORIZEL. See, your guests approach.
    Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,
    And let's be red with mirth.

        Enter SHEPHERD, with POLIXENES and CAMILLO, disguised;
                 CLOWN, MOPSA, DORCAS, with OTHERS

  SHEPHERD. Fie, daughter! When my old wife liv'd, upon
    This day she was both pantler, butler, cook;
    Both dame and servant; welcom'd all; serv'd all;
    Would sing her song and dance her turn; now here
    At upper end o' th' table, now i' th' middle;
    On his shoulder, and his; her face o' fire
    With labour, and the thing she took to quench it
    She would to each one sip. You are retired,
    As if you were a feasted one, and not
    The hostess of the meeting. Pray you bid
    These unknown friends to's welcome, for it is  
    A way to make us better friends, more known.
    Come, quench your blushes, and present yourself
    That which you are, Mistress o' th' Feast. Come on,
    And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,
    As your good flock shall prosper.
  PERDITA.  [To POLIXENES]  Sir, welcome.
    It is my father's will I should take on me
    The hostess-ship o' th' day.  [To CAMILLO]
    You're welcome, sir.
    Give me those flow'rs there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs,
    For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep
    Seeming and savour all the winter long.
    Grace and remembrance be to you both!
    And welcome to our shearing.
  POLIXENES. Shepherdess-
    A fair one are you- well you fit our ages
    With flow'rs of winter.
  PERDITA. Sir, the year growing ancient,
    Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth
    Of trembling winter, the fairest flow'rs o' th' season  
    Are our carnations and streak'd gillyvors,
    Which some call nature's bastards. Of that kind
    Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not
    To get slips of them.
  POLIXENES. Wherefore, gentle maiden,
    Do you neglect them?
  PERDITA. For I have heard it said
    There is an art which in their piedness shares
    With great creating nature.
  POLIXENES. Say there be;
    Yet nature is made better by no mean
    But nature makes that mean; so over that art
    Which you say adds to nature, is an art
    That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry
    A gentler scion to the wildest stock,
    And make conceive a bark of baser kind
    By bud of nobler race. This is an art
    Which does mend nature- change it rather; but
    The art itself is nature.
  PERDITA. So it is.  
  POLIXENES. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,
    And do not call them bastards.
  PERDITA. I'll not put
    The dibble in earth to set one slip of them;
    No more than were I painted I would wish
    This youth should say 'twere well, and only therefore
    Desire to breed by me. Here's flow'rs for you:
    Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;
    The marigold, that goes to bed wi' th' sun,
    And with him rises weeping; these are flow'rs
    Of middle summer, and I think they are given
    To men of middle age. Y'are very welcome.
  CAMILLO. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
    And only live by gazing.
  PERDITA. Out, alas!
    You'd be so lean that blasts of January
    Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend,
    I would I had some flow'rs o' th' spring that might
    Become your time of day- and yours, and yours,
    That wear upon your virgin branches yet  
    Your maidenheads growing. O Proserpina,
    From the flowers now that, frighted, thou let'st fall
    From Dis's waggon!- daffodils,
    That come before the swallow dares, and take
    The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim
    But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes
    Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
    That die unmarried ere they can behold
    Bright Phoebus in his strength- a malady
    Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
    The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,
    The flow'r-de-luce being one. O, these I lack
    To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend
    To strew him o'er and o'er!
  FLORIZEL. What, like a corse?
  PERDITA. No; like a bank for love to lie and play on;
    Not like a corse; or if- not to be buried,
    But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flow'rs.
    Methinks I play as I have seen them do
    In Whitsun pastorals. Sure, this robe of mine  
    Does change my disposition.
  FLORIZEL. What you do
    Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
    I'd have you do it ever. When you sing,
    I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;
    Pray so; and, for the ord'ring your affairs,
    To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
    A wave o' th' sea, that you might ever do
    Nothing but that; move still, still so,
    And own no other function. Each your doing,
    So singular in each particular,
    Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
    That all your acts are queens.
  PERDITA. O Doricles,
    Your praises are too large. But that your youth,
    And the true blood which peeps fairly through't,
    Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd,
    With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,
    You woo'd me the false way.
  FLORIZEL. I think you have  
    As little skill to fear as I have purpose
    To put you to't. But, come; our dance, I pray.
    Your hand, my Perdita; so turtles pair
    That never mean to part.
  PERDITA. I'll swear for 'em.
  POLIXENES. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
    Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does or seems
    But smacks of something greater than herself,
    Too noble for this place.
  CAMILLO. He tells her something
    That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is
    The queen of curds and cream.
  CLOWN. Come on, strike up.
  DORCAS. Mopsa must be your mistress; marry, garlic,
    To mend her kissing with!
  MOPSA. Now, in good time!
  CLOWN. Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners.
    Come, strike up.                                     [Music]

          Here a dance Of SHEPHERDS and SHEPHERDESSES  

  POLIXENES. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this
    Which dances with your daughter?
  SHEPHERD. They call him Doricles, and boasts himself
    To have a worthy feeding; but I have it
    Upon his own report, and I believe it:
    He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter;
    I think so too; for never gaz'd the moon
    Upon the water as he'll stand and read,
    As 'twere my daughter's eyes; and, to be plain,
    I think there is not half a kiss to choose
    Who loves another best.
  POLIXENES. She dances featly.
  SHEPHERD. So she does any thing; though I report it
    That should be silent. If young Doricles
    Do light upon her, she shall bring him that
    Which he not dreams of.

                      Enter a SERVANT
  
  SERVANT. O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you
    would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe
    could not move you. He sings several tunes faster than you'll
    tell money; he utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all men's
    ears grew to his tunes.
  CLOWN. He could never come better; he shall come in. I love a
    ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set
    down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.
  SERVANT. He hath songs for man or woman of all sizes; no milliner
    can so fit his customers with gloves. He has the prettiest
    love-songs for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange; with
    such delicate burdens of dildos and fadings, 'jump her and thump
    her'; and where some stretch-mouth'd rascal would, as it were,
    mean mischief, and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the
    maid to answer 'Whoop, do me no harm, good man'- puts him off,
    slights him, with 'Whoop, do me no harm, good man.'
  POLIXENES. This is a brave fellow.
  CLOWN. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow.
    Has he any unbraided wares?
  SERVANT. He hath ribbons of all the colours i' th' rainbow; points,  
    more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though
    they come to him by th' gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics,
    lawns. Why he sings 'em over as they were gods or goddesses; you
    would think a smock were she-angel, he so chants to the
    sleeve-hand and the work about the square on't.
  CLOWN. Prithee bring him in; and let him approach singing.
  PERDITA. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in's tunes.
                                                    Exit SERVANT
  CLOWN. You have of these pedlars that have more in them than you'd
    think, sister.
  PERDITA. Ay, good brother, or go about to think.

                   Enter AUTOLYCUS, Singing

           Lawn as white as driven snow;
           Cypress black as e'er was crow;
           Gloves as sweet as damask roses;
           Masks for faces and for noses;
           Bugle bracelet, necklace amber,
           Perfume for a lady's chamber;  
           Golden quoifs and stomachers,
           For my lads to give their dears;
           Pins and poking-sticks of steel-
           What maids lack from head to heel.
           Come, buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;
           Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry.
           Come, buy.

  CLOWN. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no
    money of me; but being enthrall'd as I am, it will also be the
    bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.
  MOPSA. I was promis'd them against the feast; but they come not too
    late now.
  DORCAS. He hath promis'd you more than that, or there be liars.
  MOPSA. He hath paid you all he promis'd you. May be he has paid you
    more, which will shame you to give him again.
  CLOWN. Is there no manners left among maids? Will they wear their
    plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not
    milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle
    off these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our  
    guests? 'Tis well they are whisp'ring. Clammer your tongues, and
    not a word more.
  MOPSA. I have done. Come, you promis'd me a tawdry-lace, and a pair
    of sweet gloves.
  CLOWN. Have I not told thee how I was cozen'd by the way, and lost
    all my money?
  AUTOLYCUS. And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad; therefore it
    behoves men to be wary.
  CLOWN. Fear not thou, man; thou shalt lose nothing here.
  AUTOLYCUS. I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of
    charge.
  CLOWN. What hast here? Ballads?
  MOPSA. Pray now, buy some. I love a ballad in print a-life, for
    then we are sure they are true.
  AUTOLYCUS. Here's one to a very doleful tune: how a usurer's wife
    was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden, and how she
    long'd to eat adders' heads and toads carbonado'd.
  MOPSA. Is it true, think you?
  AUTOLYCUS. Very true, and but a month old.
  DORCAS. Bless me from marrying a usurer!  
  AUTOLYCUS. Here's the midwife's name to't, one Mistress Taleporter,
    and five or six honest wives that were present. Why should I
    carry lies abroad?
  MOPSA. Pray you now, buy it.
  CLOWN. Come on, lay it by; and let's first see moe ballads; we'll
    buy the other things anon.
  AUTOLYCUS. Here's another ballad, of a fish that appeared upon the
    coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom
    above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of
    maids. It was thought she was a woman, and was turn'd into a cold
    fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that lov'd her.
    The ballad is very pitiful, and as true.
  DORCAS. Is it true too, think you?
  AUTOLYCUS. Five justices' hands at it; and witnesses more than my
    pack will hold.
  CLOWN. Lay it by too. Another.
  AUTOLYCUS. This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one.
  MOPSA. Let's have some merry ones.
  AUTOLYCUS. Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to the tune
    of 'Two maids wooing a man.' There's scarce a maid westward but  
    she sings it; 'tis in request, I can tell you.
  MOPSA. can both sing it. If thou'lt bear a part, thou shalt hear;
    'tis in three parts.
  DORCAS. We had the tune on't a month ago.
  AUTOLYCUS. I can bear my part; you must know 'tis my occupation.
    Have at it with you.

                        SONG

  AUTOLYCUS. Get you hence, for I must go
             Where it fits not you to know.
  DORCAS.    Whither?
  MOPSA.       O, whither?
  DORCAS.        Whither?
  MOPSA.     It becomes thy oath full well
             Thou to me thy secrets tell.
  DORCAS.    Me too! Let me go thither
  MOPSA.     Or thou goest to th' grange or mill.
  DORCAS.    If to either, thou dost ill.
  AUTOLYCUS. Neither.  
  DORCAS.    What, neither?
  AUTOLYCUS. Neither.
  DORCAS.    Thou hast sworn my love to be.
  MOPSA.     Thou hast sworn it more to me.
             Then whither goest? Say, whither?

  CLOWN. We'll have this song out anon by ourselves; my father and
    the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we'll not trouble them. Come,
    bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I'll buy for you both.
    Pedlar, let's have the first choice. Follow me, girls.
                                      Exit with DORCAS and MOPSA
  AUTOLYCUS. And you shall pay well for 'em.
                                         Exit AUTOLYCUS, Singing

             Will you buy any tape,
             Or lace for your cape,
           My dainty duck, my dear-a?
             Any silk, any thread,
             Any toys for your head,
           Of the new'st and fin'st, fin'st wear-a?  
             Come to the pedlar;
             Money's a meddler
           That doth utter all men's ware-a.

                   Re-enter SERVANT

  SERVANT. Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three
    neat-herds, three swineherds, that have made themselves all men
    of hair; they call themselves Saltiers, and they have dance which
    the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not
    in't; but they themselves are o' th' mind, if it be not too rough
    for some that know little but bowling, it will please
    plentifully.
  SHEPHERD. Away! We'll none on't; here has been too much homely
    foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you.
  POLIXENES. You weary those that refresh us. Pray, let's see these
    four threes of herdsmen.
  SERVANT. One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danc'd
    before the King; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve
    foot and a half by th' squier.  
  SHEPHERD. Leave your prating; since these good men are pleas'd, let
    them come in; but quickly now.
  SERVANT. Why, they stay at door, sir.                     Exit

                    Here a dance of twelve SATYRS

  POLIXENES.  [To SHEPHERD]  O, father, you'll know more of that
      hereafter.
    [To CAMILLO]  Is it not too far gone? 'Tis time to part them.
    He's simple and tells much.  [To FLORIZEL]  How now, fair
      shepherd!
    Your heart is full of something that does take
    Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young
    And handed love as you do, I was wont
    To load my she with knacks; I would have ransack'd
    The pedlar's silken treasury and have pour'd it
    To her acceptance: you have let him go
    And nothing marted with him. If your lass
    Interpretation should abuse and call this
    Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited  
    For a reply, at least if you make a care
    Of happy holding her.
  FLORIZEL. Old sir, I know
    She prizes not such trifles as these are.
    The gifts she looks from me are pack'd and lock'd
    Up in my heart, which I have given already,
    But not deliver'd. O, hear me breathe my life
    Before this ancient sir, whom, it should seem,
    Hath sometime lov'd. I take thy hand- this hand,
    As soft as dove's down and as white as it,
    Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow that's bolted
    By th' northern blasts twice o'er.
  POLIXENES. What follows this?
    How prettily the young swain seems to wash
    The hand was fair before! I have put you out.
    But to your protestation; let me hear
    What you profess.
  FLORIZEL. Do, and be witness to't.
  POLIXENES. And this my neighbour too?
  FLORIZEL. And he, and more  
    Than he, and men- the earth, the heavens, and all:
    That, were I crown'd the most imperial monarch,
    Thereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth
    That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge
    More than was ever man's, I would not prize them
    Without her love; for her employ them all;
    Commend them and condemn them to her service
    Or to their own perdition.
  POLIXENES. Fairly offer'd.
  CAMILLO. This shows a sound affection.
  SHEPHERD. But, my daughter,
    Say you the like to him?
  PERDITA. I cannot speak
    So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better.
    By th' pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out
    The purity of his.
  SHEPHERD. Take hands, a bargain!
    And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to't:
    I give my daughter to him, and will make
    Her portion equal his.  
  FLORIZEL. O, that must be
    I' th' virtue of your daughter. One being dead,
    I shall have more than you can dream of yet;
    Enough then for your wonder. But come on,
    Contract us fore these witnesses.
  SHEPHERD. Come, your hand;
    And, daughter, yours.
  POLIXENES. Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you;
    Have you a father?
  FLORIZEL. I have, but what of him?
  POLIXENES. Knows he of this?
  FLORIZEL. He neither does nor shall.
  POLIXENES. Methinks a father
    Is at the nuptial of his son a guest
    That best becomes the table. Pray you, once more,
    Is not your father grown incapable
    Of reasonable affairs? Is he not stupid
    With age and alt'ring rheums? Can he speak, hear,
    Know man from man, dispute his own estate?
    Lies he not bed-rid, and again does nothing  
    But what he did being childish?
  FLORIZEL. No, good sir;
    He has his health, and ampler strength indeed
    Than most have of his age.
  POLIXENES. By my white beard,
    You offer him, if this be so, a wrong
    Something unfilial. Reason my son
    Should choose himself a wife; but as good reason
    The father- all whose joy is nothing else
    But fair posterity- should hold some counsel
    In such a business.
  FLORIZEL. I yield all this;
    But, for some other reasons, my grave sir,
    Which 'tis not fit you know, I not acquaint
    My father of this business.
  POLIXENES. Let him know't.
  FLORIZEL. He shall not.
  POLIXENES. Prithee let him.
  FLORIZEL. No, he must not.
  SHEPHERD. Let him, my son; he shall not need to grieve  
    At knowing of thy choice.
  FLORIZEL. Come, come, he must not.
    Mark our contract.
  POLIXENES.  [Discovering himself]  Mark your divorce, young sir,
    Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base
    To be acknowledg'd- thou a sceptre's heir,
    That thus affects a sheep-hook! Thou, old traitor,
    I am sorry that by hanging thee I can but
    Shorten thy life one week. And thou, fresh piece
    Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know
    The royal fool thou cop'st with-
  SHEPHERD. O, my heart!
  POLIXENES. I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briers and made
    More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy,
    If I may ever know thou dost but sigh
    That thou no more shalt see this knack- as never
    I mean thou shalt- we'll bar thee from succession;
    Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,
    Farre than Deucalion off. Mark thou my words.
    Follow us to the court. Thou churl, for this time,  
    Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee
    From the dead blow of it. And you, enchantment,
    Worthy enough a herdsman- yea, him too
    That makes himself, but for our honour therein,
    Unworthy thee- if ever henceforth thou
    These rural latches to his entrance open,
    Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,
    I will devise a death as cruel for thee
    As thou art tender to't.                                Exit
  PERDITA. Even here undone!
    I was not much afeard; for once or twice
    I was about to speak and tell him plainly
    The self-same sun that shines upon his court
    Hides not his visage from our cottage, but
    Looks on alike.  [To FLORIZEL]  Will't please you, sir, be gone?
    I told you what would come of this. Beseech you,
    Of your own state take care. This dream of mine-
    Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch farther,
    But milk my ewes and weep.
  CAMILLO. Why, how now, father!  
    Speak ere thou diest.
  SHEPHERD. I cannot speak nor think,
    Nor dare to know that which I know.  [To FLORIZEL]  O sir,
    You have undone a man of fourscore-three
    That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea,
    To die upon the bed my father died,
    To lie close by his honest bones; but now
    Some hangman must put on my shroud and lay me
    Where no priest shovels in dust. [To PERDITA] O cursed wretch,
    That knew'st this was the Prince, and wouldst adventure
    To mingle faith with him!- Undone, undone!
    If I might die within this hour, I have liv'd
    To die when I desire.                                   Exit
  FLORIZEL. Why look you so upon me?
    I am but sorry, not afeard; delay'd,
    But nothing alt'red. What I was, I am:
    More straining on for plucking back; not following
    My leash unwillingly.
  CAMILLO. Gracious, my lord,
    You know your father's temper. At this time  
    He will allow no speech- which I do guess
    You do not purpose to him- and as hardly
    Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear;
    Then, till the fury of his Highness settle,
    Come not before him.
  FLORIZEL. I not purpose it.
    I think Camillo?
  CAMILLO. Even he, my lord.
  PERDITA. How often have I told you 'twould be thus!
    How often said my dignity would last
    But till 'twere known!
  FLORIZEL. It cannot fail but by
    The violation of my faith; and then
    Let nature crush the sides o' th' earth together
    And mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks.
    From my succession wipe me, father; I
    Am heir to my affection.
  CAMILLO. Be advis'd.
  FLORIZEL. I am- and by my fancy; if my reason
    Will thereto be obedient, I have reason;  
    If not, my senses, better pleas'd with madness,
    Do bid it welcome.
  CAMILLO. This is desperate, sir.
  FLORIZEL. So call it; but it does fulfil my vow:
    I needs must think it honesty. Camillo,
    Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may
    Be thereat glean'd, for all the sun sees or
    The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hides
    In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath
    To this my fair belov'd. Therefore, I pray you,
    As you have ever been my father's honour'd friend,
    When he shall miss me- as, in faith, I mean not
    To see him any more- cast your good counsels
    Upon his passion. Let myself and Fortune
    Tug for the time to come. This you may know,
    And so deliver: I am put to sea
    With her who here I cannot hold on shore.
    And most opportune to her need I have
    A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar'd
    For this design. What course I mean to hold  
    Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor
    Concern me the reporting.
  CAMILLO. O my lord,
    I would your spirit were easier for advice.
    Or stronger for your need.
  FLORIZEL. Hark, Perdita.                     [Takes her aside]
    [To CAMILLO]  I'll hear you by and by.
  CAMILLO. He's irremovable,
    Resolv'd for flight. Now were I happy if
    His going I could frame to serve my turn,
    Save him from danger, do him love and honour,
    Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia
    And that unhappy king, my master, whom
    I so much thirst to see.
  FLORIZEL. Now, good Camillo,
    I am so fraught with curious business that
    I leave out ceremony.
  CAMILLO. Sir, I think
    You have heard of my poor services i' th' love
    That I have borne your father?  
  FLORIZEL. Very nobly
    Have you deserv'd. It is my father's music
    To speak your deeds; not little of his care
    To have them recompens'd as thought on.
  CAMILLO. Well, my lord,
    If you may please to think I love the King,
    And through him what's nearest to him, which is
    Your gracious self, embrace but my direction.
    If your more ponderous and settled project
    May suffer alteration, on mine honour,
    I'll point you where you shall have such receiving
    As shall become your Highness; where you may
    Enjoy your mistress, from the whom, I see,
    There's no disjunction to be made but by,
    As heavens forfend! your ruin- marry her;
    And with my best endeavours in your absence
    Your discontenting father strive to qualify,
    And bring him up to liking.
  FLORIZEL. How, Camillo,
    May this, almost a miracle, be done?  
    That I may call thee something more than man,
    And after that trust to thee.
  CAMILLO. Have you thought on
    A place whereto you'll go?
  FLORIZEL. Not any yet;
    But as th' unthought-on accident is guilty
    To what we wildly do, so we profess
    Ourselves to be the slaves of chance and flies
    Of every wind that blows.
  CAMILLO. Then list to me.
    This follows, if you will not change your purpose
    But undergo this flight: make for Sicilia,
    And there present yourself and your fair princess-
    For so, I see, she must be- fore Leontes.
    She shall be habited as it becomes
    The partner of your bed. Methinks I see
    Leontes opening his free arms and weeping
    His welcomes forth; asks thee there 'Son, forgiveness!'
    As 'twere i' th' father's person; kisses the hands
    Of your fresh princess; o'er and o'er divides him  
    'Twixt his unkindness and his kindness- th' one
    He chides to hell, and bids the other grow
    Faster than thought or time.
  FLORIZEL. Worthy Camillo,
    What colour for my visitation shall I
    Hold up before him?
  CAMILLO. Sent by the King your father
    To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir,
    The manner of your bearing towards him, with
    What you as from your father shall deliver,
    Things known betwixt us three, I'll write you down;
    The which shall point you forth at every sitting
    What you must say, that he shall not perceive
    But that you have your father's bosom there
    And speak his very heart.
  FLORIZEL. I am bound to you.
    There is some sap in this.
  CAMILLO. A course more promising
    Than a wild dedication of yourselves
    To unpath'd waters, undream'd shores, most certain  
    To miseries enough; no hope to help you,
    But as you shake off one to take another;
    Nothing so certain as your anchors, who
    Do their best office if they can but stay you
    Where you'll be loath to be. Besides, you know
    Prosperity's the very bond of love,
    Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together
    Affliction alters.
  PERDITA. One of these is true:
    I think affliction may subdue the cheek,
    But not take in the mind.
  CAMILLO. Yea, say you so?
    There shall not at your father's house these seven years
    Be born another such.
  FLORIZEL. My good Camillo,
    She is as forward of her breeding as
    She is i' th' rear o' our birth.
  CAMILLO. I cannot say 'tis pity
    She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress
    To most that teach.  
  PERDITA. Your pardon, sir; for this
    I'll blush you thanks.
  FLORIZEL. My prettiest Perdita!
    But, O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo-
    Preserver of my father, now of me;
    The medicine of our house- how shall we do?
    We are not furnish'd like Bohemia's son;
    Nor shall appear in Sicilia.
  CAMILLO. My lord,
    Fear none of this. I think you know my fortunes
    Do all lie there. It shall be so my care
    To have you royally appointed as if
    The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir,
    That you may know you shall not want- one word.
                                               [They talk aside]

                     Re-enter AUTOLYCUS

  AUTOLYCUS. Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn
    brother, a very simple gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery;  
    not a counterfeit stone, not a ribbon, glass, pomander, brooch,
    table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet,
    horn-ring, to keep my pack from fasting. They throng who should
    buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed and brought a
    benediction to the buyer; by which means I saw whose purse was
    best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I rememb'red. My
    clown, who wants but something to be a reasonable man, grew so in
    love with the wenches' song that he would not stir his pettitoes
    till he had both tune and words, which so drew the rest of the
    herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears. You might
    have pinch'd a placket, it was senseless; 'twas nothing to geld a
    codpiece of a purse; I would have fil'd keys off that hung in
    chains. No hearing, no feeling, but my sir's song, and admiring
    the nothing of it. So that in this time of lethargy I pick'd and
    cut most of their festival purses; and had not the old man come
    in with whoobub against his daughter and the King's son and
    scar'd my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in
    the whole army.

              CAMILLO, FLORIZEL, and PERDITA come forward  

  CAMILLO. Nay, but my letters, by this means being there
    So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt.
  FLORIZEL. And those that you'll procure from King Leontes?
  CAMILLO. Shall satisfy your father.
  PERDITA. Happy be you!
    All that you speak shows fair.
  CAMILLO.  [seeing AUTOLYCUS]  Who have we here?
    We'll make an instrument of this; omit
    Nothing may give us aid.
  AUTOLYCUS.  [Aside]  If they have overheard me now- why, hanging.
  CAMILLO. How now, good fellow! Why shak'st thou so?
    Fear not, man; here's no harm intended to thee.
  AUTOLYCUS. I am a poor fellow, sir.
  CAMILLO. Why, be so still; here's nobody will steal that from thee.
    Yet for the outside of thy poverty we must make an exchange;
    therefore discase thee instantly- thou must think there's a
    necessity in't- and change garments with this gentleman. Though
    the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, there's
    some boot.  [Giving money]  
  AUTOLYCUS. I am a poor fellow, sir.  [Aside]  I know ye well
    enough.
  CAMILLO. Nay, prithee dispatch. The gentleman is half flay'd
    already.
  AUTOLYCUS. Are you in camest, sir?  [Aside]  I smell the trick
    on't.
  FLORIZEL. Dispatch, I prithee.
  AUTOLYCUS. Indeed, I have had earnest; but I cannot with conscience
    take it.
  CAMILLO. Unbuckle, unbuckle.

             FLORIZEL and AUTOLYCUS exchange garments

    Fortunate mistress- let my prophecy
    Come home to ye!- you must retire yourself
    Into some covert; take your sweetheart's hat
    And pluck it o'er your brows, muffle your face,
    Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken
    The truth of your own seeming, that you may-
    For I do fear eyes over- to shipboard  
    Get undescried.
  PERDITA. I see the play so lies
    That I must bear a part.
  CAMILLO. No remedy.
    Have you done there?
  FLORIZEL. Should I now meet my father,
    He would not call me son.
  CAMILLO. Nay, you shall have no hat.
                                          [Giving it to PERDITA]
    Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend.
  AUTOLYCUS. Adieu, sir.
  FLORIZEL. O Perdita, what have we twain forgot!
    Pray you a word.                       [They converse apart]
  CAMILLO.  [Aside]  What I do next shall be to tell the King
    Of this escape, and whither they are bound;
    Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail
    To force him after; in whose company
    I shall re-view Sicilia, for whose sight
    I have a woman's longing.
  FLORIZEL. Fortune speed us!  
    Thus we set on, Camillo, to th' sea-side.
  CAMILLO. The swifter speed the better.
                           Exeunt FLORIZEL, PERDITA, and CAMILLO
  AUTOLYCUS. I understand the business, I hear it. To have an open
    ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is necessary for a
    cut-purse; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for
    th' other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth
    thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot! What a boot
    is here with this exchange! Sure, the gods do this year connive
    at us, and we may do anything extempore. The Prince himself is
    about a piece of iniquity- stealing away from his father with his
    clog at his heels. If I thought it were a piece of honesty to
    acquaint the King withal, I would not do't. I hold it the more
    knavery to conceal it; and therein am I constant to my
    profession.

                   Re-enter CLOWN and SHEPHERD

    Aside, aside- here is more matter for a hot brain. Every lane's
    end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful man  
    work.
  CLOWN. See, see; what a man you are now! There is no other way but
    to tell the King she's a changeling and none of your flesh and
    blood.
  SHEPHERD. Nay, but hear me.
  CLOWN. Nay- but hear me.
  SHEPHERD. Go to, then.
  CLOWN. She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood
    has not offended the King; and so your flesh and blood is not to
    be punish'd by him. Show those things you found about her, those
    secret things- all but what she has with her. This being done,
    let the law go whistle; I warrant you.
  SHEPHERD. I will tell the King all, every word- yea, and his son's
    pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man, neither to his
    father nor to me, to go about to make me the King's
    brother-in-law.
  CLOWN. Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you could have
    been to him; and then your blood had been the dearer by I know
    how much an ounce.
  AUTOLYCUS.  [Aside]  Very wisely, puppies!  
  SHEPHERD. Well, let us to the King. There is that in this fardel
    will make him scratch his beard.
  AUTOLYCUS.  [Aside]  I know not what impediment this complaint may
    be to the flight of my master.
  CLOWN. Pray heartily he be at palace.
  AUTOLYCUS.  [Aside]  Though I am not naturally honest, I am so
    sometimes by chance. Let me pocket up my pedlar's excrement.
    [Takes off his false beard]  How now, rustics! Whither are you
    bound?
  SHEPHERD. To th' palace, an it like your worship.
  AUTOLYCUS. Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition of
    that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your names, your ages,
    of what having, breeding, and anything that is fitting to be
    known- discover.
  CLOWN. We are but plain fellows, sir.
  AUTOLYCUS. A lie: you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying; it
    becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the
    lie; but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing
    steel; therefore they do not give us the lie.
  CLOWN. Your worship had like to have given us one, if you had not  
    taken yourself with the manner.
  SHEPHERD. Are you a courtier, an't like you, sir?
  AUTOLYCUS. Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou
    not the air of the court in these enfoldings? Hath not my gait in
    it the measure of the court? Receives not thy nose court-odour
    from me? Reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Think'st
    thou, for that I insinuate, that toaze from thee thy business, I
    am therefore no courtier? I am courtier cap-a-pe, and one that
    will either push on or pluck back thy business there; whereupon I
    command the to open thy affair.
  SHEPHERD. My business, sir, is to the King.
  AUTOLYCUS. What advocate hast thou to him?
  SHEPHERD. I know not, an't like you.
  CLOWN. Advocate's the court-word for a pheasant; say you have none.
  SHEPHERD. None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor hen.
  AUTOLYCUS. How blessed are we that are not simple men!
    Yet nature might have made me as these are,
    Therefore I will not disdain.
  CLOWN. This cannot be but a great courtier.
  SHEPHERD. His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely.  
  CLOWN. He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical.
    A great man, I'll warrant; I know by the picking on's teeth.
  AUTOLYCUS. The fardel there? What's i' th' fardel? Wherefore that
    box?
  SHEPHERD. Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box which
    none must know but the King; and which he shall know within this
    hour, if I may come to th' speech of him.
  AUTOLYCUS. Age, thou hast lost thy labour.
  SHEPHERD. Why, Sir?
  AUTOLYCUS. The King is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a new
    ship to purge melancholy and air himself; for, if thou be'st
    capable of things serious, thou must know the King is full of
    grief.
  SHEPHERD. So 'tis said, sir- about his son, that should have
    married a shepherd's daughter.
  AUTOLYCUS. If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly; the
    curses he shall have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the
    back of man, the heart of monster.
  CLOWN. Think you so, sir?
  AUTOLYCUS. Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and  
    vengeance bitter; but those that are germane to him, though
    remov'd fifty times, shall all come under the hangman- which,
    though it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old
    sheep-whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his
    daughter come into grace! Some say he shall be ston'd; but that
    death is too soft for him, say I. Draw our throne into a
    sheep-cote!- all deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy.
  CLOWN. Has the old man e'er a son, sir, do you hear, an't like you,
    sir?
  AUTOLYCUS. He has a son- who shall be flay'd alive; then 'nointed
    over with honey, set on the head of a wasp's nest; then stand
    till he be three quarters and a dram dead; then recover'd again
    with aqua-vitae or some other hot infusion; then, raw as he is,
    and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set
    against a brick wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon
    him, where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But
    what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be
    smil'd at, their offences being so capital? Tell me, for you seem
    to be honest plain men, what you have to the King. Being
    something gently consider'd, I'll bring you where he is aboard,  
    tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs;
    and if it be in man besides the King to effect your suits, here
    is man shall do it.
  CLOWN. He seems to be of great authority. Close with him, give him
    gold; and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led
    by the nose with gold. Show the inside of your purse to the
    outside of his hand, and no more ado. Remember- ston'd and flay'd
    alive.
  SHEPHERD. An't please you, sir, to undertake the business for us,
    here is that gold I have. I'll make it as much more, and leave
    this young man in pawn till I bring it you.
  AUTOLYCUS. After I have done what I promised?
  SHEPHERD. Ay, sir.
  AUTOLYCUS. Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party in this
    business?
  CLOWN. In some sort, sir; but though my case be a pitiful one, I
    hope I shall not be flay'd out of it.
  AUTOLYCUS. O, that's the case of the shepherd's son! Hang him,
    he'll be made an example.
  CLOWN. Comfort, good comfort! We must to the King and show our  
    strange sights. He must know 'tis none of your daughter nor my
    sister; we are gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this
    old man does, when the business is performed; and remain, as he
    says, your pawn till it be brought you.
  AUTOLYCUS. I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side; go on
    the right-hand; I will but look upon the hedge, and follow you.
  CLOWN. We are blest in this man, as I may say, even blest.
  SHEPHERD. Let's before, as he bids us. He was provided to do us
    good.                              Exeunt SHEPHERD and CLOWN
  AUTOLYCUS. If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would not
    suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a
    double occasion- gold, and a means to do the Prince my master
    good; which who knows how that may turn back to my advancement? I
    will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him. If he
    think it fit to shore them again, and that the complaint they
    have to the King concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for
    being so far officious; for I am proof against that title, and
    what shame else belongs to't. To him will I present them. There
    may be matter in it.                                    Exit




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ACT V. SCENE I.
Sicilia. The palace of LEONTES

Enter LEONTES, CLEOMENES, DION, PAULINA, and OTHERS

  CLEOMENES. Sir, you have done enough, and have perform'd
    A saint-like sorrow. No fault could you make
    Which you have not redeem'd; indeed, paid down
    More penitence than done trespass. At the last,
    Do as the heavens have done: forget your evil;
    With them forgive yourself.
  LEONTES. Whilst I remember
    Her and her virtues, I cannot forget
    My blemishes in them, and so still think of
    The wrong I did myself; which was so much
    That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and
    Destroy'd the sweet'st companion that e'er man
    Bred his hopes out of.
  PAULINA. True, too true, my lord.
    If, one by one, you wedded all the world,
    Or from the all that are took something good
    To make a perfect woman, she you kill'd  
    Would be unparallel'd.
  LEONTES. I think so. Kill'd!
    She I kill'd! I did so; but thou strik'st me
    Sorely, to say I did. It is as bitter
    Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good now,
    Say so but seldom.
  CLEOMENES. Not at all, good lady.
    You might have spoken a thousand things that would
    Have done the time more benefit, and grac'd
    Your kindness better.
  PAULINA. You are one of those
    Would have him wed again.
  DION. If you would not so,
    You pity not the state, nor the remembrance
    Of his most sovereign name; consider little
    What dangers, by his Highness' fail of issue,
    May drop upon his kingdom and devour
    Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy
    Than to rejoice the former queen is well?
    What holier than, for royalty's repair,  
    For present comfort, and for future good,
    To bless the bed of majesty again
    With a sweet fellow to't?
  PAULINA. There is none worthy,
    Respecting her that's gone. Besides, the gods
    Will have fulfill'd their secret purposes;
    For has not the divine Apollo said,
    Is't not the tenour of his oracle,
    That King Leontes shall not have an heir
    Till his lost child be found? Which that it shall,
    Is all as monstrous to our human reason
    As my Antigonus to break his grave
    And come again to me; who, on my life,
    Did perish with the infant. 'Tis your counsel
    My lord should to the heavens be contrary,
    Oppose against their wills.  [To LEONTES]  Care not for issue;
    The crown will find an heir. Great Alexander
    Left his to th' worthiest; so his successor
    Was like to be the best.
  LEONTES. Good Paulina,  
    Who hast the memory of Hermione,
    I know, in honour, O that ever I
    Had squar'd me to thy counsel! Then, even now,
    I might have look'd upon my queen's full eyes,
    Have taken treasure from her lips-
  PAULINA. And left them
    More rich for what they yielded.
  LEONTES. Thou speak'st truth.
    No more such wives; therefore, no wife. One worse,
    And better us'd, would make her sainted spirit
    Again possess her corpse, and on this stage,
    Where we offend her now, appear soul-vex'd,
    And begin 'Why to me'-
  PAULINA. Had she such power,
    She had just cause.
  LEONTES. She had; and would incense me
    To murder her I married.
  PAULINA. I should so.
    Were I the ghost that walk'd, I'd bid you mark
    Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in't  
    You chose her; then I'd shriek, that even your ears
    Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow'd
    Should be 'Remember mine.'
  LEONTES. Stars, stars,
    And all eyes else dead coals! Fear thou no wife;
    I'll have no wife, Paulina.
  PAULINA. Will you swear
    Never to marry but by my free leave?
  LEONTES. Never, Paulina; so be blest my spirit!
  PAULINA. Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath.
  CLEOMENES. You tempt him over-much.
  PAULINA. Unless another,
    As like Hermione as is her picture,
    Affront his eye.
  CLEOMENES. Good madam-
  PAULINA. I have done.
    Yet, if my lord will marry- if you will, sir,
    No remedy but you will- give me the office
    To choose you a queen. She shall not be so young
    As was your former; but she shall be such  
    As, walk'd your first queen's ghost, it should take joy
    To see her in your arms.
  LEONTES. My true Paulina,
    We shall not marry till thou bid'st us.
  PAULINA. That
    Shall be when your first queen's again in breath;
    Never till then.

                       Enter a GENTLEMAN

  GENTLEMAN. One that gives out himself Prince Florizel,
    Son of Polixenes, with his princess- she
    The fairest I have yet beheld- desires access
    To your high presence.
  LEONTES. What with him? He comes not
    Like to his father's greatness. His approach,
    So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us
    'Tis not a visitation fram'd, but forc'd
    By need and accident. What train?
  GENTLEMAN. But few,  
    And those but mean.
  LEONTES. His princess, say you, with him?
  GENTLEMAN. Ay; the most peerless piece of earth, I think,
    That e'er the sun shone bright on.
  PAULINA. O Hermione,
    As every present time doth boast itself
    Above a better gone, so must thy grave
    Give way to what's seen now! Sir, you yourself
    Have said and writ so, but your writing now
    Is colder than that theme: 'She had not been,
    Nor was not to be equall'd.' Thus your verse
    Flow'd with her beauty once; 'tis shrewdly ebb'd,
    To say you have seen a better.
  GENTLEMAN. Pardon, madam.
    The one I have almost forgot- your pardon;
    The other, when she has obtain'd your eye,
    Will have your tongue too. This is a creature,
    Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal
    Of all professors else, make proselytes
    Of who she but bid follow.  
  PAULINA. How! not women?
  GENTLEMAN. Women will love her that she is a woman
    More worth than any man; men, that she is
    The rarest of all women.
  LEONTES. Go, Cleomenes;
    Yourself, assisted with your honour'd friends,
    Bring them to our embracement.                        Exeunt
    Still, 'tis strange
    He thus should steal upon us.
  PAULINA. Had our prince,
    Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had pair'd
    Well with this lord; there was not full a month
    Between their births.
  LEONTES. Prithee no more; cease. Thou know'st
    He dies to me again when talk'd of. Sure,
    When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches
    Will bring me to consider that which may
    Unfurnish me of reason.

         Re-enter CLEOMENES, with FLORIZEL, PERDITA, and  
                            ATTENDANTS

    They are come.
    Your mother was most true to wedlock, Prince;
    For she did print your royal father off,
    Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one,
    Your father's image is so hit in you
    His very air, that I should call you brother,
    As I did him, and speak of something wildly
    By us perform'd before. Most dearly welcome!
    And your fair princess- goddess! O, alas!
    I lost a couple that 'twixt heaven and earth
    Might thus have stood begetting wonder as
    You, gracious couple, do. And then I lost-
    All mine own folly- the society,
    Amity too, of your brave father, whom,
    Though bearing misery, I desire my life
    Once more to look on him.
  FLORIZEL. By his command
    Have I here touch'd Sicilia, and from him  
    Give you all greetings that a king, at friend,
    Can send his brother; and, but infirmity,
    Which waits upon worn times, hath something seiz'd
    His wish'd ability, he had himself
    The lands and waters 'twixt your throne and his
    Measur'd, to look upon you; whom he loves,
    He bade me say so, more than all the sceptres
    And those that bear them living.
  LEONTES. O my brother-
    Good gentleman!- the wrongs I have done thee stir
    Afresh within me; and these thy offices,
    So rarely kind, are as interpreters
    Of my behind-hand slackness! Welcome hither,
    As is the spring to th' earth. And hath he too
    Expos'd this paragon to th' fearful usage,
    At least ungentle, of the dreadful Neptune,
    To greet a man not worth her pains, much less
    Th' adventure of her person?
  FLORIZEL. Good, my lord,
    She came from Libya.  
  LEONTES. Where the warlike Smalus,
    That noble honour'd lord, is fear'd and lov'd?
  FLORIZEL. Most royal sir, from thence; from him whose daughter
    His tears proclaim'd his, parting with her; thence,
    A prosperous south-wind friendly, we have cross'd,
    To execute the charge my father gave me
    For visiting your Highness. My best train
    I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss'd;
    Who for Bohemia bend, to signify
    Not only my success in Libya, sir,
    But my arrival and my wife's in safety
    Here where we are.
  LEONTES. The blessed gods
    Purge all infection from our air whilst you
    Do climate here! You have a holy father,
    A graceful gentleman, against whose person,
    So sacred as it is, I have done sin,
    For which the heavens, taking angry note,
    Have left me issueless; and your father's blest,
    As he from heaven merits it, with you,  
    Worthy his goodness. What might I have been,
    Might I a son and daughter now have look'd on,
    Such goodly things as you!

                      Enter a LORD

  LORD. Most noble sir,
    That which I shall report will bear no credit,
    Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir,
    Bohemia greets you from himself by me;
    Desires you to attach his son, who has-
    His dignity and duty both cast off-
    Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with
    A shepherd's daughter.
  LEONTES. Where's Bohemia? Speak.
  LORD. Here in your city; I now came from him.
    I speak amazedly; and it becomes
    My marvel and my message. To your court
    Whiles he was hast'ning- in the chase, it seems,
    Of this fair couple- meets he on the way  
    The father of this seeming lady and
    Her brother, having both their country quitted
    With this young prince.
  FLORIZEL. Camillo has betray'd me;
    Whose honour and whose honesty till now
    Endur'd all weathers.
  LORD. Lay't so to his charge;
    He's with the King your father.
  LEONTES. Who? Camillo?
  LORD. Camillo, sir; I spake with him; who now
    Has these poor men in question. Never saw I
    Wretches so quake. They kneel, they kiss the earth;
    Forswear themselves as often as they speak.
    Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them
    With divers deaths in death.
  PERDITA. O my poor father!
    The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have
    Our contract celebrated.
  LEONTES. You are married?
  FLORIZEL. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be;  
    The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first.
    The odds for high and low's alike.
  LEONTES. My lord,
    Is this the daughter of a king?
  FLORIZEL. She is,
    When once she is my wife.
  LEONTES. That 'once,' I see by your good father's speed,
    Will come on very slowly. I am sorry,
    Most sorry, you have broken from his liking
    Where you were tied in duty; and as sorry
    Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty,
    That you might well enjoy her.
  FLORIZEL. Dear, look up.
    Though Fortune, visible an enemy,
    Should chase us with my father, pow'r no jot
    Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir,
    Remember since you ow'd no more to time
    Than I do now. With thought of such affections,
    Step forth mine advocate; at your request
    My father will grant precious things as trifles.  
  LEONTES. Would he do so, I'd beg your precious mistress,
    Which he counts but a trifle.
  PAULINA. Sir, my liege,
    Your eye hath too much youth in't. Not a month
    Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes
    Than what you look on now.
  LEONTES. I thought of her
    Even in these looks I made.  [To FLORIZEL]  But your petition
    Is yet unanswer'd. I will to your father.
    Your honour not o'erthrown by your desires,
    I am friend to them and you. Upon which errand
    I now go toward him; therefore, follow me,
    And mark what way I make. Come, good my lord.         Exeunt




SCENE II.
Sicilia. Before the palace of LEONTES

Enter AUTOLYCUS and a GENTLEMAN

  AUTOLYCUS. Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?
  FIRST GENTLEMAN. I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the
    old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it; whereupon, after
    a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber;
    only this, methought I heard the shepherd say he found the child.
  AUTOLYCUS. I would most gladly know the issue of it.
  FIRST GENTLEMAN. I make a broken delivery of the business; but the
    changes I perceived in the King and Camillo were very notes of
    admiration. They seem'd almost, with staring on one another, to
    tear the cases of their eyes; there was speech in their dumbness,
    language in their very gesture; they look'd as they had heard of
    a world ransom'd, or one destroyed. A notable passion of wonder
    appeared in them; but the wisest beholder that knew no more but
    seeing could not say if th' importance were joy or sorrow- but in
    the extremity of the one it must needs be.

                    Enter another GENTLEMAN  

    Here comes a gentleman that happily knows more. The news, Rogero?
  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Nothing but bonfires. The oracle is fulfill'd:
    the King's daughter is found. Such a deal of wonder is broken out
    within this hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it.

                    Enter another GENTLEMAN

    Here comes the Lady Paulina's steward; he can deliver you more.
    How goes it now, sir? This news, which is call'd true, is so like
    an old tale that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the
    King found his heir?
  THIRD GENTLEMAN. Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by
    circumstance. That which you hear you'll swear you see, there is
    such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione's; her
    jewel about the neck of it; the letters of Antigonus found with
    it, which they know to be his character; the majesty of the
    creature in resemblance of the mother; the affection of nobleness
    which nature shows above her breeding; and many other evidences-
    proclaim her with all certainty to be the King's daughter. Did  
    you see the meeting of the two kings?
  SECOND GENTLEMAN. No.
  THIRD GENTLEMAN. Then you have lost a sight which was to be seen,
    cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown
    another, so and in such manner that it seem'd sorrow wept to take
    leave of them; for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up
    of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenance of such
    distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour.
    Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found
    daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries 'O, thy
    mother, thy mother!' then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces
    his son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter with clipping
    her. Now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a
    weather-bitten conduit of many kings' reigns. I never heard of
    such another encounter, which lames report to follow it and
    undoes description to do it.
  SECOND GENTLEMAN. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried
    hence the child?
  THIRD GENTLEMAN. Like an old tale still, which will have matter to
    rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear open: he was  
    torn to pieces with a bear. This avouches the shepherd's son, who
    has not only his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but
    a handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows.
  FIRST GENTLEMAN. What became of his bark and his followers?
  THIRD GENTLEMAN. Wreck'd the same instant of their master's death,
    and in the view of the shepherd; so that all the instruments
    which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was
    found. But, O, the noble combat that 'twixt joy and sorrow was
    fought in Paulina! She had one eye declin'd for the loss of her
    husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfill'd. She
    lifted the Princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing
    as if she would pin her to her heart, that she might no more be
    in danger of losing.
  FIRST GENTLEMAN. The dignity of this act was worth the audience of
    kings and princes; for by such was it acted.
  THIRD GENTLEMAN. One of the prettiest touches of all, and that
    which angl'd for mine eyes- caught the water, though not the
    fish- was, when at the relation of the Queen's death, with the
    manner how she came to't bravely confess'd and lamented by the
    King, how attentivenes wounded his daughter; till, from one sign  
    of dolour to another, she did with an 'Alas!'- I would fain say-
    bleed tears; for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most
    marble there changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed. If all
    the world could have seen't, the woe had been universal.
  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Are they returned to the court?
  THIRD GENTLEMAN. No. The Princess hearing of her mother's statue,
    which is in the keeping of Paulina- a piece many years in doing
    and now newly perform'd by that rare Italian master, Julio
    Romano, who, had he himself eternity and could put breath into
    his work, would beguile nature of her custom, so perfectly he is
    her ape. He so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say
    one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer- thither with
    all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend
    to sup.
  SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thought she had some great matter there in
    hand; for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since
    the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we
    thither, and with our company piece the rejoicing?
  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Who would be thence that has the benefit of
    access? Every wink of an eye some new grace will be born. Our  
    absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let's along.
                                                Exeunt GENTLEMEN
  AUTOLYCUS. Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would
    preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son
    aboard the Prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I
    know not what; but he at that time over-fond of the shepherd's
    daughter- so he then took her to be- who began to be much
    sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather
    continuing, this mystery remained undiscover'd. But 'tis all one
    to me; for had I been the finder-out of this secret, it would not
    have relish'd among my other discredits.

                    Enter SHEPHERD and CLOWN

    Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already
    appearing in the blossoms of their fortune.
  SHEPHERD. Come, boy; I am past moe children, but thy sons and
    daughters will be all gentlemen born.
  CLOWN. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this
    other day, because I was no gentleman born. See you these  
    clothes? Say you see them not and think me still no gentleman
    born. You were best say these robes are not gentlemen born. Give
    me the lie, do; and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.
  AUTOLYCUS. I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born.
  CLOWN. Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.
  SHEPHERD. And so have I, boy.
  CLOWN. So you have; but I was a gentleman born before my father;
    for the King's son took me by the hand and call'd me brother; and
    then the two kings call'd my father brother; and then the Prince,
    my brother, and the Princess, my sister, call'd my father father.
    And so we wept; and there was the first gentleman-like tears that
    ever we shed.
  SHEPHERD. We may live, son, to shed many more.
  CLOWN. Ay; or else 'twere hard luck, being in so preposterous
    estate as we are.
  AUTOLYCUS. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I
    have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report
    to the Prince my master.
  SHEPHERD. Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are
    gentlemen.  
  CLOWN. Thou wilt amend thy life?
  AUTOLYCUS. Ay, an it like your good worship.
  CLOWN. Give me thy hand. I will swear to the Prince thou art as
    honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia.
  SHEPHERD. You may say it, but not swear it.
  CLOWN. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins
    say it: I'll swear it.
  SHEPHERD. How if it be false, son?
  CLOWN. If it be ne'er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in
    the behalf of his friend. And I'll swear to the Prince thou art a
    tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I
    know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be
    drunk. But I'll swear it; and I would thou wouldst be a tall
    fellow of thy hands.
  AUTOLYCUS. I will prove so, sir, to my power.
  CLOWN. Ay, by any means, prove a tall fellow. If I do not wonder
    how thou dar'st venture to be drunk not being a tall fellow,
    trust me not. Hark! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are
    going to see the Queen's picture. Come, follow us; we'll be thy
    good masters.                                         Exeunt




SCENE III.
Sicilia. A chapel in PAULINA's house

Enter LEONTES, POLIXENES, FLORIZEL, PERDITA, CAMILLO, PAULINA,
LORDS and ATTENDANTS

  LEONTES. O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort
    That I have had of thee!
  PAULINA. What, sovereign sir,
    I did not well, I meant well. All my services
    You have paid home; but that you have vouchsaf'd,
    With your crown'd brother and these your contracted
    Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit,
    It is a surplus of your grace, which never
    My life may last to answer.
  LEONTES. O Paulina,
    We honour you with trouble; but we came
    To see the statue of our queen. Your gallery
    Have we pass'd through, not without much content
    In many singularities; but we saw not
    That which my daughter came to look upon,
    The statue of her mother.  
  PAULINA. As she liv'd peerless,
    So her dead likeness, I do well believe,
    Excels whatever yet you look'd upon
    Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it
    Lonely, apart. But here it is. Prepare
    To see the life as lively mock'd as ever
    Still sleep mock'd death. Behold; and say 'tis well.
                [PAULINA draws a curtain, and discovers HERMIONE
                                         standing like a statue]
    I like your silence; it the more shows off
    Your wonder; but yet speak. First, you, my liege.
    Comes it not something near?
  LEONTES. Her natural posture!
    Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed
    Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she
    In thy not chiding; for she was as tender
    As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina,
    Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing
    So aged as this seems.
  POLIXENES. O, not by much!  
  PAULINA. So much the more our carver's excellence,
    Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her
    As she liv'd now.
  LEONTES. As now she might have done,
    So much to my good comfort as it is
    Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood,
    Even with such life of majesty- warm life,
    As now it coldly stands- when first I woo'd her!
    I am asham'd. Does not the stone rebuke me
    For being more stone than it? O royal piece,
    There's magic in thy majesty, which has
    My evils conjur'd to remembrance, and
    From thy admiring daughter took the spirits,
    Standing like stone with thee!
  PERDITA. And give me leave,
    And do not say 'tis superstition that
    I kneel, and then implore her blessing. Lady,
    Dear queen, that ended when I but began,
    Give me that hand of yours to kiss.
  PAULINA. O, patience!  
    The statue is but newly fix'd, the colour's
    Not dry.
  CAMILLO. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on,
    Which sixteen winters cannot blow away,
    So many summers dry. Scarce any joy
    Did ever so long live; no sorrow
    But kill'd itself much sooner.
  POLIXENES. Dear my brother,
    Let him that was the cause of this have pow'r
    To take off so much grief from you as he
    Will piece up in himself.
  PAULINA. Indeed, my lord,
    If I had thought the sight of my poor image
    Would thus have wrought you- for the stone is mine-
    I'd not have show'd it.
  LEONTES. Do not draw the curtain.
  PAULINA. No longer shall you gaze on't, lest your fancy
    May think anon it moves.
  LEONTES. Let be, let be.
    Would I were dead, but that methinks already-  
    What was he that did make it? See, my lord,
    Would you not deem it breath'd, and that those veins
    Did verily bear blood?
  POLIXENES. Masterly done!
    The very life seems warm upon her lip.
  LEONTES. The fixture of her eye has motion in't,
    As we are mock'd with art.
  PAULINA. I'll draw the curtain.
    My lord's almost so far transported that
    He'll think anon it lives.
  LEONTES. O sweet Paulina,
    Make me to think so twenty years together!
    No settled senses of the world can match
    The pleasure of that madness. Let 't alone.
  PAULINA. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr'd you; but
    I could afflict you farther.
  LEONTES. Do, Paulina;
    For this affliction has a taste as sweet
    As any cordial comfort. Still, methinks,
    There is an air comes from her. What fine chisel  
    Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,
    For I will kiss her.
  PAULINA. Good my lord, forbear.
    The ruddiness upon her lip is wet;
    You'll mar it if you kiss it; stain your own
    With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?
  LEONTES. No, not these twenty years.
  PERDITA. So long could I
    Stand by, a looker-on.
  PAULINA. Either forbear,
    Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you
    For more amazement. If you can behold it,
    I'll make the statue move indeed, descend,
    And take you by the hand, but then you'll think-
    Which I protest against- I am assisted
    By wicked powers.
  LEONTES. What you can make her do
    I am content to look on; what to speak
    I am content to hear; for 'tis as easy
    To make her speak as move.  
  PAULINA. It is requir'd
    You do awake your faith. Then all stand still;
    Or those that think it is unlawful business
    I am about, let them depart.
  LEONTES. Proceed.
    No foot shall stir.
  PAULINA. Music, awake her: strike.                     [Music]
    'Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach;
    Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come;
    I'll fill your grave up. Stir; nay, come away.
    Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him
    Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs.
                         [HERMIONE comes down from the pedestal]
    Start not; her actions shall be holy as
    You hear my spell is lawful. Do not shun her
    Until you see her die again; for then
    You kill her double. Nay, present your hand.
    When she was young you woo'd her; now in age
    Is she become the suitor?
  LEONTES. O, she's warm!  
    If this be magic, let it be an art
    Lawful as eating.
  POLIXENES. She embraces him.
  CAMILLO. She hangs about his neck.
    If she pertain to life, let her speak too.
  POLIXENES. Ay, and make it manifest where she has liv'd,
    Or how stol'n from the dead.
  PAULINA. That she is living,
    Were it but told you, should be hooted at
    Like an old tale; but it appears she lives
    Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while.
    Please you to interpose, fair madam. Kneel,
    And pray your mother's blessing. Turn, good lady;
    Our Perdita is found.
  HERMIONE. You gods, look down,
    And from your sacred vials pour your graces
    Upon my daughter's head! Tell me, mine own,
    Where hast thou been preserv'd? Where liv'd? How found
    Thy father's court? For thou shalt hear that I,
    Knowing by Paulina that the oracle  
    Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv'd
    Myself to see the issue.
  PAULINA. There's time enough for that,
    Lest they desire upon this push to trouble
    Your joys with like relation. Go together,
    You precious winners all; your exultation
    Partake to every one. I, an old turtle,
    Will wing me to some wither'd bough, and there
    My mate, that's never to be found again,
    Lament till I am lost.
  LEONTES. O peace, Paulina!
    Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent,
    As I by thine a wife. This is a match,
    And made between's by vows. Thou hast found mine;
    But how, is to be question'd; for I saw her,
    As I thought, dead; and have, in vain, said many
    A prayer upon her grave. I'll not seek far-
    For him, I partly know his mind- to find thee
    An honourable husband. Come, Camillo,
    And take her by the hand whose worth and honesty  
    Is richly noted, and here justified
    By us, a pair of kings. Let's from this place.
    What! look upon my brother. Both your pardons,
    That e'er I put between your holy looks
    My ill suspicion. This your son-in-law,
    And son unto the King, whom heavens directing,
    Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina,
    Lead us from hence where we may leisurely
    Each one demand and answer to his part
    Perform'd in this wide gap of time since first
    We were dissever'd. Hastily lead away.                Exeunt

THE END



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1609

A LOVER'S COMPLAINT

by William Shakespeare



  From off a hill whose concave womb reworded
  A plaintful story from a sist'ring vale,
  My spirits t'attend this double voice accorded,
  And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale,
  Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
  Tearing of papers, breaking rings atwain,
  Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

  Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
  Which fortified her visage from the sun,
  Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
  The carcase of a beauty spent and done.
  Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
  Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven's fell rage
  Some beauty peeped through lattice of seared age.

  Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
  Which on it had conceited characters,
  Laund'ring the silken figures in the brine
  That seasoned woe had pelleted in tears,
  And often reading what contents it bears;  
  As often shrieking undistinguished woe,
  In clamours of all size, both high and low.

  Sometimes her levelled eyes their carriage ride,
  As they did batt'ry to the spheres intend;
  Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied
  To th' orbed earth; sometimes they do extend
  Their view right on; anon their gazes lend
  To every place at once, and nowhere fixed,
  The mind and sight distractedly commixed.

  Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat,
  Proclaimed in her a careless hand of pride;
  For some, untucked, descended her sheaved hat,
  Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;
  Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,
  And, true to bondage, would not break from thence,
  Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

  A thousand favours from a maund she drew  
  Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,
  Which one by one she in a river threw,
  Upon whose weeping margent she was set;
  Like usury applying wet to wet,
  Or monarchs' hands that lets not bounty fall
  Where want cries some, but where excess begs all.

  Of folded schedules had she many a one,
  Which she perused, sighed, tore, and gave the flood;
  Cracked many a ring of posied gold and bone,
  Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud;
  Found yet moe letters sadly penned in blood,
  With sleided silk feat and affectedly
  Enswathed and sealed to curious secrecy.

  These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes,
  And often kissed, and often 'gan to tear;
  Cried, 'O false blood, thou register of lies,
  What unapproved witness dost thou bear!
  Ink would have seemed more black and damned here!  
  This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,
  Big discontents so breaking their contents.

  A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh,
  Sometime a blusterer that the ruffle knew
  Of court, of city, and had let go by
  The swiftest hours observed as they flew,
  Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew;
  And, privileged by age, desires to know
  In brief the grounds and motives of her woe.

  So slides he down upon his grained bat,
  And comely distant sits he by her side;
  When he again desires her, being sat,
  Her grievance with his hearing to divide.
  If that from him there may be aught applied
  Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,
  'Tis promised in the charity of age.

  'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold  
  The injury of many a blasting hour,
  Let it not tell your judgement I am old:
  Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power.
  I might as yet have been a spreading flower,
  Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied
  Love to myself, and to no love beside.

  'But woe is me! too early I attended
  A youthful suit- it was to gain my grace-
  O, one by nature's outwards so commended
  That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face.
  Love lacked a dwelling and made him her place;
  And when in his fair parts she did abide,
  She was new lodged and newly deified.

  'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls;
  And every light occasion of the wind
  Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls.
  What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find:
  Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind;  
  For on his visage was in little drawn
  What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn.

  'Small show of man was yet upon his chin;
  His phoenix down began but to appear,
  Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin,
  Whose bare out-bragged the web it seemed to wear:
  Yet showed his visage by that cost more dear;
  And nice affections wavering stood in doubt
  If best were as it was, or best without.

  'His qualities were beauteous as his form,
  For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free;
  Yet if men moved him, was he such a storm
  As oft 'twixt May and April is to see,
  When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be.
  His rudeness so with his authorized youth
  Did livery falseness in a pride of truth.

  'Well could he ride, and often men would say,  
  "That horse his mettle from his rider takes:
  Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,
  What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!"
  And controversy hence a question takes
  Whether the horse by him became his deed,
  Or he his manage by th' well-doing steed.

  'But quickly on this side the verdict went:
  His real habitude gave life and grace
  To appertainings and to ornament,
  Accomplished in himself, not in his case,
  All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,
  Came for additions; yet their purposed trim
  Pierced not his grace, but were all graced by him.

  'So on the tip of his subduing tongue
  All kind of arguments and question deep,
  All replication prompt, and reason strong,
  For his advantage still did wake and sleep.
  To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,  
  He had the dialect and different skill,
  Catching all passions in his craft of will,

  'That he did in the general bosom reign
  Of young, of old, and sexes both enchanted,
  To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain
  In personal duty, following where he haunted.
  Consents bewitched, ere he desire, have granted,
  And dialogued for him what he would say,
  Asked their own wills, and made their wills obey.

  'Many there were that did his picture get,
  To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind;
  Like fools that in th' imagination set
  The goodly objects which abroad they find
  Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assigned;
  And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them
  Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them.

  'So many have, that never touched his hand,  
  Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart.
  My woeful self, that did in freedom stand,
  And was my own fee-simple, not in part,
  What with his art in youth, and youth in art,
  Threw my affections in his charmed power
  Reserved the stalk and gave him all my flower.

  'Yet did I not, as some my equals did,
  Demand of him, nor being desired yielded;
  Finding myself in honour so forbid,
  With safest distance I mine honour shielded.
  Experience for me many bulwarks builded
  Of proofs new-bleeding, which remained the foil
  Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.

  'But ah, who ever shunned by precedent
  The destined ill she must herself assay?
  Or forced examples, 'gainst her own content,
  To put the by-past perils in her way?
  Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay;  
  For when we rage, advice is often seen
  By blunting us to make our wills more keen.

  'Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood
  That we must curb it upon others' proof,
  To be forbod the sweets that seems so good
  For fear of harms that preach in our behoof.
  O appetite, from judgement stand aloof!
  The one a palate hath that needs will taste,
  Though Reason weep, and cry it is thy last.

  'For further I could say this man's untrue,
  And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling;
  Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew;
  Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling;
  Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling;
  Thought characters and words merely but art,
  And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.

  'And long upon these terms I held my city,  
  Till thus he 'gan besiege me: "Gentle maid,
  Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity,
  And be not of my holy vows afraid.
  That's to ye sworn to none was ever said;
  For feasts of love I have been called unto,
  Till now did ne'er invite nor never woo.

  '"All my offences that abroad you see
  Are errors of the blood, none of the mind;
  Love made them not; with acture they may be,
  Where neither party is nor true nor kind.
  They sought their shame that so their shame did find;
  And so much less of shame in me remains
  By how much of me their reproach contains.

  '"Among the many that mine eyes have seen,
  Not one whose flame my heart so much as warmed,
  Or my affection put to th' smallest teen,
  Or any of my leisures ever charmed.
  Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harmed;  
  Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,
  And reigned commanding in his monarchy.

  '"Look here what tributes wounded fancies sent me,
  Of paled pearls and rubies red as blood;
  Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me
  Of grief and blushes, aptly understood
  In bloodless white and the encrimsoned mood-
  Effects of terror and dear modesty,
  Encamped in hearts, but fighting outwardly.

  '"And, lo, behold these talents of their hair,
  With twisted metal amorously empleached,
  I have receiv'd from many a several fair,
  Their kind acceptance weepingly beseeched,
  With the annexions of fair gems enriched,
  And deep-brained sonnets that did amplify
  Each stone's dear nature, worth, and quality.

  '"The diamond? why, 'twas beautiful and hard,  
  Whereto his invised properties did tend;
  The deep-green em'rald, in whose fresh regard
  Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend;
  The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend
  With objects manifold; each several stone,
  With wit well blazoned, smiled, or made some moan.

  '"Lo, all these trophies of affections hot,
  Of pensived and subdued desires the tender,
  Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not,
  But yield them up where I myself must render-
  That is, to you, my origin and ender;
  For these, of force, must your oblations be,
  Since I their altar, you enpatron me.

  '"O then advance of yours that phraseless hand
  Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise;
  Take all these similes to your own command,
  Hallowed with sighs that burning lungs did raise;
  What me your minister for you obeys  
  Works under you; and to your audit comes
  Their distract parcels in combined sums.

  '"Lo, this device was sent me from a nun,
  Or sister sanctified, of holiest note,
  Which late her noble suit in court did shun,
  Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote;
  For she was sought by spirits of richest coat,
  But kept cold distance, and did thence remove
  To spend her living in eternal love.

  '"But, O my sweet, what labour is't to leave
  The thing we have not, mast'ring what not strives,
  Playing the place which did no form receive,
  Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves!
  She that her fame so to herself contrives,
  The scars of battle scapeth by the flight,
  And makes her absence valiant, not her might.

  '"O pardon me in that my boast is true!  
  The accident which brought me to her eye
  Upon the moment did her force subdue,
  And now she would the caged cloister fly.
  Religious love put out religion's eye.
  Not to be tempted, would she be immured,
  And now to tempt all liberty procured.

  '"How mighty then you are, O hear me tell!
  The broken bosoms that to me belong
  Have emptied all their fountains in my well,
  And mine I pour your ocean all among.
  I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong,
  Must for your victory us all congest,
  As compound love to physic your cold breast.

  '"My parts had pow'r to charm a sacred nun,
  Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace,
  Believed her eyes when they t'assail begun,
  All vows and consecrations giving place,
  O most potential love, vow, bond, nor space,  
  In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine,
  For thou art all, and all things else are thine.

  '"When thou impressest, what are precepts worth
  Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame,
  How coldly those impediments stand forth,
  Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame!
  Love's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense, 'gainst shame.
  And sweetens, in the suff'ring pangs it bears,
  The aloes of all forces, shocks and fears.

  '"Now all these hearts that do on mine depend,
  Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine,
  And supplicant their sighs to your extend,
  To leave the batt'ry that you make 'gainst mine,
  Lending soft audience to my sweet design,
  And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath,
  That shall prefer and undertake my troth."

  'This said, his wat'ry eyes he did dismount,  
  Whose sights till then were levelled on my face;
  Each cheek a river running from a fount
  With brinish current downward flowed apace.
  O, how the channel to the stream gave grace!
  Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses
  That flame through water which their hue encloses.

  'O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies
  In the small orb of one particular tear!
  But with the inundation of the eyes
  What rocky heart to water will not wear?
  What breast so cold that is not warmed here?
  O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath,
  Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.

  'For lo, his passion, but an art of craft,
  Even there resolved my reason into tears;
  There my white stole of chastity I daffed,
  Shook off my sober guards and civil fears;
  Appear to him as he to me appears,  
  All melting; though our drops this diff'rence bore:
  His poisoned me, and mine did him restore.

  'In him a plenitude of subtle matter,
  Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,
  Of burning blushes or of weeping water,
  Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,
  In either's aptness, as it best deceives,
  To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,
  Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows;

  'That not a heart which in his level came
  Could scape the hail of his all-hurting aim,
  Showing fair nature is both kind and tame;
  And, veiled in them, did win whom he would maim.
  Against the thing he sought he would exclaim;
  When he most burned in heart-wished luxury,
  He preached pure maid and praised cold chastity.

  'Thus merely with the garment of a Grace  
  The naked and concealed fiend he covered,
  That th' unexperient gave the tempter place,
  Which, like a cherubin, above them hovered.
  Who, young and simple, would not be so lovered?
  Ay me, I fell, and yet do question make
  What I should do again for such a sake.

  'O, that infected moisture of his eye,
  O, that false fire which in his cheek so glowed,
  O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly,
  O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestowed,
  O, all that borrowed motion, seeming owed,
  Would yet again betray the fore-betrayed,
  And new pervert a reconciled maid.'

THE END



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



End of this Etext of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare



