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Project Gutenberg’s The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, by William Shakespeare

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Title: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

Author: William Shakespeare

Release Date: January 1994 [EBook #100]
Last Updated: August 6, 2020

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ***




The Complete Works of William Shakespeare



by William Shakespeare




      Contents



               THE SONNETS

               ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

               THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA

               AS YOU LIKE IT

               THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

               THE TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS

               CYMBELINE

               THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK

               THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH

               THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH

               THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH

               THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH

               THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

               THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

               KING HENRY THE EIGHTH

               KING JOHN

               THE TRAGEDY OF JULIUS CAESAR

               THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEAR

               LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST

               THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH

               MEASURE FOR MEASURE

               THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

               THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

               A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

               MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

               THE TRAGEDY OF OTHELLO, MOOR OF VENICE

               PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE

               KING RICHARD THE SECOND

               KING RICHARD THE THIRD

               THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET

               THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

               THE TEMPEST

               THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS

               THE TRAGEDY OF TITUS ANDRONICUS

               THE HISTORY OF TROILUS AND CRESSIDA

               TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

               THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

               THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN

               THE WINTER’S TALE

               A LOVER’S COMPLAINT

               THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM

               THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE

               THE RAPE OF LUCRECE

               VENUS AND ADONIS






THE SONNETS

                    1

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding:
  Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
  To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.


                    2

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv’d thy beauty’s use,
If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
  This were to be new made when thou art old,
  And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.


                    3

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother’s glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
  But if thou live remembered not to be,
  Die single and thine image dies with thee.


                    4

Unthrifty loveliness why dost thou spend,
Upon thy self thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free:
Then beauteous niggard why dost thou abuse,
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive,
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
  Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
  Which used lives th’ executor to be.


                    5

Those hours that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
Will play the tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there,
Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’er-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer’s distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
  But flowers distilled though they with winter meet,
  Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.


                    6

Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place,
With beauty’s treasure ere it be self-killed:
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That’s for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier be it ten for one,
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
  Be not self-willed for thou art much too fair,
  To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.


                    7

Lo in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty,
And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch with weary car,
Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,
The eyes (fore duteous) now converted are
From his low tract and look another way:
  So thou, thy self out-going in thy noon:
  Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.


                    8

Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,
Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear:
Mark how one string sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling sire, and child, and happy mother,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
  Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
  Sings this to thee, ‘Thou single wilt prove none’.


                    9

Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye,
That thou consum’st thy self in single life?
Ah, if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife,
The world will be thy widow and still weep,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep,
By children’s eyes, her husband’s shape in mind:
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it:
  No love toward others in that bosom sits
  That on himself such murd’rous shame commits.


                    10

For shame deny that thou bear’st love to any
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
But that thou none lov’st is most evident:
For thou art so possessed with murd’rous hate,
That ’gainst thy self thou stick’st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire:
O change thy thought, that I may change my mind,
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Be as thy presence is gracious and kind,
Or to thy self at least kind-hearted prove,
  Make thee another self for love of me,
  That beauty still may live in thine or thee.


                    11

As fast as thou shalt wane so fast thou grow’st,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest,
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st,
Thou mayst call thine, when thou from youth convertest,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase,
Without this folly, age, and cold decay,
If all were minded so, the times should cease,
And threescore year would make the world away:
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look whom she best endowed, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
  She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
  Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.


                    12

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


                    13

O that you were your self, but love you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live,
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination, then you were
Your self again after your self’s decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day
And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?
  O none but unthrifts, dear my love you know,
  You had a father, let your son say so.


                    14

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good, or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell;
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And constant stars in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thy self, to store thou wouldst convert:
  Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
  Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.


                    15

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment.
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment.
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky:
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory.
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay,
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
  And all in war with Time for love of you,
  As he takes from you, I engraft you new.


                    16

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time?
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair
Which this (Time’s pencil) or my pupil pen
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair
Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
  To give away your self, keeps your self still,
  And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.


                    17

Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say this poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.
So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage,
And stretched metre of an antique song.
  But were some child of yours alive that time,
  You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.


                    18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
  So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
  So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


                    19

Devouring Time blunt thou the lion’s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood,
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix, in her blood,
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet’st,
And do whate’er thou wilt swift-footed Time
To the wide world and all her fading sweets:
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime,
O carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen,
Him in thy course untainted do allow,
For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.
  Yet do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
  My love shall in my verse ever live young.


                    20

A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted,
Hast thou the master mistress of my passion,
A woman’s gentle heart but not acquainted
With shifting change as is false women’s fashion,
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling:
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth,
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created,
Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
  But since she pricked thee out for women’s pleasure,
  Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.


                    21

So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven it self for ornament doth use,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems:
With April’s first-born flowers and all things rare,
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O let me true in love but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair,
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven’s air:
  Let them say more that like of hearsay well,
  I will not praise that purpose not to sell.


                    22

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date,
But when in thee time’s furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me,
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O therefore love be of thyself so wary,
As I not for my self, but for thee will,
Bearing thy heart which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
  Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,
  Thou gav’st me thine not to give back again.


                    23

As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
So I for fear of trust, forget to say,
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharged with burthen of mine own love’s might:
O let my looks be then the eloquence,
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
  O learn to read what silent love hath writ,
  To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.


                    24

Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled,
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart,
My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,
And perspective it is best painter’s art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes:
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
  Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
  They draw but what they see, know not the heart.


                    25

Let those who are in favour with their stars,
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars
Unlooked for joy in that I honour most;
Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled:
  Then happy I that love and am beloved
  Where I may not remove nor be removed.


                    26

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit;
To thee I send this written embassage
To witness duty, not to show my wit.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it;
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul’s thought (all naked) will bestow it:
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tattered loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect,
  Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee,
  Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.


                    27

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose for limbs with travel tired,
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired.
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see.
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which like a jewel (hung in ghastly night)
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
  Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
  For thee, and for my self, no quiet find.


                    28

How can I then return in happy plight
That am debarred the benefit of rest?
When day’s oppression is not eased by night,
But day by night and night by day oppressed.
And each (though enemies to either’s reign)
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexioned night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild’st the even.
  But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
  And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger


                    29

When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon my self and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least,
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate,
  For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.


                    30

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
Then can I drown an eye (unused to flow)
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancelled woe,
And moan th’ expense of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
  But if the while I think on thee (dear friend)
  All losses are restored, and sorrows end.


                    31

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
And there reigns love and all love’s loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear,
But things removed that hidden in thee lie.
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many, now is thine alone.
  Their images I loved, I view in thee,
  And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.


                    32

If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover:
Compare them with the bett’ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought,
’Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought
To march in ranks of better equipage:
  But since he died and poets better prove,
  Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love’.


                    33

Full many a glorious morning have I seen,
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green;
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy:
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride,
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow,
But out alack, he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
  Yet him for this, my love no whit disdaineth,
  Suns of the world may stain, when heaven’s sun staineth.


                    34

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy brav’ry in their rotten smoke?
’Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief,
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss,
Th’ offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence’s cross.
  Ah but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
  And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.


                    35

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done,
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
My self corrupting salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate,
And ’gainst my self a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
  That I an accessary needs must be,
  To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.


                    36

Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love’s sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
  But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
  As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.


                    37

As a decrepit father takes delight,
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortune’s dearest spite
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more
Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give,
That I in thy abundance am sufficed,
And by a part of all thy glory live:
  Look what is best, that best I wish in thee,
  This wish I have, then ten times happy me.


                    38

How can my muse want subject to invent
While thou dost breathe that pour’st into my verse,
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent,
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O give thy self the thanks if aught in me,
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate,
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
  If my slight muse do please these curious days,
  The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.


                    39

O how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring:
And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give:
That due to thee which thou deserv’st alone:
O absence what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive.
  And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
  By praising him here who doth hence remain.


                    40

Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all,
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call,
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more:
Then if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest,
But yet be blamed, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thy self refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery gentle thief
Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear greater wrong, than hate’s known injury.
  Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
  Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.


                    41

Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed.
And when a woman woos, what woman’s son,
Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed?
Ay me, but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,
And chide thy beauty, and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:
  Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
  Thine by thy beauty being false to me.


                    42

That thou hast her it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly,
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye,
Thou dost love her, because thou know’st I love her,
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suff’ring my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love’s gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss,
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross,
  But here’s the joy, my friend and I are one,
  Sweet flattery, then she loves but me alone.


                    43

When most I wink then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected,
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou whose shadow shadows doth make bright
How would thy shadow’s form, form happy show,
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would (I say) mine eyes be blessed made,
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade,
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
  All days are nights to see till I see thee,
  And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.


                    44

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way,
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay,
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee,
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But ah, thought kills me that I am not thought
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend, time’s leisure with my moan.
  Receiving nought by elements so slow,
  But heavy tears, badges of either’s woe.


                    45

The other two, slight air, and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide,
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life being made of four, with two alone,
Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy.
Until life’s composition be recured,
By those swift messengers returned from thee,
Who even but now come back again assured,
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me.
  This told, I joy, but then no longer glad,
  I send them back again and straight grow sad.


                    46

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
How to divide the conquest of thy sight,
Mine eye, my heart thy picture’s sight would bar,
My heart, mine eye the freedom of that right,
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,
(A closet never pierced with crystal eyes)
But the defendant doth that plea deny,
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To side this title is impanelled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart,
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye’s moiety, and the dear heart’s part.
  As thus, mine eye’s due is thy outward part,
  And my heart’s right, thy inward love of heart.


                    47

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other,
When that mine eye is famished for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother;
With my love’s picture then my eye doth feast,
And to the painted banquet bids my heart:
Another time mine eye is my heart’s guest,
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part.
So either by thy picture or my love,
Thy self away, art present still with me,
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee.
  Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
  Awakes my heart, to heart’s and eye’s delight.


                    48

How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not locked up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part,
  And even thence thou wilt be stol’n I fear,
  For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.


                    49

Against that time (if ever that time come)
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Called to that audit by advised respects,
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye,
When love converted from the thing it was
Shall reasons find of settled gravity;
Against that time do I ensconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand, against my self uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part,
  To leave poor me, thou hast the strength of laws,
  Since why to love, I can allege no cause.


                    50

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek (my weary travel’s end)
Doth teach that case and that repose to say
’Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend.’
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side,
  For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
  My grief lies onward and my joy behind.


                    51

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence,
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed,
From where thou art, why should I haste me thence?
Till I return of posting is no need.
O what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur though mounted on the wind,
In winged speed no motion shall I know,
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace,
Therefore desire (of perfect’st love being made)
Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race,
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,
  Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,
  Towards thee I’ll run, and give him leave to go.


                    52

So am I as the rich whose blessed key,
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since seldom coming in that long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you as my chest
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special-blest,
By new unfolding his imprisoned pride.
  Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,
  Being had to triumph, being lacked to hope.


                    53

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one, hath every one, one shade,
And you but one, can every shadow lend:
Describe Adonis and the counterfeit,
Is poorly imitated after you,
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every blessed shape we know.
  In all external grace you have some part,
  But you like none, none you for constant heart.


                    54

O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live:
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye,
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly,
When summer’s breath their masked buds discloses:
But for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwooed, and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so,
Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made:
  And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
  When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.


                    55

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn:
The living record of your memory.
’Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth, your praise shall still find room,
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
  So till the judgment that your self arise,
  You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.


                    56

Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allayed,
To-morrow sharpened in his former might.
So love be thou, although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness:
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new,
Come daily to the banks, that when they see:
Return of love, more blest may be the view.
  Or call it winter, which being full of care,
  Makes summer’s welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.


                    57

Being your slave what should I do but tend,
Upon the hours, and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend;
Nor services to do till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought,
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But like a sad slave stay and think of nought
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
  So true a fool is love, that in your will,
  (Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill.


                    58

That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand th’ account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
O let me suffer (being at your beck)
Th’ imprisoned absence of your liberty,
And patience tame to sufferance bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong,
That you your self may privilage your time
To what you will, to you it doth belong,
Your self to pardon of self-doing crime.
  I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
  Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.


                    59

If there be nothing new, but that which is,
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
Which labouring for invention bear amis
The second burthen of a former child!
O that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done.
That I might see what the old world could say,
To this composed wonder of your frame,
Whether we are mended, or whether better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
  O sure I am the wits of former days,
  To subjects worse have given admiring praise.


                    60

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
  And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
  Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.


                    61

Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenure of thy jealousy?
O no, thy love though much, is not so great,
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake,
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake.
  For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
  From me far off, with others all too near.


                    62

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account,
And for my self mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me my self indeed
beated and chopt with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read:
Self, so self-loving were iniquity.
  ’Tis thee (my self) that for my self I praise,
  Painting my age with beauty of thy days.


                    63

Against my love shall be as I am now
With Time’s injurious hand crushed and o’erworn,
When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
With lines and wrinkles, when his youthful morn
Hath travelled on to age’s steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he’s king
Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring:
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age’s cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life.
  His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
  And they shall live, and he in them still green.


                    64

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age,
When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage.
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store.
When I have seen such interchange of State,
Or state it self confounded, to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
  This thought is as a death which cannot choose
  But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.


                    65

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o’ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O how shall summer’s honey breath hold out,
Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?
O fearful meditation, where alack,
Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
  O none, unless this miracle have might,
  That in black ink my love may still shine bright.


                    66

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


                    67

Ah wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace it self with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeming of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek,
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,
Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins,
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains?
  O him she stores, to show what wealth she had,
  In days long since, before these last so bad.


                    68

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow:
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head,
Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, it self and true,
Making no summer of another’s green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new,
  And him as for a map doth Nature store,
  To show false Art what beauty was of yore.


                    69

Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view,
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend:
All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned,
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that in guess they measure by thy deeds,
Then churls their thoughts (although their eyes were kind)
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
  But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
  The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.


                    70

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair,
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve,
Thy worth the greater being wooed of time,
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present’st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days,
Either not assailed, or victor being charged,
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarged,
  If some suspect of ill masked not thy show,
  Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.


                    71

No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay if you read this line, remember not,
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if (I say) you look upon this verse,
When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay.
  Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
  And mock you with me after I am gone.


                    72

O lest the world should task you to recite,
What merit lived in me that you should love
After my death (dear love) forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove.
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I,
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me, nor you.
  For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
  And so should you, to love things nothing worth.


                    73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
  This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
  To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.


                    74

But be contented when that fell arrest,
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review,
The very part was consecrate to thee,
The earth can have but earth, which is his due,
My spirit is thine the better part of me,
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead,
The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered,
  The worth of that, is that which it contains,
  And that is this, and this with thee remains.


                    75

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As ’twixt a miser and his wealth is found.
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure,
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by and by clean starved for a look,
Possessing or pursuing no delight
Save what is had, or must from you be took.
  Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
  Or gluttoning on all, or all away.


                    76

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


                    77

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste,
These vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear,
And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show,
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory,
Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst know,
Time’s thievish progress to eternity.
Look what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
  These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
  Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book.


                    78

So oft have I invoked thee for my muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse,
As every alien pen hath got my use,
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing,
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned’s wing,
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee,
In others’ works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be.
  But thou art all my art, and dost advance
  As high as learning, my rude ignorance.


                    79

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decayed,
And my sick muse doth give an other place.
I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again,
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word,
From thy behaviour, beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek: he can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.
  Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
  Since what he owes thee, thou thy self dost pay.


                    80

O how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
But since your worth (wide as the ocean is)
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark (inferior far to his)
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride,
Or (being wrecked) I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride.
  Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
  The worst was this, my love was my decay.


                    81

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I (once gone) to all the world must die,
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie,
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read,
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead,
  You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen)
  Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.


                    82

I grant thou wert not married to my muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew,
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
And do so love, yet when they have devised,
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized,
In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend.
  And their gross painting might be better used,
  Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused.


                    83

I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set,
I found (or thought I found) you did exceed,
That barren tender of a poet’s debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you your self being extant well might show,
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb,
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
  There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
  Than both your poets can in praise devise.


                    84

Who is it that says most, which can say more,
Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you?
In whose confine immured is the store,
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his subject lends not some small glory,
But he that writes of you, if he can tell,
That you are you, so dignifies his story.
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
  You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
  Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.


                    85

My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words,
And like unlettered clerk still cry Amen,
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polished form of well refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ’tis so, ’tis true,
And to the most of praise add something more,
But that is in my thought, whose love to you
(Though words come hindmost) holds his rank before,
  Then others, for the breath of words respect,
  Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.


                    86

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of (all too precious) you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write,
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast,
I was not sick of any fear from thence.
  But when your countenance filled up his line,
  Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.


                    87

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate,
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing:
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thy self thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking,
So thy great gift upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
  Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,
  In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.


                    88

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side, against my self I’ll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn:
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted:
That thou in losing me, shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too,
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to my self I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
  Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
  That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong.


                    89

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence,
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt:
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not (love) disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I’ll my self disgrace, knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange:
Be absent from thy walks and in my tongue,
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I (too much profane) should do it wronk:
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
  For thee, against my self I’ll vow debate,
  For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate.


                    90

Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now,
Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah do not, when my heart hath ’scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe,
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come, so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might.
  And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
  Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.


                    91

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force,
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill:
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse.
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest,
But these particulars are not my measure,
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ costs,
Of more delight than hawks and horses be:
And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast.
  Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take,
  All this away, and me most wretchcd make.


                    92

But do thy worst to steal thy self away,
For term of life thou art assured mine,
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end,
I see, a better state to me belongs
Than that, which on thy humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie,
O what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
  But what’s so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
  Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.


                    93

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband, so love’s face,
May still seem love to me, though altered new:
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change,
In many’s looks, the false heart’s history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange.
But heaven in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell,
Whate’er thy thoughts, or thy heart’s workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.
  How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow,
  If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.


                    94

They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
That do not do the thing, they most do show,
Who moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow:
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces,
And husband nature’s riches from expense,
Tibey are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence:
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to it self, it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
  For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds,
  Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.


                    95

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame,
Which like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
(Making lascivious comments on thy sport)
Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise,
Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.
O what a mansion have those vices got,
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turns to fair, that eyes can see!
  Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege,
  The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.


                    96

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness,
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport,
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less:
Thou mak’st faults graces, that to thee resort:
As on the finger of a throned queen,
The basest jewel will be well esteemed:
So are those errors that in thee are seen,
To truths translated, and for true things deemed.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
  But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
  As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.


                    97

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer’s time,
The teeming autumn big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit,
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute.
  Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer,
  That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.


                    98

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April (dressed in all his trim)
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing:
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell:
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose,
They were but sweet, but figures of delight:
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
  Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
  As with your shadow I with these did play.


                    99

The forward violet thus did I chide,
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft check for complexion dwells,
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair,
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair:
A third nor red, nor white, had stol’n of both,
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath,
But for his theft in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
  More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
  But sweet, or colour it had stol’n from thee.


                    100

Where art thou Muse that thou forget’st so long,
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,
In gentle numbers time so idly spent,
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey,
If time have any wrinkle graven there,
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make time’s spoils despised everywhere.
  Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
  So thou prevent’st his scythe, and crooked knife.


                    101

O truant Muse what shall be thy amends,
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends:
So dost thou too, and therein dignified:
Make answer Muse, wilt thou not haply say,
’Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed,
Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay:
But best is best, if never intermixed’?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for’t lies in thee,
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb:
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
  Then do thy office Muse, I teach thee how,
  To make him seem long hence, as he shows now.


                    102

My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming,
I love not less, though less the show appear,
That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming,
The owner’s tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
  Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue:
  Because I would not dull you with my song.


                    103

Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass and there appears a face,
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.
  And more, much more than in my verse can sit,
  Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.


                    104

To me fair friend you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still: three winters cold,
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned,
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green.
Ah yet doth beauty like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived,
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived.
  For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred,
  Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.


                    105

Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence,
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words,
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
  Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.
  Which three till now, never kept seat in one.


                    106

When in the chronicle of wasted time,
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed,
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring,
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
  For we which now behold these present days,
  Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.


                    107

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul,
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage,
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since spite of him I’ll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes.
  And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
  When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.


                    108

What’s in the brain that ink may character,
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit,
What’s new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing sweet boy, but yet like prayers divine,
I must each day say o’er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love’s fresh case,
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
  Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
  Where time and outward form would show it dead.


                    109

O never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify,
As easy might I from my self depart,
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love, if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that my self bring water for my stain,
Never believe though in my nature reigned,
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
  For nothing this wide universe I call,
  Save thou my rose, in it thou art my all.


                    110

Alas ’tis true, I have gone here and there,
And made my self a motley to the view,
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new.
Most true it is, that I have looked on truth
Askance and strangely: but by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays proved thee my best of love.
Now all is done, have what shall have no end,
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confined.
  Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
  Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.


                    111

O for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide,
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand:
Pity me then, and wish I were renewed,
Whilst like a willing patient I will drink,
Potions of eisel ’gainst my strong infection,
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance to correct correction.
  Pity me then dear friend, and I assure ye,
  Even that your pity is enough to cure me.


                    112

Your love and pity doth th’ impression fill,
Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow,
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all the world, and I must strive,
To know my shames and praises from your tongue,
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others’ voices, that my adder’s sense,
To critic and to flatterer stopped are:
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense.
  You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
  That all the world besides methinks are dead.


                    113

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
And that which governs me to go about,
Doth part his function, and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out:
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch,
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature,
The mountain, or the sea, the day, or night:
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
  Incapable of more, replete with you,
  My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.


                    114

Or whether doth my mind being crowned with you
Drink up the monarch’s plague this flattery?
Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchemy?
To make of monsters, and things indigest,
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best
As fast as objects to his beams assemble:
O ’tis the first, ’tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up,
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is ’greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup.
  If it be poisoned, ’tis the lesser sin,
  That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.


                    115

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer,
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why,
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer,
But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents
Creep in ’twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp’st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of alt’ring things:
Alas why fearing of time’s tyranny,
Might I not then say ‘Now I love you best,’
When I was certain o’er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
  Love is a babe, then might I not say so
  To give full growth to that which still doth grow.


                    116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments, love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come,
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:
  If this be error and upon me proved,
  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


                    117

Accuse me thus, that I have scanted all,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day,
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchased right,
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise, accumulate,
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your wakened hate:
  Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
  The constancy and virtue of your love.


                    118

Like as to make our appetite more keen
With eager compounds we our palate urge,
As to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge.
Even so being full of your ne’er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding;
And sick of welfare found a kind of meetness,
To be diseased ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love t’ anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured,
And brought to medicine a healthful state
Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured.
  But thence I learn and find the lesson true,
  Drugs poison him that so feil sick of you.


                    119

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears
Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw my self to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought it self so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O benefit of ill, now I find true
That better is, by evil still made better.
And ruined love when it is built anew
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
  So I return rebuked to my content,
  And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.


                    120

That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken
As I by yours, y’have passed a hell of time,
And I a tyrant have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O that our night of woe might have remembered
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me then tendered
The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits!
  But that your trespass now becomes a fee,
  Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.


                    121

’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
When not to be, receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed,
Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing.
For why should others’ false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses, reckon up their own,
I may be straight though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown
  Unless this general evil they maintain,
  All men are bad and in their badness reign.


                    122

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full charactered with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain
Beyond all date even to eternity.
Or at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist,
Till each to razed oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be missed:
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score,
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
  To keep an adjunct to remember thee
  Were to import forgetfulness in me.


                    123

No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change,
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange,
They are but dressings Of a former sight:
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire,
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire,
Than think that we before have heard them told:
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wond’ring at the present, nor the past,
For thy records, and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste:
  This I do vow and this shall ever be,
  I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.


                    124

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfathered,
As subject to time’s love or to time’s hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered.
No it was builded far from accident,
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto th’ inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-numbered hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.
  To this I witness call the fools of time,
  Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.


                    125

Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which proves more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more by paying too much rent
For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent?
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
  Hence, thou suborned informer, a true soul
  When most impeached, stands least in thy control.


                    126

O thou my lovely boy who in thy power,
Dost hold Time’s fickle glass his fickle hour:
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st,
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st.
If Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack)
As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her O thou minion of her pleasure,
She may detain, but not still keep her treasure!
  Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,
  And her quietus is to render thee.


                    127

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were it bore not beauty’s name:
But now is black beauty’s successive heir,
And beauty slandered with a bastard shame,
For since each hand hath put on nature’s power,
Fairing the foul with art’s false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem,
At such who not born fair no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem,
  Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,
  That every tongue says beauty should look so.


                    128

How oft when thou, my music, music play’st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,
At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand.
To be so tickled they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips,
  Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
  Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.


                    129

Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action, and till action, lust
Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad.
Mad in pursuit and in possession so,
Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme,
A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe,
Before a joy proposed behind a dream.
  All this the world well knows yet none knows well,
  To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.


                    130

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


                    131

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet in good faith some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err, I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to my self alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans but thinking on thy face,
One on another’s neck do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place.
  In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
  And thence this slander as I think proceeds.


                    132

Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the sober west
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
  Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
  And all they foul that thy complexion lack.


                    133

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me;
Is’t not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be?
Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engrossed,
Of him, my self, and thee I am forsaken,
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed:
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,
But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail,
Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard,
Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol.
  And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee,
  Perforce am thine and all that is in me.


                    134

So now I have confessed that he is thine,
And I my self am mortgaged to thy will,
My self I’ll forfeit, so that other mine,
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind,
He learned but surety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fist doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer that put’st forth all to use,
And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake,
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
  Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me,
  He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.


                    135

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus,
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store,
So thou being rich in will add to thy will
One will of mine to make thy large will more.
  Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill,
  Think all but one, and me in that one Will.


                    136

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,
And will thy soul knows is admitted there,
Thus far for love, my love-suit sweet fulfil.
Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one,
In things of great receipt with case we prove,
Among a number one is reckoned none.
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store’s account I one must be,
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold,
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee.
  Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
  And then thou lov’st me for my name is Will.


                    137

Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchored in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
  In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
  And to this false plague are they now transferred.


                    138

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue,
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told.
  Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
  And in our faults by lies we flattered be.


                    139

O call not me to justify the wrong,
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart,
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue,
Use power with power, and slay me not by art,
Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere; but in my sight,
Dear heart forbear to glance thine eye aside,
What need’st thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my o’erpressed defence can bide?
Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knows,
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
  Yet do not so, but since I am near slain,
  Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.


                    140

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain:
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express,
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit better it were,
Though not to love, yet love to tell me so,
As testy sick men when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know.
For if I should despair I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee,
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.
  That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
  Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.


                    141

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note,
But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine cars with thy tongue’s tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits, nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be:
  Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
  That she that makes me sin, awards me pain.


                    142

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving,
O but with mine, compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving,
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments,
And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov’st those,
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee,
Root pity in thy heart that when it grows,
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
  If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
  By self-example mayst thou be denied.


                    143

Lo as a careful huswife runs to catch,
One of her feathered creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay:
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent,
To follow that which flies before her face:
Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent;
So run’st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind,
But if thou catch thy hope turn back to me:
And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind.
  So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will,
  If thou turn back and my loud crying still.


                    144

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still,
The better angel is a man right fair:
The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.
To win me soon to hell my female evil,
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil:
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turned fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell,
But being both from me both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another’s hell.
  Yet this shall I ne’er know but live in doubt,
  Till my bad angel fire my good one out.


                    145

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make,
Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’,
To me that languished for her sake:
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet,
Was used in giving gentle doom:
And taught it thus anew to greet:
‘I hate’ she altered with an end,
That followed it as gentle day,
Doth follow night who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away.
  ‘I hate’, from hate away she threw,
  And saved my life saying ‘not you’.


                    146

Poor soul the centre of my sinful earth,
My sinful earth these rebel powers array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms inheritors of this excess
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end?
Then soul live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more,
  So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
  And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.


                    147

My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please:
My reason the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men’s are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
  For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
  Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.


                    148

O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight,
Or if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote,
Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no,
How can it? O how can love’s eye be true,
That is so vexed with watching and with tears?
No marvel then though I mistake my view,
The sun it self sees not, till heaven clears.
  O cunning love, with tears thou keep’st me blind,
  Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.


                    149

Canst thou O cruel, say I love thee not,
When I against my self with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee when I forgot
Am of my self, all-tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend,
On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon,
Nay if thou lour’st on me do I not spend
Revenge upon my self with present moan?
What merit do I in my self respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
  But love hate on for now I know thy mind,
  Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind.


                    150

O from what power hast thou this powerful might,
With insufficiency my heart to sway,
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds,
There is such strength and warrantise of skill,
That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state.
  If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
  More worthy I to be beloved of thee.


                    151

Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then gentle cheater urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.
For thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason,
My soul doth tell my body that he may,
Triumph in love, flesh stays no farther reason,
But rising at thy name doth point out thee,
As his triumphant prize, proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
  No want of conscience hold it that I call,
  Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.


                    152

In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing,
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing:
But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjured most,
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee:
And all my honest faith in thee is lost.
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness:
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,
And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see.
  For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured I,
  To swear against the truth so foul a be.


                    153

Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,
A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground:
Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love,
A dateless lively heat still to endure,
And grew a seeting bath which yet men prove,
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure:
But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast,
I sick withal the help of bath desired,
And thither hied a sad distempered guest.
  But found no cure, the bath for my help lies,
  Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress’ eyes.


                    154

The little Love-god lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep,
Came tripping by, but in her maiden hand,
The fairest votary took up that fire,
Which many legions of true hearts had warmed,
And so the general of hot desire,
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy,
For men discased, but I my mistress’ thrall,
  Came there for cure and this by that I prove,
  Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.


THE END



ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL



Contents

ACT I
Scene I. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.
Scene II. Paris. A room in the King’s palace.
Scene III. Rossillon. A Room in the Palace.


ACT II
Scene I. Paris. A room in the King’s palace.
Scene II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.
Scene III. Paris. The King’s palace.
Scene IV. Paris. The King’s palace.
Scene V. Another room in the same.


ACT III
Scene I. Florence. A room in the Duke’s palace.
Scene II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.
Scene III. Florence. Before the Duke’s palace.
Scene IV. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.
Scene V. Without the walls of Florence.
Scene VI. Camp before Florence.
Scene VII. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house.


ACT IV
Scene I. Without the Florentine camp.
Scene II. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house.
Scene III. The Florentine camp.
Scene IV. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house.
Scene V. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.


ACT V
Scene I. Marseilles. A street.
Scene II. Rossillon. The inner court of the Countess’s palace.
Scene III. The same. A room in the Countess’s palace.


 Dramatis Personæ

KING OF FRANCE.
THE DUKE OF FLORENCE.
BERTRAM, Count of Rossillon.
LAFEW, an old Lord.
PAROLLES, a follower of Bertram.
Several young French Lords, that serve with Bertram in the Florentine
War.
RYNALDO, servant to the Countess of Rossillon.
Clown, servant to the Countess of Rossillon.
A Page, servant to the Countess of Rossillon.
COUNTESS OF ROSSILLON, mother to Bertram.
HELENA, a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess.
An old WIDOW of Florence.
DIANA, daughter to the Widow.
VIOLENTA, neighbour and friend to the Widow.
MARIANA, neighbour and friend to the Widow.

Lords attending on the KING; Officers; Soldiers, &c., French and
Florentine.

SCENE: Partly in France, and partly in Tuscany.


ACT I

SCENE I. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.

 Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rossillon, Helena, and Lafew, all in
 black.

COUNTESS.
In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.

BERTRAM.
And I in going, madam, weep o’er my father’s death anew; but I must
attend his majesty’s command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in
subjection.

LAFEW.
You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you, sir, a father. He
that so generally is at all times good, must of necessity hold his
virtue to you, whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted,
rather than lack it where there is such abundance.

COUNTESS.
What hope is there of his majesty’s amendment?

LAFEW.
He hath abandon’d his physicians, madam; under whose practices he hath
persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the process
but only the losing of hope by time.

COUNTESS.
This young gentlewoman had a father—O that “had!”, how sad a passage
’tis!—whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretch’d
so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for
lack of work. Would for the king’s sake he were living! I think it
would be the death of the king’s disease.

LAFEW.
How called you the man you speak of, madam?

COUNTESS.
He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be
so: Gerard de Narbon.

LAFEW.
He was excellent indeed, madam; the king very lately spoke of him
admiringly, and mourningly; he was skilful enough to have liv’d still,
if knowledge could be set up against mortality.

BERTRAM.
What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?

LAFEW.
A fistula, my lord.

BERTRAM.
I heard not of it before.

LAFEW.
I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daughter of
Gerard de Narbon?

COUNTESS.
His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those
hopes of her good that her education promises her dispositions she
inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind
carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity, they are
virtues and traitors too. In her they are the better for their
simpleness; she derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness.

LAFEW.
Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.

COUNTESS.
’Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance
of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows
takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no
more, lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than to have.

HELENA.
I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.

LAFEW.
Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead; excessive grief the
enemy to the living.

COUNTESS.
If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.

BERTRAM.
Madam, I desire your holy wishes.

LAFEW.
How understand we that?

COUNTESS.
Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father
In manners, as in shape! Thy blood and virtue
Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness
Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,
Do wrong to none. Be able for thine enemy
Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend
Under thy own life’s key. Be check’d for silence,
But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more will,
That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down,
Fall on thy head! Farewell. My lord,
’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord,
Advise him.

LAFEW.
He cannot want the best
That shall attend his love.

COUNTESS.
Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.

 [_Exit Countess._]

BERTRAM.
The best wishes that can be forg’d in your thoughts be servants to you!
[_To Helena._] Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make
much of her.

LAFEW.
Farewell, pretty lady, you must hold the credit of your father.

 [_Exeunt Bertram and Lafew._]

HELENA.
O, were that all! I think not on my father,
And these great tears grace his remembrance more
Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
I have forgot him; my imagination
Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s.
I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. ’Twere all one
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me.
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
Th’ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. ’Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart’s table,—heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour.
But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here?

 Enter Parolles.

One that goes with him: I love him for his sake,
And yet I know him a notorious liar,
Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;
Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him
That they take place when virtue’s steely bones
Looks bleak i’ th’ cold wind: withal, full oft we see
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

PAROLLES.
Save you, fair queen!

HELENA.
And you, monarch!

PAROLLES.
No.

HELENA.
And no.

PAROLLES.
Are you meditating on virginity?

HELENA.
Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you; let me ask you a question.
Man is enemy to virginity; how may we barricado it against him?

PAROLLES.
Keep him out.

HELENA.
But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant, in the defence, yet
is weak. Unfold to us some warlike resistance.

PAROLLES.
There is none. Man setting down before you will undermine you and blow
you up.

HELENA.
Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers-up! Is there no
military policy how virgins might blow up men?

PAROLLES.
Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up; marry, in
blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your
city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve
virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase, and there was never
virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is
metal to make virgins. Virginity, by being once lost, may be ten times
found; by being ever kept, it is ever lost. ’Tis too cold a companion.
Away with it!

HELENA.
I will stand for’t a little, though therefore I die a virgin.

PAROLLES.
There’s little can be said in’t; ’tis against the rule of nature. To
speak on the part of virginity is to accuse your mothers; which is most
infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity
murders itself, and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified
limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds
mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so
dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish,
proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the
canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by’t. Out with’t! Within
the year it will make itself two, which is a goodly increase, and the
principal itself not much the worse. Away with it!

HELENA.
How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?

PAROLLES.
Let me see. Marry, ill, to like him that ne’er it likes. ’Tis a
commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less
worth. Off with’t while ’tis vendible; answer the time of request.
Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion, richly
suited, but unsuitable, just like the brooch and the toothpick, which
wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in
your cheek. And your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our
French wither’d pears; it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, ’tis a
wither’d pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet ’tis a wither’d pear.
Will you anything with it?

HELENA.
Not my virginity yet.
There shall your master have a thousand loves,
A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,
A phoenix, captain, and an enemy,
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear:
His humble ambition, proud humility,
His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,
His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world
Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms
That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he—
I know not what he shall. God send him well!
The court’s a learning-place; and he is one.

PAROLLES.
What one, i’ faith?

HELENA.
That I wish well. ’Tis pity—

PAROLLES.
What’s pity?

HELENA.
That wishing well had not a body in’t
Which might be felt, that we, the poorer born,
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,
Might with effects of them follow our friends,
And show what we alone must think, which never
Returns us thanks.

 Enter a Page.

PAGE.
Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.

 [_Exit Page._]

PAROLLES.
Little Helen, farewell. If I can remember thee, I will think of thee at
court.

HELENA.
Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.

PAROLLES.
Under Mars, I.

HELENA.
I especially think, under Mars.

PAROLLES.
Why under Mars?

HELENA.
The wars hath so kept you under, that you must needs be born under
Mars.

PAROLLES.
When he was predominant.

HELENA.
When he was retrograde, I think rather.

PAROLLES.
Why think you so?

HELENA.
You go so much backward when you fight.

PAROLLES.
That’s for advantage.

HELENA.
So is running away, when fear proposes the safety: but the composition
that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and
I like the wear well.

PAROLLES.
I am so full of business I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return
perfect courtier; in the which my instruction shall serve to naturalize
thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier’s counsel, and understand
what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine
unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away. Farewell. When
thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy
friends. Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee. So,
farewell.

 [_Exit._]

HELENA.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky
Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.
What power is it which mounts my love so high,
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
To join like likes, and kiss like native things.
Impossible be strange attempts to those
That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose
What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove
To show her merit that did miss her love?
The king’s disease,—my project may deceive me,
But my intents are fix’d, and will not leave me.

 [_Exit._]

SCENE II. Paris. A room in the King’s palace.

 Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters; Lords and
 others attending.

KING.
The Florentines and Senoys are by th’ ears;
Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
A braving war.

FIRST LORD.
So ’tis reported, sir.

KING.
Nay, ’tis most credible, we here receive it,
A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria,
With caution, that the Florentine will move us
For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend
Prejudicates the business, and would seem
To have us make denial.

FIRST LORD.
His love and wisdom,
Approv’d so to your majesty, may plead
For amplest credence.

KING.
He hath arm’d our answer,
And Florence is denied before he comes:
Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave
To stand on either part.

SECOND LORD.
It well may serve
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick
For breathing and exploit.

KING.
What’s he comes here?

 Enter Bertram, Lafew and Parolles.

FIRST LORD.
It is the Count Rossillon, my good lord,
Young Bertram.

KING.
Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face;
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,
Hath well compos’d thee. Thy father’s moral parts
Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

BERTRAM.
My thanks and duty are your majesty’s.

KING.
I would I had that corporal soundness now,
As when thy father and myself in friendship
First tried our soldiership. He did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the bravest. He lasted long,
But on us both did haggish age steal on,
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
To talk of your good father; in his youth
He had the wit which I can well observe
Today in our young lords; but they may jest
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted
Ere they can hide their levity in honour
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness
Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,
His equal had awak’d them, and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception bid him speak, and at this time
His tongue obey’d his hand. Who were below him
He us’d as creatures of another place,
And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks,
Making them proud of his humility,
In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times;
Which, followed well, would demonstrate them now
But goers backward.

BERTRAM.
His good remembrance, sir,
Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;
So in approof lives not his epitaph
As in your royal speech.

KING.
Would I were with him! He would always say,—
Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words
He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them
To grow there and to bear,—“Let me not live,”
This his good melancholy oft began
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
When it was out,—“Let me not live” quoth he,
“After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses
All but new things disdain; whose judgments are
Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions.” This he wish’d.
I, after him, do after him wish too,
Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,
I quickly were dissolved from my hive
To give some labourers room.

SECOND LORD.
You’re lov’d, sir;
They that least lend it you shall lack you first.

KING.
I fill a place, I know’t. How long is’t, Count,
Since the physician at your father’s died?
He was much fam’d.

BERTRAM.
Some six months since, my lord.

KING.
If he were living, I would try him yet;—
Lend me an arm;—the rest have worn me out
With several applications; nature and sickness
Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, Count;
My son’s no dearer.

BERTRAM.
Thank your majesty.

 [_Exeunt. Flourish._]

SCENE III. Rossillon. A Room in the Palace.

 Enter Countess, Steward and Clown.

COUNTESS.
I will now hear. What say you of this gentlewoman?

STEWARD.
Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found
in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty,
and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we
publish them.

COUNTESS.
What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah. The complaints I have
heard of you I do not all believe; ’tis my slowness that I do not; for
I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to
make such knaveries yours.

CLOWN.
’Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.

COUNTESS.
Well, sir.

CLOWN.
No, madam, ’tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are
damned; but if I may have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world,
Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.

COUNTESS.
Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

CLOWN.
I do beg your good will in this case.

COUNTESS.
In what case?

CLOWN.
In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no heritage, and I think I
shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue of my body; for
they say barnes are blessings.

COUNTESS.
Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.

CLOWN.
My poor body, madam, requires it; I am driven on by the flesh, and he
must needs go that the devil drives.

COUNTESS.
Is this all your worship’s reason?

CLOWN.
Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.

COUNTESS.
May the world know them?

CLOWN.
I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood
are; and indeed I do marry that I may repent.

COUNTESS.
Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

CLOWN.
I am out of friends, madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife’s
sake.

COUNTESS.
Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

CLOWN.
Y’are shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that
for me which I am a-weary of. He that ears my land spares my team, and
gives me leave to in the crop: if I be his cuckold, he’s my drudge. He
that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that
cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my
flesh and blood is my friend; ergo, he that kisses my wife is my
friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no
fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan and old Poysam the
papist, howsome’er their hearts are sever’d in religion, their heads
are both one; they may jowl horns together like any deer i’ the herd.

COUNTESS.
Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth’d and calumnious knave?

CLOWN.
A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:
   _For I the ballad will repeat,
   Which men full true shall find;
   Your marriage comes by destiny,
   Your cuckoo sings by kind._

COUNTESS.
Get you gone, sir; I’ll talk with you more anon.

STEWARD.
May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you; of her I am to
speak.

COUNTESS.
Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen I mean.

CLOWN.
[_Sings._]
_   Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
     Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
   Fond done, done fond,
      Was this King Priam’s joy?
   With that she sighed as she stood,
   With that she sighed as she stood,
      And gave this sentence then:
   Among nine bad if one be good,
   Among nine bad if one be good,
     There’s yet one good in ten._

COUNTESS.
What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.

CLOWN.
One good woman in ten, madam, which is a purifying o’ the song. Would
God would serve the world so all the year! We’d find no fault with the
tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth ’a! And we might
have a good woman born but or every blazing star, or at an earthquake,
’twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out ere he
pluck one.

COUNTESS.
You’ll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you!

CLOWN.
That man should be at woman’s command, and yet no hurt done! Though
honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the
surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going,
forsooth; the business is for Helen to come hither.

 [_Exit._]

COUNTESS.
Well, now.

STEWARD.
I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

COUNTESS.
Faith I do. Her father bequeath’d her to me, and she herself, without
other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds;
there is more owing her than is paid, and more shall be paid her than
she’ll demand.

STEWARD.
Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wish’d me; alone
she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears;
she thought, I dare vow for her, they touch’d not any stranger sense.
Her matter was, she loved your son. Fortune, she said, was no goddess,
that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god,
that would not extend his might only where qualities were level; Diana
no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surpris’d,
without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she
deliver’d in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e’er I heard virgin
exclaim in, which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal;
sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to
know it.

COUNTESS.
You have discharg’d this honestly; keep it to yourself; many
likelihoods inform’d me of this before, which hung so tottering in the
balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you leave me;
stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care. I will
speak with you further anon.

 [_Exit Steward._]

 Enter Helena.

Even so it was with me when I was young;
If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;
Our blood to us, this to our blood is born;
It is the show and seal of nature’s truth,
Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth.
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.
Her eye is sick on’t; I observe her now.

HELENA.
What is your pleasure, madam?

COUNTESS.
You know, Helen,
I am a mother to you.

HELENA.
Mine honourable mistress.

COUNTESS.
Nay, a mother.
Why not a mother? When I said a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent. What’s in mother,
That you start at it? I say I am your mother,
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were enwombed mine. ’Tis often seen
Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds
A native slip to us from foreign seeds.
You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan,
Yet I express to you a mother’s care.
God’s mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood
To say I am thy mother? What’s the matter,
That this distempered messenger of wet,
The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye?
—Why, that you are my daughter?

HELENA.
That I am not.

COUNTESS.
I say, I am your mother.

HELENA.
Pardon, madam;
The Count Rossillon cannot be my brother.
I am from humble, he from honoured name;
No note upon my parents, his all noble,
My master, my dear lord he is; and I
His servant live, and will his vassal die.
He must not be my brother.

COUNTESS.
Nor I your mother?

HELENA.
You are my mother, madam; would you were—
So that my lord your son were not my brother,—
Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers,
I care no more for than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister. Can’t no other,
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?

COUNTESS.
Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law.
God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother
So strive upon your pulse. What! pale again?
My fear hath catch’d your fondness; now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears’ head. Now to all sense ’tis gross
You love my son; invention is asham’d,
Against the proclamation of thy passion
To say thou dost not. Therefore tell me true;
But tell me then, ’tis so; for, look, thy cheeks
Confess it, t’one to th’other; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours,
That in their kind they speak it; only sin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected. Speak, is’t so?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew;
If it be not, forswear’t: howe’er, I charge thee,
As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.

HELENA.
Good madam, pardon me.

COUNTESS.
Do you love my son?

HELENA.
Your pardon, noble mistress.

COUNTESS.
Love you my son?

HELENA.
Do not you love him, madam?

COUNTESS.
Go not about; my love hath in’t a bond
Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, disclose
The state of your affection, for your passions
Have to the full appeach’d.

HELENA.
Then I confess,
Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,
That before you, and next unto high heaven,
I love your son.
My friends were poor, but honest; so’s my love.
Be not offended; for it hurts not him
That he is lov’d of me; I follow him not
By any token of presumptuous suit,
Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;
Yet never know how that desert should be.
I know I love in vain, strive against hope;
Yet in this captious and inteemable sieve
I still pour in the waters of my love
And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
The sun that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love,
For loving where you do; but if yourself,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,
Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love; O then, give pity
To her whose state is such that cannot choose
But lend and give where she is sure to lose;
That seeks not to find that her search implies,
But riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies!

COUNTESS.
Had you not lately an intent,—speak truly,—
To go to Paris?

HELENA.
Madam, I had.

COUNTESS.
Wherefore? tell true.

HELENA.
I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.
You know my father left me some prescriptions
Of rare and prov’d effects, such as his reading
And manifest experience had collected
For general sovereignty; and that he will’d me
In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them,
As notes whose faculties inclusive were
More than they were in note. Amongst the rest
There is a remedy, approv’d, set down,
To cure the desperate languishings whereof
The king is render’d lost.

COUNTESS.
This was your motive
For Paris, was it? Speak.

HELENA.
My lord your son made me to think of this;
Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,
Had from the conversation of my thoughts
Haply been absent then.

COUNTESS.
But think you, Helen,
If you should tender your supposed aid,
He would receive it? He and his physicians
Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him;
They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit
A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,
Embowell’d of their doctrine, have let off
The danger to itself?

HELENA.
There’s something in’t
More than my father’s skill, which was the great’st
Of his profession, that his good receipt
Shall for my legacy be sanctified
By th’ luckiest stars in heaven; and would your honour
But give me leave to try success, I’d venture
The well-lost life of mine on his grace’s cure.
By such a day, an hour.

COUNTESS.
Dost thou believe’t?

HELENA.
Ay, madam, knowingly.

COUNTESS.
Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,
Means and attendants, and my loving greetings
To those of mine in court. I’ll stay at home,
And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt.
Be gone tomorrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.

 [_Exeunt._]


ACT II.

SCENE I. Paris. A room in the King’s palace.

 Flourish. Enter the King with young Lords taking leave for the
 Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles and Attendants.

KING.
Farewell, young lords; these warlike principles
Do not throw from you; and you, my lords, farewell;
Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,
The gift doth stretch itself as ’tis receiv’d,
And is enough for both.

FIRST LORD.
’Tis our hope, sir,
After well-ent’red soldiers, to return
And find your grace in health.

KING.
No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart
Will not confess he owes the malady
That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords.
Whether I live or die, be you the sons
Of worthy Frenchmen; let higher Italy,—
Those bated that inherit but the fall
Of the last monarchy—see that you come
Not to woo honour, but to wed it, when
The bravest questant shrinks: find what you seek,
That fame may cry you loud. I say farewell.

SECOND LORD.
Health, at your bidding serve your majesty!

KING.
Those girls of Italy, take heed of them;
They say our French lack language to deny
If they demand; beware of being captives
Before you serve.

BOTH.
Our hearts receive your warnings.

KING.
Farewell.—Come hither to me.

 [_The King retires to a couch._]

FIRST LORD.
O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

PAROLLES.
’Tis not his fault; the spark.

SECOND LORD.
O, ’tis brave wars!

PAROLLES.
Most admirable! I have seen those wars.

BERTRAM.
I am commanded here, and kept a coil with,
“Too young”, and “the next year” and “’tis too early”.

PAROLLES.
An thy mind stand to’t, boy, steal away bravely.

BERTRAM.
I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,
Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,
Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn
But one to dance with. By heaven, I’ll steal away.

FIRST LORD.
There’s honour in the theft.

PAROLLES.
Commit it, count.

SECOND LORD.
I am your accessary; and so farewell.

BERTRAM.
I grow to you, and our parting is a tortur’d body.

FIRST LORD.
Farewell, captain.

SECOND LORD.
Sweet Monsieur Parolles!

PAROLLES.
Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a
word, good metals. You shall find in the regiment of the Spinii one
Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his
sinister cheek; it was this very sword entrench’d it. Say to him I
live; and observe his reports for me.

FIRST LORD.
We shall, noble captain.

PAROLLES.
Mars dote on you for his novices!

 [_Exeunt Lords._]

What will ye do?

BERTRAM.
Stay the king.

PAROLLES.
Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrain’d
yourself within the list of too cold an adieu. Be more expressive to
them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time; there do muster
true gait; eat, speak, and move, under the influence of the most
receiv’d star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be
followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.

BERTRAM.
And I will do so.

PAROLLES.
Worthy fellows, and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.

 [_Exeunt Bertram and Parolles._]

 Enter Lafew.

LAFEW.
Pardon, my lord [_kneeling_], for me and for my tidings.

KING.
I’ll fee thee to stand up.

LAFEW.
Then here’s a man stands that has brought his pardon.
I would you had kneel’d, my lord, to ask me mercy,
And that at my bidding you could so stand up.

KING.
I would I had; so I had broke thy pate,
And ask’d thee mercy for’t.

LAFEW.
Good faith, across;
But, my good lord, ’tis thus: will you be cur’d
Of your infirmity?

KING.
No.

LAFEW.
O, will you eat
No grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will
My noble grapes, and if my royal fox
Could reach them. I have seen a medicine
That’s able to breathe life into a stone,
Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary
With sprightly fire and motion; whose simple touch
Is powerful to araise King Pippen, nay,
To give great Charlemain a pen in’s hand
And write to her a love-line.

KING.
What ‘her’ is this?

LAFEW.
Why, doctor ‘she’! My lord, there’s one arriv’d,
If you will see her. Now, by my faith and honour,
If seriously I may convey my thoughts
In this my light deliverance, I have spoke
With one that in her sex, her years, profession,
Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz’d me more
Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her,
For that is her demand, and know her business?
That done, laugh well at me.

KING.
Now, good Lafew,
Bring in the admiration; that we with thee
May spend our wonder too, or take off thine
By wond’ring how thou took’st it.

LAFEW.
Nay, I’ll fit you,
And not be all day neither.

 [_Exit Lafew._]

KING.
Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.

 Enter Lafew with Helena.

LAFEW.
Nay, come your ways.

KING.
This haste hath wings indeed.

LAFEW.
Nay, come your ways.
This is his majesty, say your mind to him.
A traitor you do look like, but such traitors
His majesty seldom fears; I am Cressid’s uncle,
That dare leave two together. Fare you well.

 [_Exit._]

KING.
Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

HELENA.
Ay, my good lord.
Gerard de Narbon was my father,
In what he did profess, well found.

KING.
I knew him.

HELENA.
The rather will I spare my praises towards him.
Knowing him is enough. On his bed of death
Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one,
Which, as the dearest issue of his practice,
And of his old experience the only darling,
He bade me store up as a triple eye,
Safer than mine own two; more dear I have so,
And hearing your high majesty is touch’d
With that malignant cause, wherein the honour
Of my dear father’s gift stands chief in power,
I come to tender it, and my appliance,
With all bound humbleness.

KING.
We thank you, maiden,
But may not be so credulous of cure,
When our most learned doctors leave us, and
The congregated college have concluded
That labouring art can never ransom nature
From her inaidable estate. I say we must not
So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,
To prostitute our past-cure malady
To empirics, or to dissever so
Our great self and our credit, to esteem
A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.

HELENA.
My duty then shall pay me for my pains.
I will no more enforce mine office on you,
Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts
A modest one to bear me back again.

KING.
I cannot give thee less, to be call’d grateful.
Thou thought’st to help me; and such thanks I give
As one near death to those that wish him live.
But what at full I know, thou know’st no part;
I knowing all my peril, thou no art.

HELENA.
What I can do can do no hurt to try,
Since you set up your rest ’gainst remedy.
He that of greatest works is finisher
Oft does them by the weakest minister.
So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown,
When judges have been babes. Great floods have flown
From simple sources, and great seas have dried
When miracles have by the great’st been denied.
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises; and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.

KING.
I must not hear thee. Fare thee well, kind maid.
Thy pains, not us’d, must by thyself be paid;
Proffers, not took, reap thanks for their reward.

HELENA.
Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d.
It is not so with Him that all things knows
As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows;
But most it is presumption in us when
The help of heaven we count the act of men.
Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent;
Of heaven, not me, make an experiment.
I am not an impostor, that proclaim
Myself against the level of mine aim,
But know I think, and think I know most sure,
My art is not past power nor you past cure.

KING.
Art thou so confident? Within what space
Hop’st thou my cure?

HELENA.
The greatest grace lending grace.
Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring
Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring,
Ere twice in murk and occidental damp
Moist Hesperus hath quench’d her sleepy lamp;
Or four and twenty times the pilot’s glass
Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass;
What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly,
Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.

KING.
Upon thy certainty and confidence
What dar’st thou venture?

HELENA.
Tax of impudence,
A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame,
Traduc’d by odious ballads; my maiden’s name
Sear’d otherwise; ne worse of worst extended
With vildest torture, let my life be ended.

KING.
Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak
His powerful sound within an organ weak;
And what impossibility would slay
In common sense, sense saves another way.
Thy life is dear, for all that life can rate
Worth name of life in thee hath estimate:
Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all
That happiness and prime can happy call.
Thou this to hazard needs must intimate
Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate.
Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try,
That ministers thine own death if I die.

HELENA.
If I break time, or flinch in property
Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die,
And well deserv’d. Not helping, death’s my fee;
But if I help, what do you promise me?

KING.
Make thy demand.

HELENA.
But will you make it even?

KING.
Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven.

HELENA.
Then shalt thou give me, with thy kingly hand
What husband in thy power I will command:
Exempted be from me the arrogance
To choose from forth the royal blood of France,
My low and humble name to propagate
With any branch or image of thy state;
But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know
Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.

KING.
Here is my hand; the premises observ’d,
Thy will by my performance shall be serv’d;
So make the choice of thy own time, for I,
Thy resolv’d patient, on thee still rely.
More should I question thee, and more I must,
Though more to know could not be more to trust:
From whence thou cam’st, how tended on; but rest
Unquestion’d welcome, and undoubted bless’d.
Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed
As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.

 [_Flourish. Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.

 Enter Countess and Clown.

COUNTESS.
Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding.

CLOWN.
I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught. I know my business is
but to the court.

COUNTESS.
To the court! Why, what place make you special, when you put off that
with such contempt? But to the court!

CLOWN.
Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it
off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off’s cap, kiss his hand,
and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such
a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court; but for me, I have
an answer will serve all men.

COUNTESS.
Marry, that’s a bountiful answer that fits all questions.

CLOWN.
It is like a barber’s chair, that fits all buttocks—the pin-buttock,
the quatch-buttock, the brawn-buttock, or any buttock.

COUNTESS.
Will your answer serve fit to all questions?

CLOWN.
As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French
crown for your taffety punk, as Tib’s rush for Tom’s forefinger, as a
pancake for Shrove-Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his
hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding quean to a wrangling
knave, as the nun’s lip to the friar’s mouth; nay, as the pudding to
his skin.

COUNTESS.
Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all questions?

CLOWN.
From below your duke to beneath your constable, it will fit any
question.

COUNTESS.
It must be an answer of most monstrous size that must fit all demands.

CLOWN.
But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should speak truth
of it. Here it is, and all that belongs to’t. Ask me if I am a
courtier; it shall do you no harm to learn.

COUNTESS.
To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in question, hoping to
be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a courtier?

CLOWN.
O Lord, sir! There’s a simple putting off. More, more, a hundred of
them.

COUNTESS.
Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.

CLOWN.
O Lord, sir! Thick, thick; spare not me.

COUNTESS.
I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat.

CLOWN.
O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to’t, I warrant you.

COUNTESS.
You were lately whipp’d, sir, as I think.

CLOWN.
O Lord, sir! Spare not me.

COUNTESS.
Do you cry ‘O Lord, sir!’ at your whipping, and ‘spare not me’? Indeed
your ‘O Lord, sir!’ is very sequent to your whipping. You would answer
very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to’t.

CLOWN.
I ne’er had worse luck in my life in my ‘O Lord, sir!’ I see things may
serve long, but not serve ever.

COUNTESS.
I play the noble housewife with the time, to entertain it so merrily
with a fool.

CLOWN.
O Lord, sir! Why, there’t serves well again.

COUNTESS.
An end, sir! To your business. Give Helen this,
And urge her to a present answer back.
Commend me to my kinsmen and my son.
This is not much.

CLOWN.
Not much commendation to them?

COUNTESS.
Not much employment for you. You understand me?

CLOWN.
Most fruitfully. I am there before my legs.

COUNTESS.
Haste you again.

 [_Exeunt severally._]

SCENE III. Paris. The King’s palace.

 Enter Bertram, Lafew and Parolles.

LAFEW.
They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons to
make modern and familiar things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it
that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming
knowledge when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.

PAROLLES.
Why, ’tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our
latter times.

BERTRAM.
And so ’tis.

LAFEW.
To be relinquish’d of the artists,—

PAROLLES.
So I say; both of Galen and Paracelsus.

LAFEW.
Of all the learned and authentic fellows,—

PAROLLES.
Right; so I say.

LAFEW.
That gave him out incurable,—

PAROLLES.
Why, there ’tis; so say I too.

LAFEW.
Not to be helped.

PAROLLES.
Right; as ’twere a man assur’d of a—

LAFEW.
Uncertain life and sure death.

PAROLLES.
Just; you say well. So would I have said.

LAFEW.
I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.

PAROLLES.
It is indeed; if you will have it in showing, you shall read it in what
do you call there?

LAFEW.
A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.

PAROLLES.
That’s it; I would have said the very same.

LAFEW.
Why, your dolphin is not lustier; fore me, I speak in respect—

PAROLLES.
Nay, ’tis strange, ’tis very strange; that is the brief and the tedious
of it; and he’s of a most facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge
it to be the—

LAFEW.
Very hand of heaven.

PAROLLES.
Ay, so I say.

LAFEW.
In a most weak—

PAROLLES.
And debile minister, great power, great transcendence, which should
indeed give us a further use to be made than alone the recov’ry of the
king, as to be—

LAFEW.
Generally thankful.

PAROLLES.
I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.

 Enter King, Helena and Attendants.

LAFEW.
Lustique, as the Dutchman says. I’ll like a maid the better, whilst I
have a tooth in my head. Why, he’s able to lead her a coranto.

PAROLLES.
_Mor du vinager!_ is not this Helen?

LAFEW.
Fore God, I think so.

KING.
Go, call before me all the lords in court.

 [_Exit an Attendant._]

Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side,
And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense
Thou has repeal’d, a second time receive
The confirmation of my promis’d gift,
Which but attends thy naming.

 Enter several Lords.

Fair maid, send forth thine eye. This youthful parcel
Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,
O’er whom both sovereign power and father’s voice
I have to use. Thy frank election make;
Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.

HELENA.
To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress
Fall, when love please! Marry, to each but one!

LAFEW.
I’d give bay curtal and his furniture
My mouth no more were broken than these boys’,
And writ as little beard.

KING.
Peruse them well.
Not one of those but had a noble father.

 She addresses her to a Lord.

HELENA.
Gentlemen,
Heaven hath through me restor’d the king to health.

ALL.
We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

HELENA.
I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest
That I protest I simply am a maid.
Please it, your majesty, I have done already.
The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me:
“We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be refused,
Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever,
We’ll ne’er come there again.”

KING.
Make choice; and, see,
Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me.

HELENA.
Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,
And to imperial Love, that god most high,
Do my sighs stream. [_To first Lord._] Sir, will you hear my suit?

FIRST LORD.
And grant it.

HELENA.
Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

LAFEW.
I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my life.

HELENA.
[_To second Lord._] The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes,
Before I speak, too threat’ningly replies.
Love make your fortunes twenty times above
Her that so wishes, and her humble love!

SECOND LORD.
No better, if you please.

HELENA.
My wish receive,
Which great Love grant; and so I take my leave.

LAFEW.
Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine I’d have them whipp’d;
or I would send them to th’ Turk to make eunuchs of.

HELENA.
[_To third Lord._] Be not afraid that I your hand should take;
I’ll never do you wrong for your own sake.
Blessing upon your vows, and in your bed
Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!

LAFEW.
These boys are boys of ice, they’ll none have her. Sure, they are
bastards to the English; the French ne’er got ’em.

HELENA.
[_To fourth Lord._] You are too young, too happy, and too good,
To make yourself a son out of my blood.

FOURTH LORD.
Fair one, I think not so.

LAFEW.
There’s one grape yet. I am sure thy father drank wine. But if thou
beest not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen; I have known thee already.

HELENA.
[_To Bertram._] I dare not say I take you, but I give
Me and my service, ever whilst I live,
Into your guiding power. This is the man.

KING.
Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she’s thy wife.

BERTRAM.
My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness,
In such a business give me leave to use
The help of mine own eyes.

KING.
Know’st thou not, Bertram,
What she has done for me?

BERTRAM.
Yes, my good lord,
But never hope to know why I should marry her.

KING.
Thou know’st she has rais’d me from my sickly bed.

BERTRAM.
But follows it, my lord, to bring me down
Must answer for your raising? I know her well;
She had her breeding at my father’s charge:
A poor physician’s daughter my wife! Disdain
Rather corrupt me ever!

KING.
’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the which
I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods,
Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together,
Would quite confound distinction, yet stands off
In differences so mighty. If she be
All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik’st,
A poor physician’s daughter,—thou dislik’st—
Of virtue for the name. But do not so.
From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,
The place is dignified by the doer’s deed.
Where great additions swell’s, and virtue none,
It is a dropsied honour. Good alone
Is good without a name; vileness is so:
The property by what it is should go,
Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair;
In these to nature she’s immediate heir;
And these breed honour: that is honour’s scorn
Which challenges itself as honour’s born,
And is not like the sire. Honours thrive
When rather from our acts we them derive
Than our fore-goers. The mere word’s a slave,
Debauch’d on every tomb, on every grave
A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb
Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb
Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be said?
If thou canst like this creature as a maid,
I can create the rest. Virtue and she
Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.

BERTRAM.
I cannot love her, nor will strive to do ’t.

KING.
Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.

HELENA.
That you are well restor’d, my lord, I am glad.
Let the rest go.

KING.
My honour’s at the stake, which to defeat,
I must produce my power. Here, take her hand,
Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift,
That dost in vile misprision shackle up
My love and her desert; that canst not dream
We, poising us in her defective scale,
Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know
It is in us to plant thine honour where
We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt;
Obey our will, which travails in thy good;
Believe not thy disdain, but presently
Do thine own fortunes that obedient right
Which both thy duty owes and our power claims;
Or I will throw thee from my care for ever
Into the staggers and the careless lapse
Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate
Loosing upon thee in the name of justice,
Without all terms of pity. Speak! Thine answer!

BERTRAM.
Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit
My fancy to your eyes. When I consider
What great creation, and what dole of honour
Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late
Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now
The praised of the king; who, so ennobled,
Is as ’twere born so.

KING.
Take her by the hand,
And tell her she is thine; to whom I promise
A counterpoise; if not to thy estate,
A balance more replete.

BERTRAM.
I take her hand.

KING.
Good fortune and the favour of the king
Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony
Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief,
And be perform’d tonight. The solemn feast
Shall more attend upon the coming space,
Expecting absent friends. As thou lov’st her,
Thy love’s to me religious; else, does err.

 [_Exeunt King, Bertram, Helena, Lords, and Attendants._]

LAFEW.
Do you hear, monsieur? A word with you.

PAROLLES.
Your pleasure, sir.

LAFEW.
Your lord and master did well to make his recantation.

PAROLLES.
Recantation! My lord! My master!

LAFEW.
Ay. Is it not a language I speak?

PAROLLES.
A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding.
My master!

LAFEW.
Are you companion to the Count Rossillon?

PAROLLES.
To any count; to all counts; to what is man.

LAFEW.
To what is count’s man: count’s master is of another style.

PAROLLES.
You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.

LAFEW.
I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring
thee.

PAROLLES.
What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

LAFEW.
I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow; thou
didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass. Yet the scarfs
and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing
thee a vessel of too great a burden. I have now found thee; when I lose
thee again I care not. Yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and
that thou art scarce worth.

PAROLLES.
Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee—

LAFEW.
Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy trial;
which if—Lord have mercy on thee for a hen! So, my good window of
lattice, fare thee well; thy casement I need not open, for I look
through thee. Give me thy hand.

PAROLLES.
My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.

LAFEW.
Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.

PAROLLES.
I have not, my lord, deserv’d it.

LAFEW.
Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not bate thee a scruple.

PAROLLES.
Well, I shall be wiser.

LAFEW.
Ev’n as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o’ th’
contrary. If ever thou beest bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt
find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my
acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the
default, “He is a man I know.”

PAROLLES.
My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.

LAFEW.
I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal; for
doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me
leave.

 [_Exit._]

PAROLLES.
Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old,
filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of
authority. I’ll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any
convenience, an he were double and double a lord. I’ll have no more
pity of his age than I would have of—I’ll beat him, and if I could but
meet him again.

 Enter Lafew.

LAFEW.
Sirrah, your lord and master’s married; there’s news for you; you have
a new mistress.

PAROLLES.
I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make some reservation of
your wrongs. He is my good lord; whom I serve above is my master.

LAFEW.
Who? God?

PAROLLES.
Ay, sir.

LAFEW.
The devil it is that’s thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms o’
this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeves? Do other servants so? Thou
wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if
I were but two hours younger, I’d beat thee. Methink’st thou art a
general offence, and every man should beat thee. I think thou wast
created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.

PAROLLES.
This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.

LAFEW.
Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a
pomegranate; you are a vagabond, and no true traveller. You are more
saucy with lords and honourable personages than the commission of your
birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not worth another word,
else I’d call you knave. I leave you.

 [_Exit._]

 Enter Bertram.

PAROLLES.
Good, very good, it is so then. Good, very good; let it be conceal’d
awhile.

BERTRAM.
Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!

PAROLLES.
What’s the matter, sweetheart?

BERTRAM.
Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,
I will not bed her.

PAROLLES.
What, what, sweetheart?

BERTRAM.
O my Parolles, they have married me!
I’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

PAROLLES.
France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits
The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars!

BERTRAM.
There’s letters from my mother; what th’ import is
I know not yet.

PAROLLES.
Ay, that would be known. To th’ wars, my boy, to th’ wars!
He wears his honour in a box unseen
That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home,
Spending his manly marrow in her arms,
Which should sustain the bound and high curvet
Of Mars’s fiery steed. To other regions!
France is a stable; we that dwell in’t, jades,
Therefore, to th’ war!

BERTRAM.
It shall be so; I’ll send her to my house,
Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,
And wherefore I am fled; write to the king
That which I durst not speak. His present gift
Shall furnish me to those Italian fields
Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife
To the dark house and the detested wife.

PAROLLES.
Will this caprichio hold in thee, art sure?

BERTRAM.
Go with me to my chamber and advise me.
I’ll send her straight away. Tomorrow
I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.

PAROLLES.
Why, these balls bound; there’s noise in it. ’Tis hard:
A young man married is a man that’s marr’d.
Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go.
The king has done you wrong; but hush ’tis so.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. Paris. The King’s palace.

 Enter Helena and Clown.

HELENA.
My mother greets me kindly: is she well?

CLOWN.
She is not well, but yet she has her health; she’s very merry, but yet
she is not well. But thanks be given, she’s very well, and wants
nothing i’ the world; but yet she is not well.

HELENA.
If she be very well, what does she ail that she’s not very well?

CLOWN.
Truly, she’s very well indeed, but for two things.

HELENA.
What two things?

CLOWN.
One, that she’s not in heaven, whither God send her quickly! The other,
that she’s in earth, from whence God send her quickly!

 Enter Parolles.

PAROLLES.
Bless you, my fortunate lady!

HELENA.
I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine own good fortune.

PAROLLES.
You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them on, have them
still. O, my knave how does my old lady?

CLOWN.
So that you had her wrinkles and I her money, I would she did as you
say.

PAROLLES.
Why, I say nothing.

CLOWN.
Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man’s tongue shakes out his
master’s undoing. To say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and
to have nothing, is to be a great part of your title; which is within a
very little of nothing.

PAROLLES.
Away! Thou art a knave.

CLOWN.
You should have said, sir, before a knave thou art a knave; that is
before me thou art a knave. This had been truth, sir.

PAROLLES.
Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found thee.

CLOWN.
Did you find me in yourself, sir? or were you taught to find me? The
search, sir, was profitable; and much fool may you find in you, even to
the world’s pleasure and the increase of laughter.

PAROLLES.
A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed.
Madam, my lord will go away tonight;
A very serious business calls on him.
The great prerogative and right of love,
Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge;
But puts it off to a compell’d restraint;
Whose want, and whose delay, is strew’d with sweets;
Which they distil now in the curbed time,
To make the coming hour o’erflow with joy
And pleasure drown the brim.

HELENA.
What’s his will else?

PAROLLES.
That you will take your instant leave o’ the king,
And make this haste as your own good proceeding,
Strengthen’d with what apology you think
May make it probable need.

HELENA.
What more commands he?

PAROLLES.
That, having this obtain’d, you presently
Attend his further pleasure.

HELENA.
In everything I wait upon his will.

PAROLLES.
I shall report it so.

HELENA.
I pray you. Come, sirrah.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Another room in the same.

 Enter Lafew and Bertram.

LAFEW.
But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier.

BERTRAM.
Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.

LAFEW.
You have it from his own deliverance.

BERTRAM.
And by other warranted testimony.

LAFEW.
Then my dial goes not true; I took this lark for a bunting.

BERTRAM.
I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in knowledge, and
accordingly valiant.

LAFEW.
I have, then, sinned against his experience and transgressed against
his valour; and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find
in my heart to repent. Here he comes; I pray you make us friends; I
will pursue the amity

 Enter Parolles.

PAROLLES.
[_To Bertram._] These things shall be done, sir.

LAFEW.
Pray you, sir, who’s his tailor?

PAROLLES.
Sir!

LAFEW.
O, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, is a good workman, a very good
tailor.

BERTRAM.
[_Aside to Parolles._] Is she gone to the king?

PAROLLES.
She is.

BERTRAM.
Will she away tonight?

PAROLLES.
As you’ll have her.

BERTRAM.
I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,
Given order for our horses; and tonight,
When I should take possession of the bride,
End ere I do begin.

LAFEW.
A good traveller is something at the latter end of a dinner; but one
that lies three-thirds and uses a known truth to pass a thousand
nothings with, should be once heard and thrice beaten.— God save you,
Captain.

BERTRAM.
Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?

PAROLLES.
I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord’s displeasure.

LAFEW.
You have made shift to run into ’t, boots and spurs and all, like him
that leapt into the custard; and out of it you’ll run again, rather
than suffer question for your residence.

BERTRAM.
It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.

LAFEW.
And shall do so ever, though I took him at his prayers. Fare you well,
my lord; and believe this of me, there can be no kernal in this light
nut; the soul of this man is his clothes; trust him not in matter of
heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures.
Farewell, monsieur; I have spoken better of you than you have or will
to deserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil.

 [_Exit._]

PAROLLES.
An idle lord, I swear.

BERTRAM.
I think so.

PAROLLES.
Why, do you not know him?

BERTRAM.
Yes, I do know him well; and common speech
Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

 Enter Helena.

HELENA.
I have, sir, as I was commanded from you,
Spoke with the king, and have procur’d his leave
For present parting; only he desires
Some private speech with you.

BERTRAM.
I shall obey his will.
You must not marvel, Helen, at my course,
Which holds not colour with the time, nor does
The ministration and required office
On my particular. Prepared I was not
For such a business; therefore am I found
So much unsettled: this drives me to entreat you;
That presently you take your way for home,
And rather muse than ask why I entreat you:
For my respects are better than they seem;
And my appointments have in them a need
Greater than shows itself at the first view
To you that know them not. This to my mother.

 [_Giving a letter._]

’Twill be two days ere I shall see you; so
I leave you to your wisdom.

HELENA.
Sir, I can nothing say
But that I am your most obedient servant.

BERTRAM.
Come, come, no more of that.

HELENA.
And ever shall
With true observance seek to eke out that
Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail’d
To equal my great fortune.

BERTRAM.
Let that go.
My haste is very great. Farewell; hie home.

HELENA.
Pray, sir, your pardon.

BERTRAM.
Well, what would you say?

HELENA.
I am not worthy of the wealth I owe;
Nor dare I say ’tis mine, and yet it is;
But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal
What law does vouch mine own.

BERTRAM.
What would you have?

HELENA.
Something; and scarce so much; nothing indeed.
I would not tell you what I would, my lord. Faith, yes,
Strangers and foes do sunder and not kiss.

BERTRAM.
I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.

HELENA.
I shall not break your bidding, good my lord.
Where are my other men, monsieur?
Farewell,

 [_Exit Helena._]

BERTRAM.
Go thou toward home, where I will never come
Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum.
Away, and for our flight.

PAROLLES.
Bravely, coragio!

 [_Exeunt._]


ACT III.

SCENE I. Florence. A room in the Duke’s palace.

 Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence attended; two French Lords, and
 Soldiers.

DUKE.
So that, from point to point, now have you heard
The fundamental reasons of this war,
Whose great decision hath much blood let forth,
And more thirsts after.

FIRST LORD.
Holy seems the quarrel
Upon your Grace’s part; black and fearful
On the opposer.

DUKE.
Therefore we marvel much our cousin France
Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom
Against our borrowing prayers.

SECOND LORD.
Good my lord,
The reasons of our state I cannot yield,
But like a common and an outward man
That the great figure of a council frames
By self-unable motion; therefore dare not
Say what I think of it, since I have found
Myself in my incertain grounds to fail
As often as I guess’d.

DUKE.
Be it his pleasure.

FIRST LORD.
But I am sure the younger of our nature,
That surfeit on their ease, will day by day
Come here for physic.

DUKE.
Welcome shall they be;
And all the honours that can fly from us
Shall on them settle. You know your places well;
When better fall, for your avails they fell.
Tomorrow to the field.

 [_Flourish. Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.

 Enter Countess and Clown.

COUNTESS.
It hath happen’d all as I would have had it, save that he comes not
along with her.

CLOWN.
By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man.

COUNTESS.
By what observance, I pray you?

CLOWN.
Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the ruff and sing; ask
questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know a man that had this
trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.

COUNTESS.
Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.

 [_Opening a letter._]

CLOWN.
I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court. Our old lings and our
Isbels o’ th’ country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o’
th’ court. The brains of my Cupid’s knock’d out, and I begin to love,
as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

COUNTESS.
What have we here?

CLOWN.
E’en that you have there.

 [_Exit._]

COUNTESS.
[_Reads._] _I have sent you a daughter-in-law; she hath recovered the
king and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her, and sworn to
make the “not” eternal. You shall hear I am run away; know it before
the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a
long distance. My duty to you.
              Your unfortunate son,_
                            BERTRAM.

This is not well, rash and unbridled boy,
To fly the favours of so good a king,
To pluck his indignation on thy head
By the misprizing of a maid too virtuous
For the contempt of empire.

 Enter Clown.

CLOWN.
O madam, yonder is heavy news within between two soldiers and my young
lady.

COUNTESS.
What is the matter?

CLOWN.
Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not
be kill’d so soon as I thought he would.

COUNTESS.
Why should he be kill’d?

CLOWN.
So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does; the danger is in
standing to’t; that’s the loss of men, though it be the getting of
children. Here they come will tell you more. For my part, I only hear
your son was run away.

 [_Exit._]

 Enter Helena and the two Gentlemen.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Save you, good madam.

HELENA.
Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Do not say so.

COUNTESS.
Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen,—
I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief
That the first face of neither on the start
Can woman me unto ’t. Where is my son, I pray you?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Madam, he’s gone to serve the Duke of Florence;
We met him thitherward, for thence we came,
And, after some despatch in hand at court,
Thither we bend again.

HELENA.
Look on this letter, madam; here’s my passport.

[_Reads._] _When thou canst get the ring upon my finger, which never
shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am
father to, then call me husband; but in such a “then” I write a
“never”._
This is a dreadful sentence.

COUNTESS.
Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Ay, madam; And for the contents’ sake, are sorry for our pains.

COUNTESS.
I pr’ythee, lady, have a better cheer;
If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,
Thou robb’st me of a moiety. He was my son,
But I do wash his name out of my blood,
And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Ay, madam.

COUNTESS.
And to be a soldier?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Such is his noble purpose, and, believe’t,
The duke will lay upon him all the honour
That good convenience claims.

COUNTESS.
Return you thither?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.

HELENA.
[_Reads._] _Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France._
’Tis bitter.

COUNTESS.
Find you that there?

HELENA.
Ay, madam.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
’Tis but the boldness of his hand haply, which his heart was not
consenting to.

COUNTESS.
Nothing in France until he have no wife!
There’s nothing here that is too good for him
But only she, and she deserves a lord
That twenty such rude boys might tend upon,
And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
A servant only, and a gentleman which I have sometime known.

COUNTESS.
Parolles, was it not?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Ay, my good lady, he.

COUNTESS.
A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.
My son corrupts a well-derived nature
With his inducement.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Indeed, good lady,
The fellow has a deal of that too much,
Which holds him much to have.

COUNTESS.
Y’are welcome, gentlemen.
I will entreat you, when you see my son,
To tell him that his sword can never win
The honour that he loses: more I’ll entreat you
Written to bear along.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
We serve you, madam,
In that and all your worthiest affairs.

COUNTESS.
Not so, but as we change our courtesies.
Will you draw near?

 [_Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen._]

HELENA.
“Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.”
Nothing in France until he has no wife!
Thou shalt have none, Rossillon, none in France;
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord, is’t I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event
Of the none-sparing war? And is it I
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim; move the still-peering air,
That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord.
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff that do hold him to’t;
And though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected. Better ’twere
I met the ravin lion when he roar’d
With sharp constraint of hunger; better ’twere
That all the miseries which nature owes
Were mine at once. No; come thou home, Rossillon,
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it loses all. I will be gone;
My being here it is that holds thee hence.
Shall I stay here to do’t? No, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels offic’d all. I will be gone,
That pitiful rumour may report my flight
To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day;
For with the dark, poor thief, I’ll steal away.

 [_Exit._]

SCENE III. Florence. Before the Duke’s palace.

 Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram, drum and trumpets,
 Soldiers, Parolles.

DUKE.
The general of our horse thou art, and we,
Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence
Upon thy promising fortune.

BERTRAM.
Sir, it is
A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet
We’ll strive to bear it for your worthy sake
To th’extreme edge of hazard.

DUKE.
Then go thou forth;
And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,
As thy auspicious mistress!

BERTRAM.
This very day,
Great Mars, I put myself into thy file;
Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove
A lover of thy drum, hater of love.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.

 Enter Countess and Steward.

COUNTESS.
Alas! and would you take the letter of her?
Might you not know she would do as she has done,
By sending me a letter? Read it again.

STEWARD.
[_Reads._] _I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone.
Ambitious love hath so in me offended
That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,
With sainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that from the bloody course of war
My dearest master, your dear son, may hie.
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far
His name with zealous fervour sanctify.
His taken labours bid him me forgive;
I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth
From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,
Where death and danger dog the heels of worth.
He is too good and fair for death and me;
Whom I myself embrace to set him free._

COUNTESS.
Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!
Rynaldo, you did never lack advice so much
As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,
Which thus she hath prevented.

STEWARD.
Pardon me, madam;
If I had given you this at over-night,
She might have been o’erta’en; and yet she writes
Pursuit would be but vain.

COUNTESS.
What angel shall
Bless this unworthy husband? He cannot thrive,
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rynaldo,
To this unworthy husband of his wife;
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,
That he does weigh too light; my greatest grief,
Though little he do feel it, set down sharply.
Dispatch the most convenient messenger.
When haply he shall hear that she is gone
He will return; and hope I may that she,
Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,
Led hither by pure love. Which of them both
Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense
To make distinction. Provide this messenger.
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;
Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Without the walls of Florence.

 Enter an old Widow of Florence, Diana, Violenta, Mariana and other
 Citizens.

WIDOW.
Nay, come; for if they do approach the city, we shall lose all the
sight.

DIANA.
They say the French count has done most honourable service.

WIDOW.
It is reported that he has taken their great’st commander, and that
with his own hand he slew the duke’s brother.

 [_A tucket afar off._]

We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary way. Hark! you may
know by their trumpets.

MARIANA.
Come, let’s return again, and suffice ourselves with the report of it.
Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl; the honour of a maid is her
name; and no legacy is so rich as honesty.

WIDOW.
I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited by a gentleman his
companion.

MARIANA.
I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles; a filthy officer he is in
those suggestions for the young earl. Beware of them, Diana; their
promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of lust,
are not the things they go under; many a maid hath been seduced by
them; and the misery is, example, that so terrible shows in the wreck
of maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade succession, but that they
are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope I need not to
advise you further; but I hope your own grace will keep you where you
are, though there were no further danger known but the modesty which is
so lost.

DIANA.
You shall not need to fear me.

 Enter Helena in the dress of a pilgrim.

WIDOW.
I hope so. Look, here comes a pilgrim. I know she will lie at my house;
thither they send one another; I’ll question her. God save you,
pilgrim! Whither are bound?

HELENA.
To Saint Jaques le Grand.
Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?

WIDOW.
At the Saint Francis here, beside the port.

HELENA.
Is this the way?

 [_A march afar._]

WIDOW.
Ay, marry, is’t. Hark you, they come this way.
If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,
But till the troops come by,
I will conduct you where you shall be lodg’d;
The rather for I think I know your hostess
As ample as myself.

HELENA.
Is it yourself?

WIDOW.
If you shall please so, pilgrim.

HELENA.
I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.

WIDOW.
You came, I think, from France?

HELENA.
I did so.

WIDOW.
Here you shall see a countryman of yours
That has done worthy service.

HELENA.
His name, I pray you.

DIANA.
The Count Rossillon. Know you such a one?

HELENA.
But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him;
His face I know not.

DIANA.
Whatsome’er he is,
He’s bravely taken here. He stole from France,
As ’tis reported, for the king had married him
Against his liking. Think you it is so?

HELENA.
Ay, surely, mere the truth; I know his lady.

DIANA.
There is a gentleman that serves the count
Reports but coarsely of her.

HELENA.
What’s his name?

DIANA.
Monsieur Parolles.

HELENA.
O, I believe with him,
In argument of praise, or to the worth
Of the great count himself, she is too mean
To have her name repeated; all her deserving
Is a reserved honesty, and that
I have not heard examin’d.

DIANA.
Alas, poor lady!
’Tis a hard bondage to become the wife
Of a detesting lord.

WIDOW.
Ay, right; good creature, wheresoe’er she is,
Her heart weighs sadly. This young maid might do her
A shrewd turn, if she pleas’d.

HELENA.
How do you mean?
Maybe the amorous count solicits her
In the unlawful purpose.

WIDOW.
He does indeed,
And brokes with all that can in such a suit
Corrupt the tender honour of a maid;
But she is arm’d for him, and keeps her guard
In honestest defence.

 Enter, with a drum and colours, a party of the Florentine army,
 Bertram and Parolles.

MARIANA.
The gods forbid else!

WIDOW.
So, now they come.
That is Antonio, the Duke’s eldest son;
That Escalus.

HELENA.
Which is the Frenchman?

DIANA.
He;
That with the plume; ’tis a most gallant fellow.
I would he lov’d his wife; if he were honester
He were much goodlier. Is’t not a handsome gentleman?

HELENA.
I like him well.

DIANA.
’Tis pity he is not honest. Yond’s that same knave
That leads him to these places. Were I his lady
I would poison that vile rascal.

HELENA.
Which is he?

DIANA.
That jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is he melancholy?

HELENA.
Perchance he’s hurt i’ the battle.

PAROLLES.
Lose our drum! Well.

MARIANA.
He’s shrewdly vex’d at something. Look, he has spied us.

WIDOW.
Marry, hang you!

MARIANA.
And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier!

 [_Exeunt Bertram, Parolles, Officers and Soldiers._]

WIDOW.
The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you
Where you shall host; of enjoin’d penitents
There’s four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound,
Already at my house.

HELENA.
I humbly thank you.
Please it this matron and this gentle maid
To eat with us tonight; the charge and thanking
Shall be for me; and, to requite you further,
I will bestow some precepts of this virgin,
Worthy the note.

BOTH.
We’ll take your offer kindly.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE VI. Camp before Florence.

 Enter Bertram and the two French Lords.

FIRST LORD.
Nay, good my lord, put him to’t; let him have his way.

SECOND LORD.
If your lordship find him not a hilding, hold me no more in your
respect.

FIRST LORD.
On my life, my lord, a bubble.

BERTRAM.
Do you think I am so far deceived in him?

FIRST LORD.
Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct knowledge, without any malice,
but to speak of him as my kinsman, he’s a most notable coward, an
infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no
one good quality worthy your lordship’s entertainment.

SECOND LORD.
It were fit you knew him; lest, reposing too far in his virtue, which
he hath not, he might at some great and trusty business, in a main
danger fail you.

BERTRAM.
I would I knew in what particular action to try him.

SECOND LORD.
None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you hear him so
confidently undertake to do.

FIRST LORD.
I with a troop of Florentines will suddenly surprise him; such I will
have whom I am sure he knows not from the enemy; we will bind and
hoodwink him so that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried
into the leaguer of the adversaries when we bring him to our own tents.
Be but your lordship present at his examination; if he do not for the
promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base fear, offer
to betray you, and deliver all the intelligence in his power against
you, and that with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never
trust my judgment in anything.

SECOND LORD.
O, for the love of laughter, let him fetch his drum; he says he has a
stratagem for’t. When your lordship sees the bottom of his success
in’t, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of ore will be melted, if
you give him not John Drum’s entertainment, your inclining cannot be
removed. Here he comes.

 Enter Parolles.

FIRST LORD.
O, for the love of laughter, hinder not the honour of his design: let
him fetch off his drum in any hand.

BERTRAM.
How now, monsieur! This drum sticks sorely in your disposition.

SECOND LORD.
A pox on ’t; let it go; ’tis but a drum.

PAROLLES.
But a drum! Is’t but a drum? A drum so lost! There was excellent
command, to charge in with our horse upon our own wings, and to rend
our own soldiers.

SECOND LORD.
That was not to be blam’d in the command of the service; it was a
disaster of war that Caesar himself could not have prevented, if he had
been there to command.

BERTRAM.
Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success: some dishonour we had in
the loss of that drum, but it is not to be recovered.

PAROLLES.
It might have been recovered.

BERTRAM.
It might, but it is not now.

PAROLLES.
It is to be recovered. But that the merit of service is seldom
attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have that drum or
another, or _hic jacet_.

BERTRAM.
Why, if you have a stomach, to’t, monsieur, if you think your mystery
in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour again into his native
quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise, and go on; I will grace the
attempt for a worthy exploit; if you speed well in it, the duke shall
both speak of it and extend to you what further becomes his greatness,
even to the utmost syllable of your worthiness.

PAROLLES.
By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.

BERTRAM.
But you must not now slumber in it.

PAROLLES.
I’ll about it this evening; and I will presently pen down my dilemmas,
encourage myself in my certainty, put myself into my mortal
preparation; and by midnight look to hear further from me.

BERTRAM.
May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it?

PAROLLES.
I know not what the success will be, my lord, but the attempt I vow.

BERTRAM.
I know th’art valiant; and to the possibility of thy soldiership, will
subscribe for thee. Farewell.

PAROLLES.
I love not many words.

 [_Exit._]

FIRST LORD.
No more than a fish loves water. Is not this a strange fellow, my lord,
that so confidently seems to undertake this business, which he knows is
not to be done; damns himself to do, and dares better be damn’d than to
do’t.

SECOND LORD.
You do not know him, my lord, as we do; certain it is that he will
steal himself into a man’s favour, and for a week escape a great deal
of discoveries, but when you find him out, you have him ever after.

BERTRAM.
Why, do you think he will make no deed at all of this, that so
seriously he does address himself unto?

FIRST LORD.
None in the world; but return with an invention, and clap upon you two
or three probable lies; but we have almost embossed him; you shall see
his fall tonight; for indeed he is not for your lordship’s respect.

SECOND LORD.
We’ll make you some sport with the fox ere we case him. He was first
smok’d by the old Lord Lafew; when his disguise and he is parted, tell
me what a sprat you shall find him; which you shall see this very
night.

FIRST LORD.
I must go look my twigs. He shall be caught.

BERTRAM.
Your brother, he shall go along with me.

FIRST LORD.
As’t please your lordship. I’ll leave you.

 [_Exit._]

BERTRAM.
Now will I lead you to the house, and show you
The lass I spoke of.

SECOND LORD.
But you say she’s honest.

BERTRAM.
That’s all the fault. I spoke with her but once,
And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her
By this same coxcomb that we have i’ the wind
Tokens and letters which she did re-send,
And this is all I have done. She’s a fair creature;
Will you go see her?

SECOND LORD.
With all my heart, my lord.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE VII. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house.

 Enter Helena and Widow.

HELENA.
If you misdoubt me that I am not she,
I know not how I shall assure you further,
But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.

WIDOW.
Though my estate be fall’n, I was well born,
Nothing acquainted with these businesses,
And would not put my reputation now
In any staining act.

HELENA.
Nor would I wish you.
First give me trust, the count he is my husband,
And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken
Is so from word to word; and then you cannot,
By the good aid that I of you shall borrow,
Err in bestowing it.

WIDOW.
I should believe you,
For you have show’d me that which well approves
Y’are great in fortune.

HELENA.
Take this purse of gold,
And let me buy your friendly help thus far,
Which I will over-pay, and pay again
When I have found it. The count he woos your daughter
Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,
Resolv’d to carry her; let her in fine consent,
As we’ll direct her how ’tis best to bear it.
Now his important blood will naught deny
That she’ll demand; a ring the county wears,
That downward hath succeeded in his house
From son to son, some four or five descents
Since the first father wore it. This ring he holds
In most rich choice; yet, in his idle fire,
To buy his will, it would not seem too dear,
Howe’er repented after.

WIDOW.
Now I see
The bottom of your purpose.

HELENA.
You see it lawful then; it is no more
But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,
Desires this ring; appoints him an encounter;
In fine, delivers me to fill the time,
Herself most chastely absent. After,
To marry her, I’ll add three thousand crowns
To what is pass’d already.

WIDOW.
I have yielded.
Instruct my daughter how she shall persever,
That time and place with this deceit so lawful
May prove coherent. Every night he comes
With musics of all sorts, and songs compos’d
To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us
To chide him from our eaves; for he persists
As if his life lay on ’t.

HELENA.
Why then tonight
Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed,
Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed,
And lawful meaning in a lawful act,
Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact.
But let’s about it.

 [_Exeunt._]


ACT IV.

SCENE I. Without the Florentine camp.

 Enter first Lord with five or six Soldiers in ambush.

FIRST LORD.
He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner. When you sally upon
him, speak what terrible language you will; though you understand it
not yourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to understand him,
unless someone among us, whom we must produce for an interpreter.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Good captain, let me be th’ interpreter.

FIRST LORD.
Art not acquainted with him? Knows he not thy voice?

FIRST SOLDIER.
No sir, I warrant you.

FIRST LORD.
But what linsey-woolsey has thou to speak to us again?

FIRST SOLDIER.
E’en such as you speak to me.

FIRST LORD.
He must think us some band of strangers i’ the adversary’s
entertainment. Now he hath a smack of all neighbouring languages,
therefore we must every one be a man of his own fancy; not to know what
we speak one to another, so we seem to know, is to know straight our
purpose: choughs’ language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you,
interpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch, ho! Here he comes;
to beguile two hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear the lies
he forges.

 Enter Parolles.

PAROLLES.
Ten o’clock. Within these three hours ’twill be time enough to go home.
What shall I say I have done? It must be a very plausive invention that
carries it. They begin to smoke me, and disgraces have of late knock’d
too often at my door. I find my tongue is too foolhardy, but my heart
hath the fear of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the
reports of my tongue.

FIRST LORD.
[_Aside._] This is the first truth that e’er thine own tongue was
guilty of.

PAROLLES.
What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum,
being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such
purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and say I got them in exploit;
yet slight ones will not carry it. They will say “Came you off with so
little?” and great ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what’s the
instance? Tongue, I must put you into a butter-woman’s mouth, and buy
myself another of Bajazet’s mule, if you prattle me into these perils.

FIRST LORD.
[_Aside._] Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?

PAROLLES.
I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn, or the
breaking of my Spanish sword.

FIRST LORD.
[_Aside._] We cannot afford you so.

PAROLLES.
Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem.

FIRST LORD.
[_Aside._] ’Twould not do.

PAROLLES.
Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped.

FIRST LORD.
[_Aside._] Hardly serve.

PAROLLES.
Though I swore I leap’d from the window of the citadel,—

FIRST LORD.
[_Aside._] How deep?

PAROLLES.
Thirty fathom.

FIRST LORD.
[_Aside._] Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.

PAROLLES.
I would I had any drum of the enemy’s; I would swear I recover’d it.

FIRST LORD.
[_Aside._] You shall hear one anon.

PAROLLES.
A drum now of the enemy’s!

 [_Alarum within._]

FIRST LORD.
_Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo._

ALL.
_Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo._

 [_They seize and blindfold him._]

PAROLLES.
O, ransom, ransom! Do not hide mine eyes.

FIRST SOLDIER.
_Boskos thromuldo boskos._

PAROLLES.
I know you are the Muskos’ regiment,
And I shall lose my life for want of language.
If there be here German, or Dane, Low Dutch,
Italian, or French, let him speak to me,
I’ll discover that which shall undo the Florentine.

FIRST SOLDIER.
_Boskos vauvado._ I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue.
_Kerelybonto._ Sir, Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards
are at thy bosom.

PAROLLES.
O!

FIRST SOLDIER.
O, pray, pray, pray!
_Manka revania dulche._

FIRST LORD.
_Oscorbidulchos volivorco._

FIRST SOLDIER.
The General is content to spare thee yet;
And, hoodwink’d as thou art, will lead thee on
To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst inform
Something to save thy life.

PAROLLES.
O, let me live,
And all the secrets of our camp I’ll show,
Their force, their purposes; nay, I’ll speak that
Which you will wonder at.

FIRST SOLDIER.
But wilt thou faithfully?

PAROLLES.
If I do not, damn me.

FIRST SOLDIER.
_Acordo linta._
Come on; thou art granted space.

 [_Exit, with Parolles guarded._]

 A short alarum within.

FIRST LORD.
Go tell the Count Rossillon and my brother
We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled
Till we do hear from them.

SECOND SOLDIER.
Captain, I will.

FIRST LORD.
’A will betray us all unto ourselves;
Inform on that.

SECOND SOLDIER.
So I will, sir.

FIRST LORD.
Till then I’ll keep him dark, and safely lock’d.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house.

 Enter Bertram and Diana.

BERTRAM.
They told me that your name was Fontybell.

DIANA.
No, my good lord, Diana.

BERTRAM.
Titled goddess;
And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,
In your fine frame hath love no quality?
If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,
You are no maiden but a monument;
When you are dead, you should be such a one
As you are now; for you are cold and stern,
And now you should be as your mother was
When your sweet self was got.

DIANA.
She then was honest.

BERTRAM.
So should you be.

DIANA.
No.
My mother did but duty; such, my lord,
As you owe to your wife.

BERTRAM.
No more a’ that!
I pr’ythee do not strive against my vows;
I was compell’d to her; but I love thee
By love’s own sweet constraint, and will for ever
Do thee all rights of service.

DIANA.
Ay, so you serve us
Till we serve you; but when you have our roses,
You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves,
And mock us with our bareness.

BERTRAM.
How have I sworn?

DIANA.
’Tis not the many oaths that makes the truth,
But the plain single vow that is vow’d true.
What is not holy, that we swear not by,
But take the highest to witness: then, pray you, tell me,
If I should swear by Jove’s great attributes
I lov’d you dearly, would you believe my oaths
When I did love you ill? This has no holding,
To swear by him whom I protest to love
That I will work against him. Therefore your oaths
Are words and poor conditions; but unseal’d,—
At least in my opinion.

BERTRAM.
Change it, change it.
Be not so holy-cruel. Love is holy;
And my integrity ne’er knew the crafts
That you do charge men with. Stand no more off,
But give thyself unto my sick desires,
Who then recovers. Say thou art mine, and ever
My love as it begins shall so persever.

DIANA.
I see that men make hopes in such a case,
That we’ll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.

BERTRAM.
I’ll lend it thee, my dear, but have no power
To give it from me.

DIANA.
Will you not, my lord?

BERTRAM.
It is an honour ’longing to our house,
Bequeathed down from many ancestors,
Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world
In me to lose.

DIANA.
Mine honour’s such a ring;
My chastity’s the jewel of our house,
Bequeathed down from many ancestors,
Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world
In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom
Brings in the champion honour on my part
Against your vain assault.

BERTRAM.
Here, take my ring;
My house, mine honour, yea, my life be thine,
And I’ll be bid by thee.

DIANA.
When midnight comes, knock at my chamber window;
I’ll order take my mother shall not hear.
Now will I charge you in the band of truth,
When you have conquer’d my yet maiden-bed,
Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me.
My reasons are most strong; and you shall know them
When back again this ring shall be deliver’d;
And on your finger in the night, I’ll put
Another ring, that what in time proceeds
May token to the future our past deeds.
Adieu till then; then fail not. You have won
A wife of me, though there my hope be done.

BERTRAM.
A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

 [_Exit._]

DIANA.
For which live long to thank both heaven and me!
You may so in the end.
My mother told me just how he would woo,
As if she sat in’s heart. She says all men
Have the like oaths. He had sworn to marry me
When his wife’s dead; therefore I’ll lie with him
When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid,
Marry that will, I live and die a maid.
Only, in this disguise, I think’t no sin
To cozen him that would unjustly win.

 [_Exit._]

SCENE III. The Florentine camp.

 Enter the two French Lords and two or three Soldiers.

FIRST LORD.
You have not given him his mother’s letter?

SECOND LORD.
I have deliv’red it an hour since; there is something in’t that stings
his nature; for on the reading it, he chang’d almost into another man.

FIRST LORD.
He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife
and so sweet a lady.

SECOND LORD.
Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king,
who had even tun’d his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you
a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.

FIRST LORD.
When you have spoken it, ’tis dead, and I am the grave of it.

SECOND LORD.
He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most
chaste renown, and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her
honour; he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made
in the unchaste composition.

FIRST LORD.
Now, God delay our rebellion! As we are ourselves, what things are we!

SECOND LORD.
Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons,
we still see them reveal themselves till they attain to their abhorr’d
ends; so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in
his proper stream, o’erflows himself.

FIRST LORD.
Is it not meant damnable in us to be trumpeters of our unlawful
intents? We shall not then have his company tonight?

SECOND LORD.
Not till after midnight; for he is dieted to his hour.

FIRST LORD.
That approaches apace. I would gladly have him see his company
anatomized, that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein
so curiously he had set this counterfeit.

SECOND LORD.
We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the
whip of the other.

FIRST LORD.
In the meantime, what hear you of these wars?

SECOND LORD.
I hear there is an overture of peace.

FIRST LORD.
Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.

SECOND LORD.
What will Count Rossillon do then? Will he travel higher, or return
again into France?

FIRST LORD.
I perceive by this demand, you are not altogether of his council.

SECOND LORD.
Let it be forbid, sir! So should I be a great deal of his act.

FIRST LORD.
Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his house. Her pretence
is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking with
most austere sanctimony she accomplished; and there residing, the
tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a
groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven.

SECOND LORD.
How is this justified?

FIRST LORD.
The stronger part of it by her own letters, which makes her story true,
even to the point of her death. Her death itself, which could not be
her office to say is come, was faithfully confirm’d by the rector of
the place.

SECOND LORD.
Hath the count all this intelligence?

FIRST LORD.
Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full
arming of the verity.

SECOND LORD.
I am heartily sorry that he’ll be glad of this.

FIRST LORD.
How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!

SECOND LORD.
And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! The great
dignity that his valour hath here acquir’d for him shall at home be
encountered with a shame as ample.

FIRST LORD.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our
virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes
would despair if they were not cherish’d by our virtues.

 Enter a Messenger.

How now? Where’s your master?

MESSENGER.
He met the duke in the street, sir; of whom he hath taken a solemn
leave: his lordship will next morning for France. The duke hath offered
him letters of commendations to the king.

SECOND LORD.
They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they
can commend.

 Enter Bertram.

FIRST LORD.
They cannot be too sweet for the king’s tartness. Here’s his lordship
now. How now, my lord, is’t not after midnight?

BERTRAM.
I have tonight despatch’d sixteen businesses, a month’s length apiece;
by an abstract of success: I have congied with the duke, done my adieu
with his nearest; buried a wife, mourn’d for her, writ to my lady
mother I am returning, entertained my convoy, and between these main
parcels of despatch effected many nicer needs: the last was the
greatest, but that I have not ended yet.

SECOND LORD.
If the business be of any difficulty and this morning your departure
hence, it requires haste of your lordship.

BERTRAM.
I mean the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter.
But shall we have this dialogue between the Fool and the Soldier? Come,
bring forth this counterfeit module has deceiv’d me like a
double-meaning prophesier.

SECOND LORD.
Bring him forth.

 [_Exeunt Soldiers._]

Has sat i’ the stocks all night, poor gallant knave.

BERTRAM.
No matter; his heels have deserv’d it, in usurping his spurs so long.
How does he carry himself?

FIRST LORD.
I have told your lordship already; the stocks carry him. But to answer
you as you would be understood: he weeps like a wench that had shed her
milk; he hath confessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to be a
friar, from the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster
of his setting i’ the stocks. And what think you he hath confessed?

BERTRAM.
Nothing of me, has he?

SECOND LORD.
His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his face; if your
lordship be in’t, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to
hear it.

 Enter Soldiers with Parolles.

BERTRAM.
A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothing of me; hush, hush!

FIRST LORD.
Hoodman comes! _Portotartarossa._

FIRST SOLDIER.
He calls for the tortures. What will you say without ’em?

PAROLLES.
I will confess what I know without constraint. If ye pinch me like a
pasty I can say no more.

FIRST SOLDIER.
_Bosko chimurcho._

FIRST LORD.
_Boblibindo chicurmurco._

FIRST SOLDIER.
You are a merciful general. Our general bids you answer to what I shall
ask you out of a note.

PAROLLES.
And truly, as I hope to live.

FIRST SOLDIER.
‘First demand of him how many horse the duke is strong.’ What say you
to that?

PAROLLES.
Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable: the troops are
all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation
and credit, and as I hope to live.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Shall I set down your answer so?

PAROLLES.
Do. I’ll take the sacrament on ’t, how and which way you will.

BERTRAM.
All’s one to him. What a past-saving slave is this!

FIRST LORD.
You are deceived, my lord; this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant
militarist (that was his own phrase), that had the whole theoric of war
in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger.

SECOND LORD.
I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean, nor believe
he can have everything in him by wearing his apparel neatly.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Well, that’s set down.

PAROLLES.
‘Five or six thousand horse’ I said—I will say true—or thereabouts, set
down,—for I’ll speak truth.

FIRST LORD.
He’s very near the truth in this.

BERTRAM.
But I con him no thanks for’t in the nature he delivers it.

PAROLLES.
Poor rogues, I pray you say.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Well, that’s set down.

PAROLLES.
I humbly thank you, sir; a truth’s a truth, the rogues are marvellous
poor.

FIRST SOLDIER.
‘Demand of him of what strength they are a-foot.’ What say you to that?

PAROLLES.
By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present hour, I will tell
true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred and fifty, Sebastian, so many;
Corambus, so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and
Gratii, two hundred fifty each; mine own company, Chitopher, Vaumond,
Bentii, two hundred fifty each: so that the muster-file, rotten and
sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand poll; half of the
which dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks lest they shake
themselves to pieces.

BERTRAM.
What shall be done to him?

FIRST LORD.
Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my condition, and what
credit I have with the duke.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Well, that’s set down. ‘You shall demand of him whether one Captain
Dumaine be i’ the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the
duke, what his valour, honesty and expertness in wars; or whether he
thinks it were not possible with well-weighing sums of gold to corrupt
him to a revolt.’ What say you to this? What do you know of it?

PAROLLES.
I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of the inter’gatories.
Demand them singly.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Do you know this Captain Dumaine?

PAROLLES.
I know him: he was a botcher’s ’prentice in Paris, from whence he was
whipped for getting the shrieve’s fool with child, a dumb innocent that
could not say him nay.

 [_First Lord lifts up his hand in anger._]

BERTRAM.
Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his brains are
forfeit to the next tile that falls.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Well, is this captain in the Duke of Florence’s camp?

PAROLLES.
Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.

FIRST LORD.
Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon.

FIRST SOLDIER.
What is his reputation with the duke?

PAROLLES.
The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine, and writ to
me this other day to turn him out o’ the band. I think I have his
letter in my pocket.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Marry, we’ll search.

PAROLLES.
In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there or it is upon a
file, with the duke’s other letters, in my tent.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Here ’tis; here’s a paper; shall I read it to you?

PAROLLES.
I do not know if it be it or no.

BERTRAM.
Our interpreter does it well.

FIRST LORD.
Excellently.

FIRST SOLDIER.
[_Reads._] _Dian, the Count’s a fool, and full of gold._

PAROLLES.
That is not the duke’s letter, sir; that is an advertisement to a
proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of
one Count Rossillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very ruttish.
I pray you, sir, put it up again.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Nay, I’ll read it first by your favour.

PAROLLES.
My meaning in’t, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the maid;
for I knew the young count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is
a whale to virginity, and devours up all the fry it finds.

BERTRAM.
Damnable both sides rogue!

FIRST SOLDIER.
[_Reads._]
_When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it;
After he scores, he never pays the score.
Half won is match well made; match, and well make it;
He ne’er pays after-debts, take it before.
And say a soldier, ‘Dian,’ told thee this:
Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss;
For count of this, the count’s a fool, I know it,
Who pays before, but not when he does owe it.
Thine, as he vow’d to thee in thine ear,_
                                     PAROLLES.

BERTRAM.
He shall be whipped through the army with this rhyme in’s forehead.

SECOND LORD.
This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist, and the
armipotent soldier.

BERTRAM.
I could endure anything before but a cat, and now he’s a cat to me.

FIRST SOLDIER.
I perceive, sir, by our general’s looks we shall be fain to hang you.

PAROLLES.
My life, sir, in any case. Not that I am afraid to die, but that, my
offences being many, I would repent out the remainder of nature. Let me
live, sir, in a dungeon, i’ the stocks, or anywhere, so I may live.

FIRST SOLDIER.
We’ll see what may be done, so you confess freely. Therefore, once more
to this Captain Dumaine: you have answer’d to his reputation with the
duke, and to his valour. What is his honesty?

PAROLLES.
He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: for rapes and ravishments
he parallels Nessus. He professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking
them he is stronger than Hercules. He will lie, sir, with such
volubility that you would think truth were a fool: drunkenness is his
best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk, and in his sleep he does
little harm, save to his bedclothes about him; but they know his
conditions and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of
his honesty; he has everything that an honest man should not have; what
an honest man should have, he has nothing.

FIRST LORD.
I begin to love him for this.

BERTRAM.
For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon him for me, he’s more
and more a cat.

FIRST SOLDIER.
What say you to his expertness in war?

PAROLLES.
Faith, sir, has led the drum before the English tragedians,—to belie
him I will not,—and more of his soldiership I know not, except in that
country he had the honour to be the officer at a place there called
Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would do the man
what honour I can, but of this I am not certain.

FIRST LORD.
He hath out-villain’d villainy so far that the rarity redeems him.

BERTRAM.
A pox on him! He’s a cat still.

FIRST SOLDIER.
His qualities being at this poor price, I need not to ask you if gold
will corrupt him to revolt.

PAROLLES.
Sir, for a quart d’ecu he will sell the fee-simple of his salvation,
the inheritance of it, and cut the entail from all remainders, and a
perpetual succession for it perpetually.

FIRST SOLDIER.
What’s his brother, the other Captain Dumaine?

SECOND LORD.
Why does he ask him of me?

FIRST SOLDIER.
What’s he?

PAROLLES.
E’en a crow o’ the same nest; not altogether so great as the first in
goodness, but greater a great deal in evil. He excels his brother for a
coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a
retreat he outruns any lackey; marry, in coming on he has the cramp.

FIRST SOLDIER.
If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray the Florentine?

PAROLLES.
Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count Rossillon.

FIRST SOLDIER.
I’ll whisper with the general, and know his pleasure.

PAROLLES.
[_Aside._] I’ll no more drumming; a plague of all drums! Only to seem
to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of that lascivious
young boy the count, have I run into this danger: yet who would have
suspected an ambush where I was taken?

FIRST SOLDIER.
There is no remedy, sir, but you must die. The general says you that
have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army, and made such
pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world for no
honest use; therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head.

PAROLLES.
O Lord! sir, let me live, or let me see my death.

FIRST SOLDIER.
That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends.

 [_Unmuffling him._]

So, look about you; know you any here?

BERTRAM.
Good morrow, noble captain.

SECOND LORD.
God bless you, Captain Parolles.

FIRST LORD.
God save you, noble captain.

SECOND LORD.
Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France.

FIRST LORD.
Good Captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana
in behalf of the Count Rossillon? And I were not a very coward I’d
compel it of you; but fare you well.

 [_Exeunt Bertram, Lords &c._]

FIRST SOLDIER.
You are undone, captain: all but your scarf; that has a knot on’t yet.

PAROLLES.
Who cannot be crushed with a plot?

FIRST SOLDIER.
If you could find out a country where but women were that had received
so much shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare ye well, sir. I
am for France too; we shall speak of you there.

 [_Exeunt._]

PAROLLES.
Yet am I thankful. If my heart were great
’Twould burst at this. Captain I’ll be no more,
But I will eat, and drink, and sleep as soft
As captain shall. Simply the thing I am
Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart,
Let him fear this; for it will come to pass
That every braggart shall be found an ass.
Rust, sword; cool, blushes; and, Parolles live
Safest in shame; being fool’d, by foolery thrive.
There’s place and means for every man alive.
I’ll after them.

 [_Exit._]

SCENE IV. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house.

 Enter Helena, Widow and Diana.

HELENA.
That you may well perceive I have not wrong’d you
One of the greatest in the Christian world
Shall be my surety; fore whose throne ’tis needful,
Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel.
Time was I did him a desired office,
Dear almost as his life; which gratitude
Through flinty Tartar’s bosom would peep forth,
And answer thanks. I duly am inform’d
His grace is at Marseilles; to which place
We have convenient convoy. You must know
I am supposed dead. The army breaking,
My husband hies him home, where, heaven aiding,
And by the leave of my good lord the king,
We’ll be before our welcome.

WIDOW.
Gentle madam,
You never had a servant to whose trust
Your business was more welcome.

HELENA.
Nor you, mistress,
Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour
To recompense your love. Doubt not but heaven
Hath brought me up to be your daughter’s dower,
As it hath fated her to be my motive
And helper to a husband. But, O strange men!
That can such sweet use make of what they hate,
When saucy trusting of the cozen’d thoughts
Defiles the pitchy night; so lust doth play
With what it loathes, for that which is away.
But more of this hereafter. You, Diana,
Under my poor instructions yet must suffer
Something in my behalf.

DIANA.
Let death and honesty
Go with your impositions, I am yours
Upon your will to suffer.

HELENA.
Yet, I pray you;
But with the word the time will bring on summer,
When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp. We must away;
Our waggon is prepar’d, and time revives us.
All’s well that ends well; still the fine’s the crown.
Whate’er the course, the end is the renown.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.

 Enter Clown, Countess and Lafew.

LAFEW.
No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow there,
whose villanous saffron would have made all the unbak’d and doughy
youth of a nation in his colour. Your daughter-in-law had been alive at
this hour, and your son here at home, more advanc’d by the king than by
that red-tail’d humble-bee I speak of.

COUNTESS.
I would I had not known him; it was the death of the most virtuous
gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating. If she had
partaken of my flesh and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I
could not have owed her a more rooted love.

LAFEW.
’Twas a good lady, ’twas a good lady. We may pick a thousand salads ere
we light on such another herb.

CLOWN.
Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the salad, or, rather, the
herb of grace.

LAFEW.
They are not herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs.

CLOWN.
I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in grass.

LAFEW.
Whether dost thou profess thyself,—a knave or a fool?

CLOWN.
A fool, sir, at a woman’s service, and a knave at a man’s.

LAFEW.
Your distinction?

CLOWN.
I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his service.

LAFEW.
So you were a knave at his service indeed.

CLOWN.
And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service.

LAFEW.
I will subscribe for thee; thou art both knave and fool.

CLOWN.
At your service.

LAFEW.
No, no, no.

CLOWN.
Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a prince as you
are.

LAFEW.
Who’s that? a Frenchman?

CLOWN.
Faith, sir, ’a has an English name; but his phisnomy is more hotter in
France than there.

LAFEW.
What prince is that?

CLOWN.
The black prince, sir; alias the prince of darkness; alias the devil.

LAFEW.
Hold thee, there’s my purse. I give thee not this to suggest thee from
thy master thou talk’st of; serve him still.

CLOWN.
I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire, and the
master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. But sure he is the prince of
the world; let his nobility remain in’s court. I am for the house with
the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some
that humble themselves may, but the many will be too chill and tender,
and they’ll be for the flow’ry way that leads to the broad gate and the
great fire.

LAFEW.
Go thy ways, I begin to be a-weary of thee; and I tell thee so before,
because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways; let my horses be
well look’d to, without any tricks.

CLOWN.
If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall be jades’ tricks, which
are their own right by the law of nature.

 [_Exit._]

LAFEW.
A shrewd knave, and an unhappy.

COUNTESS.
So he is. My lord that’s gone made himself much sport out of him; by
his authority he remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his
sauciness; and indeed he has no pace, but runs where he will.

LAFEW.
I like him well; ’tis not amiss. And I was about to tell you, since I
heard of the good lady’s death, and that my lord your son was upon his
return home, I moved the king my master to speak in the behalf of my
daughter; which, in the minority of them both, his majesty out of a
self-gracious remembrance did first propose. His highness hath promis’d
me to do it; and, to stop up the displeasure he hath conceived against
your son, there is no fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it?

COUNTESS.
With very much content, my lord, and I wish it happily effected.

LAFEW.
His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as when he
number’d thirty; he will be here tomorrow, or I am deceived by him that
in such intelligence hath seldom fail’d.

COUNTESS.
It rejoices me that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I have letters
that my son will be here tonight. I shall beseech your lordship to
remain with me till they meet together.

LAFEW.
Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted.

COUNTESS.
You need but plead your honourable privilege.

LAFEW.
Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but, I thank my God, it holds
yet.

 Enter Clown.

CLOWN.
O madam, yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of velvet on’s face;
whether there be a scar under’t or no, the velvet knows; but ’tis a
goodly patch of velvet. His left cheek is a cheek of two pile and a
half, but his right cheek is worn bare.

LAFEW.
A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honour; so
belike is that.

CLOWN.
But it is your carbonado’d face.

LAFEW.
Let us go see your son, I pray you. I long to talk with the young noble
soldier.

CLOWN.
Faith, there’s a dozen of ’em, with delicate fine hats, and most
courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod at every man.

 [_Exeunt._]


ACT V.

SCENE I. Marseilles. A street.

 Enter Helena, Widow and Diana with two Attendants.

HELENA.
But this exceeding posting day and night
Must wear your spirits low. We cannot help it.
But since you have made the days and nights as one,
To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs,
Be bold you do so grow in my requital
As nothing can unroot you. In happy time;—

 Enter a Gentleman.

This man may help me to his majesty’s ear,
If he would spend his power. God save you, sir.

GENTLEMAN.
And you.

HELENA.
Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.

GENTLEMAN.
I have been sometimes there.

HELENA.
I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen
From the report that goes upon your goodness;
And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions,
Which lay nice manners by, I put you to
The use of your own virtues, for the which
I shall continue thankful.

GENTLEMAN.
What’s your will?

HELENA.
That it will please you
To give this poor petition to the king,
And aid me with that store of power you have
To come into his presence.

GENTLEMAN.
The king’s not here.

HELENA.
Not here, sir?

GENTLEMAN.
Not indeed.
He hence remov’d last night, and with more haste
Than is his use.

WIDOW.
Lord, how we lose our pains!

HELENA.
All’s well that ends well yet,
Though time seem so adverse and means unfit.
I do beseech you, whither is he gone?

GENTLEMAN.
Marry, as I take it, to Rossillon;
Whither I am going.

HELENA.
I do beseech you, sir,
Since you are like to see the king before me,
Commend the paper to his gracious hand,
Which I presume shall render you no blame,
But rather make you thank your pains for it.
I will come after you with what good speed
Our means will make us means.

GENTLEMAN.
This I’ll do for you.

HELENA.
And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d,
Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again.
Go, go, provide.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Rossillon. The inner court of the Countess’s palace.

 Enter Clown and Parolles.

PAROLLES.
Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafew this letter; I have ere now,
sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with
fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in Fortune’s mood, and
smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure.

CLOWN.
Truly, Fortune’s displeasure is but sluttish, if it smell so strongly
as thou speak’st of. I will henceforth eat no fish of Fortune’s
buttering. Pr’ythee, allow the wind.

PAROLLES.
Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir. I spake but by a metaphor.

CLOWN.
Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose, or against
any man’s metaphor. Pr’ythee, get thee further.

PAROLLES.
Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.

CLOWN.
Foh, pr’ythee stand away. A paper from Fortune’s close-stool to give to
a nobleman! Look here he comes himself.

 Enter Lafew.

Here is a pur of Fortune’s, sir, or of Fortune’s cat, but not a
musk-cat, that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure,
and as he says, is muddied withal. Pray you, sir, use the carp as you
may, for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally
knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort, and leave him
to your lordship.

 [_Exit._]

PAROLLES.
My lord, I am a man whom Fortune hath cruelly scratch’d.

LAFEW.
And what would you have me to do? ’Tis too late to pare her nails now.
Wherein have you played the knave with Fortune that she should scratch
you, who of herself is a good lady, and would not have knaves thrive
long under her? There’s a quart d’ecu for you. Let the justices make
you and Fortune friends; I am for other business.

PAROLLES.
I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.

LAFEW.
You beg a single penny more. Come, you shall ha’t; save your word.

PAROLLES.
My name, my good lord, is Parolles.

LAFEW.
You beg more than word then. Cox my passion! Give me your hand. How
does your drum?

PAROLLES.
O my good lord, you were the first that found me.

LAFEW.
Was I, in sooth? And I was the first that lost thee.

PAROLLES.
It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring
me out.

LAFEW.
Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once both the office of
God and the devil? One brings the in grace, and the other brings thee
out.

 [_Trumpets sound._]

The king’s coming; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further
after me. I had talk of you last night; though you are a fool and a
knave, you shall eat. Go to; follow.

PAROLLES.
I praise God for you.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. The same. A room in the Countess’s palace.

 Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafew, Lords, Gentlemen, Guards &c.

KING.
We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem
Was made much poorer by it; but your son,
As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know
Her estimation home.

COUNTESS.
’Tis past, my liege,
And I beseech your majesty to make it
Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth,
When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force,
O’erbears it and burns on.

KING.
My honour’d lady,
I have forgiven and forgotten all,
Though my revenges were high bent upon him,
And watch’d the time to shoot.

LAFEW.
This I must say,—
But first, I beg my pardon,—the young lord
Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady,
Offence of mighty note; but to himself
The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife
Whose beauty did astonish the survey
Of richest eyes; whose words all ears took captive;
Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve
Humbly call’d mistress.

KING.
Praising what is lost
Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither;
We are reconcil’d, and the first view shall kill
All repetition. Let him not ask our pardon;
The nature of his great offence is dead,
And deeper than oblivion do we bury
Th’ incensing relics of it. Let him approach
A stranger, no offender; and inform him
So ’tis our will he should.

GENTLEMAN.
I shall, my liege.

 [_Exit Gentleman._]

KING.
What says he to your daughter? Have you spoke?

LAFEW.
All that he is hath reference to your highness.

KING.
Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me
That sets him high in fame.

 Enter Bertram.

LAFEW.
He looks well on ’t.

KING.
I am not a day of season,
For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail
In me at once. But to the brightest beams
Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth;
The time is fair again.

BERTRAM.
My high-repented blames
Dear sovereign, pardon to me.

KING.
All is whole.
Not one word more of the consumed time.
Let’s take the instant by the forward top;
For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees
Th’inaudible and noiseless foot of time
Steals ere we can effect them. You remember
The daughter of this lord?

BERTRAM.
Admiringly, my liege. At first
I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart
Durst make too bold herald of my tongue:
Where the impression of mine eye infixing,
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,
Which warp’d the line of every other favour,
Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen,
Extended or contracted all proportions
To a most hideous object. Thence it came
That she whom all men prais’d, and whom myself,
Since I have lost, have lov’d, was in mine eye
The dust that did offend it.

KING.
Well excus’d:
That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away
From the great compt: but love that comes too late,
Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,
To the great sender turns a sour offence,
Crying, That’s good that’s gone. Our rash faults
Make trivial price of serious things we have,
Not knowing them until we know their grave.
Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,
Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust:
Our own love waking cries to see what’s done,
While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.
Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her.
Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin.
The main consents are had, and here we’ll stay
To see our widower’s second marriage-day.

COUNTESS.
Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless!
Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse!

LAFEW.
Come on, my son, in whom my house’s name
Must be digested; give a favour from you,
To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,
That she may quickly come.

 [_Bertram gives a ring to Lafew._]

By my old beard,
And ev’ry hair that’s on ’t, Helen that’s dead
Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this,
The last that e’er I took her leave at court,
I saw upon her finger.

BERTRAM.
Hers it was not.

KING.
Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye,
While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to it.
This ring was mine; and when I gave it Helen
I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood
Necessitied to help, that by this token
I would relieve her. Had you that craft to ’reave her
Of what should stead her most?

BERTRAM.
My gracious sovereign,
Howe’er it pleases you to take it so,
The ring was never hers.

COUNTESS.
Son, on my life,
I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it
At her life’s rate.

LAFEW.
I am sure I saw her wear it.

BERTRAM.
You are deceiv’d, my lord; she never saw it.
In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,
Wrapp’d in a paper, which contain’d the name
Of her that threw it. Noble she was, and thought
I stood engag’d; but when I had subscrib’d
To mine own fortune, and inform’d her fully
I could not answer in that course of honour
As she had made the overture, she ceas’d,
In heavy satisfaction, and would never
Receive the ring again.

KING.
Plutus himself,
That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,
Hath not in nature’s mystery more science
Than I have in this ring. ’Twas mine, ’twas Helen’s,
Whoever gave it you. Then if you know
That you are well acquainted with yourself,
Confess ’twas hers, and by what rough enforcement
You got it from her. She call’d the saints to surety
That she would never put it from her finger
Unless she gave it to yourself in bed,
Where you have never come, or sent it us
Upon her great disaster.

BERTRAM.
She never saw it.

KING.
Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine honour,
And mak’st conjectural fears to come into me
Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove
That thou art so inhuman,—’twill not prove so:
And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly.
And she is dead; which nothing but to close
Her eyes myself, could win me to believe
More than to see this ring. Take him away.

 [_Guards seize Bertram._]

My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall,
Shall tax my fears of little vanity,
Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with him.
We’ll sift this matter further.

BERTRAM.
If you shall prove
This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy
Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,
Where she yet never was.

 [_Exit, guarded._]

KING.
I am wrapp’d in dismal thinkings.

 Enter a Gentleman.

GENTLEMAN.
Gracious sovereign,
Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not:
Here’s a petition from a Florentine,
Who hath for four or five removes come short
To tender it herself. I undertook it,
Vanquish’d thereto by the fair grace and speech
Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know,
Is here attending: her business looks in her
With an importing visage, and she told me
In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern
Your highness with herself.

KING.
[_Reads._] _Upon his many protestations to marry me when his wife was
dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the Count Rossillon a
widower; his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour’s paid to him. He
stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to his country
for justice. Grant it me, O king, in you it best lies; otherwise a
seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone._
                                    DIANA CAPILET.

LAFEW.
I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for this. I’ll none of
him.

KING.
The heavens have thought well on thee, Lafew,
To bring forth this discovery. Seek these suitors.
Go speedily, and bring again the count.

 [_Exeunt Gentleman and some Attendants._]

I am afeard the life of Helen, lady,
Was foully snatch’d.

COUNTESS.
Now, justice on the doers!

 Enter Bertram, guarded.

KING.
I wonder, sir, since wives are monsters to you,
And that you fly them as you swear them lordship,
Yet you desire to marry. What woman’s that?

 Enter Widow and Diana.

DIANA.
I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine,
Derived from the ancient Capilet;
My suit, as I do understand, you know,
And therefore know how far I may be pitied.

WIDOW.
I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour
Both suffer under this complaint we bring,
And both shall cease, without your remedy.

KING.
Come hither, count; do you know these women?

BERTRAM.
My lord, I neither can nor will deny
But that I know them. Do they charge me further?

DIANA.
Why do you look so strange upon your wife?

BERTRAM.
She’s none of mine, my lord.

DIANA.
If you shall marry,
You give away this hand, and that is mine,
You give away heaven’s vows, and those are mine,
You give away myself, which is known mine;
For I by vow am so embodied yours
That she which marries you must marry me,
Either both or none.

LAFEW.
[_To Bertram_] Your reputation comes too short for my daughter; you are
no husband for her.

BERTRAM.
My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature
Whom sometime I have laugh’d with. Let your highness
Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour
Than for to think that I would sink it here.

KING.
Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend
Till your deeds gain them; fairer prove your honour
Than in my thought it lies!

DIANA.
Good my lord,
Ask him upon his oath, if he does think
He had not my virginity.

KING.
What say’st thou to her?

BERTRAM.
She’s impudent, my lord,
And was a common gamester to the camp.

DIANA.
He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so
He might have bought me at a common price.
Do not believe him. O, behold this ring,
Whose high respect and rich validity
Did lack a parallel; yet for all that
He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp,
If I be one.

COUNTESS.
He blushes, and ’tis it.
Of six preceding ancestors, that gem
Conferr’d by testament to th’ sequent issue,
Hath it been owed and worn. This is his wife;
That ring’s a thousand proofs.

KING.
Methought you said
You saw one here in court could witness it.

DIANA.
I did, my lord, but loath am to produce
So bad an instrument; his name’s Parolles.

LAFEW.
I saw the man today, if man he be.

KING.
Find him, and bring him hither.

 [_Exit an Attendant._]

BERTRAM.
What of him?
He’s quoted for a most perfidious slave,
With all the spots o’ the world tax’d and debauch’d:
Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth.
Am I or that or this for what he’ll utter,
That will speak anything?

KING.
She hath that ring of yours.

BERTRAM.
I think she has. Certain it is I lik’d her
And boarded her i’ the wanton way of youth.
She knew her distance, and did angle for me,
Madding my eagerness with her restraint,
As all impediments in fancy’s course
Are motives of more fancy; and in fine,
Her infinite cunning with her modern grace,
Subdu’d me to her rate; she got the ring,
And I had that which any inferior might
At market-price have bought.

DIANA.
I must be patient.
You that have turn’d off a first so noble wife
May justly diet me. I pray you yet,—
Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband—
Send for your ring, I will return it home,
And give me mine again.

BERTRAM.
I have it not.

KING.
What ring was yours, I pray you?

DIANA.
Sir, much like
The same upon your finger.

KING.
Know you this ring? This ring was his of late.

DIANA.
And this was it I gave him, being abed.

KING.
The story then goes false you threw it him
Out of a casement.

DIANA.
I have spoke the truth.

 Enter Attendant with Parolles.

BERTRAM.
My lord, I do confess the ring was hers.

KING.
You boggle shrewdly; every feather starts you.
Is this the man you speak of?

DIANA.
Ay, my lord.

KING.
Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true I charge you,
Not fearing the displeasure of your master,
Which on your just proceeding, I’ll keep off,—
By him and by this woman here what know you?

PAROLLES.
So please your majesty, my master hath been an honourable gentleman.
Tricks he hath had in him, which gentlemen have.

KING.
Come, come, to the purpose. Did he love this woman?

PAROLLES.
Faith, sir, he did love her; but how?

KING.
How, I pray you?

PAROLLES.
He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.

KING.
How is that?

PAROLLES.
He lov’d her, sir, and lov’d her not.

KING.
As thou art a knave and no knave.
What an equivocal companion is this!

PAROLLES.
I am a poor man, and at your majesty’s command.

LAFEW.
He’s a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator.

DIANA.
Do you know he promised me marriage?

PAROLLES.
Faith, I know more than I’ll speak.

KING.
But wilt thou not speak all thou know’st?

PAROLLES.
Yes, so please your majesty. I did go between them as I said; but more
than that, he loved her, for indeed he was mad for her, and talked of
Satan, and of Limbo, and of furies, and I know not what: yet I was in
that credit with them at that time that I knew of their going to bed;
and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would
derive me ill will to speak of; therefore I will not speak what I know.

KING.
Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou canst say they are married;
but thou art too fine in thy evidence; therefore stand aside. This
ring, you say, was yours?

DIANA.
Ay, my good lord.

KING.
Where did you buy it? Or who gave it you?

DIANA.
It was not given me, nor I did not buy it.

KING.
Who lent it you?

DIANA.
It was not lent me neither.

KING.
Where did you find it then?

DIANA.
I found it not.

KING.
If it were yours by none of all these ways,
How could you give it him?

DIANA.
I never gave it him.

LAFEW.
This woman’s an easy glove, my lord; she goes off and on at pleasure.

KING.
This ring was mine, I gave it his first wife.

DIANA.
It might be yours or hers for ought I know.

KING.
Take her away, I do not like her now.
To prison with her. And away with him.
Unless thou tell’st me where thou hadst this ring,
Thou diest within this hour.

DIANA.
I’ll never tell you.

KING.
Take her away.

DIANA.
I’ll put in bail, my liege.

KING.
I think thee now some common customer.

DIANA.
By Jove, if ever I knew man, ’twas you.

KING.
Wherefore hast thou accus’d him all this while?

DIANA.
Because he’s guilty, and he is not guilty.
He knows I am no maid, and he’ll swear to’t:
I’ll swear I am a maid, and he knows not.
Great King, I am no strumpet, by my life;
I am either maid, or else this old man’s wife.

 [_Pointing to Lafew._]

KING.
She does abuse our ears; to prison with her.

DIANA.
Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal sir;

 [_Exit Widow._]

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,
And he shall surety me. But for this lord
Who hath abus’d me as he knows himself,
Though yet he never harm’d me, here I quit him.
He knows himself my bed he hath defil’d;
And at that time he got his wife with child.
Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick;
So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick,
And now behold the meaning.

 Enter Widow with Helena.

KING.
Is there no exorcist
Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?
Is’t real that I see?

HELENA.
No, my good lord;
’Tis but the shadow of a wife you see,
The name, and not the thing.

BERTRAM.
Both, both. O, pardon!

HELENA.
O, my good lord, when I was like this maid;
I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring,
And, look you, here’s your letter. This it says,
‘When from my finger you can get this ring,
And is by me with child, &c.’ This is done;
Will you be mine now you are doubly won?

BERTRAM.
If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly,
I’ll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.

HELENA.
If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,
Deadly divorce step between me and you!
O my dear mother, do I see you living?

LAFEW.
Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon.
[_to Parolles_] Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher.
So, I thank thee. Wait on me home, I’ll make sport with thee.
Let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones.

KING.
Let us from point to point this story know,
To make the even truth in pleasure flow.
[_To Diana._] If thou beest yet a fresh uncropped flower,
Choose thou thy husband, and I’ll pay thy dower;
For I can guess that by thy honest aid,
Thou kept’st a wife herself, thyself a maid.
Of that and all the progress more and less,
Resolvedly more leisure shall express.
All yet seems well, and if it end so meet,
The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

 [_Flourish._]

[EPILOGUE]

_The king’s a beggar, now the play is done;
All is well ended if this suit be won,
That you express content; which we will pay
With strife to please you, day exceeding day.
Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts;
Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts._

 [_Exeunt omnes._]




ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA


Contents

ACT I
Scene I.
Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace.
Scene II.
Alexandria. Another Room in Cleopatra’s palace.
Scene III.
Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace.
Scene IV.
Rome. An Apartment in Caesar’s House
Scene V.
Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

ACT II
Scene I.
Messina. A Room in Pompey’s house.
Scene II.
Rome. A Room in the House of Lepidus.
Scene III.
Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House.
Scene IV.
Rome. A street.
Scene V.
Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
Scene VI.
Near Misenum.
Scene VII.
On board Pompey’s Galley, lying near Misenum.

ACT III
Scene I.
A plain in Syria.
Scene II.
Rome. An Ante-chamber in Caesar’s house.
Scene III.
Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
Scene IV.
Athens. A Room in Antony’s House.
Scene V.
Athens. Another Room in Antony’s House.
Scene VI.
Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House.
Scene VII.
Antony’s Camp near the Promontory of Actium.
Scene VIII.
A plain near Actium.
Scene IX.
Another part of the Plain.
Scene X.
Another part of the Plain.
Scene XI.
Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
Scene XII.
Caesar’s camp in Egypt.
Scene XIII.
Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

ACT IV
Scene I.
Caesar’s Camp at Alexandria.
Scene II.
Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
Scene III.
Alexandria. Before the Palace.
Scene IV.
Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
Scene V.
Antony’s camp near Alexandria.
Scene VI.
Alexandria. Caesar’s camp.
Scene VII.
Field of battle between the Camps.
Scene VIII.
Under the Walls of Alexandria.
Scene IX.
Caesar’s camp.
Scene X.
Ground between the two Camps.
Scene XI.
Another part of the Ground.
Scene XII.
Another part of the Ground.
Scene XIII.
Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
Scene XIV.
Alexandria. Another Room.
Scene XV.
Alexandria. A monument.

ACT V
Scene I.
Caesar’s Camp before Alexandria.
Scene II.
Alexandria. A Room in the Monument.


Dramatis Personæ

MARK ANTONY, Triumvir
OCTAVIUS CAESAR, Triumvir
LEPIDUS, Triumvir
SEXTUS POMPEIUS,
DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS, friend to Antony
VENTIDIUS, friend to Antony
EROS, friend to Antony
SCARUS, friend to Antony
DERCETUS, friend to Antony
DEMETRIUS, friend to Antony
PHILO, friend to Antony
MAECENAS, friend to Caesar
AGRIPPA, friend to Caesar
DOLABELLA, friend to Caesar
PROCULEIUS, friend to Caesar
THIDIAS, friend to Caesar
GALLUS, friend to Caesar
MENAS, friend to Pompey
MENECRATES, friend to Pompey
VARRIUS, friend to Pompey
TAURUS, Lieutenant-General to Caesar
CANIDIUS, Lieutenant-General to Antony
SILIUS, an Officer in Ventidius’s army
EUPHRONIUS, an Ambassador from Antony to Caesar
ALEXAS, attendant on Cleopatra
MARDIAN, attendant on Cleopatra
SELEUCUS, attendant on Cleopatra
DIOMEDES, attendant on Cleopatra
A SOOTHSAYER
A CLOWN

CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt
OCTAVIA, sister to Caesar and wife to Antony
CHARMIAN, Attendant on Cleopatra
IRAS, Attendant on Cleopatra

Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants

SCENE: Dispersed, in several parts of the Roman Empire.




ACT I


SCENE I. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace.

 Enter Demetrius and Philo.

PHILO.
Nay, but this dotage of our general’s
O’erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes,
That o’er the files and musters of the war
Have glowed like plated Mars, now bend, now turn
The office and devotion of their view
Upon a tawny front. His captain’s heart,
Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst
The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper
And is become the bellows and the fan
To cool a gipsy’s lust.

 Flourish. Enter Antony and Cleopatra, her Ladies, the Train, with
 Eunuchs fanning her.

Look where they come:
Take but good note, and you shall see in him
The triple pillar of the world transform’d
Into a strumpet’s fool. Behold and see.

CLEOPATRA.
If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

ANTONY.
There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.

CLEOPATRA.
I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved.

ANTONY.
Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

 Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER.
News, my good lord, from Rome.

ANTONY.
Grates me, the sum.

CLEOPATRA.
Nay, hear them, Antony.
Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows
If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent
His powerful mandate to you: “Do this or this;
Take in that kingdom and enfranchise that.
Perform’t, or else we damn thee.”

ANTONY.
How, my love?

CLEOPATRA.
Perchance! Nay, and most like.
You must not stay here longer; your dismission
Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony.
Where’s Fulvia’s process?—Caesar’s I would say? Both?
Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s queen,
Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine
Is Caesar’s homager; else so thy cheek pays shame
When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers!

ANTONY.
Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch
Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space.
Kingdoms are clay. Our dungy earth alike
Feeds beast as man. The nobleness of life
Is to do thus [_Embracing_]; when such a mutual pair
And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind,
On pain of punishment, the world to weet
We stand up peerless.

CLEOPATRA.
Excellent falsehood!
Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?
I’ll seem the fool I am not. Antony
Will be himself.

ANTONY.
But stirred by Cleopatra.
Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours,
Let’s not confound the time with conference harsh.
There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch
Without some pleasure now. What sport tonight?

CLEOPATRA.
Hear the ambassadors.

ANTONY.
Fie, wrangling queen!
Whom everything becomes—to chide, to laugh,
To weep; whose every passion fully strives
To make itself, in thee fair and admired!
No messenger but thine, and all alone
Tonight we’ll wander through the streets and note
The qualities of people. Come, my queen,
Last night you did desire it. Speak not to us.

 [_Exeunt Antony and Cleopatra with the Train._]

DEMETRIUS.
Is Caesar with Antonius prized so slight?

PHILO.
Sir, sometimes when he is not Antony,
He comes too short of that great property
Which still should go with Antony.

DEMETRIUS.
I am full sorry
That he approves the common liar who
Thus speaks of him at Rome, but I will hope
Of better deeds tomorrow. Rest you happy!

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Alexandria. Another Room in Cleopatra’s palace.

 Enter Enobarbus, a Soothsayer, Charmian, Iras, Mardian and Alexas.

CHARMIAN.
Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost most absolute
Alexas, where’s the soothsayer that you praised so to th’ queen? O,
that I knew this husband which you say must charge his horns with
garlands!

ALEXAS.
Soothsayer!

SOOTHSAYER.
Your will?

CHARMIAN.
Is this the man? Is’t you, sir, that know things?

SOOTHSAYER.
In nature’s infinite book of secrecy
A little I can read.

ALEXAS.
Show him your hand.

ENOBARBUS.
Bring in the banquet quickly; wine enough
Cleopatra’s health to drink.

CHARMIAN.
Good, sir, give me good fortune.

SOOTHSAYER.
I make not, but foresee.

CHARMIAN.
Pray, then, foresee me one.

SOOTHSAYER.
You shall be yet far fairer than you are.

CHARMIAN.
He means in flesh.

IRAS.
No, you shall paint when you are old.

CHARMIAN.
Wrinkles forbid!

ALEXAS.
Vex not his prescience. Be attentive.

CHARMIAN.
Hush!

SOOTHSAYER.
You shall be more beloving than beloved.

CHARMIAN.
I had rather heat my liver with drinking.

ALEXAS.
Nay, hear him.

CHARMIAN.
Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married to three kings in a
forenoon and widow them all. Let me have a child at fifty, to whom
Herod of Jewry may do homage. Find me to marry me with Octavius Caesar,
and companion me with my mistress.

SOOTHSAYER.
You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.

CHARMIAN.
O, excellent! I love long life better than figs.

SOOTHSAYER.
You have seen and proved a fairer former fortune
Than that which is to approach.

CHARMIAN.
Then belike my children shall have no names. Prithee, how many boys and
wenches must I have?

SOOTHSAYER.
If every of your wishes had a womb,
And fertile every wish, a million.

CHARMIAN.
Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.

ALEXAS.
You think none but your sheets are privy to your wishes.

CHARMIAN.
Nay, come, tell Iras hers.

ALEXAS.
We’ll know all our fortunes.

ENOBARBUS.
Mine, and most of our fortunes tonight, shall be drunk to bed.

IRAS.
There’s a palm presages chastity, if nothing else.

CHARMIAN.
E’en as the o’erflowing Nilus presageth famine.

IRAS.
Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.

CHARMIAN.
Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I cannot
scratch mine ear. Prithee, tell her but workaday fortune.

SOOTHSAYER.
Your fortunes are alike.

IRAS.
But how, but how? give me particulars.

SOOTHSAYER.
I have said.

IRAS.
Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?

CHARMIAN.
Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I, where would you
choose it?

IRAS.
Not in my husband’s nose.

CHARMIAN.
Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas—come, his fortune! his
fortune! O, let him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech
thee, and let her die too, and give him a worse, and let worse follow
worse, till the worst of all follow him laughing to his grave,
fiftyfold a cuckold! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny
me a matter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech thee!

IRAS.
Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people! For, as it is a
heartbreaking to see a handsome man loose-wived, so it is a deadly
sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded. Therefore, dear Isis, keep
decorum and fortune him accordingly!

CHARMIAN.
Amen.

ALEXAS.
Lo now, if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they would make
themselves whores but they’d do’t!

 Enter Cleopatra.

ENOBARBUS.
Hush, Here comes Antony.

CHARMIAN.
Not he, the queen.

CLEOPATRA.
Saw you my lord?

ENOBARBUS.
No, lady.

CLEOPATRA.
Was he not here?

CHARMIAN.
No, madam.

CLEOPATRA.
He was disposed to mirth; but on the sudden
A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus!

ENOBARBUS.
Madam?

CLEOPATRA.
Seek him and bring him hither. Where’s Alexas?

ALEXAS.
Here, at your service. My lord approaches.

 Enter Antony with a Messenger.

CLEOPATRA.
We will not look upon him. Go with us.

 [_Exeunt Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, Iras, Alexas and
 Soothsayer._]

MESSENGER.
Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.

ANTONY.
Against my brother Lucius.

MESSENGER.
Ay.
But soon that war had end, and the time’s state
Made friends of them, jointing their force ’gainst Caesar,
Whose better issue in the war from Italy
Upon the first encounter drave them.

ANTONY.
Well, what worst?

MESSENGER.
The nature of bad news infects the teller.

ANTONY.
When it concerns the fool or coward. On.
Things that are past are done with me. ’Tis thus:
Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death,
I hear him as he flattered.

MESSENGER.
Labienus—
This is stiff news—hath with his Parthian force
Extended Asia from Euphrates
His conquering banner shook from Syria
To Lydia and to Ionia,
Whilst—

ANTONY.
“Antony”, thou wouldst say—

MESSENGER.
O, my lord!

ANTONY.
Speak to me home; mince not the general tongue.
Name Cleopatra as she is called in Rome;
Rail thou in Fulvia’s phrase, and taunt my faults
With such full licence as both truth and malice
Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds
When our quick minds lie still, and our ills told us
Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile.

MESSENGER.
At your noble pleasure.

 [_Exit Messenger._]

 Enter another Messenger.

ANTONY.
From Sicyon, ho, the news? Speak there!

SECOND MESSENGER.
The man from Sicyon—

ANTONY.
Is there such a one?

SECOND MESSENGER.
He stays upon your will.

ANTONY.
Let him appear.

 [_Exit second Messenger._]

These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,
Or lose myself in dotage.

 Enter another Messenger with a letter.

What are you?

THIRD MESSENGER.
Fulvia thy wife is dead.

ANTONY.
Where died she?

THIRD MESSENGER.
In Sicyon:
Her length of sickness, with what else more serious
Importeth thee to know, this bears.

 [_Gives a letter._]

ANTONY.
Forbear me.

 [_Exit third Messenger._]

There’s a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it.
What our contempts doth often hurl from us,
We wish it ours again. The present pleasure,
By revolution lowering, does become
The opposite of itself. She’s good, being gone.
The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on.
I must from this enchanting queen break off.
Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,
My idleness doth hatch. How now, Enobarbus!

 Enter Enobarbus.

ENOBARBUS.
What’s your pleasure, sir?

ANTONY.
I must with haste from hence.

ENOBARBUS.
Why then we kill all our women. We see how mortal an unkindness is to
them. If they suffer our departure, death’s the word.

ANTONY.
I must be gone.

ENOBARBUS.
Under a compelling occasion, let women die. It were pity to cast them
away for nothing, though, between them and a great cause they should be
esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies
instantly. I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment. I
do think there is mettle in death which commits some loving act upon
her, she hath such a celerity in dying.

ANTONY.
She is cunning past man’s thought.

ENOBARBUS.
Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of
pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they
are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report. This cannot
be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as
Jove.

ANTONY.
Would I had never seen her!

ENOBARBUS.
O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work, which not
to have been blest withal would have discredited your travel.

ANTONY.
Fulvia is dead.

ENOBARBUS.
Sir?

ANTONY.
Fulvia is dead.

ENOBARBUS.
Fulvia?

ANTONY.
Dead.

ENOBARBUS.
Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their
deities to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to man the tailors
of the earth; comforting therein that when old robes are worn out,
there are members to make new. If there were no more women but Fulvia,
then had you indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented. This grief is
crowned with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat:
and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.

ANTONY.
The business she hath broached in the state
Cannot endure my absence.

ENOBARBUS.
And the business you have broached here cannot be without you,
especially that of Cleopatra’s, which wholly depends on your abode.

ANTONY.
No more light answers. Let our officers
Have notice what we purpose. I shall break
The cause of our expedience to the Queen,
And get her leave to part. For not alone
The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,
Do strongly speak to us, but the letters too
Of many our contriving friends in Rome
Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius
Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands
The empire of the sea. Our slippery people,
Whose love is never linked to the deserver
Till his deserts are past, begin to throw
Pompey the Great and all his dignities
Upon his son, who, high in name and power,
Higher than both in blood and life, stands up
For the main soldier; whose quality, going on,
The sides o’ th’ world may danger. Much is breeding
Which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but life
And not a serpent’s poison. Say our pleasure
To such whose place is under us, requires
Our quick remove from hence.

ENOBARBUS.
I shall do’t.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace.

 Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Alexas and Iras.

CLEOPATRA.
Where is he?

CHARMIAN.
I did not see him since.

CLEOPATRA.
See where he is, who’s with him, what he does.
I did not send you. If you find him sad,
Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report
That I am sudden sick. Quick, and return.

 [_Exit Alexas._]

CHARMIAN.
Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,
You do not hold the method to enforce
The like from him.

CLEOPATRA.
What should I do I do not?

CHARMIAN.
In each thing give him way; cross him in nothing.

CLEOPATRA.
Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him.

CHARMIAN.
Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
But here comes Antony.

 Enter Antony.

CLEOPATRA.
I am sick and sullen.

ANTONY.
I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose—

CLEOPATRA.
Help me away, dear Charmian! I shall fall.
It cannot be thus long; the sides of nature
Will not sustain it.

ANTONY.
Now, my dearest queen—

CLEOPATRA.
Pray you, stand farther from me.

ANTONY.
What’s the matter?

CLEOPATRA.
I know by that same eye there’s some good news.
What, says the married woman you may go?
Would she had never given you leave to come!
Let her not say ’tis I that keep you here.
I have no power upon you; hers you are.

ANTONY.
The gods best know—

CLEOPATRA.
O, never was there queen
So mightily betrayed! Yet at the first
I saw the treasons planted.

ANTONY.
Cleopatra—

CLEOPATRA.
Why should I think you can be mine and true,
Though you in swearing shake the throned gods,
Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,
To be entangled with those mouth-made vows
Which break themselves in swearing!

ANTONY.
Most sweet queen—

CLEOPATRA.
Nay, pray you seek no colour for your going,
But bid farewell and go. When you sued staying,
Then was the time for words. No going then,
Eternity was in our lips and eyes,
Bliss in our brows’ bent; none our parts so poor
But was a race of heaven. They are so still,
Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,
Art turned the greatest liar.

ANTONY.
How now, lady!

CLEOPATRA.
I would I had thy inches, thou shouldst know
There were a heart in Egypt.

ANTONY.
Hear me, queen:
The strong necessity of time commands
Our services awhile, but my full heart
Remains in use with you. Our Italy
Shines o’er with civil swords; Sextus Pompeius
Makes his approaches to the port of Rome;
Equality of two domestic powers
Breed scrupulous faction; the hated, grown to strength,
Are newly grown to love; the condemned Pompey,
Rich in his father’s honour, creeps apace
Into the hearts of such as have not thrived
Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten;
And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge
By any desperate change. My more particular,
And that which most with you should safe my going,
Is Fulvia’s death.

CLEOPATRA.
Though age from folly could not give me freedom,
It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?

ANTONY.
She’s dead, my queen.
Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read
The garboils she awaked; at the last, best,
See when and where she died.

CLEOPATRA.
O most false love!
Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill
With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see,
In Fulvia’s death how mine received shall be.

ANTONY.
Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know
The purposes I bear; which are, or cease,
As you shall give th’ advice. By the fire
That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from hence
Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war
As thou affects.

CLEOPATRA.
Cut my lace, Charmian, come!
But let it be; I am quickly ill and well,
So Antony loves.

ANTONY.
My precious queen, forbear,
And give true evidence to his love, which stands
An honourable trial.

CLEOPATRA.
So Fulvia told me.
I prithee, turn aside and weep for her,
Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears
Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene
Of excellent dissembling, and let it look
Like perfect honour.

ANTONY.
You’ll heat my blood. No more.

CLEOPATRA.
You can do better yet, but this is meetly.

ANTONY.
Now, by my sword—

CLEOPATRA.
And target. Still he mends.
But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian,
How this Herculean Roman does become
The carriage of his chafe.

ANTONY.
I’ll leave you, lady.

CLEOPATRA.
Courteous lord, one word.
Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it;
Sir, you and I have loved, but there’s not it;
That you know well. Something it is I would—
O, my oblivion is a very Antony,
And I am all forgotten.

ANTONY.
But that your royalty
Holds idleness your subject, I should take you
For idleness itself.

CLEOPATRA.
’Tis sweating labour
To bear such idleness so near the heart
As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me,
Since my becomings kill me when they do not
Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence;
Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly,
And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword
Sit laurel victory, and smooth success
Be strewed before your feet!

ANTONY.
Let us go. Come.
Our separation so abides and flies
That thou, residing here, goes yet with me,
And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.
Away!

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. Rome. An Apartment in Caesar’s House.

 Enter Octavius [Caesar], Lepidus and their train.

CAESAR.
You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,
It is not Caesar’s natural vice to hate
Our great competitor. From Alexandria
This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes
The lamps of night in revel: is not more manlike
Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy
More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or
Vouchsafed to think he had partners. You shall find there
A man who is the abstract of all faults
That all men follow.

LEPIDUS.
I must not think there are
Evils enough to darken all his goodness.
His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven,
More fiery by night’s blackness; hereditary
Rather than purchased; what he cannot change
Than what he chooses.

CAESAR.
You are too indulgent. Let’s grant it is not
Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy,
To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit
And keep the turn of tippling with a slave,
To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet
With knaves that smell of sweat. Say this becomes him—
As his composure must be rare indeed
Whom these things cannot blemish—yet must Antony
No way excuse his foils when we do bear
So great weight in his lightness. If he filled
His vacancy with his voluptuousness,
Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones
Call on him for’t. But to confound such time
That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud
As his own state and ours, ’tis to be chid
As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge,
Pawn their experience to their present pleasure
And so rebel to judgment.

 Enter a Messenger.

LEPIDUS.
Here’s more news.

MESSENGER.
Thy biddings have been done, and every hour,
Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report
How ’tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea,
And it appears he is beloved of those
That only have feared Caesar. To the ports
The discontents repair, and men’s reports
Give him much wronged.

CAESAR.
I should have known no less.
It hath been taught us from the primal state
That he which is was wished until he were,
And the ebbed man, ne’er loved till ne’er worth love,
Comes deared by being lacked. This common body,
Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,
Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,
To rot itself with motion.

 Enter a second Messenger.

SECOND MESSENGER.
Caesar, I bring thee word
Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates,
Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound
With keels of every kind. Many hot inroads
They make in Italy—the borders maritime
Lack blood to think on’t—and flush youth revolt.
No vessel can peep forth but ’tis as soon
Taken as seen; for Pompey’s name strikes more
Than could his war resisted.

CAESAR.
Antony,
Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once
Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st
Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel
Did famine follow, whom thou fought’st against,
Though daintily brought up, with patience more
Than savages could suffer. Thou didst drink
The stale of horses and the gilded puddle
Which beasts would cough at. Thy palate then did deign
The roughest berry on the rudest hedge.
Yea, like the stag when snow the pasture sheets,
The barks of trees thou browsed. On the Alps
It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh
Which some did die to look on. And all this—
It wounds thine honour that I speak it now—
Was borne so like a soldier that thy cheek
So much as lanked not.

LEPIDUS.
’Tis pity of him.

CAESAR.
Let his shames quickly
Drive him to Rome. ’Tis time we twain
Did show ourselves i’ th’ field, and to that end
Assemble we immediate council. Pompey
Thrives in our idleness.

LEPIDUS.
Tomorrow, Caesar,
I shall be furnished to inform you rightly
Both what by sea and land I can be able
To front this present time.

CAESAR.
Till which encounter
It is my business too. Farewell.

LEPIDUS.
Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime
Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,
To let me be partaker.

CAESAR.
Doubt not, sir.
I knew it for my bond.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

 Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Mardian.

CLEOPATRA.
Charmian!

CHARMIAN.
Madam?

CLEOPATRA.
Ha, ha!
Give me to drink mandragora.

CHARMIAN.
Why, madam?

CLEOPATRA.
That I might sleep out this great gap of time
My Antony is away.

CHARMIAN.
You think of him too much.

CLEOPATRA.
O, ’tis treason!

CHARMIAN.
Madam, I trust not so.

CLEOPATRA.
Thou, eunuch Mardian!

MARDIAN.
What’s your highness’ pleasure?

CLEOPATRA.
Not now to hear thee sing. I take no pleasure
In aught an eunuch has. ’Tis well for thee
That, being unseminared, thy freer thoughts
May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?

MARDIAN.
Yes, gracious madam.

CLEOPATRA.
Indeed?

MARDIAN.
Not in deed, madam, for I can do nothing
But what indeed is honest to be done.
Yet have I fierce affections, and think
What Venus did with Mars.

CLEOPATRA.
O, Charmian,
Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?
Or does he walk? Or is he on his horse?
O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
Do bravely, horse, for wot’st thou whom thou mov’st?
The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm
And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now,
Or murmuring “Where’s my serpent of old Nile?”
For so he calls me. Now I feed myself
With most delicious poison. Think on me
That am with Phœbus’ amorous pinches black,
And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar,
When thou wast here above the ground, I was
A morsel for a monarch. And great Pompey
Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;
There would he anchor his aspect, and die
With looking on his life.

 Enter Alexas.

ALEXAS.
Sovereign of Egypt, hail!

CLEOPATRA.
How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!
Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath
With his tinct gilded thee.
How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?

ALEXAS.
Last thing he did, dear queen,
He kissed—the last of many doubled kisses—
This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.

CLEOPATRA.
Mine ear must pluck it thence.

ALEXAS.
“Good friend,” quoth he,
“Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends
This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,
To mend the petty present, I will piece
Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the east,
Say thou, shall call her mistress.” So he nodded
And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed,
Who neighed so high that what I would have spoke
Was beastly dumbed by him.

CLEOPATRA.
What, was he sad or merry?

ALEXAS.
Like to the time o’ th’ year between the extremes
Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry.

CLEOPATRA.
O well-divided disposition!—Note him,
Note him, good Charmian, ’tis the man; but note him:
He was not sad, for he would shine on those
That make their looks by his; he was not merry,
Which seemed to tell them his remembrance lay
In Egypt with his joy; but between both.
O heavenly mingle!—Be’st thou sad or merry,
The violence of either thee becomes,
So does it no man else.—Met’st thou my posts?

ALEXAS.
Ay, madam, twenty several messengers.
Why do you send so thick?

CLEOPATRA.
Who’s born that day
When I forget to send to Antony
Shall die a beggar.—Ink and paper, Charmian.—
Welcome, my good Alexas.—Did I, Charmian,
Ever love Caesar so?

CHARMIAN.
O that brave Caesar!

CLEOPATRA.
Be choked with such another emphasis!
Say “the brave Antony.”

CHARMIAN.
The valiant Caesar!

CLEOPATRA.
By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth
If thou with Caesar paragon again
My man of men.

CHARMIAN.
By your most gracious pardon,
I sing but after you.

CLEOPATRA.
My salad days,
When I was green in judgment, cold in blood,
To say as I said then. But come, away,
Get me ink and paper.
He shall have every day a several greeting,
Or I’ll unpeople Egypt.

 [_Exeunt._]




ACT II


SCENE I. Messina. A Room in Pompey’s house.

 Enter Pompey, Menecrates and Menas in warlike manner.

POMPEY.
If the great gods be just, they shall assist
The deeds of justest men.

MENECRATES.
Know, worthy Pompey,
That what they do delay they not deny.

POMPEY.
Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays
The thing we sue for.

MENECRATES.
We, ignorant of ourselves,
Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers
Deny us for our good; so find we profit
By losing of our prayers.

POMPEY.
I shall do well.
The people love me, and the sea is mine;
My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope
Says it will come to th’ full. Mark Antony
In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make
No wars without doors. Caesar gets money where
He loses hearts. Lepidus flatters both,
Of both is flattered; but he neither loves
Nor either cares for him.

MENAS.
Caesar and Lepidus
Are in the field. A mighty strength they carry.

POMPEY.
Where have you this? ’Tis false.

MENAS.
From Silvius, sir.

POMPEY.
He dreams. I know they are in Rome together,
Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love,
Salt Cleopatra, soften thy waned lip!
Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both;
Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts;
Keep his brain fuming. Epicurean cooks
Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite,
That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour
Even till a Lethe’d dullness—

 Enter Varrius.

How now, Varrius!

VARRIUS.
This is most certain that I shall deliver:
Mark Antony is every hour in Rome
Expected. Since he went from Egypt ’tis
A space for farther travel.

POMPEY.
I could have given less matter
A better ear.—Menas, I did not think
This amorous surfeiter would have donned his helm
For such a petty war. His soldiership
Is twice the other twain. But let us rear
The higher our opinion, that our stirring
Can from the lap of Egypt’s widow pluck
The ne’er lust-wearied Antony.

MENAS.
I cannot hope
Caesar and Antony shall well greet together.
His wife that’s dead did trespasses to Caesar;
His brother warred upon him, although I think,
Not moved by Antony.

POMPEY.
I know not, Menas,
How lesser enmities may give way to greater.
Were’t not that we stand up against them all,
’Twere pregnant they should square between themselves,
For they have entertained cause enough
To draw their swords. But how the fear of us
May cement their divisions, and bind up
The petty difference, we yet not know.
Be’t as our gods will have’t! It only stands
Our lives upon to use our strongest hands.
Come, Menas.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Rome. A Room in the House of Lepidus.

 Enter Enobarbus and Lepidus.

LEPIDUS.
Good Enobarbus, ’tis a worthy deed,
And shall become you well, to entreat your captain
To soft and gentle speech.

ENOBARBUS.
I shall entreat him
To answer like himself. If Caesar move him,
Let Antony look over Caesar’s head
And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter,
Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard,
I would not shave’t today.

LEPIDUS.
’Tis not a time
For private stomaching.

ENOBARBUS.
Every time
Serves for the matter that is then born in’t.

LEPIDUS.
But small to greater matters must give way.

ENOBARBUS.
Not if the small come first.

LEPIDUS.
Your speech is passion;
But pray you stir no embers up. Here comes
The noble Antony.

 Enter Antony and Ventidius.

ENOBARBUS.
And yonder Caesar.

 Enter Caesar, Maecenas and Agrippa.

ANTONY.
If we compose well here, to Parthia.
Hark, Ventidius.

CAESAR.
I do not know, Maecenas. Ask Agrippa.

LEPIDUS.
Noble friends,
That which combined us was most great, and let not
A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss,
May it be gently heard. When we debate
Our trivial difference loud, we do commit
Murder in healing wounds. Then, noble partners,
The rather for I earnestly beseech,
Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,
Nor curstness grow to th’ matter.

ANTONY.
’Tis spoken well.
Were we before our armies, and to fight,
I should do thus.

CAESAR.
Welcome to Rome.

ANTONY.
Thank you.

CAESAR.
Sit.

ANTONY.
Sit, sir.

CAESAR.
Nay, then.

ANTONY.
I learn you take things ill which are not so,
Or being, concern you not.

CAESAR.
I must be laughed at
If, or for nothing or a little, I
Should say myself offended, and with you
Chiefly i’ th’ world; more laughed at that I should
Once name you derogately when to sound your name
It not concerned me.

ANTONY.
My being in Egypt, Caesar,
What was’t to you?

CAESAR.
No more than my residing here at Rome
Might be to you in Egypt. Yet if you there
Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt
Might be my question.

ANTONY.
How intend you, practised?

CAESAR.
You may be pleased to catch at mine intent
By what did here befall me. Your wife and brother
Made wars upon me, and their contestation
Was theme for you; you were the word of war.

ANTONY.
You do mistake your business. My brother never
Did urge me in his act. I did inquire it,
And have my learning from some true reports
That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather
Discredit my authority with yours,
And make the wars alike against my stomach,
Having alike your cause? Of this my letters
Before did satisfy you. If you’ll patch a quarrel,
As matter whole you have not to make it with,
It must not be with this.

CAESAR.
You praise yourself
By laying defects of judgment to me; but
You patched up your excuses.

ANTONY.
Not so, not so.
I know you could not lack—I am certain on’t—
Very necessity of this thought, that I,
Your partner in the cause ’gainst which he fought,
Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars
Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife,
I would you had her spirit in such another.
The third o’ th’ world is yours, which with a snaffle
You may pace easy, but not such a wife.

ENOBARBUS.
Would we had all such wives, that the men
Might go to wars with the women.

ANTONY.
So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar,
Made out of her impatience—which not wanted
Shrewdness of policy too—I grieving grant
Did you too much disquiet. For that you must
But say I could not help it.

CAESAR.
I wrote to you
When rioting in Alexandria; you
Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts
Did gibe my missive out of audience.

ANTONY.
Sir,
He fell upon me ere admitted, then.
Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want
Of what I was i’ th’ morning. But next day
I told him of myself, which was as much
As to have asked him pardon. Let this fellow
Be nothing of our strife; if we contend,
Out of our question wipe him.

CAESAR.
You have broken
The article of your oath, which you shall never
Have tongue to charge me with.

LEPIDUS.
Soft, Caesar!

ANTONY.
No, Lepidus, let him speak.
The honour is sacred which he talks on now,
Supposing that I lacked it. But on, Caesar:
The article of my oath?

CAESAR.
To lend me arms and aid when I required them,
The which you both denied.

ANTONY.
Neglected, rather;
And then when poisoned hours had bound me up
From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may
I’ll play the penitent to you. But mine honesty
Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power
Work without it. Truth is that Fulvia,
To have me out of Egypt, made wars here,
For which myself, the ignorant motive, do
So far ask pardon as befits mine honour
To stoop in such a case.

LEPIDUS.
’Tis noble spoken.

MAECENAS.
If it might please you to enforce no further
The griefs between ye; to forget them quite
Were to remember that the present need
Speaks to atone you.

LEPIDUS.
Worthily spoken, Maecenas.

ENOBARBUS.
Or, if you borrow one another’s love for the instant, you may, when you
hear no more words of Pompey, return it again. You shall have time to
wrangle in when you have nothing else to do.

ANTONY.
Thou art a soldier only. Speak no more.

ENOBARBUS.
That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.

ANTONY.
You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.

ENOBARBUS.
Go to, then. Your considerate stone!

CAESAR.
I do not much dislike the matter, but
The manner of his speech; for’t cannot be
We shall remain in friendship, our conditions
So differing in their acts. Yet if I knew
What hoop should hold us staunch, from edge to edge
O’ th’ world I would pursue it.

AGRIPPA.
Give me leave, Caesar.

CAESAR.
Speak, Agrippa.

AGRIPPA.
Thou hast a sister by the mother’s side,
Admired Octavia. Great Mark Antony
Is now a widower.

CAESAR.
Say not so, Agrippa.
If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof
Were well deserved of rashness.

ANTONY.
I am not married, Caesar. Let me hear
Agrippa further speak.

AGRIPPA.
To hold you in perpetual amity,
To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts
With an unslipping knot, take Antony
Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims
No worse a husband than the best of men;
Whose virtue and whose general graces speak
That which none else can utter. By this marriage
All little jealousies, which now seem great,
And all great fears, which now import their dangers,
Would then be nothing. Truths would be tales,
Where now half-tales be truths. Her love to both
Would each to other, and all loves to both,
Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke,
For ’tis a studied, not a present thought,
By duty ruminated.

ANTONY.
Will Caesar speak?

CAESAR.
Not till he hears how Antony is touched
With what is spoke already.

ANTONY.
What power is in Agrippa,
If I would say “Agrippa, be it so,”
To make this good?

CAESAR.
The power of Caesar, and
His power unto Octavia.

ANTONY.
May I never
To this good purpose, that so fairly shows,
Dream of impediment! Let me have thy hand.
Further this act of grace; and from this hour
The heart of brothers govern in our loves
And sway our great designs!

CAESAR.
There’s my hand.
A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother
Did ever love so dearly. Let her live
To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never
Fly off our loves again!

LEPIDUS.
Happily, amen!

ANTONY.
I did not think to draw my sword ’gainst Pompey,
For he hath laid strange courtesies and great
Of late upon me. I must thank him only,
Lest my remembrance suffer ill report;
At heel of that, defy him.

LEPIDUS.
Time calls upon ’s.
Of us must Pompey presently be sought,
Or else he seeks out us.

ANTONY.
Where lies he?

CAESAR.
About the Mount Misena.

ANTONY.
What is his strength by land?

CAESAR.
Great and increasing; but by sea
He is an absolute master.

ANTONY.
So is the fame.
Would we had spoke together! Haste we for it.
Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we
The business we have talked of.

CAESAR.
With most gladness,
And do invite you to my sister’s view,
Whither straight I’ll lead you.

ANTONY.
Let us, Lepidus, not lack your company.

LEPIDUS.
Noble Antony, not sickness should detain me.

 [_Flourish. Exeunt all except Enobarbus, Agrippa and Maecenas._]

MAECENAS.
Welcome from Egypt, sir.

ENOBARBUS.
Half the heart of Caesar, worthy Maecenas! My honourable friend,
Agrippa!

AGRIPPA.
Good Enobarbus!

MAECENAS.
We have cause to be glad that matters are so well digested. You stayed
well by ’t in Egypt.

ENOBARBUS.
Ay, sir, we did sleep day out of countenance and made the night light
with drinking.

MAECENAS.
Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast, and but twelve persons
there. Is this true?

ENOBARBUS.
This was but as a fly by an eagle. We had much more monstrous matter of
feast, which worthily deserved noting.

MAECENAS.
She’s a most triumphant lady, if report be square to her.

ENOBARBUS.
When she first met Mark Antony, she pursed up his heart upon the river
of Cydnus.

AGRIPPA.
There she appeared indeed, or my reporter devised well for her.

ENOBARBUS.
I will tell you.
The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water. The poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggared all description: she did lie
In her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue,
O’erpicturing that Venus where we see
The fancy outwork nature. On each side her
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With divers-coloured fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid did.

AGRIPPA.
O, rare for Antony!

ENOBARBUS.
Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,
So many mermaids, tended her i’ th’ eyes,
And made their bends adornings. At the helm
A seeming mermaid steers. The silken tackle
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands
That yarely frame the office. From the barge
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast
Her people out upon her, and Antony,
Enthroned i’ th’ market-place, did sit alone,
Whistling to th’ air, which, but for vacancy,
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,
And made a gap in nature.

AGRIPPA.
Rare Egyptian!

ENOBARBUS.
Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,
Invited her to supper. She replied
It should be better he became her guest,
Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony,
Whom ne’er the word of “No” woman heard speak,
Being barbered ten times o’er, goes to the feast,
And, for his ordinary, pays his heart
For what his eyes eat only.

AGRIPPA.
Royal wench!
She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed.
He ploughed her, and she cropped.

ENOBARBUS.
I saw her once
Hop forty paces through the public street
And, having lost her breath, she spoke and panted,
That she did make defect perfection,
And, breathless, pour breath forth.

MAECENAS.
Now Antony must leave her utterly.

ENOBARBUS.
Never. He will not.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety. Other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies. For vilest things
Become themselves in her, that the holy priests
Bless her when she is riggish.

MAECENAS.
If beauty, wisdom, modesty can settle
The heart of Antony, Octavia is
A blessed lottery to him.

AGRIPPA.
Let us go.
Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest
Whilst you abide here.

ENOBARBUS.
Humbly, sir, I thank you.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House.

 Enter Antony, Caesar, Octavia between them.

ANTONY.
The world and my great office will sometimes
Divide me from your bosom.

OCTAVIA.
All which time
Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers
To them for you.

ANTONY.
Good night, sir.—My Octavia,
Read not my blemishes in the world’s report.
I have not kept my square, but that to come
Shall all be done by th’ rule. Good night, dear lady.

OCTAVIA.
Good night, sir.

CAESAR.
Good night.

 [_Exeunt Caesar and Octavia._]

 Enter Soothsayer.

ANTONY.
Now, sirrah, you do wish yourself in Egypt?

SOOTHSAYER.
Would I had never come from thence, nor you thither!

ANTONY.
If you can, your reason.

SOOTHSAYER.
I see it in my motion, have it not in my tongue.
But yet hie you to Egypt again.

ANTONY.
Say to me,
Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesar’s or mine?

SOOTHSAYER.
Caesar’s.
Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side.
Thy dæmon—that thy spirit which keeps thee—is
Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable,
Where Caesar’s is not. But near him, thy angel
Becomes afeard, as being o’erpowered. Therefore
Make space enough between you.

ANTONY.
Speak this no more.

SOOTHSAYER.
To none but thee; no more but when to thee.
If thou dost play with him at any game,
Thou art sure to lose; and of that natural luck
He beats thee ’gainst the odds. Thy lustre thickens
When he shines by. I say again, thy spirit
Is all afraid to govern thee near him;
But, he away, ’tis noble.

ANTONY.
Get thee gone.
Say to Ventidius I would speak with him.

 [_Exit Soothsayer._]

He shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap,
He hath spoken true. The very dice obey him,
And in our sports my better cunning faints
Under his chance. If we draw lots, he speeds;
His cocks do win the battle still of mine
When it is all to naught, and his quails ever
Beat mine, inhooped, at odds. I will to Egypt:
And though I make this marriage for my peace,
I’ th’ East my pleasure lies.

 Enter Ventidius.

O, come, Ventidius,
You must to Parthia. Your commission’s ready.
Follow me and receive ’t.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. Rome. A street.

 Enter Lepidus, Maecenas and Agrippa.

LEPIDUS.
Trouble yourselves no further. Pray you hasten
Your generals after.

AGRIPPA.
Sir, Mark Antony
Will e’en but kiss Octavia, and we’ll follow.

LEPIDUS.
Till I shall see you in your soldier’s dress,
Which will become you both, farewell.

MAECENAS.
We shall,
As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount
Before you, Lepidus.

LEPIDUS.
Your way is shorter;
My purposes do draw me much about.
You’ll win two days upon me.

BOTH.
Sir, good success!

LEPIDUS.
Farewell.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

 Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, Alexas.

CLEOPATRA.
Give me some music—music, moody food
Of us that trade in love.

ALL.
The music, ho!

 Enter Mardian, the eunuch.

CLEOPATRA.
Let it alone. Let’s to billiards. Come, Charmian.

CHARMIAN.
My arm is sore. Best play with Mardian.

CLEOPATRA.
As well a woman with an eunuch played
As with a woman. Come, you’ll play with me, sir?

MARDIAN.
As well as I can, madam.

CLEOPATRA.
And when good will is showed, though’t come too short,
The actor may plead pardon. I’ll none now.
Give me mine angle; we’ll to the river. There,
My music playing far off, I will betray
Tawny-finned fishes. My bended hook shall pierce
Their slimy jaws, and as I draw them up
I’ll think them every one an Antony,
And say “Ah, ha! You’re caught.”

CHARMIAN.
’Twas merry when
You wagered on your angling; when your diver
Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he
With fervency drew up.

CLEOPATRA.
That time?—O times!—
I laughed him out of patience; and that night
I laughed him into patience, and next morn,
Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed,
Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst
I wore his sword Philippan.

 Enter Messenger.

O! from Italy!
Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears,
That long time have been barren.

MESSENGER.
Madam, madam—

CLEOPATRA.
Antony’s dead! If thou say so, villain,
Thou kill’st thy mistress. But well and free,
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here
My bluest veins to kiss, a hand that kings
Have lipped, and trembled kissing.

MESSENGER.
First, madam, he’s well.

CLEOPATRA.
Why, there’s more gold.
But sirrah, mark, we use
To say the dead are well. Bring it to that,
The gold I give thee will I melt and pour
Down thy ill-uttering throat.

MESSENGER.
Good madam, hear me.

CLEOPATRA.
Well, go to, I will.
But there’s no goodness in thy face if Antony
Be free and healthful. So tart a favour
To trumpet such good tidings! If not well,
Thou shouldst come like a Fury crowned with snakes,
Not like a formal man.

MESSENGER.
Will’t please you hear me?

CLEOPATRA.
I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak’st.
Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well,
Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him,
I’ll set thee in a shower of gold and hail
Rich pearls upon thee.

MESSENGER.
Madam, he’s well.

CLEOPATRA.
Well said.

MESSENGER.
And friends with Caesar.

CLEOPATRA.
Th’ art an honest man.

MESSENGER.
Caesar and he are greater friends than ever.

CLEOPATRA.
Make thee a fortune from me.

MESSENGER.
But yet, madam—

CLEOPATRA.
I do not like “But yet”, it does allay
The good precedence. Fie upon “But yet”!
“But yet” is as a gaoler to bring forth
Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend,
Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear,
The good and bad together: he’s friends with Caesar,
In state of health, thou say’st; and, thou say’st, free.

MESSENGER.
Free, madam? No. I made no such report.
He’s bound unto Octavia.

CLEOPATRA.
For what good turn?

MESSENGER.
For the best turn i’ th’ bed.

CLEOPATRA.
I am pale, Charmian.

MESSENGER.
Madam, he’s married to Octavia.

CLEOPATRA.
The most infectious pestilence upon thee!

 [_Strikes him down._]

MESSENGER.
Good madam, patience.

CLEOPATRA.
What say you?

 [_Strikes him again._]

Hence, horrible villain, or I’ll spurn thine eyes
Like balls before me! I’ll unhair thy head!

 [_She hales him up and down._]

Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine,
Smarting in ling’ring pickle.

MESSENGER.
Gracious madam,
I that do bring the news made not the match.

CLEOPATRA.
Say ’tis not so, a province I will give thee,
And make thy fortunes proud. The blow thou hadst
Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage,
And I will boot thee with what gift beside
Thy modesty can beg.

MESSENGER.
He’s married, madam.

CLEOPATRA.
Rogue, thou hast lived too long.

 [_Draws a knife._]

MESSENGER.
Nay then I’ll run.
What mean you, madam? I have made no fault.

 [_Exit._]

CHARMIAN.
Good madam, keep yourself within yourself.
The man is innocent.

CLEOPATRA.
Some innocents ’scape not the thunderbolt.
Melt Egypt into Nile, and kindly creatures
Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again.
Though I am mad, I will not bite him. Call!

CHARMIAN.
He is afeard to come.

CLEOPATRA.
I will not hurt him.

 [_Exit Charmian._]

These hands do lack nobility that they strike
A meaner than myself, since I myself
Have given myself the cause.

 Enter the Messenger again with Charmian.

Come hither, sir.
Though it be honest, it is never good
To bring bad news. Give to a gracious message
An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell
Themselves when they be felt.

MESSENGER.
I have done my duty.

CLEOPATRA.
Is he married?
I cannot hate thee worser than I do
If thou again say “Yes.”

MESSENGER.
He’s married, madam.

CLEOPATRA.
The gods confound thee! Dost thou hold there still!

MESSENGER.
Should I lie, madam?

CLEOPATRA.
O, I would thou didst,
So half my Egypt were submerged and made
A cistern for scaled snakes! Go, get thee hence.
Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me
Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married?

MESSENGER.
I crave your highness’ pardon.

CLEOPATRA.
He is married?

MESSENGER.
Take no offence that I would not offend you.
To punish me for what you make me do
Seems much unequal. He’s married to Octavia.

CLEOPATRA.
O, that his fault should make a knave of thee
That art not what thou’rt sure of! Get thee hence!
The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome
Are all too dear for me. Lie they upon thy hand,
And be undone by ’em!

 [_Exit Messenger._]

CHARMIAN.
Good your highness, patience.

CLEOPATRA.
In praising Antony I have dispraised Caesar.

CHARMIAN.
Many times, madam.

CLEOPATRA.
I am paid for’t now.
Lead me from hence;
I faint. O Iras, Charmian! ’Tis no matter.
Go to the fellow, good Alexas, bid him
Report the feature of Octavia, her years,
Her inclination; let him not leave out
The colour of her hair. Bring me word quickly.

 [_Exit Alexas._]

Let him for ever go—let him not, Charmian.
Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,
The other way ’s a Mars. [_To Mardian_] Bid you Alexas
Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian,
But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE VI. Near Misenum.

 Flourish. Enter Pompey and Menas at one door, with drum and trumpet;
 at another, Caesar, Lepidus, Antony, Enobarbus, Maecenas, Agrippa,
 with Soldiers marching.

POMPEY.
Your hostages I have, so have you mine,
And we shall talk before we fight.

CAESAR.
Most meet
That first we come to words, and therefore have we
Our written purposes before us sent,
Which if thou hast considered, let us know
If ’twill tie up thy discontented sword
And carry back to Sicily much tall youth
That else must perish here.

POMPEY.
To you all three,
The senators alone of this great world,
Chief factors for the gods: I do not know
Wherefore my father should revengers want,
Having a son and friends, since Julius Caesar,
Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted,
There saw you labouring for him. What was’t
That moved pale Cassius to conspire? And what
Made the all-honoured, honest Roman, Brutus,
With the armed rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom,
To drench the Capitol, but that they would
Have one man but a man? And that is it
Hath made me rig my navy, at whose burden
The angered ocean foams, with which I meant
To scourge th’ ingratitude that despiteful Rome
Cast on my noble father.

CAESAR.
Take your time.

ANTONY.
Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails.
We’ll speak with thee at sea. At land thou know’st
How much we do o’ercount thee.

POMPEY.
At land indeed
Thou dost o’ercount me of my father’s house;
But since the cuckoo builds not for himself,
Remain in’t as thou mayst.

LEPIDUS.
Be pleased to tell us—
For this is from the present—how you take
The offers we have sent you.

CAESAR.
There’s the point.

ANTONY.
Which do not be entreated to, but weigh
What it is worth embraced.

CAESAR.
And what may follow
To try a larger fortune.

POMPEY.
You have made me offer
Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must
Rid all the sea of pirates; then to send
Measures of wheat to Rome. This ’greed upon,
To part with unhacked edges and bear back
Our targes undinted.

CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS.
That’s our offer.

POMPEY.
Know, then,
I came before you here a man prepared
To take this offer. But Mark Antony
Put me to some impatience. Though I lose
The praise of it by telling, you must know
When Caesar and your brother were at blows,
Your mother came to Sicily and did find
Her welcome friendly.

ANTONY.
I have heard it, Pompey,
And am well studied for a liberal thanks
Which I do owe you.

POMPEY.
Let me have your hand.
I did not think, sir, to have met you here.

ANTONY.
The beds i’ th’ East are soft; and thanks to you,
That called me timelier than my purpose hither,
For I have gained by ’t.

CAESAR.
Since I saw you last,
There is a change upon you.

POMPEY.
Well, I know not
What counts harsh Fortune casts upon my face,
But in my bosom shall she never come
To make my heart her vassal.

LEPIDUS.
Well met here.

POMPEY.
I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed.
I crave our composition may be written
And sealed between us.

CAESAR.
That’s the next to do.

POMPEY.
We’ll feast each other ere we part, and let’s
Draw lots who shall begin.

ANTONY.
That will I, Pompey.

POMPEY.
No, Antony, take the lot.
But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar
Grew fat with feasting there.

ANTONY.
You have heard much.

POMPEY.
I have fair meanings, sir.

ANTONY.
And fair words to them.

POMPEY.
Then so much have I heard.
And I have heard Apollodorus carried—

ENOBARBUS.
No more of that. He did so.

POMPEY.
What, I pray you?

ENOBARBUS.
A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress.

POMPEY.
I know thee now. How far’st thou, soldier?

ENOBARBUS.
Well;
And well am like to do, for I perceive
Four feasts are toward.

POMPEY.
Let me shake thy hand.
I never hated thee. I have seen thee fight
When I have envied thy behaviour.

ENOBARBUS.
Sir,
I never loved you much, but I ha’ praised ye
When you have well deserved ten times as much
As I have said you did.

POMPEY.
Enjoy thy plainness;
It nothing ill becomes thee.
Aboard my galley I invite you all.
Will you lead, lords?

CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS.
Show’s the way, sir.

POMPEY.
Come.

 [_Exeunt all but Enobarbus and Menas._]

MENAS.
[_Aside_.] Thy father, Pompey, would ne’er have made this treaty.—
You and I have known, sir.

ENOBARBUS.
At sea, I think.

MENAS.
We have, sir.

ENOBARBUS.
You have done well by water.

MENAS.
And you by land.

ENOBARBUS.
I will praise any man that will praise me, though it cannot be denied
what I have done by land.

MENAS.
Nor what I have done by water.

ENOBARBUS.
Yes, something you can deny for your own safety: you have been a great
thief by sea.

MENAS.
And you by land.

ENOBARBUS.
There I deny my land service. But give me your hand, Menas. If our eyes
had authority, here they might take two thieves kissing.

MENAS.
All men’s faces are true, whatsome’er their hands are.

ENOBARBUS.
But there is never a fair woman has a true face.

MENAS.
No slander. They steal hearts.

ENOBARBUS.
We came hither to fight with you.

MENAS.
For my part, I am sorry it is turned to a drinking. Pompey doth this
day laugh away his fortune.

ENOBARBUS.
If he do, sure he cannot weep ’t back again.

MENAS.
You have said, sir. We looked not for Mark Antony here. Pray you, is he
married to Cleopatra?

ENOBARBUS.
Caesar’s sister is called Octavia.

MENAS.
True, sir. She was the wife of Caius Marcellus.

ENOBARBUS.
But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius.

MENAS.
Pray you, sir?

ENOBARBUS.
’Tis true.

MENAS.
Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.

ENOBARBUS.
If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so.

MENAS.
I think the policy of that purpose made more in the marriage than the
love of the parties.

ENOBARBUS.
I think so too. But you shall find the band that seems to tie their
friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity. Octavia
is of a holy, cold, and still conversation.

MENAS.
Who would not have his wife so?

ENOBARBUS.
Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony. He will to his
Egyptian dish again. Then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up
in Caesar, and, as I said before, that which is the strength of their
amity shall prove the immediate author of their variance. Antony will
use his affection where it is. He married but his occasion here.

MENAS.
And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a health for
you.

ENOBARBUS.
I shall take it, sir. We have used our throats in Egypt.

MENAS.
Come, let’s away.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE VII. On board Pompey’s Galley, lying near Misenum.

 Music. Enter two or three Servants with a banquet.

FIRST SERVANT.
Here they’ll be, man. Some o’ their plants are ill-rooted already; the
least wind i’ th’ world will blow them down.

SECOND SERVANT.
Lepidus is high-coloured.

FIRST SERVANT.
They have made him drink alms-drink.

SECOND SERVANT.
As they pinch one another by the disposition, he cries out “no more”,
reconciles them to his entreaty and himself to th’ drink.

FIRST SERVANT.
But it raises the greater war between him and his discretion.

SECOND SERVANT.
Why, this it is to have a name in great men’s fellowship. I had as lief
have a reed that will do me no service as a partisan I could not heave.

FIRST SERVANT.
To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in ’t, are
the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks.

 A sennet sounded. Enter Caesar, Antony, Pompey, Lepidus, Agrippa,
 Maecenas, Enobarbus, Menas with other Captains.

ANTONY.
[_To Caesar_.] Thus do they, sir: they take the flow o’ th’ Nile
By certain scales i’ th’ pyramid; they know
By th’ height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth
Or foison follow. The higher Nilus swells,
The more it promises. As it ebbs, the seedsman
Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain,
And shortly comes to harvest.

LEPIDUS.
You’ve strange serpents there?

ANTONY.
Ay, Lepidus.

LEPIDUS.
Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the operation of your
sun; so is your crocodile.

ANTONY.
They are so.

POMPEY.
Sit, and some wine! A health to Lepidus!

LEPIDUS.
I am not so well as I should be, but I’ll ne’er out.

ENOBARBUS.
Not till you have slept. I fear me you’ll be in till then.

LEPIDUS.
Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies’ pyramises are very goodly
things. Without contradiction I have heard that.

MENAS.
[_Aside to Pompey_.] Pompey, a word.

POMPEY.
[_Aside to Menas_.] Say in mine ear what is ’t?

MENAS.
[_Whispers in ’s ear._] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee, captain,
And hear me speak a word.

POMPEY.
[_Aside to Menas._] Forbear me till anon.—
This wine for Lepidus!

LEPIDUS.
What manner o’ thing is your crocodile?

ANTONY.
It is shaped, sir, like itself, and it is as broad as it hath breadth.
It is just so high as it is, and moves with it own organs. It lives by
that which nourisheth it, and the elements once out of it, it
transmigrates.

LEPIDUS.
What colour is it of?

ANTONY.
Of its own colour too.

LEPIDUS.
’Tis a strange serpent.

ANTONY.
’Tis so, and the tears of it are wet.

CAESAR.
Will this description satisfy him?

ANTONY.
With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a very epicure.

POMPEY.
[_Aside to Menas._] Go hang, sir, hang! Tell me of that? Away!
Do as I bid you.—Where’s this cup I called for?

MENAS.
[_Aside to Pompey_.] If for the sake of merit thou wilt hear me,
Rise from thy stool.

POMPEY.
[_Aside to Menas_.] I think thou’rt mad.

 [_Rises and walks aside._]

The matter?

MENAS.
I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes.

POMPEY.
Thou hast served me with much faith. What’s else to say?—
Be jolly, lords.

ANTONY.
These quicksands, Lepidus,
Keep off them, for you sink.

MENAS.
Wilt thou be lord of all the world?

POMPEY.
What sayst thou?

MENAS.
Wilt thou be lord of the whole world?
That’s twice.

POMPEY.
How should that be?

MENAS.
But entertain it,
And though you think me poor, I am the man
Will give thee all the world.

POMPEY.
Hast thou drunk well?

MENAS.
No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.
Thou art, if thou dar’st be, the earthly Jove.
Whate’er the ocean pales or sky inclips
Is thine, if thou wilt have’t.

POMPEY.
Show me which way.

MENAS.
These three world-sharers, these competitors,
Are in thy vessel. Let me cut the cable,
And when we are put off, fall to their throats.
All then is thine.

POMPEY.
Ah, this thou shouldst have done
And not have spoke on ’t! In me ’tis villainy;
In thee ’t had been good service. Thou must know
’Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour;
Mine honour it. Repent that e’er thy tongue
Hath so betray’d thine act. Being done unknown,
I should have found it afterwards well done,
But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.

MENAS.
[_Aside_.] For this,
I’ll never follow thy palled fortunes more.
Who seeks, and will not take when once ’tis offered,
Shall never find it more.

POMPEY.
This health to Lepidus!

ANTONY.
Bear him ashore. I’ll pledge it for him, Pompey.

ENOBARBUS.
Here’s to thee, Menas!

MENAS.
Enobarbus, welcome!

POMPEY.
Fill till the cup be hid.

ENOBARBUS.
There’s a strong fellow, Menas.

 [_Pointing to the servant who carries off Lepidus._]

MENAS.
Why?

ENOBARBUS.
’A bears the third part of the world, man. Seest not?

MENAS.
The third part, then, is drunk. Would it were all,
That it might go on wheels!

ENOBARBUS.
Drink thou. Increase the reels.

MENAS.
Come.

POMPEY.
This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.

ANTONY.
It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho!
Here is to Caesar!

CAESAR.
I could well forbear’t.
It’s monstrous labour when I wash my brain
And it grows fouler.

ANTONY.
Be a child o’ the time.

CAESAR.
Possess it, I’ll make answer.
But I had rather fast from all, four days,
Than drink so much in one.

ENOBARBUS.
[_To Antony_.] Ha, my brave emperor,
Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals
And celebrate our drink?

POMPEY.
Let’s ha’t, good soldier.

ANTONY.
Come, let’s all take hands
Till that the conquering wine hath steeped our sense
In soft and delicate Lethe.

ENOBARBUS.
All take hands.
Make battery to our ears with the loud music,
The while I’ll place you; then the boy shall sing.
The holding every man shall beat as loud
As his strong sides can volley.

 Music plays. Enobarbus places them hand in hand.

       THE SONG.
  Come, thou monarch of the vine,
  Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!
  In thy vats our cares be drowned,
  With thy grapes our hairs be crowned.
  Cup us till the world go round,
  Cup us till the world go round!

CAESAR.
What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother,
Let me request you off. Our graver business
Frowns at this levity.—Gentle lords, let’s part.
You see we have burnt our cheeks. Strong Enobarb
Is weaker than the wine, and mine own tongue
Splits what it speaks. The wild disguise hath almost
Anticked us all. What needs more words. Good night.
Good Antony, your hand.

POMPEY.
I’ll try you on the shore.

ANTONY.
And shall, sir. Give’s your hand.

POMPEY.
O Antony,
You have my father’s house.
But, what? We are friends. Come, down into the boat.

ENOBARBUS.
Take heed you fall not.

 [_Exeunt Pompey, Caesar, Antony and Attendants._]

Menas, I’ll not on shore.

MENAS.
No, to my cabin. These drums, these trumpets, flutes! What!
Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell
To these great fellows. Sound and be hanged, sound out!

 [_Sound a flourish with drums._]

ENOBARBUS.
Hoo, says ’a! There’s my cap!

MENAS.
Hoo! Noble captain, come.

 [_Exeunt._]




ACT III


SCENE I. A plain in Syria.

 Enter Ventidius as it were in triumph, with Silius and other Romans,
 Officers and Soldiers; the dead body of Pacorus borne before him.

VENTIDIUS.
Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck, and now
Pleased Fortune does of Marcus Crassus’ death
Make me revenger. Bear the king’s son’s body
Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes,
Pays this for Marcus Crassus.

SILIUS.
Noble Ventidius,
Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm,
The fugitive Parthians follow. Spur through Media,
Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither
The routed fly. So thy grand captain Antony
Shall set thee on triumphant chariots, and
Put garlands on thy head.

VENTIDIUS.
O Silius, Silius,
I have done enough. A lower place, note well,
May make too great an act. For learn this, Silius:
Better to leave undone than by our deed
Acquire too high a fame when him we serve’s away.
Caesar and Antony have ever won
More in their officer, than person. Sossius,
One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant,
For quick accumulation of renown,
Which he achieved by th’ minute, lost his favour.
Who does i’ th’ wars more than his captain can
Becomes his captain’s captain; and ambition,
The soldier’s virtue, rather makes choice of loss
Than gain which darkens him.
I could do more to do Antonius good,
But ’twould offend him, and in his offence
Should my performance perish.

SILIUS.
Thou hast, Ventidius, that
Without the which a soldier and his sword
Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony?

VENTIDIUS.
I’ll humbly signify what in his name,
That magical word of war, we have effected;
How, with his banners, and his well-paid ranks,
The ne’er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia
We have jaded out o’ th’ field.

SILIUS.
Where is he now?

VENTIDIUS.
He purposeth to Athens, whither, with what haste
The weight we must convey with ’s will permit,
We shall appear before him.—On there, pass along!

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Rome. An Ante-chamber in Caesar’s house.

 Enter Agrippa at one door, Enobarbus at another.

AGRIPPA.
What, are the brothers parted?

ENOBARBUS.
They have dispatched with Pompey; he is gone.
The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps
To part from Rome. Caesar is sad, and Lepidus,
Since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says, is troubled
With the greensickness.

AGRIPPA.
’Tis a noble Lepidus.

ENOBARBUS.
A very fine one. O, how he loves Caesar!

AGRIPPA.
Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!

ENOBARBUS.
Caesar? Why he’s the Jupiter of men.

AGRIPPA.
What’s Antony? The god of Jupiter.

ENOBARBUS.
Spake you of Caesar? How, the nonpareil!

AGRIPPA.
O, Antony! O thou Arabian bird!

ENOBARBUS.
Would you praise Caesar, say “Caesar”. Go no further.

AGRIPPA.
Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.

ENOBARBUS.
But he loves Caesar best, yet he loves Antony.
Hoo! Hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot
Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number—hoo!—
His love to Antony. But as for Caesar,
Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.

AGRIPPA.
Both he loves.

ENOBARBUS.
They are his shards, and he their beetle.

 [_Trumpets within._]

So,
This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.

AGRIPPA.
Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell.

 Enter Caesar, Antony, Lepidus and Octavia.

ANTONY.
No further, sir.

CAESAR.
You take from me a great part of myself.
Use me well in’t. Sister, prove such a wife
As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest bond
Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony,
Let not the piece of virtue which is set
Betwixt us, as the cement of our love
To keep it builded, be the ram to batter
The fortress of it. For better might we
Have loved without this mean, if on both parts
This be not cherished.

ANTONY.
Make me not offended
In your distrust.

CAESAR.
I have said.

ANTONY.
You shall not find,
Though you be therein curious, the least cause
For what you seem to fear. So the gods keep you,
And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends.
We will here part.

CAESAR.
Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well.
The elements be kind to thee, and make
Thy spirits all of comfort! Fare thee well.

OCTAVIA.
My noble brother!

ANTONY.
The April’s in her eyes. It is love’s spring,
And these the showers to bring it on.—Be cheerful.

OCTAVIA.
Sir, look well to my husband’s house, and—

CAESAR.
What, Octavia?

OCTAVIA.
I’ll tell you in your ear.

ANTONY.
Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can
Her heart inform her tongue—the swan’s-down feather,
That stands upon the swell at the full of tide,
And neither way inclines.

ENOBARBUS.
[_Aside to Agrippa_.] Will Caesar weep?

AGRIPPA.
[_Aside to Enobarbus_.] He has a cloud in ’s face.

ENOBARBUS.
[_Aside to Agrippa_.] He were the worse for that were he a horse;
So is he, being a man.

AGRIPPA.
[_Aside to Enobarbus_.] Why, Enobarbus,
When Antony found Julius Caesar dead,
He cried almost to roaring, and he wept
When at Philippi he found Brutus slain.

ENOBARBUS.
[_Aside to Agrippa_.] That year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum;
What willingly he did confound he wailed,
Believe ’t, till I weep too.

CAESAR.
No, sweet Octavia,
You shall hear from me still. The time shall not
Outgo my thinking on you.

ANTONY.
Come, sir, come,
I’ll wrestle with you in my strength of love.
Look, here I have you, thus I let you go,
And give you to the gods.

CAESAR.
Adieu, be happy!

LEPIDUS.
Let all the number of the stars give light
To thy fair way!

CAESAR.
Farewell, farewell!

 [_Kisses Octavia._]

ANTONY.
Farewell!

 [_Trumpets sound. Exeunt._]

SCENE III. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

 Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Alexas.

CLEOPATRA.
Where is the fellow?

ALEXAS.
Half afeared to come.

CLEOPATRA.
Go to, go to.

 Enter a Messenger as before.

Come hither, sir.

ALEXAS.
Good majesty,
Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you
But when you are well pleased.

CLEOPATRA.
That Herod’s head
I’ll have! But how, when Antony is gone,
Through whom I might command it?—Come thou near.

MESSENGER.
Most gracious majesty!

CLEOPATRA.
Didst thou behold Octavia?

MESSENGER.
Ay, dread queen.

CLEOPATRA.
Where?

MESSENGER.
Madam, in Rome
I looked her in the face, and saw her led
Between her brother and Mark Antony.

CLEOPATRA.
Is she as tall as me?

MESSENGER.
She is not, madam.

CLEOPATRA.
Didst hear her speak? Is she shrill-tongued or low?

MESSENGER.
Madam, I heard her speak. She is low-voiced.

CLEOPATRA.
That’s not so good. He cannot like her long.

CHARMIAN.
Like her? O Isis! ’Tis impossible.

CLEOPATRA.
I think so, Charmian: dull of tongue and dwarfish!
What majesty is in her gait? Remember,
If e’er thou look’dst on majesty.

MESSENGER.
She creeps.
Her motion and her station are as one.
She shows a body rather than a life,
A statue than a breather.

CLEOPATRA.
Is this certain?

MESSENGER.
Or I have no observance.

CHARMIAN.
Three in Egypt
Cannot make better note.

CLEOPATRA.
He’s very knowing;
I do perceive’t. There’s nothing in her yet.
The fellow has good judgment.

CHARMIAN.
Excellent.

CLEOPATRA.
Guess at her years, I prithee.

MESSENGER.
Madam,
She was a widow.

CLEOPATRA.
Widow! Charmian, hark!

MESSENGER.
And I do think she’s thirty.

CLEOPATRA.
Bear’st thou her face in mind? Is’t long or round?

MESSENGER.
Round even to faultiness.

CLEOPATRA.
For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so.
Her hair, what colour?

MESSENGER.
Brown, madam, and her forehead
As low as she would wish it.

CLEOPATRA.
There’s gold for thee.
Thou must not take my former sharpness ill.
I will employ thee back again; I find thee
Most fit for business. Go make thee ready;
Our letters are prepared.

 [_Exit Messenger._]

CHARMIAN.
A proper man.

CLEOPATRA.
Indeed, he is so. I repent me much
That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him,
This creature’s no such thing.

CHARMIAN.
Nothing, madam.

CLEOPATRA.
The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.

CHARMIAN.
Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend,
And serving you so long!

CLEOPATRA.
I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmian.
But ’tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me
Where I will write. All may be well enough.

CHARMIAN.
I warrant you, madam.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. Athens. A Room in Antony’s House.

 Enter Antony and Octavia.

ANTONY.
Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that—
That were excusable, that and thousands more
Of semblable import—but he hath waged
New wars ’gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it
To public ear;
Spoke scantly of me; when perforce he could not
But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly
He vented them; most narrow measure lent me;
When the best hint was given him, he not took ’t,
Or did it from his teeth.

OCTAVIA.
O, my good lord,
Believe not all, or if you must believe,
Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,
If this division chance, ne’er stood between,
Praying for both parts.
The good gods will mock me presently
When I shall pray “O, bless my lord and husband!”
Undo that prayer by crying out as loud
“O, bless my brother!” Husband win, win brother,
Prays and destroys the prayer; no midway
’Twixt these extremes at all.

ANTONY.
Gentle Octavia,
Let your best love draw to that point which seeks
Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honour,
I lose myself; better I were not yours
Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested,
Yourself shall go between’s. The meantime, lady,
I’ll raise the preparation of a war
Shall stain your brother. Make your soonest haste,
So your desires are yours.

OCTAVIA.
Thanks to my lord.
The Jove of power make me, most weak, most weak,
Your reconciler! Wars ’twixt you twain would be
As if the world should cleave, and that slain men
Should solder up the rift.

ANTONY.
When it appears to you where this begins,
Turn your displeasure that way, for our faults
Can never be so equal that your love
Can equally move with them. Provide your going;
Choose your own company, and command what cost
Your heart has mind to.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Athens. Another Room in Antony’s House.

 Enter Enobarbus and Eros meeting.

ENOBARBUS.
How now, friend Eros?

EROS.
There’s strange news come, sir.

ENOBARBUS.
What, man?

EROS.
Caesar and Lepidus have made wars upon Pompey.

ENOBARBUS.
This is old. What is the success?

EROS.
Caesar, having made use of him in the wars ’gainst Pompey, presently
denied him rivality; would not let him partake in the glory of the
action, and, not resting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly
wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes him. So the poor third is
up, till death enlarge his confine.

ENOBARBUS.
Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, no more,
And throw between them all the food thou hast,
They’ll grind the one the other. Where’s Antony?

EROS.
He’s walking in the garden, thus, and spurns
The rush that lies before him; cries “Fool Lepidus!”
And threats the throat of that his officer
That murdered Pompey.

ENOBARBUS.
Our great navy’s rigged.

EROS.
For Italy and Caesar. More, Domitius:
My lord desires you presently. My news
I might have told hereafter.

ENOBARBUS.
’Twill be naught,
But let it be. Bring me to Antony.

EROS.
Come, sir.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE VI. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House.

 Enter Agrippa, Maecenas and Caesar.

CAESAR.
Contemning Rome, he has done all this, and more
In Alexandria. Here’s the manner of ’t:
I’ th’ market-place, on a tribunal silvered,
Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold
Were publicly enthroned. At the feet sat
Caesarion, whom they call my father’s son,
And all the unlawful issue that their lust
Since then hath made between them. Unto her
He gave the stablishment of Egypt; made her
Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia,
Absolute queen.

MAECENAS.
This in the public eye?

CAESAR.
I’ th’ common showplace where they exercise.
His sons he there proclaimed the kings of kings:
Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia
He gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assigned
Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia. She
In th’ habiliments of the goddess Isis
That day appeared, and oft before gave audience,
As ’tis reported, so.

MAECENAS.
Let Rome be thus informed.

AGRIPPA.
Who, queasy with his insolence already,
Will their good thoughts call from him.

CAESAR.
The people knows it and have now received
His accusations.

AGRIPPA.
Who does he accuse?

CAESAR.
Caesar, and that, having in Sicily
Sextus Pompeius spoiled, we had not rated him
His part o’ th’ isle. Then does he say he lent me
Some shipping, unrestored. Lastly, he frets
That Lepidus of the triumvirate
Should be deposed and, being, that we detain
All his revenue.

AGRIPPA.
Sir, this should be answered.

CAESAR.
’Tis done already, and messenger gone.
I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel,
That he his high authority abused,
And did deserve his change. For what I have conquered
I grant him part; but then in his Armenia
And other of his conquered kingdoms, I
Demand the like.

MAECENAS.
He’ll never yield to that.

CAESAR.
Nor must not then be yielded to in this.

 Enter Octavia with her train.

OCTAVIA.
Hail, Caesar, and my lord! Hail, most dear Caesar!

CAESAR.
That ever I should call thee castaway!

OCTAVIA.
You have not called me so, nor have you cause.

CAESAR.
Why have you stolen upon us thus? You come not
Like Caesar’s sister. The wife of Antony
Should have an army for an usher, and
The neighs of horse to tell of her approach
Long ere she did appear. The trees by th’ way
Should have borne men, and expectation fainted,
Longing for what it had not. Nay, the dust
Should have ascended to the roof of heaven,
Raised by your populous troops. But you are come
A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented
The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown,
Is often left unloved. We should have met you
By sea and land, supplying every stage
With an augmented greeting.

OCTAVIA.
Good my lord,
To come thus was I not constrained, but did it
On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony,
Hearing that you prepared for war, acquainted
My grieved ear withal, whereon I begged
His pardon for return.

CAESAR.
Which soon he granted,
Being an abstract ’tween his lust and him.

OCTAVIA.
Do not say so, my lord.

CAESAR.
I have eyes upon him,
And his affairs come to me on the wind.
Where is he now?

OCTAVIA.
My lord, in Athens.

CAESAR.
No, my most wronged sister. Cleopatra
Hath nodded him to her. He hath given his empire
Up to a whore, who now are levying
The kings o’ th’ earth for war. He hath assembled
Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus
Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos, king
Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas;
King Manchus of Arabia; King of Pont;
Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king
Of Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas,
The kings of Mede and Lycaonia,
With a more larger list of sceptres.

OCTAVIA.
Ay me, most wretched,
That have my heart parted betwixt two friends
That does afflict each other!

CAESAR.
Welcome hither.
Your letters did withhold our breaking forth
Till we perceived both how you were wrong led
And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart.
Be you not troubled with the time, which drives
O’er your content these strong necessities,
But let determined things to destiny
Hold unbewailed their way. Welcome to Rome,
Nothing more dear to me. You are abused
Beyond the mark of thought, and the high gods,
To do you justice, make their ministers
Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort,
And ever welcome to us.

AGRIPPA.
Welcome, lady.

MAECENAS.
Welcome, dear madam.
Each heart in Rome does love and pity you.
Only th’ adulterous Antony, most large
In his abominations, turns you off
And gives his potent regiment to a trull
That noises it against us.

OCTAVIA.
Is it so, sir?

CAESAR.
Most certain. Sister, welcome. Pray you
Be ever known to patience. My dear’st sister!

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE VII. Antony’s Camp near the Promontory of Actium.

 Enter Cleopatra and Enobarbus.

CLEOPATRA.
I will be even with thee, doubt it not.

ENOBARBUS.
But why, why, why?

CLEOPATRA.
Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars
And say’st it is not fit.

ENOBARBUS.
Well, is it, is it?

CLEOPATRA.
Is ’t not denounced against us? Why should not we
Be there in person?

ENOBARBUS.
Well, I could reply:
If we should serve with horse and mares together,
The horse were merely lost. The mares would bear
A soldier and his horse.

CLEOPATRA.
What is’t you say?

ENOBARBUS.
Your presence needs must puzzle Antony,
Take from his heart, take from his brain, from ’s time,
What should not then be spared. He is already
Traduced for levity, and ’tis said in Rome
That Photinus, an eunuch, and your maids
Manage this war.

CLEOPATRA.
Sink Rome, and their tongues rot
That speak against us! A charge we bear i’ th’ war,
And, as the president of my kingdom, will
Appear there for a man. Speak not against it.
I will not stay behind.

 Enter Antony and Canidius.

ENOBARBUS.
Nay, I have done.
Here comes the Emperor.

ANTONY.
Is it not strange, Canidius,
That from Tarentum and Brundusium
He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea
And take in Toryne?—You have heard on ’t, sweet?

CLEOPATRA.
Celerity is never more admired
Than by the negligent.

ANTONY.
A good rebuke,
Which might have well becomed the best of men
To taunt at slackness.—Canidius, we
Will fight with him by sea.

CLEOPATRA.
By sea, what else?

CANIDIUS.
Why will my lord do so?

ANTONY.
For that he dares us to ’t.

ENOBARBUS.
So hath my lord dared him to single fight.

CANIDIUS.
Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia,
Where Caesar fought with Pompey. But these offers,
Which serve not for his vantage, he shakes off,
And so should you.

ENOBARBUS.
Your ships are not well manned,
Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people
Engrossed by swift impress. In Caesar’s fleet
Are those that often have ’gainst Pompey fought.
Their ships are yare, yours heavy. No disgrace
Shall fall you for refusing him at sea,
Being prepared for land.

ANTONY.
By sea, by sea.

ENOBARBUS.
Most worthy sir, you therein throw away
The absolute soldiership you have by land;
Distract your army, which doth most consist
Of war-marked footmen; leave unexecuted
Your own renowned knowledge; quite forgo
The way which promises assurance; and
Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard
From firm security.

ANTONY.
I’ll fight at sea.

CLEOPATRA.
I have sixty sails, Caesar none better.

ANTONY.
Our overplus of shipping will we burn,
And with the rest full-manned, from th’ head of Actium
Beat th’ approaching Caesar. But if we fail,
We then can do ’t at land.

 Enter a Messenger.

Thy business?

MESSENGER.
The news is true, my lord; he is descried.
Caesar has taken Toryne.

ANTONY.
Can he be there in person? ’Tis impossible;
Strange that his power should be. Canidius,
Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land,
And our twelve thousand horse. We’ll to our ship.
Away, my Thetis!

 Enter a Soldier.

How now, worthy soldier?

SOLDIER.
O noble emperor, do not fight by sea.
Trust not to rotten planks. Do you misdoubt
This sword and these my wounds? Let th’ Egyptians
And the Phoenicians go a-ducking. We
Have used to conquer standing on the earth
And fighting foot to foot.

ANTONY.
Well, well, away.

 [_Exeunt Antony, Cleopatra and Enobarbus._]

SOLDIER.
By Hercules, I think I am i’ th’ right.

CANIDIUS.
Soldier, thou art. But his whole action grows
Not in the power on ’t. So our leader’s led,
And we are women’s men.

SOLDIER.
You keep by land
The legions and the horse whole, do you not?

CANIDIUS.
Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius,
Publicola, and Caelius are for sea,
But we keep whole by land. This speed of Caesar’s
Carries beyond belief.

SOLDIER.
While he was yet in Rome,
His power went out in such distractions as
Beguiled all spies.

CANIDIUS.
Who’s his lieutenant, hear you?

SOLDIER.
They say one Taurus.

CANIDIUS.
Well I know the man.

 Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER.
The Emperor calls Canidius.

CANIDIUS.
With news the time’s with labour, and throes forth
Each minute some.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE VIII. A plain near Actium.

 Enter Caesar with his army and Taurus marching.

CAESAR.
Taurus!

TAURUS.
My lord?

CAESAR.
Strike not by land; keep whole; provoke not battle
Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed
The prescript of this scroll. Our fortune lies
Upon this jump.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE IX. Another part of the Plain.

 Enter Antony and Enobarbus.

ANTONY.
Set we our squadrons on yon side o’ th’ hill
In eye of Caesar’s battle, from which place
We may the number of the ships behold
And so proceed accordingly.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE X. Another part of the Plain.

Canidius marching with his land army one way over the stage, and
Taurus, the Lieutenant of Caesar, with his Army, the other way. After
their going in, is heard the noise of a sea fight.

 Alarum. Enter Enobarbus.

ENOBARBUS.
Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no longer.
Th’ Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral,
With all their sixty, fly and turn the rudder.
To see ’t mine eyes are blasted.

 Enter Scarus.

SCARUS.
Gods and goddesses,
All the whole synod of them!

ENOBARBUS.
What’s thy passion?

SCARUS.
The greater cantle of the world is lost
With very ignorance. We have kissed away
Kingdoms and provinces.

ENOBARBUS.
How appears the fight?

SCARUS.
On our side like, the tokened pestilence,
Where death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt,
Whom leprosy o’ertake, i’ th’ midst o’ th’ fight,
When vantage like a pair of twins appeared,
Both as the same—or, rather, ours the elder—
The breeze upon her, like a cow in June,
Hoists sails and flies.

ENOBARBUS.
That I beheld.
Mine eyes did sicken at the sight and could not
Endure a further view.

SCARUS.
She once being loofed,
The noble ruin of her magic, Antony,
Claps on his sea-wing and, like a doting mallard,
Leaving the fight in height, flies after her.
I never saw an action of such shame.
Experience, manhood, honour, ne’er before
Did violate so itself.

ENOBARBUS.
Alack, alack!

 Enter Canidius.

CANIDIUS.
Our fortune on the sea is out of breath
And sinks most lamentably. Had our general
Been what he knew himself, it had gone well.
O, he has given example for our flight
Most grossly by his own!

ENOBARBUS.
Ay, are you thereabouts?
Why, then, good night indeed.

CANIDIUS.
Toward Peloponnesus are they fled.

SCARUS.
’Tis easy to’t, and there I will attend
What further comes.

CANIDIUS.
To Caesar will I render
My legions and my horse. Six kings already
Show me the way of yielding.

ENOBARBUS.
I’ll yet follow
The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason
Sits in the wind against me.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE XI. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

 Enter Antony with attendants.

ANTONY.
Hark, the land bids me tread no more upon’t.
It is ashamed to bear me. Friends, come hither.
I am so lated in the world that I
Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship
Laden with gold. Take that, divide it. Fly,
And make your peace with Caesar.

ALL.
Fly? Not we.

ANTONY.
I have fled myself, and have instructed cowards
To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone.
I have myself resolved upon a course
Which has no need of you. Be gone.
My treasure’s in the harbour. Take it. O,
I followed that I blush to look upon.
My very hairs do mutiny, for the white
Reprove the brown for rashness, and they them
For fear and doting. Friends, be gone. You shall
Have letters from me to some friends that will
Sweep your way for you. Pray you, look not sad,
Nor make replies of loathness. Take the hint
Which my despair proclaims. Let that be left
Which leaves itself. To the sea-side straightway.
I will possess you of that ship and treasure.
Leave me, I pray, a little—pray you, now,
Nay, do so; for indeed I have lost command.
Therefore I pray you. I’ll see you by and by.

 [_Sits down._]

 Enter Cleopatra led by Charmian, Iras and Eros.

EROS.
Nay, gentle madam, to him! Comfort him.

IRAS.
Do, most dear queen.

CHARMIAN.
Do! Why, what else?

CLEOPATRA.
Let me sit down. O Juno!

ANTONY.
No, no, no, no, no.

EROS.
See you here, sir?

ANTONY.
O, fie, fie, fie!

CHARMIAN.
Madam.

IRAS.
Madam, O good empress!

EROS.
Sir, sir!

ANTONY.
Yes, my lord, yes. He at Philippi kept
His sword e’en like a dancer, while I struck
The lean and wrinkled Cassius, and ’twas I
That the mad Brutus ended. He alone
Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had
In the brave squares of war. Yet now—no matter.

CLEOPATRA.
Ah, stand by.

EROS.
The Queen, my lord, the Queen!

IRAS.
Go to him, madam; speak to him.
He is unqualitied with very shame.

CLEOPATRA.
Well then, sustain me. O!

EROS.
Most noble sir, arise. The Queen approaches.
Her head’s declined, and death will seize her but
Your comfort makes the rescue.

ANTONY.
I have offended reputation,
A most unnoble swerving.

EROS.
Sir, the Queen.

ANTONY.
O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See
How I convey my shame out of thine eyes
By looking back what I have left behind
’Stroyed in dishonour.

CLEOPATRA.
O my lord, my lord,
Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought
You would have followed.

ANTONY.
Egypt, thou knew’st too well
My heart was to thy rudder tied by th’ strings,
And thou shouldst tow me after. O’er my spirit
Thy full supremacy thou knew’st, and that
Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
Command me.

CLEOPATRA.
O, my pardon!

ANTONY.
Now I must
To the young man send humble treaties, dodge
And palter in the shifts of lowness, who
With half the bulk o’ th’ world played as I pleased,
Making and marring fortunes. You did know
How much you were my conqueror, and that
My sword, made weak by my affection, would
Obey it on all cause.

CLEOPATRA.
Pardon, pardon!

ANTONY.
Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates
All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss.
Even this repays me.
We sent our schoolmaster. Is he come back?
Love, I am full of lead. Some wine
Within there, and our viands! Fortune knows
We scorn her most when most she offers blows.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE XII. Caesar’s camp in Egypt.

 Enter Caesar, Agrippa, Dolabella with others.

CAESAR.
Let him appear that’s come from Antony.
Know you him?

DOLABELLA.
Caesar, ’tis his schoolmaster—
An argument that he is plucked, when hither
He sends so poor a pinion of his wing,
Which had superfluous kings for messengers
Not many moons gone by.

 Enter Ambassador from Anthony.

CAESAR.
Approach, and speak.

AMBASSADOR.
Such as I am, I come from Antony.
I was of late as petty to his ends
As is the morn-dew on the myrtle leaf
To his grand sea.

CAESAR.
Be’t so. Declare thine office.

AMBASSADOR.
Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and
Requires to live in Egypt, which not granted,
He lessens his requests, and to thee sues
To let him breathe between the heavens and earth,
A private man in Athens. This for him.
Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness,
Submits her to thy might, and of thee craves
The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs,
Now hazarded to thy grace.

CAESAR.
For Antony,
I have no ears to his request. The queen
Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she
From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend,
Or take his life there. This if she perform,
She shall not sue unheard. So to them both.

AMBASSADOR.
Fortune pursue thee!

CAESAR.
Bring him through the bands.

 [_Exit Ambassador, attended._]

[_To Thidias_.] To try thy eloquence now ’tis time. Dispatch.
From Antony win Cleopatra. Promise,
And in our name, what she requires; add more,
From thine invention, offers. Women are not
In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure
The ne’er-touch’d vestal. Try thy cunning, Thidias;
Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we
Will answer as a law.

THIDIAS.
Caesar, I go.

CAESAR.
Observe how Antony becomes his flaw,
And what thou think’st his very action speaks
In every power that moves.

THIDIAS.
Caesar, I shall.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

 Enter Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian and Iras.

CLEOPATRA.
What shall we do, Enobarbus?

ENOBARBUS.
Think, and die.

CLEOPATRA.
Is Antony or we in fault for this?

ENOBARBUS.
Antony only, that would make his will
Lord of his reason. What though you fled
From that great face of war, whose several ranges
Frighted each other? Why should he follow?
The itch of his affection should not then
Have nicked his captainship, at such a point,
When half to half the world opposed, he being
The mered question. ’Twas a shame no less
Than was his loss, to course your flying flags
And leave his navy gazing.

CLEOPATRA.
Prithee, peace.

 Enter the Ambassador with Antony.

ANTONY.
Is that his answer?

AMBASSADOR.
Ay, my lord.

ANTONY.
The Queen shall then have courtesy, so she
Will yield us up.

AMBASSADOR.
He says so.

ANTONY.
Let her know’t.—
To the boy Caesar send this grizzled head,
And he will fill thy wishes to the brim
With principalities.

CLEOPATRA.
That head, my lord?

ANTONY.
To him again. Tell him he wears the rose
Of youth upon him, from which the world should note
Something particular: his coin, ships, legions,
May be a coward’s; whose ministers would prevail
Under the service of a child as soon
As i’ th’ command of Caesar. I dare him therefore
To lay his gay comparisons apart,
And answer me declined, sword against sword,
Ourselves alone. I’ll write it. Follow me.

 [_Exeunt Antony and Ambassador._]

ENOBARBUS.
Yes, like enough high-battled Caesar will
Unstate his happiness, and be staged to th’ show
Against a sworder! I see men’s judgments are
A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward
Do draw the inward quality after them
To suffer all alike. That he should dream,
Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will
Answer his emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdued
His judgment too.

 Enter a Servant.

SERVANT.
A messenger from Caesar.

CLEOPATRA.
What, no more ceremony? See, my women,
Against the blown rose may they stop their nose
That kneeled unto the buds. Admit him, sir.

 [_Exit Servant._]

ENOBARBUS.
[_Aside_.] Mine honesty and I begin to square.
The loyalty well held to fools does make
Our faith mere folly. Yet he that can endure
To follow with allegiance a fallen lord
Does conquer him that did his master conquer,
And earns a place i’ th’ story.

 Enter Thidias.

CLEOPATRA.
Caesar’s will?

THIDIAS.
Hear it apart.

CLEOPATRA.
None but friends. Say boldly.

THIDIAS.
So haply are they friends to Antony.

ENOBARBUS.
He needs as many, sir, as Caesar has,
Or needs not us. If Caesar please, our master
Will leap to be his friend. For us, you know
Whose he is we are, and that is Caesar’s.

THIDIAS.
So.—
Thus then, thou most renowned: Caesar entreats
Not to consider in what case thou stand’st
Further than he is Caesar.

CLEOPATRA.
Go on; right royal.

THIDIAS.
He knows that you embrace not Antony
As you did love, but as you feared him.

CLEOPATRA.
O!

THIDIAS.
The scars upon your honour, therefore, he
Does pity as constrained blemishes,
Not as deserved.

CLEOPATRA.
He is a god and knows
What is most right. Mine honour was not yielded,
But conquered merely.

ENOBARBUS.
[_Aside_.] To be sure of that,
I will ask Antony. Sir, sir, thou art so leaky
That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for
Thy dearest quit thee.

 [_Exit Enobarbus._]

THIDIAS.
Shall I say to Caesar
What you require of him? For he partly begs
To be desired to give. It much would please him
That of his fortunes you should make a staff
To lean upon. But it would warm his spirits
To hear from me you had left Antony,
And put yourself under his shroud,
The universal landlord.

CLEOPATRA.
What’s your name?

THIDIAS.
My name is Thidias.

CLEOPATRA.
Most kind messenger,
Say to great Caesar this in deputation:
I kiss his conqu’ring hand. Tell him I am prompt
To lay my crown at’s feet, and there to kneel.
Tell him, from his all-obeying breath I hear
The doom of Egypt.

THIDIAS.
’Tis your noblest course.
Wisdom and fortune combating together,
If that the former dare but what it can,
No chance may shake it. Give me grace to lay
My duty on your hand.

CLEOPATRA.
Your Caesar’s father oft,
When he hath mused of taking kingdoms in,
Bestowed his lips on that unworthy place
As it rained kisses.

 Enter Antony and Enobarbus.

ANTONY.
Favours, by Jove that thunders!
What art thou, fellow?

THIDIAS.
One that but performs
The bidding of the fullest man and worthiest
To have command obeyed.

ENOBARBUS.
[_Aside_.] You will be whipped.

ANTONY.
Approach there.—Ah, you kite!—Now, gods and devils,
Authority melts from me. Of late when I cried “Ho!”
Like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth
And cry “Your will?” Have you no ears? I am
Antony yet.

 Enter Servants.

Take hence this jack and whip him.

ENOBARBUS.
’Tis better playing with a lion’s whelp
Than with an old one dying.

ANTONY.
Moon and stars!
Whip him. Were’t twenty of the greatest tributaries
That do acknowledge Caesar, should I find them
So saucy with the hand of she here—what’s her name
Since she was Cleopatra? Whip him, fellows,
Till like a boy you see him cringe his face
And whine aloud for mercy. Take him hence.

THIDIAS.
Mark Antony—

ANTONY.
Tug him away. Being whipp’d,
Bring him again. This jack of Caesar’s shall
Bear us an errand to him.

 [_Exeunt Servants with Thidias._]

You were half blasted ere I knew you. Ha!
Have I my pillow left unpressed in Rome,
Forborne the getting of a lawful race,
And by a gem of women, to be abused
By one that looks on feeders?

CLEOPATRA.
Good my lord—

ANTONY.
You have been a boggler ever.
But when we in our viciousness grow hard—
O misery on’t!—the wise gods seal our eyes,
In our own filth drop our clear judgments, make us
Adore our errors, laugh at’s while we strut
To our confusion.

CLEOPATRA.
O, is’t come to this?

ANTONY.
I found you as a morsel cold upon
Dead Caesar’s trencher; nay, you were a fragment
Of Gneius Pompey’s, besides what hotter hours,
Unregistered in vulgar fame, you have
Luxuriously pick’d out. For I am sure,
Though you can guess what temperance should be,
You know not what it is.

CLEOPATRA.
Wherefore is this?

ANTONY.
To let a fellow that will take rewards
And say “God quit you!” be familiar with
My playfellow, your hand, this kingly seal
And plighter of high hearts! O that I were
Upon the hill of Basan, to outroar
The horned herd! For I have savage cause,
And to proclaim it civilly were like
A haltered neck which does the hangman thank
For being yare about him.

 Enter a Servant with Thidias.

Is he whipped?

SERVANT.
Soundly, my lord.

ANTONY.
Cried he? And begged he pardon?

SERVANT.
He did ask favour.

ANTONY.
If that thy father live, let him repent
Thou wast not made his daughter; and be thou sorry
To follow Caesar in his triumph, since
Thou hast been whipped for following him. Henceforth
The white hand of a lady fever thee;
Shake thou to look on’t. Get thee back to Caesar;
Tell him thy entertainment. Look thou say
He makes me angry with him; for he seems
Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am,
Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry,
And at this time most easy ’tis to do’t,
When my good stars that were my former guides
Have empty left their orbs and shot their fires
Into th’ abysm of hell. If he mislike
My speech and what is done, tell him he has
Hipparchus, my enfranched bondman, whom
He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture,
As he shall like, to quit me. Urge it thou.
Hence with thy stripes, be gone.

 [_Exit Thidias._]

CLEOPATRA.
Have you done yet?

ANTONY.
Alack, our terrene moon is now eclipsed,
And it portends alone the fall of Antony.

CLEOPATRA.
I must stay his time.

ANTONY.
To flatter Caesar, would you mingle eyes
With one that ties his points?

CLEOPATRA.
Not know me yet?

ANTONY.
Cold-hearted toward me?

CLEOPATRA.
Ah, dear, if I be so,
From my cold heart let heaven engender hail
And poison it in the source, and the first stone
Drop in my neck; as it determines, so
Dissolve my life! The next Caesarion smite,
Till, by degrees the memory of my womb,
Together with my brave Egyptians all,
By the discandying of this pelleted storm,
Lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile
Have buried them for prey!

ANTONY.
I am satisfied.
Caesar sits down in Alexandria, where
I will oppose his fate. Our force by land
Hath nobly held; our severed navy too
Have knit again, and fleet, threat’ning most sea-like.
Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady?
If from the field I shall return once more
To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood.
I and my sword will earn our chronicle.
There’s hope in’t yet.

CLEOPATRA.
That’s my brave lord!

ANTONY.
I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed,
And fight maliciously. For when mine hours
Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives
Of me for jests. But now I’ll set my teeth
And send to darkness all that stop me. Come,
Let’s have one other gaudy night. Call to me
All my sad captains. Fill our bowls once more
Let’s mock the midnight bell.

CLEOPATRA.
It is my birthday.
I had thought t’have held it poor, but since my lord
Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.

ANTONY.
We will yet do well.

CLEOPATRA.
Call all his noble captains to my lord.

ANTONY.
Do so; we’ll speak to them; and tonight I’ll force
The wine peep through their scars. Come on, my queen,
There’s sap in’t yet. The next time I do fight
I’ll make Death love me, for I will contend
Even with his pestilent scythe.

 [_Exeunt all but Enobarbus._]

ENOBARBUS.
Now he’ll outstare the lightning. To be furious
Is to be frighted out of fear, and in that mood
The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still
A diminution in our captain’s brain
Restores his heart. When valour preys on reason,
It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek
Some way to leave him.

 [_Exit._]




ACT IV


SCENE I. Caesar’s Camp at Alexandria.

 Enter Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas, with his army.
Caesar reading a letter.

CAESAR.
He calls me boy, and chides as he had power
To beat me out of Egypt. My messenger
He hath whipped with rods; dares me to personal combat,
Caesar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know
I have many other ways to die; meantime
Laugh at his challenge.

MAECENAS.
Caesar must think,
When one so great begins to rage, he’s hunted
Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now
Make boot of his distraction. Never anger
Made good guard for itself.

CAESAR.
Let our best heads
Know that tomorrow the last of many battles
We mean to fight. Within our files there are,
Of those that served Mark Antony but late,
Enough to fetch him in. See it done,
And feast the army; we have store to do’t,
And they have earned the waste. Poor Antony!

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

 Enter Antony, Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, Iras, Alexas with
 others.

ANTONY.
He will not fight with me, Domitius?

ENOBARBUS.
No.

ANTONY.
Why should he not?

ENOBARBUS.
He thinks, being twenty times of better fortune,
He is twenty men to one.

ANTONY.
Tomorrow, soldier,
By sea and land I’ll fight. Or I will live,
Or bathe my dying honour in the blood
Shall make it live again. Woo’t thou fight well?

ENOBARBUS.
I’ll strike, and cry “Take all.”

ANTONY.
Well said. Come on.
Call forth my household servants. Let’s tonight
Be bounteous at our meal.—

 Enter Servants.

Give me thy hand.
Thou has been rightly honest; so hast thou,
Thou, and thou, and thou. You have served me well,
And kings have been your fellows.

CLEOPATRA.
[_Aside to Enobarbus_.] What means this?

ENOBARBUS.
[_Aside to Cleopatra_.] ’Tis one of those odd tricks which sorrow
shoots
Out of the mind.

ANTONY.
And thou art honest too.
I wish I could be made so many men,
And all of you clapped up together in
An Antony, that I might do you service
So good as you have done.

ALL THE SERVANTS.
The gods forbid!

ANTONY.
Well, my good fellows, wait on me tonight.
Scant not my cups, and make as much of me
As when mine empire was your fellow too
And suffered my command.

CLEOPATRA.
[_Aside to Enobarbus_.] What does he mean?

ENOBARBUS.
[_Aside to Cleopatra_.] To make his followers weep.

ANTONY.
Tend me tonight;
May be it is the period of your duty.
Haply you shall not see me more, or if,
A mangled shadow. Perchance tomorrow
You’ll serve another master. I look on you
As one that takes his leave. Mine honest friends,
I turn you not away, but, like a master
Married to your good service, stay till death.
Tend me tonight two hours, I ask no more,
And the gods yield you for’t!

ENOBARBUS.
What mean you, sir,
To give them this discomfort? Look, they weep,
And I, an ass, am onion-eyed. For shame,
Transform us not to women.

ANTONY.
Ho, ho, ho!
Now the witch take me if I meant it thus!
Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty friends,
You take me in too dolorous a sense,
For I spake to you for your comfort, did desire you
To burn this night with torches. Know, my hearts,
I hope well of tomorrow, and will lead you
Where rather I’ll expect victorious life
Than death and honour. Let’s to supper, come,
And drown consideration.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. Alexandria. Before the Palace.

 Enter a Company of Soldiers.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Brother, good night. Tomorrow is the day.

SECOND SOLDIER.
It will determine one way. Fare you well.
Heard you of nothing strange about the streets?

FIRST SOLDIER.
Nothing. What news?

SECOND SOLDIER.
Belike ’tis but a rumour. Good night to you.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Well, sir, good night.

 Enter two other Soldiers.

SECOND SOLDIER.
Soldiers, have careful watch.

THIRD SOLDIER.
And you. Good night, good night.

 [_They place themselves in every corner of the stage._]

SECOND SOLDIER.
Here we. And if tomorrow
Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope
Our landmen will stand up.

FIRST SOLDIER.
’Tis a brave army, and full of purpose.

 [_Music of the hautboys under the stage._]

SECOND SOLDIER.
Peace, what noise?

FIRST SOLDIER.
List, list!

SECOND SOLDIER.
Hark!

FIRST SOLDIER.
Music i’ th’ air.

THIRD SOLDIER.
Under the earth.

FOURTH SOLDIER.
It signs well, does it not?

THIRD SOLDIER.
No.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Peace, I say! What should this mean?

SECOND SOLDIER.
’Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony loved,
Now leaves him.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Walk. Let’s see if other watchmen
Do hear what we do.

 [_They advance to another post._]

SECOND SOLDIER.
How now, masters!

ALL.
How now! How now! Do you hear this?

FIRST SOLDIER.
Ay. Is’t not strange?

THIRD SOLDIER.
Do you hear, masters? Do you hear?

FIRST SOLDIER.
Follow the noise so far as we have quarter.
Let’s see how it will give off.

ALL.
Content. ’Tis strange.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

 Enter Antony and Cleopatra with others.

ANTONY.
Eros! Mine armour, Eros!

CLEOPATRA.
Sleep a little.

ANTONY.
No, my chuck.—Eros! Come, mine armour, Eros!

 Enter Eros with armour.

Come, good fellow, put thine iron on.
If fortune be not ours today, it is
Because we brave her. Come.

CLEOPATRA.
Nay, I’ll help too.
What’s this for?

ANTONY.
Ah, let be, let be! Thou art
The armourer of my heart. False, false. This, this!

CLEOPATRA.
Sooth, la, I’ll help. Thus it must be.

ANTONY.
Well, well,
We shall thrive now. Seest thou, my good fellow?
Go put on thy defences.

EROS.
Briefly, sir.

CLEOPATRA.
Is not this buckled well?

ANTONY.
Rarely, rarely.
He that unbuckles this, till we do please
To daff’t for our repose, shall hear a storm.
Thou fumblest, Eros, and my queen’s a squire
More tight at this than thou. Dispatch. O love,
That thou couldst see my wars today, and knew’st
The royal occupation, thou shouldst see
A workman in’t.

 Enter an Officer, armed.

Good morrow to thee. Welcome.
Thou look’st like him that knows a warlike charge.
To business that we love we rise betime
And go to’t with delight.

OFFICER.
A thousand, sir,
Early though’t be, have on their riveted trim
And at the port expect you.

 [_Shout. Trumpets flourish._]

 Enter other Captains and Soldiers.

CAPTAIN.
The morn is fair. Good morrow, general.

ALL.
Good morrow, general.

ANTONY.
’Tis well blown, lads.
This morning, like the spirit of a youth
That means to be of note, begins betimes.
So, so. Come, give me that. This way. Well said.
Fare thee well, dame.
Whate’er becomes of me,
This is a soldier’s kiss. [_Kisses her._] Rebukeable
And worthy shameful check it were, to stand
On more mechanic compliment. I’ll leave thee
Now like a man of steel.—You that will fight,
Follow me close, I’ll bring you to’t. Adieu.

 [_Exeunt Antony, Eros, Captains and Soldiers._]

CHARMIAN.
Please you, retire to your chamber.

CLEOPATRA.
Lead me.
He goes forth gallantly. That he and Caesar might
Determine this great war in single fight!
Then Antony—but now—. Well, on.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Antony’s camp near Alexandria.

 Trumpets sound. Enter Antony and Eros, a Soldier meeting them.

SOLDIER.
The gods make this a happy day to Antony!

ANTONY.
Would thou and those thy scars had once prevailed
To make me fight at land!

SOLDIER.
Hadst thou done so,
The kings that have revolted and the soldier
That has this morning left thee would have still
Followed thy heels.

ANTONY.
Who’s gone this morning?

SOLDIER.
Who?
One ever near thee. Call for Enobarbus,
He shall not hear thee, or from Caesar’s camp
Say “I am none of thine.”

ANTONY.
What sayest thou?

SOLDIER.
Sir,
He is with Caesar.

EROS.
Sir, his chests and treasure
He has not with him.

ANTONY.
Is he gone?

SOLDIER.
Most certain.

ANTONY.
Go, Eros, send his treasure after. Do it.
Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him—
I will subscribe—gentle adieus and greetings.
Say that I wish he never find more cause
To change a master. O, my fortunes have
Corrupted honest men! Dispatch.—Enobarbus!

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE VI. Alexandria. Caesar’s camp.

 Flourish. Enter Agrippa, Caesar with Enobarbus and Dolabella.

CAESAR.
Go forth, Agrippa, and begin the fight.
Our will is Antony be took alive;
Make it so known.

AGRIPPA.
Caesar, I shall.

 [_Exit._]

CAESAR.
The time of universal peace is near.
Prove this a prosp’rous day, the three-nooked world
Shall bear the olive freely.

 Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER.
Antony
Is come into the field.

CAESAR.
Go charge Agrippa
Plant those that have revolted in the van
That Antony may seem to spend his fury
Upon himself.

 [_Exeunt Caesar and his Train._]

ENOBARBUS.
Alexas did revolt and went to Jewry on
Affairs of Antony; there did dissuade
Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar
And leave his master Antony. For this pains
Casaer hath hanged him. Canidius and the rest
That fell away have entertainment but
No honourable trust. I have done ill,
Of which I do accuse myself so sorely
That I will joy no more.

 Enter a Soldier of Caesar’s.

SOLDIER.
Enobarbus, Antony
Hath after thee sent all thy treasure, with
His bounty overplus. The messenger
Came on my guard, and at thy tent is now
Unloading of his mules.

ENOBARBUS.
I give it you.

SOLDIER.
Mock not, Enobarbus.
I tell you true. Best you safed the bringer
Out of the host. I must attend mine office,
Or would have done’t myself. Your emperor
Continues still a Jove.

 [_Exit._]

ENOBARBUS.
I am alone the villain of the earth,
And feel I am so most. O Antony,
Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have paid
My better service, when my turpitude
Thou dost so crown with gold! This blows my heart.
If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean
Shall outstrike thought, but thought will do’t, I feel.
I fight against thee! No, I will go seek
Some ditch wherein to die; the foul’st best fits
My latter part of life.

 [_Exit._]

SCENE VII. Field of battle between the Camps.

 Alarum. Drums and Trumpets. Enter Agrippa and others.

AGRIPPA.
Retire! We have engaged ourselves too far.
Caesar himself has work, and our oppression
Exceeds what we expected.

 [_Exeunt._]

 Alarums. Enter Antony and Scarus wounded.

SCARUS.
O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed!
Had we done so at first, we had droven them home
With clouts about their heads.

ANTONY.
Thou bleed’st apace.

SCARUS.
I had a wound here that was like a T,
But now ’tis made an H.

 _Sounds retreat far off._
ANTONY.
They do retire.

SCARUS.
We’ll beat ’em into bench-holes. I have yet
Room for six scotches more.

 Enter Eros.

EROS.
They are beaten, sir, and our advantage serves
For a fair victory.

SCARUS.
Let us score their backs
And snatch ’em up as we take hares, behind.
’Tis sport to maul a runner.

ANTONY.
I will reward thee
Once for thy sprightly comfort, and tenfold
For thy good valour. Come thee on.

SCARUS.
I’ll halt after.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE VIII. Under the Walls of Alexandria.

 Alarum. Enter Antony again in a march; Scarus with others.

ANTONY.
We have beat him to his camp. Run one before
And let the Queen know of our gests.
Tomorrow,
Before the sun shall see’s, we’ll spill the blood
That has today escaped. I thank you all,
For doughty-handed are you, and have fought
Not as you served the cause, but as’t had been
Each man’s like mine. You have shown all Hectors.
Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends,
Tell them your feats; whilst they with joyful tears
Wash the congealment from your wounds and kiss
The honoured gashes whole.

 Enter Cleopatra.

[_To Scarus_.] Give me thy hand.
To this great fairy I’ll commend thy acts,
Make her thanks bless thee. O thou day o’ th’ world,
Chain mine armed neck. Leap thou, attire and all,
Through proof of harness to my heart, and there
Ride on the pants triumphing.

CLEOPATRA.
Lord of lords!
O infinite virtue, com’st thou smiling from
The world’s great snare uncaught?

ANTONY.
Mine nightingale,
We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! Though grey
Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha’ we
A brain that nourishes our nerves and can
Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man.
Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand.—
Kiss it, my warrior. He hath fought today
As if a god, in hate of mankind, had
Destroyed in such a shape.

CLEOPATRA.
I’ll give thee, friend,
An armour all of gold. It was a king’s.

ANTONY.
He has deserved it, were it carbuncled
Like holy Phœbus’ car. Give me thy hand.
Through Alexandria make a jolly march;
Bear our hacked targets like the men that owe them.
Had our great palace the capacity
To camp this host, we all would sup together
And drink carouses to the next day’s fate,
Which promises royal peril.—Trumpeters,
With brazen din blast you the city’s ear;
Make mingle with our rattling tabourines,
That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together,
Applauding our approach.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE IX. Caesar’s camp.

 Enter a Sentry and his company. Enobarbus follows.

SENTRY.
If we be not relieved within this hour,
We must return to th’ court of guard. The night
Is shiny, and they say we shall embattle
By th’ second hour i’ th’ morn.

FIRST WATCH.
This last day was a shrewd one to’s.

ENOBARBUS.
O, bear me witness, night.—

SECOND WATCH.
What man is this?

FIRST WATCH.
Stand close and list him.

ENOBARBUS.
Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon,
When men revolted shall upon record
Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did
Before thy face repent.

SENTRY.
Enobarbus?

SECOND WATCH.
Peace! Hark further.

ENOBARBUS.
O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,
The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,
That life, a very rebel to my will,
May hang no longer on me. Throw my heart
Against the flint and hardness of my fault,
Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder
And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony,
Nobler than my revolt is infamous,
Forgive me in thine own particular,
But let the world rank me in register
A master-leaver and a fugitive.
O Antony! O Antony!

 [_Dies._]

FIRST WATCH.
Let’s speak to him.

SENTRY.
Let’s hear him, for the things he speaks may concern Caesar.

SECOND WATCH.
Let’s do so. But he sleeps.

SENTRY.
Swoons rather, for so bad a prayer as his
Was never yet for sleep.

FIRST WATCH.
Go we to him.

SECOND WATCH.
Awake, sir, awake! Speak to us.

FIRST WATCH.
Hear you, sir?

SENTRY.
The hand of death hath raught him.

 [_Drums afar off._]

Hark! The drums
Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him
To th’ court of guard; he is of note. Our hour
Is fully out.

SECOND WATCH.
Come on, then. He may recover yet.

 [_Exeunt with the body._]

SCENE X. Ground between the two Camps.

 Enter Antony and Scarus with their army.

ANTONY.
Their preparation is today by sea;
We please them not by land.

SCARUS.
For both, my lord.

ANTONY.
I would they’d fight i’ th’ fire or i’ th’ air;
We’d fight there too. But this it is: our foot
Upon the hills adjoining to the city
Shall stay with us—order for sea is given;
They have put forth the haven—
Where their appointment we may best discover
And look on their endeavour.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE XI. Another part of the Ground.

 Enter Caesar and his army.

CAESAR.
But being charged, we will be still by land,
Which, as I take’t, we shall, for his best force
Is forth to man his galleys. To the vales,
And hold our best advantage.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE XII. Another part of the Ground.

 Alarum afar off, as at a sea fight. Enter Antony and Scarus.

ANTONY.
Yet they are not joined. Where yond pine does stand
I shall discover all. I’ll bring thee word
Straight how ’tis like to go.

 [_Exit._]

SCARUS.
Swallows have built
In Cleopatra’s sails their nests. The augurs
Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly,
And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony
Is valiant and dejected, and by starts
His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear
Of what he has and has not.

 Enter Antony.

ANTONY.
All is lost!
This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me.
My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder
They cast their caps up and carouse together
Like friends long lost. Triple-turned whore! ’Tis thou
Hast sold me to this novice, and my heart
Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly;
For when I am revenged upon my charm,
I have done all. Bid them all fly! Be gone!

 [_Exit Scarus._]

O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more.
Fortune and Antony part here; even here
Do we shake hands. All come to this! The hearts
That spanieled me at heels, to whom I gave
Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets
On blossoming Caesar, and this pine is barked
That overtopped them all. Betray’d I am:
O this false soul of Egypt! This grave charm,
Whose eye becked forth my wars and called them home,
Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,
Like a right gypsy hath at fast and loose
Beguiled me to the very heart of loss.
What, Eros, Eros!

 Enter Cleopatra.

Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!

CLEOPATRA.
Why is my lord enraged against his love?

ANTONY.
Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving
And blemish Caesar’s triumph. Let him take thee
And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians!
Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot
Of all thy sex; most monster-like be shown
For poor’st diminutives, for dolts, and let
Patient Octavia plough thy visage up
With her prepared nails.

 [_Exit Cleopatra._]

’Tis well thou’rt gone,
If it be well to live; but better ’twere
Thou fell’st into my fury, for one death
Might have prevented many.—Eros, ho!—
The shirt of Nessus is upon me. Teach me,
Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage.
Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o’ th’ moon,
And with those hands that grasped the heaviest club
Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die.
To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall
Under this plot. She dies for’t.—Eros, ho!

 [_Exit._]

SCENE XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

 Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Mardian.

CLEOPATRA.
Help me, my women! O, he is more mad
Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly
Was never so embossed.

CHARMIAN.
To th’ monument!
There lock yourself and send him word you are dead.
The soul and body rive not more in parting
Than greatness going off.

CLEOPATRA.
To th’ monument!
Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself.
Say that the last I spoke was “Antony”,
And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence, Mardian,
And bring me how he takes my death.—To th’ monument!

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE XIV. Alexandria. Another Room.

 Enter Antony and Eros.

ANTONY.
Eros, thou yet behold’st me?

EROS.
Ay, noble lord.

ANTONY.
Sometime we see a cloud that’s dragonish,
A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,
A towered citadel, a pendant rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory
With trees upon’t, that nod unto the world
And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs.
They are black vesper’s pageants.

EROS.
Ay, my lord.

ANTONY.
That which is now a horse, even with a thought
The rack dislimns and makes it indistinct
As water is in water.

EROS.
It does, my lord.

ANTONY.
My good knave Eros, now thy captain is
Even such a body. Here I am Antony,
Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave.
I made these wars for Egypt, and the Queen,
Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine,
Which, whilst it was mine, had annexed unto’t
A million more, now lost—she, Eros, has
Packed cards with Caesar, and false-played my glory
Unto an enemy’s triumph.
Nay, weep not, gentle Eros. There is left us
Ourselves to end ourselves.

 Enter Mardian.

O, thy vile lady!
She has robbed me of my sword.

MARDIAN.
No, Antony,
My mistress loved thee and her fortunes mingled
With thine entirely.

ANTONY.
Hence, saucy eunuch! Peace!
She hath betrayed me and shall die the death.

MARDIAN.
Death of one person can be paid but once,
And that she has discharged. What thou wouldst do
Is done unto thy hand. The last she spake
Was “Antony! Most noble Antony!”
Then in the midst a tearing groan did break
The name of Antony; it was divided
Between her heart and lips. She rendered life,
Thy name so buried in her.

ANTONY.
Dead, then?

MARDIAN.
Dead.

ANTONY.
Unarm, Eros. The long day’s task is done,
And we must sleep.—That thou depart’st hence safe
Does pay thy labour richly. Go.

 [_Exit Mardian._]

Off, pluck off!
The sevenfold shield of Ajax cannot keep
The battery from my heart. O, cleave, my sides!
Heart, once be stronger than thy continent;
Crack thy frail case! Apace, Eros, apace!
No more a soldier. Bruised pieces, go;
You have been nobly borne. From me awhile.

 [_Exit Eros._]

I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and
Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now
All length is torture. Since the torch is out,
Lie down, and stray no farther. Now all labour
Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles
Itself with strength. Seal then, and all is done.
Eros!—I come, my queen.—Eros!—Stay for me.
Where souls do couch on flowers, we’ll hand in hand,
And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze.
Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops,
And all the haunt be ours.—Come, Eros, Eros!

 Enter Eros.

EROS.
What would my lord?

ANTONY.
Since Cleopatra died,
I have lived in such dishonour that the gods
Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword
Quartered the world, and o’er green Neptune’s back
With ships made cities, condemn myself to lack
The courage of a woman; less noble mind
Than she which, by her death, our Caesar tells
“I am conqueror of myself.” Thou art sworn, Eros,
That when the exigent should come, which now
Is come indeed, when I should see behind me
Th’ inevitable prosecution of
Disgrace and horror, that on my command
Thou then wouldst kill me. Do’t. The time is come.
Thou strik’st not me; ’tis Caesar thou defeat’st.
Put colour in thy cheek.

EROS.
The gods withhold me!
Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts,
Though enemy, lost aim and could not?

ANTONY.
Eros,
Wouldst thou be windowed in great Rome and see
Thy master thus with pleached arms, bending down
His corrigible neck, his face subdued
To penetrative shame, whilst the wheeled seat
Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded
His baseness that ensued?

EROS.
I would not see’t.

ANTONY.
Come, then, for with a wound I must be cured.
Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn
Most useful for thy country.

EROS.
O, sir, pardon me!

ANTONY.
When I did make thee free, swor’st thou not then
To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once,
Or thy precedent services are all
But accidents unpurposed. Draw, and come.

EROS.
Turn from me then that noble countenance
Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.

ANTONY.
Lo thee!

 [_Turning from him._]

EROS.
My sword is drawn.

ANTONY.
Then let it do at once
The thing why thou hast drawn it.

EROS.
My dear master,
My captain and my emperor, let me say,
Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.

ANTONY.
’Tis said, man, and farewell.

EROS.
Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now?

ANTONY.
Now, Eros.

EROS.
Why, there then! [_kills himself_]
Thus do I escape the sorrow
Of Antony’s death.

 [_Dies._]

ANTONY.
Thrice nobler than myself!
Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what
I should and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros
Have by their brave instruction got upon me
A nobleness in record. But I will be
A bridegroom in my death and run into’t
As to a lover’s bed. Come then, and, Eros,
Thy master dies thy scholar. To do thus

 [_Falling on his sword._]

I learned of thee. How? Not dead? Not dead?
The guard, ho! O, dispatch me!

 Enter a company of the Guard, one of them Dercetus.

FIRST GUARD.
What’s the noise?

ANTONY.
I have done my work ill, friends. O, make an end
Of what I have begun.

SECOND GUARD.
The star is fallen.

FIRST GUARD.
And time is at his period.

ALL.
Alas, and woe!

ANTONY.
Let him that loves me strike me dead.

FIRST GUARD.
Not I.

SECOND GUARD.
Nor I.

THIRD GUARD.
Nor anyone.

 [_Exeunt guard._]

DERCETUS.
Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly.
This sword but shown to Caesar with this tidings,
Shall enter me with him.

 Enter Diomedes.

DIOMEDES.
Where’s Antony?

DERCETUS.
There, Diomed, there.

DIOMEDES.
Lives he? Wilt thou not answer, man?

 [_Exit Dercetus._]

ANTONY.
Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword and give me
Sufficing strokes for death.

DIOMEDES.
Most absolute lord,
My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee.

ANTONY.
When did she send thee?

DIOMEDES.
Now, my lord.

ANTONY.
Where is she?

DIOMEDES.
Locked in her monument. She had a prophesying fear
Of what hath come to pass. For when she saw—
Which never shall be found—you did suspect
She had disposed with Caesar, and that your rage
Would not be purged, she sent you word she was dead;
But fearing since how it might work, hath sent
Me to proclaim the truth, and I am come,
I dread, too late.

ANTONY.
Too late, good Diomed. Call my guard, I prithee.

DIOMEDES.
What, ho! The emperor’s guard! The guard, what ho!
Come, your lord calls!

 Enter four or five of the Guard of Antony.

ANTONY.
Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides.
’Tis the last service that I shall command you.

FIRST GUARD.
Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not live to wear
All your true followers out.

ALL.
Most heavy day!

ANTONY.
Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate
To grace it with your sorrows. Bid that welcome
Which comes to punish us, and we punish it,
Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up.
I have led you oft; carry me now, good friends,
And have my thanks for all.

 [_Exeunt, bearing Antony._]

SCENE XV. Alexandria. A monument.

 Enter Cleopatra and her maids aloft, with Charmian and Iras.

CLEOPATRA.
O Charmian, I will never go from hence.

CHARMIAN.
Be comforted, dear madam.

CLEOPATRA.
No, I will not.
All strange and terrible events are welcome,
But comforts we despise. Our size of sorrow,
Proportioned to our cause, must be as great
As that which makes it.

 Enter, below Diomedes.

How now! Is he dead?

DIOMEDES.
His death’s upon him, but not dead.
Look out o’ th’ other side your monument;
His guard have brought him thither.

 Enter, below Antony borne by the Guard.

CLEOPATRA.
O sun,
Burn the great sphere thou mov’st in! Darkling stand
The varying shore o’ th’ world. O Antony,
Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian! Help, Iras, help!
Help, friends below! Let’s draw him hither.

ANTONY.
Peace!
Not Caesar’s valour hath o’erthrown Antony,
But Antony’s hath triumphed on itself.

CLEOPATRA.
So it should be, that none but Antony
Should conquer Antony, but woe ’tis so!

ANTONY.
I am dying, Egypt, dying. Only
I here importune death awhile until
Of many thousand kisses the poor last
I lay upon thy lips.

CLEOPATRA.
I dare not, dear
Dear my lord, pardon. I dare not,
Lest I be taken. Not th’ imperious show
Of the full-fortuned Caesar ever shall
Be brooched with me; if knife, drugs, serpents, have
Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe.
Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes
And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour
Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony—
Help me, my women—we must draw thee up.
Assist, good friends.

ANTONY.
O, quick, or I am gone.

CLEOPATRA.
Here’s sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord!
Our strength is all gone into heaviness;
That makes the weight. Had I great Juno’s power,
The strong-winged Mercury should fetch thee up
And set thee by Jove’s side. Yet come a little;
Wishers were ever fools. O come, come come,

 [_They heave Antony aloft to Cleopatra._]

And welcome, welcome! Die where thou hast lived;
Quicken with kissing. Had my lips that power,
Thus would I wear them out.

ALL.
A heavy sight!

ANTONY.
I am dying, Egypt, dying.
Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.

CLEOPATRA.
No, let me speak, and let me rail so high
That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel,
Provoked by my offence.

ANTONY.
One word, sweet queen:
Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. O!

CLEOPATRA.
They do not go together.

ANTONY.
Gentle, hear me.
None about Caesar trust but Proculeius.

CLEOPATRA.
My resolution and my hands I’ll trust;
None about Caesar.

ANTONY.
The miserable change now at my end
Lament nor sorrow at, but please your thoughts
In feeding them with those my former fortunes
Wherein I lived the greatest prince o’ th’ world,
The noblest; and do now not basely die,
Not cowardly put off my helmet to
My countryman; a Roman by a Roman
Valiantly vanquished. Now my spirit is going;
I can no more.

CLEOPATRA.
Noblest of men, woo’t die?
Hast thou no care of me? Shall I abide
In this dull world, which in thy absence is
No better than a sty? O, see, my women,

 [_ Antony dies._]

The crown o’ th’ earth doth melt.—My lord!
O, withered is the garland of the war,
The soldier’s pole is fallen; young boys and girls
Are level now with men. The odds is gone,
And there is nothing left remarkable
Beneath the visiting moon.

 [_Faints._]

CHARMIAN.
O, quietness, lady!

IRAS.
She is dead too, our sovereign.

CHARMIAN.
Lady!

IRAS.
Madam!

CHARMIAN.
O madam, madam, madam!

IRAS.
Royal Egypt, Empress!

CHARMIAN.
Peace, peace, Iras!

CLEOPATRA.
No more but e’en a woman, and commanded
By such poor passion as the maid that milks
And does the meanest chares. It were for me
To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods,
To tell them that this world did equal theirs
Till they had stolen our jewel. All’s but naught;
Patience is sottish, and impatience does
Become a dog that’s mad. Then is it sin
To rush into the secret house of death
Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women?
What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian?
My noble girls! Ah, women, women! Look,
Our lamp is spent, it’s out! Good sirs, take heart.
We’ll bury him; and then, what’s brave, what’s noble,
Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion
And make death proud to take us. Come, away.
This case of that huge spirit now is cold.
Ah, women, women! Come, we have no friend
But resolution and the briefest end.

 [_Exeunt, bearing off Antony’s body._]




ACT V


SCENE I. Caesar’s Camp before Alexandria.

 Enter Caesar, Agrippa, Dolabella, Maecenas, Gallus, Proculeius with
 his council of war.

CAESAR.
Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield.
Being so frustrate, tell him, he mocks
The pauses that he makes.

DOLABELLA.
Caesar, I shall.

 [_Exit._]

 Enter Dercetus with the sword of Antony.

CAESAR.
Wherefore is that? And what art thou that dar’st
Appear thus to us?

DERCETUS.
I am called Dercetus.
Mark Antony I served, who best was worthy
Best to be served. Whilst he stood up and spoke,
He was my master, and I wore my life
To spend upon his haters. If thou please
To take me to thee, as I was to him
I’ll be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not,
I yield thee up my life.

CAESAR.
What is’t thou say’st?

DERCETUS.
I say, O Caesar, Antony is dead.

CAESAR.
The breaking of so great a thing should make
A greater crack. The round world
Should have shook lions into civil streets,
And citizens to their dens. The death of Antony
Is not a single doom; in the name lay
A moiety of the world.

DERCETUS.
He is dead, Caesar,
Not by a public minister of justice,
Nor by a hired knife, but that self hand
Which writ his honour in the acts it did
Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it,
Splitted the heart. This is his sword.
I robbed his wound of it. Behold it stained
With his most noble blood.

CAESAR.
Look you sad, friends?
The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings
To wash the eyes of kings.

AGRIPPA.
And strange it is
That nature must compel us to lament
Our most persisted deeds.

MAECENAS.
His taints and honours
Waged equal with him.

AGRIPPA.
A rarer spirit never
Did steer humanity, but you gods will give us
Some faults to make us men. Caesar is touched.

MAECENAS.
When such a spacious mirror’s set before him,
He needs must see himself.

CAESAR.
O Antony,
I have followed thee to this, but we do lance
Diseases in our bodies. I must perforce
Have shown to thee such a declining day
Or look on thine. We could not stall together
In the whole world. But yet let me lament
With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,
That thou, my brother, my competitor
In top of all design, my mate in empire,
Friend and companion in the front of war,
The arm of mine own body, and the heart
Where mine his thoughts did kindle, that our stars,
Unreconciliable, should divide
Our equalness to this. Hear me, good friends—

 Enter an Egyptian.

But I will tell you at some meeter season.
The business of this man looks out of him;
We’ll hear him what he says. Whence are you?

EGYPTIAN.
A poor Egyptian yet. The queen, my mistress,
Confined in all she has, her monument,
Of thy intents desires instruction,
That she preparedly may frame herself
To the way she’s forced to.

CAESAR.
Bid her have good heart.
She soon shall know of us, by some of ours,
How honourable and how kindly we
Determine for her. For Caesar cannot lean
To be ungentle.

EGYPTIAN.
So the gods preserve thee!

 [_Exit._]

CAESAR.
Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say
We purpose her no shame. Give her what comforts
The quality of her passion shall require,
Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke
She do defeat us, for her life in Rome
Would be eternal in our triumph. Go,
And with your speediest bring us what she says
And how you find of her.

PROCULEIUS.
Caesar, I shall.

 [_Exit Proculeius._]

CAESAR.
Gallus, go you along.

 [_Exit Gallus._]

Where’s Dolabella, to second Proculeius?

ALL.
Dolabella!

CAESAR.
Let him alone, for I remember now
How he’s employed. He shall in time be ready.
Go with me to my tent, where you shall see
How hardly I was drawn into this war,
How calm and gentle I proceeded still
In all my writings. Go with me and see
What I can show in this.

 [_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Alexandria. A Room in the Monument.

 Enter Cleopatra, Charmian and Iras.

CLEOPATRA.
My desolation does begin to make
A better life. ’Tis paltry to be Caesar;
Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’s knave,
A minister of her will. And it is great
To do that thing that ends all other deeds,
Which shackles accidents and bolts up change,
Which sleeps and never palates more the dung,
The beggar’s nurse and Caesar’s.

 Enter Proculeius.

PROCULEIUS.
Caesar sends greetings to the queen of Egypt,
And bids thee study on what fair demands
Thou mean’st to have him grant thee.

CLEOPATRA.
What’s thy name?

PROCULEIUS.
My name is Proculeius.

CLEOPATRA.
Antony
Did tell me of you, bade me trust you, but
I do not greatly care to be deceived
That have no use for trusting. If your master
Would have a queen his beggar, you must tell him
That majesty, to keep decorum, must
No less beg than a kingdom. If he please
To give me conquered Egypt for my son,
He gives me so much of mine own as I
Will kneel to him with thanks.

PROCULEIUS.
Be of good cheer.
You are fallen into a princely hand; fear nothing.
Make your full reference freely to my lord,
Who is so full of grace that it flows over
On all that need. Let me report to him
Your sweet dependency, and you shall find
A conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness
Where he for grace is kneeled to.

CLEOPATRA.
Pray you tell him
I am his fortune’s vassal and I send him
The greatness he has got. I hourly learn
A doctrine of obedience, and would gladly
Look him i’ th’ face.

PROCULEIUS.
This I’ll report, dear lady.
Have comfort, for I know your plight is pitied
Of him that caused it.

 Enter Gallus and Roman Soldiers.

You see how easily she may be surprised.
Guard her till Caesar come.

IRAS.
Royal queen!

CHARMIAN.
O Cleopatra, thou art taken, queen!

CLEOPATRA.
Quick, quick, good hands.

 [_Drawing a dagger._]

PROCULEIUS.
Hold, worthy lady, hold!

 [_Seizes and disarms her._]

Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this
Relieved, but not betrayed.

CLEOPATRA.
What, of death too,
That rids our dogs of languish?

PROCULEIUS.
Cleopatra,
Do not abuse my master’s bounty by
Th’ undoing of yourself. Let the world see
His nobleness well acted, which your death
Will never let come forth.

CLEOPATRA.
Where art thou, Death?
Come hither, come! Come, come, and take a queen
Worth many babes and beggars!

PROCULEIUS.
O, temperance, lady!

CLEOPATRA.
Sir, I will eat no meat; I’ll not drink, sir;
If idle talk will once be necessary,
I’ll not sleep neither. This mortal house I’ll ruin,
Do Caesar what he can. Know, sir, that I
Will not wait pinioned at your master’s court,
Nor once be chastised with the sober eye
Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up
And show me to the shouting varletry
Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt
Be gentle grave unto me! Rather on Nilus’ mud
Lay me stark-naked, and let the water-flies
Blow me into abhorring! Rather make
My country’s high pyramides my gibbet
And hang me up in chains!

PROCULEIUS.
You do extend
These thoughts of horror further than you shall
Find cause in Caesar.

 Enter Dolabella.

DOLABELLA.
Proculeius,
What thou hast done thy master Caesar knows,
And he hath sent for thee. For the queen,
I’ll take her to my guard.

PROCULEIUS.
So, Dolabella,
It shall content me best. Be gentle to her.
[_To Cleopatra._] To Caesar I will speak what you shall please,
If you’ll employ me to him.

CLEOPATRA.
Say I would die.

 [_Exeunt Proculeius and Soldiers._]

DOLABELLA.
Most noble empress, you have heard of me?

CLEOPATRA.
I cannot tell.

DOLABELLA.
Assuredly you know me.

CLEOPATRA.
No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.
You laugh when boys or women tell their dreams;
Is’t not your trick?

DOLABELLA.
I understand not, madam.

CLEOPATRA.
I dreamt there was an Emperor Antony.
O, such another sleep, that I might see
But such another man!

DOLABELLA.
If it might please you—

CLEOPATRA.
His face was as the heavens, and therein stuck
A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted
The little O, the earth.

DOLABELLA.
Most sovereign creature—

CLEOPATRA.
His legs bestrid the ocean; his reared arm
Crested the world; his voice was propertied
As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends;
But when he meant to quail and shake the orb,
He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty,
There was no winter in’t; an autumn ’twas
That grew the more by reaping. His delights
Were dolphin-like; they showed his back above
The element they lived in. In his livery
Walked crowns and crownets; realms and islands were
As plates dropped from his pocket.

DOLABELLA.
Cleopatra—

CLEOPATRA.
Think you there was or might be such a man
As this I dreamt of?

DOLABELLA.
Gentle madam, no.

CLEOPATRA.
You lie up to the hearing of the gods!
But if there be nor ever were one such,
It’s past the size of dreaming. Nature wants stuff
To vie strange forms with fancy; yet t’ imagine
An Antony were nature’s piece ’gainst fancy,
Condemning shadows quite.

DOLABELLA.
Hear me, good madam.
Your loss is, as yourself, great; and you bear it
As answering to the weight. Would I might never
O’ertake pursued success, but I do feel,
By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites
My very heart at root.

CLEOPATRA.
I thank you, sir.
Know you what Caesar means to do with me?

DOLABELLA.
I am loath to tell you what I would you knew.

CLEOPATRA.
Nay, pray you, sir.

DOLABELLA.
Though he be honourable—

CLEOPATRA.
He’ll lead me, then, in triumph.

DOLABELLA.
Madam, he will. I know it.

 Flourish. Enter Caesar, Proculeius, Gallus, Maecenas and others of his
 train.

ALL.
Make way there! Caesar!

CAESAR.
Which is the Queen of Egypt?

DOLABELLA.
It is the Emperor, madam.

 [_Cleopatra kneels._]

CAESAR.
Arise, you shall not kneel.
I pray you, rise. Rise, Egypt.

CLEOPATRA.
Sir, the gods
Will have it thus. My master and my lord
I must obey.

CAESAR.
Take to you no hard thoughts.
The record of what injuries you did us,
Though written in our flesh, we shall remember
As things but done by chance.

CLEOPATRA.
Sole sir o’ th’ world,
I cannot project mine own cause so well
To make it clear, but do confess I have
Been laden with like frailties which before
Have often shamed our sex.

CAESAR.
Cleopatra, know
We will extenuate rather than enforce.
If you apply yourself to our intents,
Which towards you are most gentle, you shall find
A benefit in this change; but if you seek
To lay on me a cruelty by taking
Antony’s course, you shall bereave yourself
Of my good purposes, and put your children
To that destruction which I’ll guard them from
If thereon you rely. I’ll take my leave.

CLEOPATRA.
And may, through all the world. ’Tis yours, and we,
Your scutcheons and your signs of conquest, shall
Hang in what place you please. Here, my good lord.

CAESAR.
You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra.

CLEOPATRA.
This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels
I am possessed of. ’Tis exactly valued,
Not petty things admitted. Where’s Seleucus?

 Enter Seleucus.

SELEUCUS.
Here, madam.

CLEOPATRA.
This is my treasurer. Let him speak, my lord,
Upon his peril, that I have reserved
To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus.

SELEUCUS.
Madam, I had rather seal my lips
Than to my peril speak that which is not.

CLEOPATRA.
What have I kept back?

SELEUCUS.
Enough to purchase what you have made known.

CAESAR.
Nay, blush not, Cleopatra. I approve
Your wisdom in the deed.

CLEOPATRA.
See, Caesar! O, behold,
How pomp is followed! Mine will now be yours
And should we shift estates, yours would be mine.
The ingratitude of this Seleucus does
Even make me wild. O slave, of no more trust
Than love that’s hired! What, goest thou back? Thou shalt
Go back, I warrant thee! But I’ll catch thine eyes
Though they had wings. Slave, soulless villain, dog!
O rarely base!

CAESAR.
Good queen, let us entreat you.

CLEOPATRA.
O Caesar, what a wounding shame is this,
That thou vouchsafing here to visit me,
Doing the honour of thy lordliness
To one so meek, that mine own servant should
Parcel the sum of my disgraces by
Addition of his envy! Say, good Caesar,
That I some lady trifles have reserved,
Immoment toys, things of such dignity
As we greet modern friends withal; and say
Some nobler token I have kept apart
For Livia and Octavia, to induce
Their mediation, must I be unfolded
With one that I have bred? The gods! It smites me
Beneath the fall I have.
[_To Seleucus_.] Prithee go hence,
Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits
Through th’ ashes of my chance. Wert thou a man,
Thou wouldst have mercy on me.

CAESAR.
Forbear, Seleucus.

 [_Exit Seleucus._]

CLEOPATRA.
Be it known that we, the greatest, are misthought
For things that others do; and when we fall,
We answer others’ merits in our name,
Are therefore to be pitied.

CAESAR.
Cleopatra,
Not what you have reserved nor what acknowledged
Put we i’ th’ roll of conquest. Still be’t yours;
Bestow it at your pleasure, and believe
Caesar’s no merchant to make prize with you
Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheered;
Make not your thoughts your prisons. No, dear queen;
For we intend so to dispose you as
Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed and sleep.
Our care and pity is so much upon you
That we remain your friend; and so, adieu.

CLEOPATRA.
My master and my lord!

CAESAR.
Not so. Adieu.

 [_Flourish. Exeunt Caesar and his train._]

CLEOPATRA.
He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not
Be noble to myself. But hark thee, Charmian!

 [_Whispers to Charmian._]

IRAS.
Finish, good lady. The bright day is done,
And we are for the dark.

CLEOPATRA.
Hie thee again.
I have spoke already, and it is provided.
Go put it to the haste.

CHARMIAN.
Madam, I will.

 Enter Dolabella.

DOLABELLA.
Where’s the Queen?

CHARMIAN.
Behold, sir.

 [_Exit._]

CLEOPATRA.
Dolabella!

DOLABELLA.
Madam, as thereto sworn by your command,
Which my love makes religion to obey,
I tell you this: Caesar through Syria
Intends his journey, and within three days
You with your children will he send before.
Make your best use of this. I have performed
Your pleasure and my promise.

CLEOPATRA.
Dolabella,
I shall remain your debtor.

DOLABELLA.
I your servant.
Adieu, good queen. I must attend on Caesar.

CLEOPATRA.
Farewell, and thanks.

 [_Exit Dolabella._]

Now, Iras, what think’st thou?
Thou an Egyptian puppet shall be shown
In Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers shall
Uplift us to the view. In their thick breaths,
Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,
And forced to drink their vapour.

IRAS.
The gods forbid!

CLEOPATRA.
Nay, ’tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors
Will catch at us like strumpets, and scald rhymers
Ballad us out o’ tune. The quick comedians
Extemporally will stage us and present
Our Alexandrian revels; Antony
Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see
Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness
I’ th’ posture of a whore.

IRAS.
O the good gods!

CLEOPATRA.
Nay, that’s certain.

IRAS.
I’ll never see’t, for I am sure mine nails
Are stronger than mine eyes.

CLEOPATRA.
Why, that’s the way
To fool their preparation and to conquer
Their most absurd intents.

 Enter Charmian.

Now, Charmian!
Show me, my women, like a queen. Go fetch
My best attires. I am again for Cydnus
To meet Mark Antony. Sirrah, Iras, go.
Now, noble Charmian, we’ll dispatch indeed,
And when thou hast done this chare, I’ll give thee leave
To play till doomsday. Bring our crown and all.

 [_Exit Iras. A noise within._]

Wherefore’s this noise?

 Enter a Guardsman.

GUARDSMAN.
Here is a rural fellow
That will not be denied your highness’ presence.
He brings you figs.

CLEOPATRA.
Let him come in.

 [_Exit Guardsman._]

What poor an instrument
May do a noble deed! He brings me liberty.
My resolution’s placed, and I have nothing
Of woman in me. Now from head to foot
I am marble-constant. Now the fleeting moon
No planet is of mine.

 Enter Guardsman and Clown with a basket.

GUARDSMAN.
This is the man.

CLEOPATRA.
Avoid, and leave him.

 [_Exit Guardsman._]

Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there
That kills and pains not?

CLOWN.
Truly, I have him, but I would not be the party that should desire you
to touch him, for his biting is immortal. Those that do die of it do
seldom or never recover.

CLEOPATRA.
Remember’st thou any that have died on’t?

CLOWN.
Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them no longer than
yesterday—a very honest woman, but something given to lie; as a woman
should not do but in the way of honesty—how she died of the biting of
it, what pain she felt. Truly she makes a very good report o’ th’ worm;
but he that will believe all that they say shall never be saved by half
that they do. But this is most falliable, the worm’s an odd worm.

CLEOPATRA.
Get thee hence. Farewell.

CLOWN.
I wish you all joy of the worm.

 [_Sets down the basket._]

CLEOPATRA.
Farewell.

CLOWN.
You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind.

CLEOPATRA.
Ay, ay, farewell.

CLOWN.
Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of wise
people; for indeed there is no goodness in the worm.

CLEOPATRA.
Take thou no care; it shall be heeded.

CLOWN.
Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the
feeding.

CLEOPATRA.
Will it eat me?

CLOWN.
You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not
eat a woman. I know that a woman is a dish for the gods if the devil
dress her not. But truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great
harm in their women, for in every ten that they make, the devils mar
five.

CLEOPATRA.
Well, get thee gone. Farewell.

CLOWN.
Yes, forsooth. I wish you joy o’ th’ worm.

 [_Exit._]

 Enter Iras with a robe, crown, &c.

CLEOPATRA.
Give me my robe. Put on my crown. I have
Immortal longings in me. Now no more
The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip.
Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear
Antony call. I see him rouse himself
To praise my noble act. I hear him mock
The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come!
Now to that name my courage prove my title!
I am fire and air; my other elements
I give to baser life.—So, have you done?
Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
Farewell, kind Charmian. Iras, long farewell.

 [_Kisses them. Iras falls and dies._]

Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?
If thou and nature can so gently part,
The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch,
Which hurts and is desired. Dost thou lie still?
If thus thou vanishest, thou tell’st the world
It is not worth leave-taking.

CHARMIAN.
Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain, that I may say
The gods themselves do weep!

CLEOPATRA.
This proves me base.
If she first meet the curled Antony,
He’ll make demand of her, and spend that kiss
Which is my heaven to have.—Come, thou mortal wretch,

 [_To an asp, which she applies to her breast._]

With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate
Of life at once untie. Poor venomous fool,
Be angry and dispatch. O couldst thou speak,
That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass
Unpolicied!

CHARMIAN.
O eastern star!

CLEOPATRA.
Peace, peace!
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast
That sucks the nurse asleep?

CHARMIAN.
O, break! O, break!

CLEOPATRA.
As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle—
O Antony!—Nay, I will take thee too.

 [_Applying another asp to her arm._]

What should I stay—

 [_Dies._]

CHARMIAN.
In this vile world? So, fare thee well.
Now boast thee, Death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparalleled. Downy windows, close,
And golden Phœbus never be beheld
Of eyes again so royal! Your crown’s awry;
I’ll mend it and then play.

 Enter the Guard rustling in.

FIRST GUARD.
Where’s the queen?

CHARMIAN.
Speak softly. Wake her not.

FIRST GUARD.
Caesar hath sent—

CHARMIAN.
Too slow a messenger.

 [_Applies an asp._]

O, come apace, dispatch! I partly feel thee.

FIRST GUARD.
Approach, ho! All’s not well. Caesar’s beguiled.

SECOND GUARD.
There’s Dolabella sent from Caesar. Call him.

FIRST GUARD.
What work is here, Charmian? Is this well done?

CHARMIAN.
It is well done, and fitting for a princess
Descended of so many royal kings.
Ah, soldier!

 [_Charmian dies._]

 Enter Dolabella.

DOLABELLA.
How goes it here?

SECOND GUARD.
All dead.

DOLABELLA.
Caesar, thy thoughts
Touch their effects in this. Thyself art coming
To see performed the dreaded act which thou
So sought’st to hinder.

 Enter Caesar and all his train, marching.

ALL.
A way there, a way for Caesar!

DOLABELLA.
O sir, you are too sure an augurer:
That you did fear is done.

CAESAR.
Bravest at the last,
She levelled at our purposes and, being royal,
Took her own way. The manner of their deaths?
I do not see them bleed.

DOLABELLA.
Who was last with them?

FIRST GUARD.
A simple countryman that brought her figs.
This was his basket.

CAESAR.
Poisoned then.

FIRST GUARD.
O Caesar,
This Charmian lived but now; she stood and spake.
I found her trimming up the diadem
On her dead mistress; tremblingly she stood,
And on the sudden dropped.

CAESAR.
O noble weakness!
If they had swallowed poison ’twould appear
By external swelling; but she looks like sleep,
As she would catch another Antony
In her strong toil of grace.

DOLABELLA.
Here on her breast
There is a vent of blood, and something blown.
The like is on her arm.

FIRST GUARD.
This is an aspic’s trail, and these fig leaves
Have slime upon them, such as th’ aspic leaves
Upon the caves of Nile.

CAESAR.
Most probable
That so she died, for her physician tells me
She hath pursued conclusions infinite
Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed,
And bear her women from the monument.
She shall be buried by her Antony.
No grave upon the earth shall clip in it
A pair so famous. High events as these
Strike those that make them; and their story is
No less in pity than his glory which
Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall
In solemn show attend this funeral,
And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see
High order in this great solemnity.

 [_Exeunt omnes._]




AS YOU LIKE IT


DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

  DUKE, living in exile
  FREDERICK, his brother, and usurper of his dominions
  AMIENS, lord attending on the banished Duke
  JAQUES,   "      "       "  "     "      "
  LE BEAU, a courtier attending upon Frederick
  CHARLES, wrestler to Frederick
  OLIVER, son of Sir Rowland de Boys
  JAQUES,   "   "  "    "     "  "
  ORLANDO,  "   "  "    "     "  "
  ADAM,   servant to Oliver
  DENNIS,     "     "   "
  TOUCHSTONE, the court jester
  SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a vicar
  CORIN,    shepherd
  SILVIUS,     "
  WILLIAM, a country fellow, in love with Audrey
  A person representing HYMEN

  ROSALIND, daughter to the banished Duke
  CELIA, daughter to Frederick
  PHEBE, a shepherdes
  AUDREY, a country wench

  Lords, Pages, Foresters, and Attendants

SCENE: OLIVER'S house; FREDERICK'S court; and the Forest of Arden

ACT I. SCENE I. Orchard of OLIVER'S house

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM

  ORLANDO. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me
  by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st, charged my
  brother, on his blessing, to breed me well; and there begins my
  sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks
  goldenly of his profit. For my part, he keeps me rustically at home,
  or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call
  you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth that differs not from
  the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for, besides that
  they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, and
  to that end riders dearly hir'd; but I, his brother, gain nothing
  under him but growth; for the which his animals on his dunghills are
  as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so
  plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave me his
  countenance seems to take from me. He lets me feed with his hinds,
  bars me the place of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my
  gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and
  the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny
  against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know
  no wise remedy how to avoid it.

                           Enter OLIVER

  ADAM. Yonder comes my master, your brother.
  ORLANDO. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me
    up.                                           [ADAM retires]
  OLIVER. Now, sir! what make you here?
  ORLANDO. Nothing; I am not taught to make any thing.
  OLIVER. What mar you then, sir?
  ORLANDO. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a
    poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.
  OLIVER. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be nought awhile.
  ORLANDO. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What
    prodigal portion have I spent that I should come to such penury?
  OLIVER. Know you where you are, sir?
  ORLANDO. O, sir, very well; here in your orchard.
  OLIVER. Know you before whom, sir?
  ORLANDO. Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are
    my eldest brother; and in the gentle condition of blood, you
    should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better
    in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not
    away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as
    much of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming
    before me is nearer to his reverence.
  OLIVER. What, boy!                               [Strikes him]
  ORLANDO. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.
  OLIVER. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
  ORLANDO. I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de
    Boys. He was my father; and he is thrice a villain that says such
    a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not
    take this hand from thy throat till this other had pull'd out thy
    tongue for saying so. Thou has rail'd on thyself.
  ADAM. [Coming forward] Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's
    remembrance, be at accord.
  OLIVER. Let me go, I say.
  ORLANDO. I will not, till I please; you shall hear me. My father
    charg'd you in his will to give me good education: you have
    train'd me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all
    gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in
    me, and I will no longer endure it; therefore allow me such
    exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor
    allottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go buy
    my fortunes.
  OLIVER. And what wilt thou do? Beg, when that is spent? Well, sir,
    get you in. I will not long be troubled with you; you shall have
    some part of your will. I pray you leave me.
  ORLANDO. I no further offend you than becomes me for my good.
  OLIVER. Get you with him, you old dog.
  ADAM. Is 'old dog' my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in
    your service. God be with my old master! He would not have spoke
    such a word.
                                         Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM
  OLIVER. Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic
    your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla,
    Dennis!

                          Enter DENNIS

  DENNIS. Calls your worship?
  OLIVER. not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here to speak with me?
  DENNIS. So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access
    to you.
  OLIVER. Call him in. [Exit DENNIS] 'Twill be a good way; and
    to-morrow the wrestling is.

                          Enter CHARLES

  CHARLES. Good morrow to your worship.
  OLIVER. Good Monsieur Charles! What's the new news at the new
    court?
  CHARLES. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news; that
    is, the old Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke;
    and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary
    exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke;
    therefore he gives them good leave to wander.
  OLIVER. Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, be banished
    with her father?
  CHARLES. O, no; for the Duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her,
    being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have
    followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at
    the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own
    daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do.
  OLIVER. Where will the old Duke live?
  CHARLES. They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many
    merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood
    of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day,
    and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.
  OLIVER. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new Duke?
  CHARLES. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a
    matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger
    brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against
    me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he
    that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well.
    Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would
    be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come
    in; therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint
    you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment,
    or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is
    thing of his own search and altogether against my will.
  OLIVER. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt
    find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my
    brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to
    dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee,
    Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of
    ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret
    and villainous contriver against me his natural brother.
    Therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break his
    neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thou
    dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace
    himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap
    thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he
    hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I
    assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one
    so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly
    of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush
    and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.
  CHARLES. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come
    to-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again,
    I'll never wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep your worship!
 Exit
  OLIVER. Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. I
    hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why,
    hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle; never school'd and
    yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly
    beloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and
    especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am
    altogether misprised. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler
    shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy
    thither, which now I'll go about.                       Exit

SCENE II. A lawn before the DUKE'S palace

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

  CELIA. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.
  ROSALIND. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and
    would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget
    a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any
    extraordinary pleasure.
  CELIA. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight that I
    love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy
    uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I
    could have taught my love to take thy father for mine; so wouldst
    thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously temper'd
    as mine is to thee.
  ROSALIND. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to
    rejoice in yours.
  CELIA. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to
    have; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir; for what
    he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee
    again in affection. By mine honour, I will; and when I break that
    oath, let me turn monster; therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear
    Rose, be merry.
  ROSALIND. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports.
    Let me see; what think you of falling in love?
  CELIA. Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal; but love no man
    in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety
    of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.
  ROSALIND. What shall be our sport, then?
  CELIA. Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her
    wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.
  ROSALIND. I would we could do so; for her benefits are mightily
    misplaced; and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her
    gifts to women.
  CELIA. 'Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes
    honest; and those that she makes honest she makes very
    ill-favouredly.
  ROSALIND. Nay; now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's:
    Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of
    Nature.

                         Enter TOUCHSTONE

  CELIA. No; when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by
    Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to
    flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off
    the argument?
  ROSALIND. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when
    Fortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit.
  CELIA. Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but
    Nature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of
    such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for
    always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How
    now, wit! Whither wander you?
  TOUCHSTONE. Mistress, you must come away to your father.
  CELIA. Were you made the messenger?
  TOUCHSTONE. No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come for you.
  ROSALIND. Where learned you that oath, fool?
  TOUCHSTONE. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were
    good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught.
    Now I'll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard
    was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn.
  CELIA. How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowledge?
  ROSALIND. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.
  TOUCHSTONE. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swear
    by your beards that I am a knave.
  CELIA. By our beards, if we had them, thou art.
  TOUCHSTONE. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were. But if you
    swear by that that not, you are not forsworn; no more was this
    knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he
    had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or
    that mustard.
  CELIA. Prithee, who is't that thou mean'st?
  TOUCHSTONE. One that old Frederick, your father, loves.
  CELIA. My father's love is enough to honour him. Enough, speak no
    more of him; you'll be whipt for taxation one of these days.
  TOUCHSTONE. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise
    men do foolishly.
  CELIA. By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that
    fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have
    makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.

                           Enter LE BEAU

  ROSALIND. With his mouth full of news.
  CELIA. Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young.
  ROSALIND. Then shall we be news-cramm'd.
  CELIA. All the better; we shall be the more marketable. Bon jour,
    Monsieur Le Beau. What's the news?
  LE BEAU. Fair Princess, you have lost much good sport.
  CELIA. Sport! of what colour?
  LE BEAU. What colour, madam? How shall I answer you?
  ROSALIND. As wit and fortune will.
  TOUCHSTONE. Or as the Destinies decrees.
  CELIA. Well said; that was laid on with a trowel.
  TOUCHSTONE. Nay, if I keep not my rank-
  ROSALIND. Thou losest thy old smell.
  LE BEAU. You amaze me, ladies. I would have told you of good
    wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.
  ROSALIND. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
  LE BEAU. I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please your
    ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do; and
    here, where you are, they are coming to perform it.
  CELIA. Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried.
  LE BEAU. There comes an old man and his three sons-
  CELIA. I could match this beginning with an old tale.
  LE BEAU. Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence.
  ROSALIND. With bills on their necks: 'Be it known unto all men by
    these presents'-
  LE BEAU. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke's
    wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of
    his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him. So he serv'd
    the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man,
    their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the
    beholders take his part with weeping.
  ROSALIND. Alas!
  TOUCHSTONE. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have
    lost?
  LE BEAU. Why, this that I speak of.
  TOUCHSTONE. Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is the first time
    that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.
  CELIA. Or I, I promise thee.
  ROSALIND. But is there any else longs to see this broken music in
    his sides? Is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we
    see this wrestling, cousin?
  LE BEAU. You must, if you stay here; for here is the place
    appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.
  CELIA. Yonder, sure, they are coming. Let us now stay and see it.

           Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, LORDS, ORLANDO,
                     CHARLES, and ATTENDANTS

  FREDERICK. Come on; since the youth will not be entreated, his own
    peril on his forwardness.
  ROSALIND. Is yonder the man?
  LE BEAU. Even he, madam.
  CELIA. Alas, he is too young; yet he looks successfully.
  FREDERICK. How now, daughter and cousin! Are you crept hither to
    see the wrestling?
  ROSALIND. Ay, my liege; so please you give us leave.
  FREDERICK. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you,
    there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger's youth
    I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to
    him, ladies; see if you can move him.
  CELIA. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.
  FREDERICK. Do so; I'll not be by.
                                     [DUKE FREDERICK goes apart]
  LE BEAU. Monsieur the Challenger, the Princess calls for you.
  ORLANDO. I attend them with all respect and duty.
  ROSALIND. Young man, have you challeng'd Charles the wrestler?
  ORLANDO. No, fair Princess; he is the general challenger. I come
    but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth.
  CELIA. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years.
    You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength; if you saw
    yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgment, the
    fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal
    enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own
    safety and give over this attempt.
  ROSALIND. Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be
    misprised: we will make it our suit to the Duke that the
    wrestling might not go forward.
  ORLANDO. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts,
    wherein I confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent
    ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go
    with me to my trial; wherein if I be foil'd there is but one
    sham'd that was never gracious; if kill'd, but one dead that is
    willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none
    to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only
    in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when
    I have made it empty.
  ROSALIND. The little strength that I have, I would it were with
    you.
  CELIA. And mine to eke out hers.
  ROSALIND. Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceiv'd in you!
  CELIA. Your heart's desires be with you!
  CHARLES. Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to
    lie with his mother earth?
  ORLANDO. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.
  FREDERICK. You shall try but one fall.
  CHARLES. No, I warrant your Grace, you shall not entreat him to a
    second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.
  ORLANDO. You mean to mock me after; you should not have mock'd me
    before; but come your ways.
  ROSALIND. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man!
  CELIA. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the
    leg.                                          [They wrestle]
  ROSALIND. O excellent young man!
  CELIA. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should
    down.
                                      [CHARLES is thrown. Shout]
  FREDERICK. No more, no more.
  ORLANDO. Yes, I beseech your Grace; I am not yet well breath'd.
  FREDERICK. How dost thou, Charles?
  LE BEAU. He cannot speak, my lord.
  FREDERICK. Bear him away. What is thy name, young man?
  ORLANDO. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de
    Boys.
  FREDERICK. I would thou hadst been son to some man else.
    The world esteem'd thy father honourable,
    But I did find him still mine enemy.
    Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed,
    Hadst thou descended from another house.
    But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth;
    I would thou hadst told me of another father.
                                 Exeunt DUKE, train, and LE BEAU
  CELIA. Were I my father, coz, would I do this?
  ORLANDO. I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son,
    His youngest son- and would not change that calling
    To be adopted heir to Frederick.
  ROSALIND. My father lov'd Sir Rowland as his soul,
    And all the world was of my father's mind;
    Had I before known this young man his son,
    I should have given him tears unto entreaties
    Ere he should thus have ventur'd.
  CELIA. Gentle cousin,
    Let us go thank him, and encourage him;
    My father's rough and envious disposition
    Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv'd;
    If you do keep your promises in love
    But justly as you have exceeded all promise,
    Your mistress shall be happy.
  ROSALIND. Gentleman,        [Giving him a chain from her neck]
    Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune,
    That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.
    Shall we go, coz?
  CELIA. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.
  ORLANDO. Can I not say 'I thank you'? My better parts
    Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up
    Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.
  ROSALIND. He calls us back. My pride fell with my fortunes;
    I'll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir?
    Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
    More than your enemies.
  CELIA. Will you go, coz?
  ROSALIND. Have with you. Fare you well.
                                       Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA
  ORLANDO. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?
    I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference.
    O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown!
    Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.

                      Re-enter LE BEAU

  LE BEAU. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you
    To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd
    High commendation, true applause, and love,
    Yet such is now the Duke's condition
    That he misconstrues all that you have done.
    The Duke is humorous; what he is, indeed,
    More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.
  ORLANDO. I thank you, sir; and pray you tell me this:
    Which of the two was daughter of the Duke
    That here was at the wrestling?
  LE BEAU. Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners;
    But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter;
    The other is daughter to the banish'd Duke,
    And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,
    To keep his daughter company; whose loves
    Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.
    But I can tell you that of late this Duke
    Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,
    Grounded upon no other argument
    But that the people praise her for her virtues
    And pity her for her good father's sake;
    And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady
    Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well.
    Hereafter, in a better world than this,
    I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
  ORLANDO. I rest much bounden to you; fare you well.
                                                    Exit LE BEAU
    Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;
    From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother.
    But heavenly Rosalind!                                  Exit

SCENE III. The DUKE's palace

Enter CELIA and ROSALIND

  CELIA. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy!
    Not a word?
  ROSALIND. Not one to throw at a dog.
  CELIA. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs;
    throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.
  ROSALIND. Then there were two cousins laid up, when the one should
    be lam'd with reasons and the other mad without any.
  CELIA. But is all this for your father?
  ROSALIND. No, some of it is for my child's father. O, how full of
    briers is this working-day world!
  CELIA. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday
    foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats
    will catch them.
  ROSALIND. I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my
    heart.
  CELIA. Hem them away.
  ROSALIND. I would try, if I could cry 'hem' and have him.
  CELIA. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
  ROSALIND. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.
  CELIA. O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time, in despite of
    a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in
    good earnest. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall
    into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?
  ROSALIND. The Duke my father lov'd his father dearly.
  CELIA. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly?
    By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated his
    father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.
  ROSALIND. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.
  CELIA. Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well?

                    Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS

  ROSALIND. Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I
    do. Look, here comes the Duke.
  CELIA. With his eyes full of anger.
  FREDERICK. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
    And get you from our court.
  ROSALIND. Me, uncle?
  FREDERICK. You, cousin.
    Within these ten days if that thou beest found
    So near our public court as twenty miles,
    Thou diest for it.
  ROSALIND. I do beseech your Grace,
    Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.
    If with myself I hold intelligence,
    Or have acquaintance with mine own desires;
    If that I do not dream, or be not frantic-
    As I do trust I am not- then, dear uncle,
    Never so much as in a thought unborn
    Did I offend your Highness.
  FREDERICK. Thus do all traitors;
    If their purgation did consist in words,
    They are as innocent as grace itself.
    Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.
  ROSALIND. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor.
    Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.
  FREDERICK. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough.
  ROSALIND. SO was I when your Highness took his dukedom;
    So was I when your Highness banish'd him.
    Treason is not inherited, my lord;
    Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
    What's that to me? My father was no traitor.
    Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much
    To think my poverty is treacherous.
  CELIA. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
  FREDERICK. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake,
    Else had she with her father rang'd along.
  CELIA. I did not then entreat to have her stay;
    It was your pleasure, and your own remorse;
    I was too young that time to value her,
    But now I know her. If she be a traitor,
    Why so am I: we still have slept together,
    Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;
    And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
    Still we went coupled and inseparable.
  FREDERICK. She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,
    Her very silence and her patience,
    Speak to the people, and they pity her.
    Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name;
    And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous
    When she is gone. Then open not thy lips.
    Firm and irrevocable is my doom
    Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd.
  CELIA. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege;
    I cannot live out of her company.
  FREDERICK. You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself.
    If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,
    And in the greatness of my word, you die.
                                           Exeunt DUKE and LORDS
  CELIA. O my poor Rosalind! Whither wilt thou go?
    Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
    I charge thee be not thou more griev'd than I am.
  ROSALIND. I have more cause.
  CELIA. Thou hast not, cousin.
    Prithee be cheerful. Know'st thou not the Duke
    Hath banish'd me, his daughter?
  ROSALIND. That he hath not.
  CELIA. No, hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love
    Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.
    Shall we be sund'red? Shall we part, sweet girl?
    No; let my father seek another heir.
    Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
    Whither to go, and what to bear with us;
    And do not seek to take your charge upon you,
    To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;
    For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
    Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
  ROSALIND. Why, whither shall we go?
  CELIA. To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden.
  ROSALIND. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
    Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
    Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
  CELIA. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
    And with a kind of umber smirch my face;
    The like do you; so shall we pass along,
    And never stir assailants.
  ROSALIND. Were it not better,
    Because that I am more than common tall,
    That I did suit me all points like a man?
    A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
    A boar spear in my hand; and- in my heart
    Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will-
    We'll have a swashing and a martial outside,
    As many other mannish cowards have
    That do outface it with their semblances.
  CELIA. What shall I call thee when thou art a man?
  ROSALIND. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page,
    And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
    But what will you be call'd?
  CELIA. Something that hath a reference to my state:
    No longer Celia, but Aliena.
  ROSALIND. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal
    The clownish fool out of your father's court?
    Would he not be a comfort to our travel?
  CELIA. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;
    Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,
    And get our jewels and our wealth together;
    Devise the fittest time and safest way
    To hide us from pursuit that will be made
    After my flight. Now go we in content
    To liberty, and not to banishment.                    Exeunt

ACT II. SCENE I. The Forest of Arden

Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and two or three LORDS, like foresters

  DUKE SENIOR. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
    Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
    Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
    More free from peril than the envious court?
    Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,
    The seasons' difference; as the icy fang
    And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
    Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
    Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
    'This is no flattery; these are counsellors
    That feelingly persuade me what I am.'
    Sweet are the uses of adversity,
    Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
    Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
    And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
    Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
    Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
    I would not change it.
  AMIENS. Happy is your Grace,
    That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
    Into so quiet and so sweet a style.
  DUKE SENIOR. Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
    And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools,
    Being native burghers of this desert city,
    Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
    Have their round haunches gor'd.
  FIRST LORD. Indeed, my lord,
    The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
    And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
    Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.
    To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself
    Did steal behind him as he lay along
    Under an oak whose antique root peeps out
    Upon the brook that brawls along this wood!
    To the which place a poor sequest'red stag,
    That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
    Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
    The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans
    That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
    Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
    Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
    In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,
    Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
    Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook,
    Augmenting it with tears.
  DUKE SENIOR. But what said Jaques?
    Did he not moralize this spectacle?
  FIRST LORD. O, yes, into a thousand similes.
    First, for his weeping into the needless stream:
    'Poor deer,' quoth he 'thou mak'st a testament
    As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
    To that which had too much.' Then, being there alone,
    Left and abandoned of his velvet friends:
    ''Tis right'; quoth he 'thus misery doth part
    The flux of company.' Anon, a careless herd,
    Full of the pasture, jumps along by him
    And never stays to greet him. 'Ay,' quoth Jaques
    'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
    'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look
    Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'
    Thus most invectively he pierceth through
    The body of the country, city, court,
    Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we
    Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
    To fright the animals, and to kill them up
    In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.
  DUKE SENIOR. And did you leave him in this contemplation?
  SECOND LORD. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
    Upon the sobbing deer.
  DUKE SENIOR. Show me the place;
    I love to cope him in these sullen fits,
    For then he's full of matter.
  FIRST LORD. I'll bring you to him straight.             Exeunt

SCENE II. The DUKE'S palace

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS

  FREDERICK. Can it be possible that no man saw them?
    It cannot be; some villains of my court
    Are of consent and sufferance in this.
  FIRST LORD. I cannot hear of any that did see her.
    The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
    Saw her abed, and in the morning early
    They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.
  SECOND LORD. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft
    Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
    Hisperia, the Princess' gentlewoman,
    Confesses that she secretly o'erheard
    Your daughter and her cousin much commend
    The parts and graces of the wrestler
    That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;
    And she believes, wherever they are gone,
    That youth is surely in their company.
  FREDERICK. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither.
    If he be absent, bring his brother to me;
    I'll make him find him. Do this suddenly;
    And let not search and inquisition quail
    To bring again these foolish runaways.                Exeunt

SCENE III. Before OLIVER'S house

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting

  ORLANDO. Who's there?
  ADAM. What, my young master? O my gentle master!
    O my sweet master! O you memory
    Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here?
    Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?
    And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?
    Why would you be so fond to overcome
    The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke?
    Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
    Know you not, master, to some kind of men
    Their graces serve them but as enemies?
    No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master,
    Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
    O, what a world is this, when what is comely
    Envenoms him that bears it!
  ORLANDO. Why, what's the matter?
  ADAM. O unhappy youth!
    Come not within these doors; within this roof
    The enemy of all your graces lives.
    Your brother- no, no brother; yet the son-
    Yet not the son; I will not call him son
    Of him I was about to call his father-
    Hath heard your praises; and this night he means
    To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
    And you within it. If he fail of that,
    He will have other means to cut you off;
    I overheard him and his practices.
    This is no place; this house is but a butchery;
    Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
  ORLANDO. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
  ADAM. No matter whither, so you come not here.
  ORLANDO. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food,
    Or with a base and boist'rous sword enforce
    A thievish living on the common road?
    This I must do, or know not what to do;
    Yet this I will not do, do how I can.
    I rather will subject me to the malice
    Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.
  ADAM. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,
    The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
    Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,
    When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
    And unregarded age in corners thrown.
    Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,
    Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
    Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;
    All this I give you. Let me be your servant;
    Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
    For in my youth I never did apply
    Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
    Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
    The means of weakness and debility;
    Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
    Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you;
    I'll do the service of a younger man
    In all your business and necessities.
  ORLANDO. O good old man, how well in thee appears
    The constant service of the antique world,
    When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
    Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
    Where none will sweat but for promotion,
    And having that do choke their service up
    Even with the having; it is not so with thee.
    But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree
    That cannot so much as a blossom yield
    In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
    But come thy ways, we'll go along together,
    And ere we have thy youthful wages spent
    We'll light upon some settled low content.
  ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow the
    To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.
    From seventeen years till now almost four-score
    Here lived I, but now live here no more.
    At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
    But at fourscore it is too late a week;
    Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
    Than to die well and not my master's debtor.          Exeunt

SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden

Enter ROSALIND for GANYMEDE, CELIA for ALIENA, and CLOWN alias
TOUCHSTONE

  ROSALIND. O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!
  TOUCHSTONE. I Care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.
  ROSALIND. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel,
    and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as
    doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat;
    therefore, courage, good Aliena.
  CELIA. I pray you bear with me; I cannot go no further.
  TOUCHSTONE. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you;
    yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you
    have no money in your purse.
  ROSALIND. Well,. this is the Forest of Arden.
  TOUCHSTONE. Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at
    home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.

                        Enter CORIN and SILVIUS

  ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a
    young man and an old in solemn talk.
  CORIN. That is the way to make her scorn you still.
  SILVIUS. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!
  CORIN. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.
  SILVIUS. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,
    Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
    As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow.
    But if thy love were ever like to mine,
    As sure I think did never man love so,
    How many actions most ridiculous
    Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
  CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
  SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily!
    If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly
    That ever love did make thee run into,
    Thou hast not lov'd;
    Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
    Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,
    Thou hast not lov'd;
    Or if thou hast not broke from company
    Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
    Thou hast not lov'd.
    O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!                          Exit Silvius
  ROSALIND. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,
    I have by hard adventure found mine own.
  TOUCHSTONE. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my
    sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to
    Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the
    cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember
    the wooing of  peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods,
    and giving her them again, said with weeping tears 'Wear these
    for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers;
    but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal
    in folly.
  ROSALIND. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of.
  TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break
    my shins against it.
  ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion
    Is much upon my fashion.
  TOUCHSTONE. And mine; but it grows something stale with me.
  CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man
    If he for gold will give us any food;
    I faint almost to death.
  TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown!
  ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy Ensman.
  CORIN. Who calls?
  TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir.
  CORIN. Else are they very wretched.
  ROSALIND. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.
  CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
  ROSALIND. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
    Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
    Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
    Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,
    And faints for succour.
  CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her,
    And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
    My fortunes were more able to relieve her;
    But I am shepherd to another man,
    And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.
    My master is of churlish disposition,
    And little recks to find the way to heaven
    By doing deeds of hospitality.
    Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed,
    Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now,
    By reason of his absence, there is nothing
    That you will feed on; but what is, come see,
    And in my voice most welcome shall you be.
  ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?
  CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,
    That little cares for buying any thing.
  ROSALIND. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
    Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
    And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.
  CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,
    And willingly could waste my time in it.
  CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold.
    Go with me; if you like upon report
    The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
    I will your very faithful feeder be,
    And buy it with your gold right suddenly.             Exeunt

SCENE V. Another part of the forest

Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and OTHERS

                       SONG
  AMIENS.    Under the greenwood tree
               Who loves to lie with me,
               And turn his merry note
               Unto the sweet bird's throat,
             Come hither, come hither, come hither.
               Here shall he see
               No enemy
             But winter and rough weather.

  JAQUES. More, more, I prithee, more.
  AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.
  JAQUES. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy
    out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.
  AMIENS. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.
  JAQUES. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing.
    Come, more; another stanzo. Call you 'em stanzos?
  AMIENS. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.
  JAQUES. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will
    you sing?
  AMIENS. More at your request than to please myself.
  JAQUES. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you; but
    that they call compliment is like th' encounter of two dog-apes;
    and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks have given him a
    penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you
    that will not, hold your tongues.
  AMIENS. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the Duke
    will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look
    you.
  JAQUES. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is to
    disputable for my company. I think of as many matters as he; but
    I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble,
    come.

                       SONG
              [All together here]

           Who doth ambition shun,
           And loves to live i' th' sun,
           Seeking the food he eats,
           And pleas'd with what he gets,
         Come hither, come hither, come hither.
           Here shall he see
           No enemy
           But winter and rough weather.

  JAQUES. I'll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in
    despite of my invention.
  AMIENS. And I'll sing it.
  JAQUES. Thus it goes:

             If it do come to pass
             That any man turn ass,
             Leaving his wealth and ease
             A stubborn will to please,
           Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;
             Here shall he see
             Gross fools as he,
             An if he will come to me.

  AMIENS. What's that 'ducdame'?
  JAQUES. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. I'll
    go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the
    first-born of Egypt.
  AMIENS. And I'll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepar'd.
                                                Exeunt severally

SCENE VI. The forest

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM

  ADAM. Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for food! Here lie
    I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.
  ORLANDO. Why, how now, Adam! No greater heart in thee? Live a
    little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth
    forest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it or
    bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy
    powers. For my sake be comfortable; hold death awhile at the
    arm's end. I will here be with the presently; and if I bring thee
    not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou
    diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said!
    thou look'st cheerly; and I'll be with thee quickly. Yet thou
    liest in the bleak air. Come, I will bear thee to some shelter;
    and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live
    anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam!          Exeunt

SCENE VII. The forest

A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and LORDS, like outlaws

  DUKE SENIOR. I think he be transform'd into a beast;
    For I can nowhere find him like a man.
  FIRST LORD. My lord, he is but even now gone hence;
    Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
  DUKE SENIOR. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
    We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
    Go seek him; tell him I would speak with him.

                         Enter JAQUES

  FIRST LORD. He saves my labour by his own approach.
  DUKE SENIOR. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,
    That your poor friends must woo your company?
    What, you look merrily!
  JAQUES. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' th' forest,
    A motley fool. A miserable world!
    As I do live by food, I met a fool,
    Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
    And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,
    In good set terms- and yet a motley fool.
    'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I; 'No, sir,' quoth he,
    'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.'
    And then he drew a dial from his poke,
    And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
    Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock;
    Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags;
    'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;
    And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
    And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
    And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;
    And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear
    The motley fool thus moral on the time,
    My lungs began to crow like chanticleer
    That fools should be so deep contemplative;
    And I did laugh sans intermission
    An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
    A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.
  DUKE SENIOR. What fool is this?
  JAQUES. O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier,
    And says, if ladies be but young and fair,
    They have the gift to know it; and in his brain,
    Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
    After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd
    With observation, the which he vents
    In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!
    I am ambitious for a motley coat.
  DUKE SENIOR. Thou shalt have one.
  JAQUES. It is my only suit,
    Provided that you weed your better judgments
    Of all opinion that grows rank in them
    That I am wise. I must have liberty
    Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
    To blow on whom I please, for so fools have;
    And they that are most galled with my folly,
    They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?
    The why is plain as way to parish church:
    He that a fool doth very wisely hit
    Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
    Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,
    The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
    Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool.
    Invest me in my motley; give me leave
    To speak my mind, and I will through and through
    Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world,
    If they will patiently receive my medicine.
  DUKE SENIOR. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.
  JAQUES. What, for a counter, would I do but good?
  DUKE SENIOR. Most Mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin;
    For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
    As sensual as the brutish sting itself;
    And all th' embossed sores and headed evils
    That thou with license of free foot hast caught
    Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.
  JAQUES. Why, who cries out on pride
    That can therein tax any private party?
    Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
    Till that the wearer's very means do ebb?
    What woman in the city do I name
    When that I say the city-woman bears
    The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
    Who can come in and say that I mean her,
    When such a one as she such is her neighbour?
    Or what is he of basest function
    That says his bravery is not on my cost,
    Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits
    His folly to the mettle of my speech?
    There then! how then? what then? Let me see wherein
    My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,
    Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
    Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,
    Unclaim'd of any man. But who comes here?

             Enter ORLANDO with his sword drawn

  ORLANDO. Forbear, and eat no more.
  JAQUES. Why, I have eat none yet.
  ORLANDO. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.
  JAQUES. Of what kind should this cock come of?
  DUKE SENIOR. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress?
    Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
    That in civility thou seem'st so empty?
  ORLANDO. You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point
    Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
    Of smooth civility; yet arn I inland bred,
    And know some nurture. But forbear, I say;
    He dies that touches any of this fruit
    Till I and my affairs are answered.
  JAQUES. An you will not be answer'd with reason, I must die.
  DUKE SENIOR. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force
    More than your force move us to gentleness.
  ORLANDO. I almost die for food, and let me have it.
  DUKE SENIOR. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
  ORLANDO. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you;
    I thought that all things had been savage here,
    And therefore put I on the countenance
    Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are
    That in this desert inaccessible,
    Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
    Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
    If ever you have look'd on better days,
    If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church,
    If ever sat at any good man's feast,
    If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear,
    And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied,
    Let gentleness my strong enforcement be;
    In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.
  DUKE SENIOR. True is it that we have seen better days,
    And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church,
    And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes
    Of drops that sacred pity hath engend'red;
    And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
    And take upon command what help we have
    That to your wanting may be minist'red.
  ORLANDO. Then but forbear your food a little while,
    Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
    And give it food. There is an old poor man
    Who after me hath many a weary step
    Limp'd in pure love; till he be first suffic'd,
    Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,
    I will not touch a bit.
  DUKE SENIOR. Go find him out.
    And we will nothing waste till you return.
  ORLANDO. I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort!
 Exit
  DUKE SENIOR. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:
    This wide and universal theatre
    Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
    Wherein we play in.
  JAQUES. All the world's a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players;
    They have their exits and their entrances;
    And one man in his time plays many parts,
    His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
    Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
    Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
    And shining morning face, creeping like snail
    Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
    Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
    Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
    Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
    Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
    Seeking the bubble reputation
    Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
    In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
    With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
    Full of wise saws and modern instances;
    And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
    Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
    With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
    His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
    For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
    Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
    And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
    That ends this strange eventful history,
    Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
    Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

                  Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM

  DUKE SENIOR. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden.
    And let him feed.
  ORLANDO. I thank you most for him.
  ADAM. So had you need;
    I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
  DUKE SENIOR. Welcome; fall to. I will not trouble you
    As yet to question you about your fortunes.
    Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

                         SONG
            Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
            Thou art not so unkind
              As man's ingratitude;
            Thy tooth is not so keen,
            Because thou art not seen,
              Although thy breath be rude.
    Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly.
    Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
            Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
              This life is most jolly.

            Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
            That dost not bite so nigh
              As benefits forgot;
            Though thou the waters warp,
            Thy sting is not so sharp
              As friend rememb'red not.
    Heigh-ho! sing, &c.

  DUKE SENIOR. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son,