KING HENRY IV, THE FIRST PART

by William Shakespeare




Dramatis Personae

King Henry the Fourth.
Henry, Prince of Wales, son to the King.
Prince John of Lancaster, son to the King.
Earl of Westmoreland.
Sir Walter Blunt.
Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester.
Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland.
Henry Percy, his son.
Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.
Scroop, Archbishop of York.
Sir Michael, his Friend.
Archibald, Earl of Douglas.
Owen Glendower.
Sir Richard Vernon.
Sir John Falstaff.
Pointz.
Gadshill.
Peto.
Bardolph.

Lady Percy, Wife to Hotspur.
Lady Mortimer, Daughter to Glendower.
Mrs. Quickly, Hostess in Eastcheap.

Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, 
Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.

SCENE.--England.





ACT I.

SCENE I. London. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter the King Henry, Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, and
others.]

KING.
So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenced in strands afar remote.
No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces:  those opposed eyes,
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery,
Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way, and be no more opposed
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ--
Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
We are impressed and engaged to fight--
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,
To chase these pagans in those holy fields
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd
For our advantage on the bitter cross.
But this our purpose now is twelvemonth old,
And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go:
Therefore we meet not now.--Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our Council did decree
In forwarding this dear expedience.

WEST.
My liege, this haste was hot in question,
And many limits of the charge set down
But yesternight; when, all athwart, there came
A post from Wales loaden with heavy news;
Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against th' irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken;
A thousand of his people butchered,
Upon whose dead corpse' there was such misuse,
Such beastly, shameless transformation,
By those Welshwomen done, as may not be
Without much shame re-told or spoken of.

KING.
It seems, then, that the tidings of this broil
Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

WEST.
This, match'd with other, did, my gracious lord;
For more uneven and unwelcome news
Came from the North, and thus it did import:
On Holy-rood day the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met;
Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour,
As by discharge of their artillery,
And shape of likelihood, the news was told;
For he that brought them, in the very heat
And pride of their contention did take horse,
Uncertain of the issue any way.

KING.
Here is a dear and true-industrious friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
Stain'd with the variation of each soil
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.
The Earl of Douglas is discomfited:
Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,
Balk'd in their own blood, did Sir Walter see
On Holmedon's plains:  of prisoners, Hotspur took
Mordake the Earl of Fife and eldest son
To beaten Douglas; and the Earls of Athol,
Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.
And is not this an honourable spoil,
A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?

WEST.
Faith, 'tis a conquest for a prince to boast of.

KING.
Yea, there thou makest me sad, and makest me sin
In envy that my Lord Northumberland
Should be the father to so blest a son,--
A son who is the theme of honour's tongue;
Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant;
Who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride:
Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
See riot and dishonour stain the brow
Of my young Harry. O, that it could be proved
That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged
In cradle-clothes our children where they lay,
And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet!
Then would I have his Harry, and he mine:
But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz,
Of this young Percy's pride? the prisoners,
Which he in this adventure hath surprised,
To his own use he keeps; and sends me word,
I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

WEST.
This is his uncle's teaching, this is Worcester,  
Malevolent to you in all aspects;
Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up
The crest of youth against your dignity.

KING.
But I have sent for him to answer this;
And for this cause awhile we must neglect
Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.
Cousin, on Wednesday next our Council we
Will hold at Windsor; so inform the lords:
But come yourself with speed to us again;
For more is to be said and to be done
Than out of anger can be uttered.

WEST.
I will, my liege.


[Exeunt.]



Scene II. The same. An Apartment of Prince Henry's.

[Enter Prince Henry and Falstaff.]

FAL.
Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

PRINCE.
Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and
unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches
after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which
thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the
time of the day? unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes
capons, and the blessed Sun himself a fair hot wench in
flame-coloured taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be
so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

FAL.
Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go
by the Moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebus,--he, that
wandering knight so fair. And I pr'ythee, sweet wag, when thou
art king,--as, God save thy Grace--Majesty I should say, for
grace
thou wilt have none,--

PRINCE.
What, none?

FAL.
No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue
to an egg and butter.

PRINCE.
Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.

FAL.
Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that
are squires of the night's body be called thieves of the day's
beauty:  let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade,
minions of the Moon; and let men say we be men of good
government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and
chaste mistress the Moon, under whose countenance we steal.


PRINCE.
Thou say'st well, and it holds well too; for the fortune of
us that are the Moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea,
being governed, as the sea is, by the Moon. As, for proof, now: A
purse of gold most resolutely snatch'd on Monday night, and most
dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing Lay by, 
and spent with crying Bring in; now ill as low an ebb as the foot
of the ladder, and by-and-by in as high a flow as the ridge of the
gallows.

FAL.
By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad.  And is not my hostess of the
tavern a most sweet wench?

PRINCE.
As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle.  And is not a
buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?

FAL.
How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips and thy
quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?

PRINCE.
Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?

FAL.
Well, thou hast call'd her to a reckoning many a time and oft.

PRINCE.
Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?

FAL.
No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.

PRINCE.
Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch;
and where it would not, I have used my credit.

FAL.
Yea, and so used it, that, were it not here apparent that
thou art heir-apparent--But I pr'ythee, sweet wag, shall there be
gallows standing in England when thou art king? and
resolution thus fobb'd as it is with the rusty curb of old father
antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.

PRINCE.
No; thou shalt.

FAL.
Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I'll be a brave judge.

PRINCE.
Thou judgest false already:  I mean, thou shalt have the
hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.

FAL.
Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour;
as well as waiting in the Court, I can tell you.

PRINCE.
For obtaining of suits?  

FAL.
Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no
lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a
lugg'd bear.

PRINCE.
Or an old lion, or a lover's lute.

FAL.
Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.

PRINCE.
What say'st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch?

FAL.
Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art, indeed, the
most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince,--But, Hal, I
pr'ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and
I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old
lord of the Council rated me the other day in the street about you, 
sir,--but I mark'd him not; and yet he talk'd very wisely,--but I
regarded him not; and yet he talk'd wisely, and in the street too.

PRINCE.
Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man
regards it.

FAL.
O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art, indeed, able to corrupt
a saint.
Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal; God forgive thee for it! 
Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man 
should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must
give over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, an I do
not, I am a villain:  I'll be damn'd for never a king's son in
Christendom.

PRINCE.
Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack?

FAL.
Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I'll make one:  an I do not, call
me villain, and baffle me.

PRINCE.
I see a good amendment of life in thee,--from praying to
purse-taking.

FAL.
Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal; 'tis no sin for a man to labour
in his vocation.

[Enter Pointz.]

--Pointz!--Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if
men were to be saved by merit, what hole in Hell were hot enough
for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried
Stand! to a true man.

PRINCE.
Good morrow, Ned.

POINTZ.
Good morrow, sweet Hal.--What says Monsieur Remorse? what
says Sir John Sack-and-sugar? Jack, how agrees the Devil and
thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last
for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg?

PRINCE.
Sir John stands to his word,--the Devil shall have his bargain;
for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs,--he will give the
Devil his due.

POINTZ.
Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with the Devil.

PRINCE.
Else he had been damn'd for cozening the Devil.


POINTZ.
But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o'clock,
early at Gads-hill! there are pilgrims gong to Canterbury
with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat
purses: I have visards for you all; you have horses for
yourselves:  Gadshill lies to-night in Rochester:  I have bespoke
supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap:  we may do it as secure as
sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns;
if you will not, tarry at home and be hang'd.

FAL.
Hear ye, Yedward; if I tarry at home and go not, I'll hang you
for going.

POINTZ.
You will, chops?

FAL.
Hal, wilt thou make one?  

PRINCE.
Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith.

FAL.
There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee,
nor thou camest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not stand
for ten shillings.

PRINCE.
Well, then, once in my days I'll be a madcap.

FAL.
Why, that's well said.

PRINCE.
Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.

FAL.
By the Lord, I'll be a traitor, then, when thou art king.

PRINCE.
I care not.

POINTZ.

Sir John, I pr'ythee, leave the Prince and me alone: I will
lay him down such reasons for this adventure, that he shall go.

FAL.
Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion, and him the ears 
of profiting, that what thou speakest may move, and what he
hears may be believed, that the true Prince may, for recreation-
sake, prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want
countenance. Farewell; you shall find me in Eastcheap.

PRINCE.
Farewell, thou latter Spring! farewell, All-hallown Summer!

[Exit Falstaff.]

POINTZ.
Now, my good sweet honey-lord, ride with us to-morrow:  I
have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff,
Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill, shall rob those men that we have
already waylaid:  yourself and I will not be there; and when they
have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off
from my shoulders.

PRINCE.
But how shall we part with them in setting forth?

POINTZ.
Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them
a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and
then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves; which they
shall have no sooner achieved but we'll set upon them.

PRINCE.
Ay, but 'tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our 
habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves.

POINTZ.
Tut! our horses they shall not see,--I'll tie them in the wood;
our visards we will change, after we leave them; and, sirrah, I
have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted
outward garments.

PRINCE.
But I doubt they will be too hard for us.

POINTZ.
Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred
cowards as ever turn'd back; and for the third, if he fight
longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virtue of
this jest will be, the incomprehensible lies that this same fat
rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least,
he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he
endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest.

PRINCE.
Well, I'll go with thee:  provide us all things necessary and
meet me to-night in Eastcheap; there I'll sup. Farewell.

POINTZ.
Farewell, my lord.

[Exit.]

PRINCE.
I know you all, and will awhile uphold
The unyok'd humour of your idleness:
Yet herein will I imitate the Sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother-up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,
Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at,
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.
If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work;
But, when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come,
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
So, when this loose behaviour I throw off,
And pay the debt I never promised,
By how much better than my word I am,
By so much shall I falsify men's hopes;
And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,
My reformation, glittering o'er my fault,
Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes
Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
I'll so offend, to make offence a skill;
Redeeming time, when men think least I will.

[Exit.]




Scene III. The Same.  A Room in the Palace.

[Enter King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter
Blunt, and others.]

KING.
My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
Unapt to stir at these indignities,
And you have found me; for, accordingly,
You tread upon my patience:  but be sure
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty and to be fear'd, than my condition,
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,
And therefore lost that title of respect
Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud.

WOR.
Our House, my sovereign liege, little deserves
The scourge of greatness to be used on it;
And that same greatness too which our own hands
Have holp to make so portly.

NORTH.
My good lord,--

KING.
Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see
Danger and disobedience in thine eye:
O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory,
And majesty might never yet endure
The moody frontier of a servant brow.
You have good leave to leave us:  when we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.

[Exit Worcester.]

[To Northumberland.]

You were about to speak.

NORTH.
Yea, my good lord.
Those prisoners in your Highness' name demanded,
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,
Were, as he says, not with such strength denied
As is deliver'd to your Majesty:
Either envy, therefore, or misprision
Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.

HOT.
My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress'd,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home:
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took't away again;
Who therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff:  and still he smiled and talk'd;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He question'd me; amongst the rest, demanded
My prisoners in your Majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
Out of my grief and my impatience
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what,--
He should, or he should not; for't made me mad
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman
Of guns and drums and wounds,--God save the mark!--
And telling me the sovereign'st thing on Earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villainous salt-petre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said;
And I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation
Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.

BLUNT. 
The circumstance consider'd, good my lord,
Whatever Harry Percy then had said
To such a person, and in such a place,
At such a time, with all the rest re-told,
May reasonably die, and never rise
To do him wrong, or any way impeach
What then he said, so he unsay it now.

KING.
Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,
But with proviso and exception,
That we at our own charge shall ransom straight
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer;
Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray'd
The lives of those that he did lead to fight
Against that great magician, damn'd Glendower,
Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March
Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then,
Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?
Shall we buy treason? and indent with fears
When they have lost and forfeited themselves?
No, on the barren mountains let him starve;
For I shall never hold that man my friend
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost
To ransom home revolted Mortimer.

HOT.
Revolted Mortimer!
He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,
But by the chance of war:  to prove that true
Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds,
Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took,
When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank,
In single opposition, hand to hand,
He did confound the best part of an hour
In changing hardiment with great Glendower.
Three times they breathed, and three times did they drink,
Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;
Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks,
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.
Never did base and rotten policy
Colour her working with such deadly wounds;
Nor never could the noble Mortimer
Receive so many, and all willingly:
Then let not him be slander'd with revolt.

KING.
Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him;
He never did encounter with Glendower:
I tell thee,
He durst as well have met the Devil alone
As Owen Glendower for an enemy.
Art not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer:
Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,
Or you shall hear in such a kind from me
As will displease you.--My Lord Northumberland,
We license your departure with your son.--
Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it.

[Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, and train.]

HOT.
An if the Devil come and roar for them,
I will not send them:  I will after straight,
And tell him so; for I will else my heart,
Although it be with hazard of my head.

NORTH.
What, drunk with choler? stay, and pause awhile:
Here comes your uncle.

[Re-enter Worcester.]

HOT.
Speak of Mortimer!
Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul
Want mercy, if I do not join with him:
Yea, on his part I'll empty all these veins,
And shed my dear blood drop by drop i' the dust,
But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer
As high i' the air as this unthankful King,
As this ingrate and canker'd Bolingbroke.

NORTH.

[To Worcester.]

Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.

WOR.
Who struck this heat up after I was gone?

HOT.
He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;
And when I urged the ransom once again
Of my wife's brother, then his cheek look'd pale,
And on my face he turn'd an eye of death,
Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.

WOR.
I cannot blame him:  was not he proclaim'd
By Richard that dead is the next of blood?

NORTH.
He was; I heard the proclamation:
And then it was when the unhappy King--
Whose wrongs in us God pardon!--did set forth
Upon his Irish expedition;
From whence he intercepted did return
To be deposed, and shortly murdered.

WOR.
And for whose death we in the world's wide mouth
Live scandalized and foully spoken of.

HOT.
But, soft! I pray you; did King Richard then
Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer
Heir to the crown?

NORTH.
He did; myself did hear it.

HOT.
Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin King,
That wish'd him on the barren mountains starve.
But shall it be, that you, that set the crown
Upon the head of this forgetful man,
And for his sake wear the detested blot
Of murderous subornation,--shall it be,
That you a world of curses undergo,
Being the agents, or base second means,
The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?--
O, pardon me, that I descend so low,
To show the line and the predicament
Wherein you range under this subtle King;--
Shall it, for shame, be spoken in these days,
Or fill up chronicles in time to come,
That men of your nobility and power
Did gage them both in an unjust behalf,--
As both of you, God pardon it! have done,--
To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,
And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?
And shall it, in more shame, be further spoken,
That you are fool'd, discarded, and shook off
By him for whom these shames ye underwent?
No! yet time serves, wherein you may redeem
Your banish'd honours, and restore yourselves
Into the good thoughts of the world again;
Revenge the jeering and disdain'd contempt
Of this proud King, who studies day and night
To answer all the debt he owes to you
Even with the bloody payment of your deaths:
Therefore, I say,--

WOR.
Peace, cousin, say no more:
And now I will unclasp a secret book,
And to your quick-conceiving discontent
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous;
As full of peril and adventurous spirit
As to o'er-walk a current roaring loud
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

HOT.
If we fall in, good night, or sink or swim!
Send danger from the east unto the west,
So honour cross it from the north to south,
And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs
To rouse a lion than to start a hare!

NORTH.
Imagination of some great exploit
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

HOT.
By Heaven, methinks it were an easy leap,
To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced Moon;
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks;
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear
Without corrival all her dignities:
But out upon this half-faced fellowship!

WOR.
He apprehends a world of figures here,
But not the form of what he should attend.--
Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

HOT.
I cry you mercy.

WOR.
Those same noble Scots
That are your prisoners,--

HOT.
I'll keep them all;
By God, he shall not have a Scot of them;
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not:
I'll keep them, by this hand.

WOR.
You start away,
And lend no ear unto my purposes.
Those prisoners you shall keep;--

HOT.
Nay, I will; that's flat.
He said he would not ransom Mortimer;
Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer;
But I will find him when he lies asleep,
And in his ear I'll holla Mortimer!
Nay,
I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him,
To keep his anger still in motion.


WOR.
Hear you, cousin; a word.

HOT.
All studies here I solemnly defy,
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:
And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,
But that I think his father loves him not,
And would be glad he met with some mischance,
I'd have him poison'd with a pot of ale.

WOR.
Farewell, kinsman:  I will talk to you
When you are better temper'd to attend.

NORTH.
Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool
Art thou, to break into this woman's mood,
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

HOT.
Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourged with rods,
Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear
Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.
In Richard's time,--what do you call the place?--
A plague upon't!--it is in Gioucestershire;--
'Twas where the madcap Duke his uncle kept,
His uncle York;--where I first bow'd my knee
Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke;--
When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.

NORTH.
At Berkeley-castle.

HOT.
You say true:--
Why, what a candy deal of courtesy
This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!
Look, when his infant fortune came to age,
And, Gentle Harry Percy, and kind cousin,--
O, the Devil take such cozeners!--God forgive me!--
Good uncle, tell your tale; for I have done.

WOR.
Nay, if you have not, to't again;
We'll stay your leisure.

HOT.
I have done, i'faith.

WOR.
Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.
Deliver them up without their ransom straight,
And make the Douglas' son your only mean
For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons
Which I shall send you written, be assured,
Will easily be granted.--
[To Northumberland.] You, my lord,
Your son in Scotland being thus employ'd,
Shall secretly into the bosom creep
Of that same noble prelate, well beloved,
Th' Archbishop.

HOT.
Of York, is't not?

WOR.
True; who bears hard
His brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.
I speak not this in estimation,
As what I think might be, but what I know
Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,
And only stays but to behold the face
Of that occasion that shall bring it on.

HOT.
I smell't:  upon my life, it will do well.

NORTH.
Before the game's a-foot, thou still lett'st slip.

HOT.
Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot:--
And then the power of Scotland and of York
To join with Mortimer, ha?

WOR.
And so they shall.  

HOT.

In faith, it is exceedingly well aim'd.

WOR.
And 'tis no little reason bids us speed,
To save our heads by raising of a head;
For, bear ourselves as even as we can,
The King will always think him in our debt,
And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,
Till he hath found a time to pay us home:
And see already how he doth begin
To make us strangers to his looks of love.

HOT.
He does, he does:  we'll be revenged on him.

WOR.
Cousin, farewell:  no further go in this
Than I by letters shall direct your course.
When time is ripe,-- which will be suddenly,--
I'll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer;
Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once,
As I will fashion it, shall happily meet,
To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,
Which now we hold at much uncertainty.

NORTH.
Farewell, good brother:  we shall thrive, I trust.

HOT.
Uncle, adieu: O, let the hours be short,
Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport!

[Exeunt.]



ACT II.

Scene I. Rochester. An Inn-Yard.

[Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand.]

1. CAR.
Heigh-ho! an't be not four by the day, I'll be hang'd:
Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse' not
pack'd.--What, ostler!

OST.
[within.] Anon, anon.

1. CAR.
I pr'ythee, Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put a few flocks in the 
point; the poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess.

[Enter another Carrier.]

2. CAR.
Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the
next way to give poor jades the bots; this house is turned
upside down since Robin ostler died.

1. CAR.
Poor fellow! never joyed since the price of oats rose; it was 
the death of him.

2. CAR.
I think this be the most villainous house in all London road 
for fleas:  I am stung like a tench.

1. CAR.
Like a tench! by the Mass, there is ne'er a king in Christendom
could be better bit than I have been since the first cock.--What,

ostler! come away and be hang'd; come away.

2. CAR.
I have a gammon of bacon and two razes of ginger, to be
delivered as far as Charing-cross.

1. CAR.
'Odsbody! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved.--What, 
ostler! A plague on thee! hast thou never an eye in thy head? 
canst not hear? An 'twere not as good a deed as drink to break 
the pate of thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hang'd: 
hast no faith in thee?

[Enter Gadshill.]

GADS.
Good morrow, carriers. What's o'clock?

1. CAR.
I think it be two o'clock.

GADS.
I pr'ythee, lend me thy lantern, to see my gelding in the
stable.

1. CAR.
Nay, soft, I pray ye; I know a trick worth two of that, i'faith.

GADS.
I pr'ythee, lend me thine.

2. CAR.
Ay, when? canst tell? Lend me thy lantern, quoth a? marry, I'll 
see thee hang'd first.

GADS.
Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?

2. CAR.
Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee.--
Come, neighbour Muggs, we'll call up the gentlemen:  they will
along with company, for they have great charge.

[Exeunt Carriers.]

GADS.
What, ho! chamberlain!

CHAM.
[Within.] At hand, quoth pick-purse.

GADS.
That's even as fair as--at hand, quoth the chamberlain; for 
thou variest no more from picking of purses than giving
direction doth from labouring; thou lay'st the plot how.

[Enter Chamberlain.]

CHAM.
Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that I told
you yesternight:  there's a franklin in the wild of Kent hath
brought three hundred marks with him in gold:  I heard him
tell it to one of his company last night at supper; a kind of
auditor; one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what.
They are up already, and call for eggs and butter; they will away
presently.

GADS.
Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas' clerks, I'll give
thee this neck.

CHAM.
No, I'll none of it: I pr'ythee, keep that for the hangman; for
I know thou worshippest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of 
falsehood may.

GADS.
What talkest thou to me of the hangman? if I hang, I'll make
a fat pair of gallows; for, if I hang, old Sir John hangs with
me, and thou know'st he is no starveling. Tut! there are other
Trojans that thou dreamest not of, the which, for sport-sake,
are content to do the profession some grace; that would, if
matters should be look'd into, for their own credit-sake, make
all whole. I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff
sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued
malt-worms; but with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and
great oneyers; such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner
than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than
pray:  and yet, zwounds, I lie; for they pray continually to their
saint, the Commonwealth; or, rather, not pray to her, but prey on
her, for they ride up and down on her, and make her their boots.

CHAM.
What, the Commonwealth their boots? will she hold out water
in foul way?

GADS.
She will, she will; justice hath liquor'd her. We steal as in a 
castle, cock-sure; we have the receipt of fernseed,--we walk
invisible.

CHAM.
Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night
than to fern-seed for your walking invisible.

GADS.
Give me thy hand:  thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as
I am a true man.


CHAM.
Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.

GADS.
Go to; homo is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler
bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave.

[Exeunt.]



Scene II. The Road by Gads-hill.

[Enter Prince Henry and Pointz; Bardolph and Peto at
some distance.]

POINTZ.
Come, shelter, shelter:  I have remov'd Falstaff's horse,
and he frets like a gumm'd velvet.

PRINCE.
Stand close.                        

[They retire.]

[Enter Falstaff.]

FAL.
Pointz! Pointz, and be hang'd! Pointz!

PRINCE.

[Coming forward.]

Peace, ye fat-kidney'd rascal! what a brawling dost thou keep!

FAL.
Where's Pointz, Hal?

PRINCE.
He is walk'd up to the top of the hill: I'll go seek him.

[Retires.]

FAL.
I am accursed to rob in that thief's company:  the rascal hath
removed my horse, and tied him I know not where. If I travel but
four foot by the squire further a-foot, I shall break my wind.
Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I 'scape
hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company hourly
any time this two-and-twenty year, and yet I am bewitch'd with the
rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make
me love him, I'll be hang'd; it could not be else:  I have drunk
medicines.--
Pointz!--Hal!--a plague upon you both!--Bardolph!--Peto!--I'll
starve, ere I'll rob a foot further. An 'twere not as good a deed as
drink, to turn true man, and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest
varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground
is threescore and ten miles a-foot with me; and the stony-hearted
villains know it well enough:  a plague upon't, when thieves cannot
be true one to another!
[They whistle.] Whew!--A plague upon you all! Give me
my horse, you rogues; give me my horse, and be hang'd!

PRINCE.
[Coming forward.] Peace! lie down; lay thine ear close to the
ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers.

FAL.
Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down? 'Sblood, I'll
not bear mine own flesh so far a-foot again for all the coin in thy
father's exchequer. What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?

PRINCE.
Thou liest; thou art not colted, thou art uncolted.

FAL.
I pr'ythee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king's
son.

PRINCE.
Out, ye rogue! shall I be your ostler?

FAL.
Go, hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters! If I be
ta'en, I'll peach for this. An I have not ballads made on you
all, and sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison.
When a jest is so forward, and a-foot too, I hate it.

[Enter Gadshill.]

GADS.
Stand!

FAL.
So I do, against my will.

POINTZ.
O, 'tis our setter: I know his voice.

[Comes forward with Bardolph and Peto.]

BARD.  
What news?

GADS.
Case ye, case ye; on with your visards:  there's money of
the King's coming down the hill; 'tis going to the King's
exchequer.

FAL.
You lie, ye rogue; 'tis going to the King's tavern.

GADS.
There's enough to make us all.

FAL.
To be hang'd.

PRINCE.
Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane; Ned
Pointz and I will walk lower; if they 'scape from your
encounter, then they light on us.

PETO.
How many be there of them?

GADS.
Some eight or ten.

FAL.
Zwounds, will they not rob us?

PRINCE.
What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?

FAL.
Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet
no coward, Hal.

PRINCE.
Well, we leave that to the proof.

POINTZ.
Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge:  when thou 
need'st him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast.

FAL.
Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hang'd.

PRINCE.
[aside to POINTZ.] Ned, where are our disguises?

POINTZ.
[aside to PRINCE HENRY.] Here, hard by:  stand close.

[Exeunt Prince and Pointz.]

FAL.
Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I:  every man
to his business.

[Enter Travellers.]

FIRST TRAVELLER.
Come, neighbour:
The boy shall lead our horses down the hill;
We'll walk a-foot awhile and ease our legs.

FALS, GADS., &C.
Stand!

SECOND TRAVELLER.
Jesu bless us!

FAL.
Strike; down with them; cut the villains' throats. Ah,
whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they hate us youth:
down with them; fleece them.

FIRST TRAVELLER.
O, we're undone, both we and ours for ever!


FAL.
Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye fat chuffs;
I would your store were here! On, bacons on! What, ye knaves!
young men must live. You are grand-jurors, are ye? we'll jure
ye, i'faith.

[Exeunt Fals., Gads., &c., driving the Travellers out.]

[Re-enter Prince Henry and Pointz, in buckram suits.]

PRINCE.
The thieves have bound the true men. Now, could thou and I rob 
the thieves, and go merrily to London, it would be argument for a
week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever.

POINTZ.
Stand close:  I hear them coming.

[They retire.]

[Re-enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto.]

FAL.
Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse before day.
An the Prince and Pointz be not two arrant cowards, there's no
equity stirring:  there's no more valour in that Pointz than in a

wild duck.

[As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon them.] 

PRINCE.
Your money!

POINTZ.
Villains!

[Falstaff, after a blow or two, and the others run away, leaving 
the booty behind them.]

PRINCE.
Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse:
The thieves are scatter'd, and possess'd with fear
So strongly that they dare not meet each other;
Each takes his fellow for an officer.
Away, good Ned. Fat Falstaff sweats to death,
And lards the lean earth as he walks along:
Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.

POINTZ.
How the rogue roar'd!

[Exeunt.]



Scene III. Warkworth.  A Room in the Castle.

[Enter Hotspur, reading a letter.]

HOT.
--But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to
be there, in respect of the love I bear your House.--He could be
contented; why is he not, then? In respect of the love he bears
our House!--he shows in this, he loves his own barn better than he
loves our house. Let me see some more. The purpose you undertake
is dangerous;--Why, that's certain:  'tis dangerous to take a cold,
to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle,
danger, we pluck this flower, safety. The purpose you undertake is
dangerous; the friends you have named uncertain; the time itself
unsorted; and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so
great an opposition.--
Say you so, say you so?  I say unto you again, you are a shallow,
cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord,
our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and
constant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an
excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is
this! Why, my Lord of York commends the plot and the general course
of the action. Zwounds! an I were now by this rascal, I could brain
him with his lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and
myself? Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? 
is there not, besides, the Douglas? have I not all their letters to
meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? and are they not
some of them set forward already? What a pagan rascal is this! an
infidel! Ha! you shall see now, in very sincerity of fear and cold
heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I
could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of
skimm'd milk with so honourable an action!
Hang him! let him tell the King:  we are prepared. I will set
forward to-night.--

[Enter Lady Percy.]

How now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours.


LADY. 
O, my good lord, why are you thus alone?
For what offence have I this fortnight been
A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed?
Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee
Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?
Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,
And start so often when thou sitt'st alone?
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks;
And given my treasures and my rights of thee
To thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy?
In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch'd,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars;
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed;
Cry Courage! to the field!  And thou hast talk'd
Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,
Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,
Of prisoners ransomed, and of soldiers slain,
And all the 'currents of a heady fight.
Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,
And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep,
That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,
Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream;
And in thy face strange motions have appear'd,
Such as we see when men restrain their breath
On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these?
Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,
And I must know it, else he loves me not.

HOT.
What, ho!

[Enter a Servant.]

Is Gilliams with the packet gone?

SERV.
He is, my lord, an hour ago.

HOT.
Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?

SERV.
One horse, my lord, he brought even now.

HOT.
What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?

SERV.
It is, my lord.

HOT.
That roan shall be my throne.
Well, I will back him straight:  O esperance!--
Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.

[Exit Servant.]

LADY.
But hear you, my lord.

HOT.
What say'st thou, my lady?  

LADY.
What is it carries you away?

HOT.
Why, my horse, my love, my horse.

LADY.
Out, you mad-headed ape!
A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen
As you are toss'd with. In faith,
I'll know your business, Harry, that I will.
I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir
About his title, and hath sent for you
To line his enterprise:  but if you go,--

HOT.
So far a-foot, I shall be weary, love.

LADY.
Come, come, you paraquito, answer me
Directly to this question that I ask:
In faith, I'll break thy little finger, Harry,
An if thou wilt not tell me true.

HOT.
Away,
Away, you trifler! Love? I love thee not,
I care not for thee, Kate:  this is no world
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips:
We must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns,
And pass them current too.--Gods me, my horse!--
What say'st thou, Kate? what wouldst thou have with me?

LADY.
Do you not love me? do you not indeed?
Well, do not, then; for, since you love me not,
I will not love myself. Do you not love me?
Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no.

HOT.
Come, wilt thou see me ride?
And when I am o' horseback, I will swear
I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate;
I must not have you henceforth question me
Whither I go, nor reason whereabout:
Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude,
This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate.
I know you wise; but yet no further wise
Than Harry Percy's wife; constant you are;
But yet a woman:  and, for secrecy,
No lady closer; for I well believe
Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know;
And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.

LADY.
How! so far?

HOT.
Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate:  
Whither I go, thither shall you go too;
To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you.
Will this content you, Kate?

LADY.
It must of force.

[Exeunt.]




Scene IV. Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar's-Head Tavern.

[Enter Prince Henry.]

PRINCE.
Ned, pr'ythee, come out of that fat room, and lend me thy
hand to laugh a little.

[Enter Pointz.]

POINTZ.
Where hast been, Hal?

PRINCE.
With three or four loggerheads amongst three or fourscore 
hogsheads. I have sounded the very base-string of humility. 
Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers; and can call 
them all by their Christian names, as, Tom, Dick, and Francis. 
They take it already upon their salvation, that though I be but 
Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy; and tell me flatly 
I am no proud Jack, like Falstaff, but a corinthian, a lad of mettle, 
a good boy,--by the Lord, so they call me;--and, when I am King 
of England, I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap. They 
call drinking deep, dying scarlet; and, when you breathe in your 
watering, they cry hem! and bid you play it off. To conclude, I am 
so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with 
any tinker in his own language during my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou 
hast lost much honour, that thou wert not with me in this action. But, 
sweet Ned,--to sweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth 
of sugar, clapp'd even now into my hand by an under-skinker; one that 
never spake other English in his life than Eight shillings and sixpence, 
and You are welcome; with this shrill addition, Anon, anon, sir! Score
a pint of bastard in the Half-moon,--or so.  But, Ned, to drive away 
the time till Falstaff come, I pr'ythee, do thou stand in some by-room, 
while I question my puny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar;
and do thou never leave calling Francis! that his tale to me may be 
nothing but Anon.  Step aside, and I'll show thee a precedent.

[Exit Pointz.]

POINTZ.
[Within.]  Francis!

PRINCE.

Thou art perfect.

POINTZ.
[Within.]  Francis!

[Enter Francis.]

FRAN.
Anon, anon, sir.--Look down into the Pomegranate, Ralph.

PRINCE.
Come hither, Francis.

FRAN.
My lord?

PRINCE.
How long hast thou to serve, Francis?  

FRAN.
Forsooth, five years, and as much as to--

POINTZ.
[within.] Francis!

FRAN.
Anon, anon, sir.

PRINCE.
Five year! by'r Lady, a long lease for the clinking of
pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so valiant as to play
the coward with thy indenture and show it a fair pair of heels
and run from it?

FRAN.
O Lord, sir, I'll be sworn upon all the books in England,
I could find in my heart--

POINTZ.
[within.] Francis!

FRAN.
Anon, anon, sir.

PRINCE.
How old art thou, Francis?

FRAN.
Let me see,--about Michaelmas next I shall be--

POINTZ.
[within.] Francis!

FRAN.
Anon, sir.--Pray you, stay a little, my lord.

PRINCE.
Nay, but hark you, Francis:  for the sugar thou gavest
me, 'twas a pennyworth, was't not?

FRAN.
O Lord, sir, I would it had been two!

PRINCE.
I will give thee for it a thousand pound:  ask me when
thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

POINTZ.
[within.] Francis!

FRAN.
Anon, anon.

PRINCE.
Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis; or,
Francis, a Thursday; or, indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But,
Francis,--

FRAN.
My lord?

PRINCE.
--wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button,
nott-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter,
smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,--

FRAN.
O Lord, sir, who do you mean?

PRINCE.

Why, then, your brown bastard is your only drink; for,
look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully:  in
Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much.

FRAN.
What, sir?

POINTZ.
[within.] Francis!

PRINCE.
Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear them call?

[Here they both call him; Francis stands amazed, not knowing
which way to go.]

[Enter Vintner.]



VINT.
What, stand'st thou still, and hear'st such a calling? Look
to the guests within. [Exit Francis.]--My lord, old Sir John,
with half-a-dozen more, are at the door:  shall I let them in?

PRINCE.
Let them alone awhile, and then open the door.

[Exit Vintner.]

Pointz!

[Re-enter Pointz.]

POINTZ.
Anon, anon, sir.

PRINCE.
Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the
door:  shall we be merry?

POINTZ.
As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye; what cunning
match have you made with this jest of the drawer? Come,
what's the issue?

PRINCE.
I am now of all humours that have showed themselves humours
since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this
present twelve o'clock at midnight.--What's o'clock, Francis?

FRAN.
[Within.]  Anon, anon, sir.

PRINCE.
That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and 
yet the son of a woman! His industry is up-stairs and down-stairs; 
his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's 
mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven 
dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 
Fie upon this quiet life! I want work. O my sweet Harry, says she, 
how many hast thou  kill'd to-day?  Give my roan horse a drench,
says he; and answers, Some fourteen, an hour after,--a trifle, a
trifle.
I pr'ythee, call in Falstaff:  I'll play Percy, and that damn'd
brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. Rivo! says the drunkard.
Call in ribs, call in tallow.

[Enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto; followed by
Francis with wine.]

POINTZ.
Welcome, Jack:  where hast thou been?

FAL.
A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! marry, and
amen!--
Give me a cup of sack, boy.--Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew
nether-stocks, and mend them and foot them too. A plague of all
cowards!--
Give me a cup of sack, rogue.--Is there no virtue extant?

[Drinks.]

PRINCE.
Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? pitiful-hearted
butter, that melted at the sweet tale of the Sun! if thou didst,
then behold that compound.

FAL.
You rogue, here's lime in this sack too:  there is nothing but roguery
to be found in villainous man:  yet a coward is worse than a cup of
sack with lime in it, a villanous coward.--Go thy ways, old Jack:  die
when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face
of the Earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good
men unhang'd in England; and one of them is fat, and grows old: God
help the while! a bad world, I say. 
I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or any thing. A plague of
all cowards! I say still.

PRINCE.
How now, wool-sack? what mutter you?

FAL.
A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger
of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of
wild-geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales!

PRINCE.
Why, you whoreson round man, what's the matter?

FAL.
Are not you a coward? answer me to that:--and Pointz there?

POINTZ.
Zwounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the Lord, I'll
stab thee.

FAL.
I call thee coward!  I'll see thee damn'd ere I call thee coward:
but I would give a thousand pound, I could run as fast as thou canst.
You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your
back:  call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such
backing! give me them that will face me.--Give me a cup of sack:
I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day.

PRINCE.
O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk'st last.

FAL.
All is one for that. A plague of all cowards! still say I.

[Drinks.]

PRINCE.
What's the matter?

FAL.
What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand
pound this day morning.


PRINCE.
Where is it, Jack? where is it?

FAL.
Where is it! taken from us it is:  a hundred upon poor four of us!

PRINCE.
What, a hundred, man?

FAL.
I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two 
hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust 
through the doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut through 
and through; my sword hack'd like a hand-saw,--ecce signum! I never 
dealt better since I was a man:  all would not do. A plague of all 
cowards! Let them speak:  if they speak more or less than truth,
they are villains and the sons of darkness.

PRINCE.
Speak, sirs; how was it?

GADS.
We four set upon some dozen,--

FAL.
Sixteen at least, my lord.

GADS.
--and bound them.

PETO.
No, no; they were not bound.

FAL.
You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew
else, an Ebrew Jew.

GADS.
As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men sea upon us,--

FAL.
And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.

PRINCE.
What, fought you with them all?


FAL.
All? I know not what you call all; but if I fought not with fifty
of them, I am a bunch of radish:  if there were not two or three
and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged creature.

PRINCE.
Pray God you have not murdered some of them.

FAL.
Nay, that's past praying for: I have pepper'd two of them; two I
am sure I have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what,
Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.
Thou knowest my old ward:  here I lay, and thus I bore my point.
Four rogues in buckram let drive at me,--

PRINCE.
What, four? thou saidst but two even now.

FAL.
Four, Hal; I told thee four.

POINTZ.
Ay, ay, he said four.

FAL.
These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more 
ado but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

PRINCE.
Seven? why, there were but four even now.

FAL.
In buckram?

POINTZ.
Ay, four, in buckram suits.  

FAL.
Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

PRINCE.
[aside to Pointz.] Pr'ythee let him alone; we shall have more
anon.

FAL.
Dost thou hear me, Hal?


PRINCE.
Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

FAL.
Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram
that I told thee of,--

PRINCE.
So, two more already.

FAL.
--their points being broken,--

POINTZ.
Down fell their hose.

FAL.
--began to give me ground:  but I followed me close, came in foot
and hand; and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid.

PRINCE.
O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!

FAL.
But, as the Devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves in Kendal 
Green came at my back and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, 
that thou couldst not see thy hand.

PRINCE.
These lies are like the father that begets them, gross as a mountain, 
open, palpable. Why, thou nott-pated fool, thou whoreson, obscene
greasy tallow-keech,--

FAL.
What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth the truth?

PRINCE.
Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was
so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us your reason:
what sayest thou to this?

POINTZ.
Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

FAL.
What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks 
in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on 
compulsion! if reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would
give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.

PRINCE.
I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this
bed-presser, this horse-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh,--

FAL.
Away, you starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, you
stock-fish,--
O, for breath to utter what is like thee!--you tailor's-yard, you
sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck,--

PRINCE.
Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again:  and, when thou hast
tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this:--

POINTZ.
Mark, Jack.

PRINCE.
--We two saw you four set on four; you bound them, and were masters of 
their wealth.--Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down.--
Then did we two set on you four; and, with a word, outfaced you from
your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house:
and, Falstaff, you carried yourself away as nimbly, with as quick
dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roar'd, as ever I
heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou
hast done, and then say it was in fight!
What trick, what device, what starting-hole canst thou now find
out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

POINTZ.
Come, let's hear, Jack; what trick hast thou now?

FAL.
By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye,
my masters:
Was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? should I turn upon the
true Prince? why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules:  but
beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true Prince.
Instinct is a great matter; I was now a coward on instinct.
I shall think the better of myself and thee during my life; I for a 
valiant lion, and thou for a true prince.  But, by the Lord, lads,
I am glad you have the money.--
[To Hostess within.]  Hostess, clap-to the doors:  watch 
to-night, pray to-morrow.--Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold,
all the titles of good fellowship come to you!
What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore? 

PRINCE.
Content; and the argument shall be thy running away.

FAL.
Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me!

[Enter the Hostess.]

HOST.
O Jesu, my lord the Prince,--

PRINCE.
How now, my lady the hostess! What say'st thou to me?

HOST.
Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the Court at door would
speak with you: he says he comes from your father.

PRINCE.
Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and send him back
again to my mother.

FAL.
What manner of man is he?

HOST.
An old man.

FAL.
What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall I give him
his answer?

PRINCE.
Pr'ythee, do, Jack.

FAL.
Faith, and I'll send him packing.

[Exit.]

PRINCE.
Now, sirs:--by'r Lady, you fought fair;--so did you, Peto;--so did you, 
Bardolph:  you are lions, too, you ran away upon instinct, you will not 
touch the true Prince; no,--fie!

BARD.
Faith, I ran when I saw others run.

PRINCE.
Tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff's sword so hack'd?

PETO.
Why, he hack'd it with his dagger; and said he would swear truth out of 
England, but he would make you believe it was done in fight; and 
persuaded us to do the like.

BARD.
Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear-grass to make them bleed;
and then to beslubber our garments with it, and swear it was the
blood of true men. I did that I did not this seven year before;
I blush'd to hear his monstrous devices.

PRINCE.
O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years ago, and wert
taken with the manner, and ever since thou hast blush'd extempore.
Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou rann'st away:
what instinct hadst thou for it?

BARD.
My lord, do you see these meteors? do you behold these
exhalations?

PRINCE.
I do.

BARD.
What think you they portend?

PRINCE.
Hot livers and cold purses.  

BARD.
Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.

PRINCE.
No, if rightly taken, halter.--Here comes lean Jack, here comes
bare-bone.--

[Enter Falstaff.]

How now, my sweet creature of bombast! How long is't ago, Jack,
since thou saw'st thine own knee?


FAL.
My own knee! when I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle's
talon in the waist; I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring:
a plague of sighing and grief! it blows a man up like a bladder.
There's villanous news abroad:  here was Sir John Bracy from your
father; you must to the Court in the morning. 
That same mad fellow of the North, Percy; and he of Wales, that gave
Amaimon the bastinado, and swore the Devil his true liegeman upon the
cross of a Welsh hook,--what a plague call you him?

POINTZ.
O, Glendower.

FAL.
Owen, Owen,--the same; and his son-in-law Mortimer; and old
Northumberland; and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that
runs o' horseback up a hill perpendicular,--

PRINCE.
He that rides at high speed and with his pistol kills a sparrow
flying.

FAL.
You have hit it.

PRINCE.
So did he never the sparrow.

FAL.
Well, that rascal hath good metal in him; he will not run.

PRINCE.
Why, what a rascal art thou, then, to praise him so for running!

FAL.
O' horseback, ye cuckoo! but a-foot he will not budge a foot.

PRINCE.
Yes, Jack, upon instinct.

FAL.
I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one Mordake,
and a thousand blue-caps more:
Worcester is stolen away to-night; thy father's beard is turn'd 
white with the news:  you may buy land now as cheap as stinking
mackerel.  
But, tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible afeard? thou being
heir-apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again
as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower?
art thou not horribly afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at it?

PRINCE.
Not a whit, i'faith; I lack some of thy instinct.

FAL.
Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow when thou comest to
thy father.  If thou love life, practise an answer.

PRINCE.
Do thou stand for my father and examine me upon the particulars
of my life.

FAL.
Shall I? content:  this chair shall be my state, this dagger my
sceptre, and this cushion my crown.

PRINCE.
Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, thy golden sceptre for a
leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown.

FAL.
Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt
thou be moved.--
Give me a cup of sack, to make my eyes look red, that it may be
thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it
in King Cambyses' vein.

PRINCE.
Well, here is my leg.

FAL.
And here is my speech.--Stand aside, nobility.

HOST. 
O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i faith!

FAL.
Weep not, sweet Queen; for trickling tears are vain.

HOST. 
O, the Father, how he holds his countenance!

FAL.
For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful Queen; 
For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes.


HOST.
O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as ever
I see!

FAL.
Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain.--Harry, I do not
only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art
accompanied:  for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on,
the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner
it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's word,
partly my own opinion; but chiefly a villainous trick of thine eye,
and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If,
then, thou be son to me, here lies the point:  Why, being son to me,
art thou so pointed at?
Shall the blessed Sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries?
a question not to be ask'd. Shall the son of England prove a thief,
and take purses? a question to be ask'd.
There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is
known to many in our land by the name of pitch:  this pitch, as
ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou
keepest:  for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in
tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, 
but in woes also.  And yet there is a virtuous man whom I have
often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.

PRINCE.
What manner of man, an it like your Majesty?

FAL.
A goodly portly man, i'faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look,
a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age
some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I
remember me, his name is Falstaff:  if that man should be lewdly given,
he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. 
If, then, the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree,
then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff:  him
keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell
me where hast thou been this month?

PRINCE.
Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I'll play
my father.

FAL.
Depose me! if thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both
in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker or a
poulter's hare.

PRINCE.
Well, here I am set.

FAL.
And here I stand.--Judge, my masters.

PRINCE.
Now, Harry, whence come you?

FAL.
My noble lord, from Eastcheap.

PRINCE.
The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.

FAL.
'Sblood, my lord, they are false.--Nay, I'll tickle ye for a
young prince, i'faith.

PRINCE.
Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er look on me. Thou art 
violently carried away from grace:  there is a devil haunts thee, in
the likeness of an old fat man,--a tun of man is thy companion. Why
dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of
beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of
sack, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that
reverend Vice, that grey Iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity
in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein
neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but 
in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villainous, but in
all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?  

FAL.
I would your Grace would take me with you:  whom means your Grace?

PRINCE.
That villainous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff, that old
white-bearded Satan.

FAL.
My lord, the man I know.

PRINCE.
I know thou dost.

FAL.
But to say I know more harm in him than in myself, were to say more
than I know. That he is old,--(the more the pity,--his white hairs do
witness it. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! if to
be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damn'd:
if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved.
No, my good lord:  banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Pointz; but, 
for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff,
valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being, as he is, old
Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company, banish not him thy
Harry's company:  banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.

PRINCE.
I do, I will.

[A knocking heard.]

[Exeunt Hostess, Francis, and Bardolph.]

[Enter Bardolph, running.]

BARD.
O, my lord, my lord! the sheriff with a most monstrous watch is
at the door.

FAL.
Out, ye rogue!--Play out the play:  I have much to say in the
behalf of that Falstaff.

[Re-enter the Hostess, hastily.]

HOST.
O Jesu, my lord, my lord,--

PRINCE.
Heigh, heigh! the Devil rides upon a fiddlestick:  what's the matter?

HOST.
The sheriff and all the watch are at the door:  they are come to
search the house. Shall I let them in?

FAL.
Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit:
thou art essentially mad without seeming so.

PRINCE.
And thou a natural coward, without instinct.

FAL.
I deny your major:  if you will deny the sheriff, so; if not, let him
enter:  if I become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on my
bringing up! I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter as
another.

PRINCE.
Go, hide thee behind the arras:--the rest walk, up above.  Now,
my masters, for a true face and good conscience.


FAL.
Both which I have had; but their date is out, and therefore I'll
hide me.                                     

PRINCE.
Call in the sheriff.--

[Exeunt all but the Prince and Pointz.]

[Enter Sheriff and Carrier.]

Now, master sheriff, what's your will with me?

SHER.
First, pardon me, my lord. A hue-and-cry 
Hath followed certain men unto this house.

PRINCE.
What men?

SHER.
One of them is well known, my gracious lord,--
A gross fat man.

CAR.
As fat as butter.

PRINCE.
The man, I do assure you, is not here;
For I myself at this time have employ'd him.  
And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee,
That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time,
Send him to answer thee, or any man,
For any thing he shall be charged withal:
And so, let me entreat you leave the house.

SHER.
I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen
Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.

PRINCE.
It may be so:  if he have robb'd these men,
He shall be answerable; and so, farewell.

SHER.
Good night, my noble lord.

PRINCE.
I think it is good morrow, is it not?

SHER.
Indeed, my lord, I think't be two o'clock.

[Exit Sheriff and Carrier.]

PRINCE.
This oily rascal is known as well as Paul's. Go, call him forth.

POINTZ.
Falstaff!--fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a
horse.

PRINCE.
Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search his pockets.

[Pointz searches.]

What hast thou found?  

POINTZ.
Nothing but papers, my lord.

PRINCE.
Let's see what they be:  read them.

POINTZ. [reads] 
Item, A capon, . . . . . . . . .  2s. 2d.
Item, Sauce, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4d.
Item, Sack two gallons ,. . . 5s. 8d.
Item, Anchovies and sack after supper,  2s. 6d.
Item, Bread, . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ob.

PRINCE.
O monstrous! but one half-pennyworth of bread to this intolerable
deal of sack! What there is else, keep close; we'll read it at more
advantage:  there let him sleep till day.
I'll to the Court in the morning. We must all to the wars, and thy
place shall be honourable. I'll procure this fat rogue a charge of
foot; and I know his death will be a march of twelve-score. The money
shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with me betimes in the
morning; and so, good morrow, Pointz.

POINTZ.
Good morrow, good my lord.

[Exeunt.]



ACT III.

Scene I. Bangor. A Room in the Archdeacon's House.

[Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and Glendower.]

MORT.
These promises are fair, the parties sure,
And our induction full of prosperous hope.

HOT.
Lord Mortimer,--and cousin Glendower,--Will you sit down?--
And uncle Worcester,--A plague upon it!  I have forgot the map.

GLEND.
No, here it is.
Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur;
For by that name as oft as Lancaster
Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale, and with
A rising sigh he wisheth you in Heaven.

HOT.
And you in Hell, as oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.

GLEND.
I cannot blame him:  at my nativity
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,
Of burning cressets; ay, and at my birth
The frame and huge foundation of the Earth
Shaked like a coward.

HOT.
Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your mother's
cat had but kitten'd, though yourself had never been born.

GLEND.
I say the Earth did shake when I was born.

HOT.
And I say the Earth was not of my mind, if you suppose as 
fearing you it shook.

GLEND.
The Heavens were all on fire, the Earth did tremble.

HOT.
O, then th' Earth shook to see the Heavens on fire,
And not in fear of your nativity.
Diseased Nature oftentimes breaks forth
In strange eruptions; oft the teeming Earth
Is with a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd
By the imprisoning of unruly wind
Within her womb; which, for enlargement striving,
Shakes the old beldam Earth, and topples down
Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth,
Our grandam Earth, having this distemperature,
In passion shook.

GLEND.
Cousin, of many men
I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave
To tell you once again, that at my birth
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes;
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds
Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.
These signs have mark'd me extraordinary;
And all the courses of my life do show
I am not in the roll of common men.
Where is he living,--clipp'd in with the sea
That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,--
Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me?
And bring him out that is but woman's son
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,
And hold me pace in deep experiments.

HOT.
I think there is no man speaks better Welsh.--I'll to dinner.

MORT.
Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.

GLEND.
I can call spirits from the vasty deep.


HOT.
Why, so can I, or so can any man;
But will they come when you do call for them?

GLEND.
Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the Devil.  

HOT.
And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the Devil
By telling truth:  tell truth, and shame the Devil.
If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither,
And I'll be sworn I've power to shame him hence.
O, while you live, tell truth, and shame the Devil!

MORT.
Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.

GLEND.
Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head
Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye
And sandy-bottom'd Severn have I sent 
Him bootless home and weather-beaten back.

HOT.
Home without boots, and in foul weather too!
How 'scaped he agues, in the Devil's name!

GLEND.
Come, here's the map:  shall we divide our right
According to our threefold order ta'en?

MORT.
Th' archdeacon hath divided it
Into three limits very equally.
England, from Trent and Severn hitherto,
By south and east is to my part assign'd:
All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore,
And all the fertile land within that bound,
To Owen Glendower:--and, dear coz, to you
The remnant northward, lying off from Trent.
And our indentures tripartite are drawn;
Which being sealed interchangeably,--
A business that this night may execute,--
To-morrow, cousin Percy, you, and I,
And my good Lord of Worcester, will set forth
To meet your father and the Scottish power,
As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury.
My father Glendower is not ready yet,
Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days:--
[To Glend.] Within that space you may have drawn together
Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.

GLEND.
A shorter time shall send me to you, lords:
And in my conduct shall your ladies come;
From whom you now must steal, and take no leave,
For there will be a world of water shed
Upon the parting of your wives and you.

HOT.
Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here,
In quantity equals not one of yours.
See how this river comes me cranking in,
And cuts me from the best of all my land
A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.
I'll have the current in this place damn'd up;
And here the smug and sliver Trent shall run
In a new channel, fair and evenly:
It shall not wind with such a deep indent,
To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

GLEND.
Not wind? it shall, it must; you see it doth.

MORT.
Yea, but
Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up
With like advantage on the other side;
Gelding th' opposed continent as much
As on the other side it takes from you.

WOR.
Yea, but a little charge will trench him here,
And on this north side win this cape of land;
And then he runneth straight and evenly.

HOT.
I'll have it so:  a little charge will do it.

GLEND.
I will not have it alter'd.

HOT.
Will not you?  

GLEND.
No, nor you shall not.

HOT.
Who shall say me nay?

GLEND.
Why, that will I.

HOT.
Let me not understand you, then; speak it in Welsh.

GLEND.
I can speak English, lord, as well as you;
For I was train'd up in the English Court;
Where, being but young, I framed to the harp
Many an English ditty lovely well,
And gave the tongue a helpful ornament,
A virtue that was never seen in you.

HOT.
Marry, and I am glad of it with all my heart:
I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew,
Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers;
I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd,
Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree;
And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,
Nothing so much as mincing poetry:
'Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag.

GLEND.
Come, you shall have Trent turn'd.

HOT.
I do not care:  I'll give thrice so much land
To any well-deserving friend;
But in the way of bargain, mark ye me,
I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.
Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone?
GLEND.

The Moon shines fair; you may away by night:
I'll in and haste the writer, and withal
Break with your wives of your departure hence:
I am afraid my daughter will run mad,
So much she doteth on her Mortimer.

[Exit.]

MORT.
Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!

HOT.
I cannot choose:  sometimes he angers me
With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant,
Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies,
And of a dragon and a finless fish,
A clip-wing'd griffin and a moulten raven,
A couching lion and a ramping cat,
And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff
As puts me from my faith. I tell you what,
He held me last night at the least nine hours
In reckoning up the several devils' names
That were his lacqueys:  I cried hum, and well,
But mark'd him not a word. O, he's as tedious
As a tired horse, a railing wife;
Worse than a smoky house: I had rather live
With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far,
Than feed on cates and have him talk to me
In any summer-house in Christendom.

MORT.
In faith, he is a worthy gentleman;
Exceedingly well-read, and profited
In strange concealments; valiant as a lion,
And wondrous affable, and as bountiful
As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin?
He holds your temper in a high respect,
And curbs himself even of his natural scope
When you do cross his humour; faith, he does:
I warrant you, that man is not alive
Might so have tempted him as you have done,
Without the taste of danger and reproof:
But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.  


WOR.
In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blunt;
And since your coming hither have done enough
To put him quite beside his patience.
You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault:
Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood--
And that's the dearest grace it renders you,--
Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage,
Defect of manners, want of government,
Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain;
The least of which haunting a nobleman
Loseth men's hearts, and leaves behind a stain
Upon the beauty of all parts besides,
Beguiling them of commendation.

HOT.
Well, I am school'd:  good manners be your speed!
Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.

[Re-enter Glendower, with Lady Mortimer and Lady Percy.]

MORT.
This is the deadly spite that angers me,
My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.  

GLEND.
My daughter weeps:  she will not part with you;
She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars.

MORT.
Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy
Shall follow in your conduct speedily.

[Glendower speaks to Lady Mortimer in Welsh, and she answers 
him in the same.]

GLEND.
She's desperate here; a peevish self-will'd harlotry,
One that no persuasion can do good upon.

[Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer in Welsh.]

MORT.
I understand thy looks:  that pretty Welsh
Which thou pour'st down from these swelling heavens
I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,
In such a parley should I answer thee.

[Lady Mortimer speaks to him again in Welsh.]

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,
And that's a feeling disputation:
But I will never be a truant, love,
Till I have learn'd thy language; for thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,
Sung by a fair queen in a Summer's bower,
With ravishing division, to her lute.

GLEND.
Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

[Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer again in Welsh.]

MORT.
O, I am ignorance itself in this!

GLEND.
She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down,
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness;
Making such difference betwixt wake and sleep,
As is the difference betwixt day and night,
The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team
Begins his golden progress in the East.

MORT.
With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing:
By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.

GLEND.
Do so:
An those musicians that shall play to you
Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence,
And straight they shall be here:  sit, and attend.

HOT.
Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down:  come, quick,
quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

LADY P.
Go, ye giddy goose.

[The music plays.]

HOT.
Now I perceive the Devil understands Welsh;
And 'tis no marvel he's so humorous.
By'r Lady, he's a good musician.

LADY P.
Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are
altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear
the lady sing in Welsh.

HOT.
I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.

LADY P.
Wouldst thou have thy head broken?

HOT.
No.

LADY P.
Then be still.

HOT.
Neither; 'tis a woman's fault.

LADY P.
Now God help thee!

HOT.
Peace! she sings.

[A Welsh song by Lady Mortimer.]

Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.

LADY P.
Not mine, in good sooth.


HOT.
Not yours, in good sooth! 'Heart! you swear like a
comfit-maker's wife. Not mine, in good sooth; and, As true
as I live; and, As God shall mend me; and, As sure as day;
And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,
As if thou ne'er walk'dst further than Finsbury.
Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,
A good mouth-filling oath; and leave in sooth,
And such protest of pepper-gingerbread,
To velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens. Come, sing.

LADY P.
I will not sing.

HOT.
'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be redbreast-teacher.
An the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours;
and so, come in when ye will.                                  

[Exit.]

GLEND.
Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow
As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.
By this our book's drawn; we'll but seal, and then 
To horse immediately.

MORT.
With all my heart.

[Exeunt.]



Scene II. London. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, and Lords.]

KING.
Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I
Must have some private conference: but be near at hand,
For we shall presently have need of you.

[Exeunt Lords.]


I know not whether God will have it so,
For some displeasing service I have done,
That, in His secret doom, out of my blood
He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;
But thou dost, in thy passages of life,
Make me believe that thou art only mark'd
For the hot vengeance and the rod of Heaven
To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,
Could such inordinate and low desires,
Such poor, such base, such lewd, such mean attempts,
Such barren pleasures, rude society,
As thou art match'd withal and grafted to,
Accompany the greatness of thy blood,
And hold their level with thy princely heart?

PRINCE.
So please your Majesty, I would I could
Quit all offences with as clear excuse
As well as I am doubtless I can purge
Myself of many I am charged withal:
Yet such extenuation let me beg,
As, in reproof of many tales devised
By smiling pick-thanks and base news-mongers,--
Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,--
I may, for some things true, wherein my youth
Hath faulty wander'd and irregular,
Find pardon on my true submission.

KING.
God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder, Harry,
At thy affections, which do hold a wing
Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.
Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost,
Which by thy younger brother is supplied;
And art almost an alien to the hearts
Of all the Court and princes of my blood:
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruin'd; and the soul of every man
Prophetically does forethink thy fall.
Had I so lavish of my presence been,
So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men,
So stale and cheap to vulgar company,
Opinion, that did help me to the crown,
Had still kept loyal to possession,
And left me in reputeless banishment,

A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.
By being seldom seen, I could not stir
But, like a comet, I was wonder'd at;
That men would tell their children, This is he;
Others would say, Where, which is Bolingbroke?
And then I stole all courtesy from Heaven,
And dress'd myself in such humility,
That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,
Even in the presence of the crowned King.
Thus did I keep my person fresh and new;
My presence, like a robe pontifical,
Ne'er seen but wonder'd at:  and so my state,
Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast,
And won by rareness such solemnity.
The skipping King, he ambled up and down
With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,
Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state,
Mingled his royalty, with capering fools;
Had his great name profaned with their scorns;
And gave his countenance, against his name,
To laugh at gibing boys, and stand the push
Of every beardless vain comparative;
Grew a companion to the common streets,
Enfeoff'd himself to popularity;
That, being dally swallow'd by men's eyes,
They surfeited with honey, and began
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little
More than a little is by much too much.
So, when he had occasion to be seen,
He was but as the cuckoo is in June,
Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes
As, sick and blunted with community,
Afford no extraordinary gaze,
Such as is bent on sun-like majesty
When it shines seldom in admiring eyes;
But rather drowsed, and hung their eyelids down,
Slept in his face, and render'd such aspect
As cloudy men use to their adversaries,
Being with his presence glutted, gorged, and full.
And in that very line, Harry, stand'st thou;
For thou hast lost thy princely privilege
With vile participation:  not an eye
But is a-weary of thy common sight,
Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more;
Which now doth that I would not have it do,
Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.

PRINCE.
I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,
Be more myself.

KING.
For all the world,
As thou art to this hour, was Richard then
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurg;
And even as I was then is Percy now.
Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot,
He hath more worthy interest to the state
Than thou, the shadow of succession;
For, of no right, nor colour like to right,
He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,
Turns head against the lion's armed jaws;
And, being no more in debt to years than thou,
Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on
To bloody battles and to bruising arms.
What never-dying honour hath he got
Against renowned Douglas! whose high deeds,
Whose hot incursions, and great name in arms,
Holds from all soldiers chief majority
And military title capital
Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ:
Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathing-clothes,
This infant warrior, in his enterprises
Discomfited great Douglas; ta'en him once,
Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,
To fill the mouth of deep defiance up,
And shake the peace and safety of our throne.
And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,
Th' Archbishop's Grace of York, Douglas, and Mortimer
Capitulate against us, and are up.
But wherefore do I tell these news to thee?
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,
Which art my near'st and dearest enemy?
Thou that art like enough,--through vassal fear,
Base inclination, and the start of spleen,--
To fight against me under Percy's pay,
To dog his heels, and curtsy at his frowns,
To show how much thou art degenerate.

PRINCE.
Do not think so; you shall not find it so:
And God forgive them that so much have sway'd
Your Majesty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head,
And, in the closing of some glorious day,
Be bold to tell you that I am your son;
When I will wear a garment all of blood,
And stain my favour in a bloody mask,
Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it:
And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,
That this same child of honour and renown,
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,
And your unthought-of Harry, chance to meet.
For every honour sitting on his helm,
Would they were multitudes, and on my head
My shames redoubled! for the time will come,
That I shall make this northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
T' engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;
And I will call hall to so strict account,
That he shall render every glory up,
Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,
Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.
This, in the name of God, I promise here:
The which if I perform, and do survive,
I do beseech your Majesty, may salve
The long-grown wounds of my intemperance:
If not, the end of life cancels all bands;
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.

KING.
A hundred thousand rebels die in this.
Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.--

[Enter Sir Walter Blunt.]

How now, good Blunt! thy looks are full of speed.

BLUNT.
So is the business that I come to speak of.
Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word
That Douglas and the English rebels met

Th' eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury:
A mighty and a fearful head they are,
If promises be kept on every hand,
As ever offer'd foul play in a State.

KING.
The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day;
With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;
For this advertisement is five days old.
On Wednesday next you, Harry, shall set forward;
On Thursday we ourselves will march: 
Our meeting is Bridgenorth:  and, Harry, you 
Shall march through Glostershire; by which account,
Our business valued, some twelve days hence
Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.
Our hands are full of business:  let's away;
Advantage feeds him fat, while men delay.

[Exeunt.]



Scene III. Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar's-Head Tavern.

[Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.]

FAL.
Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? do I 
not bate? do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an 
old lady's loose gown; I am withered like an old apple-John.
Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking; I
shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to
repent.
An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I
am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse:  the inside of a church!
Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.

BARD.
Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.

FAL.
Why, there is it:  come, sing me a song; make me merry. I was as 
virtuously given as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough; swore 
little; diced not above seven times a week; paid money that I borrowed
--three or four times; lived well, and in good compass:  and now I live 
out of all order, out of all compass.


BARD.
Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all
compass, --out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.

FAL.
Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life:  thou art our admiral, 
thou bearest the lantern in the poop,--but 'tis in the nose of thee;
thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp.

BARD.
Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.

FAL.
No, I'll be sworn; I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a 
death's-head or a memento mori:  I never see thy face but I think upon 
hell-fire, and Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes, 
burning, burning. If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear 
by thy face; my oath should be, By this fire, that's God's angel:  but
thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the light in
thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou rann'st up Gad's-hill in
the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis
fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in money. O, thou art
a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast saved me a
thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night
betwixt tavern and tavern:  but the sack that thou hast drunk me would
have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest chandler's in Europe.
I have maintain'd that salamander of yours with fire any time this
two-and-thirty years; God reward me for it!

BARD.
'Sblood, I would my face were in your stomach!

FAL.
God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.--

[Enter the Hostess.]

How now, Dame Partlet the hen! have you enquir'd yet who
pick'd my pocket?

HOST.
Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you think I
keep thieves in my house? I have search'd, I have inquired,
so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant:
the tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.

FAL.
Ye lie, hostess:  Bardolph was shaved, and lost many a hair; and 
I'll be sworn my pocket was pick'd. Go to, you are a woman, go.

HOST.
Who, I? no; I defy thee:  God's light, I was never call'd so in
mine own house before.

FAL.
Go to, I know you well enough.

HOST.
No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir John. I know you, Sir John:
you owe me money, Sir John; and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me
of it: I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.

FAL.
Dowlas, filthy dowlas:  I have given them away to bakers' wives,
and they have made bolters of them.

HOST.
Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an ell. 
You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by-drinkings,
and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound.

FAL.
He had his part of it; let him pay.

HOST.
He? alas, he is poor; he hath nothing.

FAL.
How! poor? look upon his face; what call you rich? let
them coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks:  I'll not pay a
denier. What, will you make a younker of me? shall I not take
mine ease in mine inn, but I shall have my pocket pick'd? I have
lost a seal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark.

HOST.
O Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft,
that that ring was copper!

FAL.
How! the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup:  'sblood, an he were
here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if he would say so.--

[Enter Prince Henry and Pointz, marching.  Falstaff meets them,
playing on his truncheon like a fife.]

How now, lad? is the wind in that door, i'faith? must we all
march?

BARD.
Yea, two-and-two, Newgate-fashion.

HOST.
My lord, I pray you, hear me.

PRINCE.
What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband? I love 
him well; he is an honest man.

HOST.
Good my lord, hear me.

FAL.
Pr'ythee, let her alone, and list to me.

PRINCE.
What say'st thou, Jack?

FAL.
The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras, and had my
pocket pick'd:  this house is turn'd bawdy-house; they pick pockets.

PRINCE.
What didst thou lose, Jack?

FAL.
Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of forty pound
a-piece and a seal-ring of my grandfather's.

PRINCE.
A trifle, some eight-penny matter.

HOST.
So I told him, my lord; and I said I heard your Grace say so;
and, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouth'd
man as he is; and said he would cudgel you.  

PRINCE.
What! he did not?

HOST.
There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.

FAL.
There's no more faith in thee than in a stew'd prune; nor no more
truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and, for woman-hood, Maid Marian
may be the deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go.

HOST.
Say, what thing? what thing?  I am an honest man's wife:  and,
setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call me so.

FAL.
Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise.

HOST.
Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?

FAL.
What beast!  why, an otter.

PRINCE.
An otter, Sir John, why an otter?

FAL.
Why, she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have
her.

HOST.
Thou art an unjust man in saying so; thou or any man knows where
to have me, thou knave, thou!

PRINCE.
Thou say'st true, hostess; and he slanders thee most grossly.

HOST.
So he doth you, my lord; and said this other day you ought him a 
thousand pound.

PRINCE.
Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?

FAL.

A thousand pound, Hal! a million:  thy love is worth a million;
thou owest me thy love.

HOST.
Nay, my lord, he call'd you Jack, and said he would cudgel you.

FAL.
Did I, Bardolph?

BARD.
Indeed, Sir John, you said so.

FAL.
Yea, if he said my ring was copper.

PRINCE.
I say 'tis copper:  darest thou be as good as thy word now?

FAL.
Why, Hal, thou know'st, as thou art but man, I dare; but as thou
art prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the lion's whelp.

PRINCE.
And why not as the lion?

FAL.
The King himself is to be feared as the lion:  dost thou think I'll
fear thee as I fear thy father? nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle
break.

PRINCE.
Sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this
bosom of thine; it is all fill'd up with midriff.
Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket! why, thou whoreson,
impudent, emboss'd rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket but
tavern-reckonings, and one poor pennyworth of sugar-candy to make thee
long-winded,--if thy pocket were enrich'd with any other injuries but
these, I am a villain:  and yet you will stand to it; you will not
pocket-up wrong. Art thou not ashamed!

FAL.
Dost thou hear, Hal? thou know'st, in the state of innocency Adam fell; 
and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy?
Thou see'st I have more flesh than another man; and therefore more
frailty. You confess, then, you pick'd my pocket?

PRINCE.

It appears so by the story.

FAL.
Hostess, I forgive thee:  go, make ready breakfast; love thy husband,
look to thy servants, cherish thy guests:  thou shalt find me tractable
to any honest reason; thou see'st I am pacified.--Still?  Nay, pr'ythee,
be gone.

[Exit Hostess.]

Now, Hal, to the news at Court:  for the robbery, lad, how is
that answered?

PRINCE.
O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee:  the money
is paid back again.

FAL.
O, I do not like that paying back; 'tis a double labour.

PRINCE.
I am good friends with my father, and may do any thing.

FAL.
Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and do it with
unwash'd hands too.

BARD.
Do, my lord.

PRINCE.
I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of Foot.

FAL.
I would it had been of Horse. Where shall I find one that can steal
well? O, for a fine thief, of the age of two-and-twenty or thereabouts!
I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these rebels; they
offend none but the virtuous:  I laud them, I praise them.

PRINCE.
Bardolph,--

BARD.
My lord?

PRINCE.
Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,

My brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.--

[Exit Bardolph.]

Go, Pointz, to horse, to horse; for thou and I
Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time.--  

[Exit Pointz.]

Meet me to-morrow, Jack, i' the Temple-hall
At two o'clock in th' afternoon:
There shalt thou know thy charge; and there receive
Money and order for their furniture.
The land is burning; Percy stands on high;
And either they or we must lower lie.

[Exit.]

FAL.
Rare words! brave world!--Hostess, my breakfast; come:--
O, I could wish this tavern were my drum!

[Exit.]



ACT IV.

Scene I. The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.

[Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.]

HOT.
Well said, my noble Scot:  if speaking truth
In this fine age were not thought flattery,
Such attribution should the Douglas have,
As not a soldier of this season's stamp
Should go so general-current through the world.
By God, I cannot flatter; I defy
The tongues of soothers; but a braver place
In my heart's love hath no man than yourself:
Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.

DOUG.
Thou art the king of honour:
No man so potent breathes upon the ground
But I will beard him.

HOT.
Do so, and 'tis well.--

[Enter a Messenger with letters.]

What letters hast thou there?--I can but thank you.

MESS.
These letters come from your father.

HOT.
Letters from him! why comes he not himself?

MESS.
He cannot come, my lord; he's grievous sick.

HOT.
Zwounds! how has he the leisure to be sick
In such a justling time? Who leads his power?
Under whose government come they along?

MESS.
His letters bears his mind, not I, my lord.

WOR.
I pr'ythee, tell me, doth he keep his bed?

MESS.
He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth,
And at the time of my departure thence
He was much fear'd by his physicians.

WOR.
I would the state of time had first been whole
Ere he by sickness had been visited:
His health was never better worth than now.

HOT.
Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect
The very life-blood of our enterprise;
'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.

He writes me here, that inward sickness,--
And that his friends by deputation could not
So soon be drawn; no did he think it meet
To lay so dangerous and dear a trust
On any soul removed, but on his own.
Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,
That with our small conjunction we should on,
To see how fortune is disposed to us;
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,
Because the King is certainly possess'd
Of all our purposes. What say you to it?

WOR.
Your father's sickness is a maim to us.

HOT.
A perilous gash, a very limb lopp'd off:--
And yet, in faith, 'tis not; his present want
Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good
To set the exact wealth of all our states
All at one cast? to set so rich a main
On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?
It were not good; for therein should we read
The very bottom and the soul of hope,
The very list, the very utmost bound
Of all our fortunes.

DOUG.
Faith, and so we should;  
Where now remains a sweet reversion;
And we may boldly spend upon the hope 
Of what is to come in:
A comfort of retirement lives in this.

HOT.
A rendezvous, a home to fly unto,
If that the Devil and mischance look big
Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.

WOR.
But yet I would your father had been here.
The quality and hair of our attempt
Brooks no division:  it will be thought
By some, that know not why he is away,
That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike
Of our proceedings, kept the earl from hence:
And think how such an apprehension
May turn the tide of fearful faction,
And breed a kind of question in our cause;
For well you know we of the offering side
Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement,
And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence
The eye of reason may pry in upon us.
This absence of your father's draws a curtain,
That shows the ignorant a kind of fear
Before not dreamt of.

HOT.
Nay, you strain too far.
I, rather, of his absence make this use:
It lends a lustre and more great opinion,
A larger dare to our great enterprise,
Than if the earl were here; for men must think,
If we, without his help, can make a head
To push against the kingdom, with his help
We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down.
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.

DOUG.
As heart can think:  there is not such a word
Spoke in Scotland as this term of fear.

[Enter Sir Richard Vernon.]

HOT.
My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.

VER.
Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord.
The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,
Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John.

HOT.
No harm:  what more?

VER.
And further, I have learn'd
The King himself in person is set forth,
Or hitherwards intended speedily,
With strong and mighty preparation.

HOT.
He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,
The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales,
And his comrades, that daff the world aside,
And bid it pass?

VER.
All furnish'd, all in arms;
All plumed like estridges that with the wind
Bate it; like eagles having lately bathed;
Glittering in golden coats, like images;
As full of spirit as the month of May
And gorgeous as the Sun at midsummer;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
I saw young Harry--with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd--
Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury,
And vault it with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

HOT.
No more, no more:  worse than the Sun in March,
This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come;
They come like sacrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war,
All hot and bleeding, will we offer them:
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
And yet not ours.--Come, let me taste my horse,
Who is to bear me, like a thunderbolt,
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales:
Harry and Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
Meet, and ne'er part till one drop down a corse.--
O, that Glendower were come!

VER. 
There is more news:
I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,
He cannot draw his power this fourteen days.

DOUG.
That's the worst tidings that I hear of yet.

WOR.
Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.

HOT.
What may the King's whole battle reach unto?

VER.
To thirty thousand.

HOT.
Forty let it be:
My father and Glendower being both away,
The powers of us may serve so great a day.
Come, let us take a muster speedily:
Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.

DOUG.
Talk not of dying:  I am out of fear
Of death or death's hand for this one half-year.

[Exeunt.]



Scene II. A public Road near Coventry.

[Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.]

FAL.
Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of
sack:  our soldiers shall march through; we'll to Sutton-Co'fil' 
to-night.

BARD.
Will you give me money, captain?

FAL.
Lay out, lay out.

BARD.
This bottle makes an angel.

FAL.
An if it do, take it for thy labour; an if it make twenty,
take them all; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant
Peto meet me at the town's end.

BARD.
I will, captain:  farewell.

[Exit.]

FAL.
If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have 
misused the King's press damnably. I have got, in exchange of
a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I
press'd me none but good householders, yeomen's sons; inquired 
me out contracted bachelors, such as had been ask'd twice on the
banns; such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lief hear the
Devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than
a struck fowl or a hurt wild-duck. I press'd me none but such
toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bodies no bigger than
pins'-heads, and they have bought out their services; and now
my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants,
gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the
painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores; and
such as, indeed, were never soldiers, but discarded unjust
serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters,
and ostlers trade-fallen; the cankers of a calm world and a long
peace; ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old faced
ancient:  and such have I, to fill up the rooms of them that have
bought out their services, that you would think that I had a
hundred and fifty tattered Prodigals lately come from
swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on
the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets, and press'd
the dead bodies. 
No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through Coventry
with them, that's flat:  nay, and the villains march wide betwixt
the legs, as if they had gyves on; for, indeed, I had the most of
them out of prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all my company;
and the half-shirt is two napkins tack'd together and thrown over the
shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say
the truth, stolen from my host at Saint Alban's, or the red-nose
innkeeper of Daventry. 
But that's all one; they'll find linen enough on every hedge.

[Enter Prince Henry and Westmoreland.]

PRINCE.
How now, blown Jack! how now, quilt!

FAL.
What, Hal! how now, mad wag! what a devil dost thou in
Warwickshire?--My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy:
I thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury.

WEST.
Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and you too; 
but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for 
us all:  we must away all, to-night.

FAL.
Tut, never fear me:  I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.

PRINCE.
I think, to steal cream, indeed; for thy theft hath already made thee 
butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after?

FAL.
Mine, Hal, mine. 

PRINCE.
I did never see such pitiful rascals.

FAL.
Tut, tut; good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder; 
they'll fill a pit as well as better:  tush, man, mortal men,
mortal men.

WEST.
Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare,--too 
beggarly.

FAL.
Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that; and,
for their bareness, I am sure they never learn'd that of me.

PRINCE.
No, I'll be sworn; unless you call three fingers on the ribs
bare. But, sirrah, make haste:  Percy is already in the field.

[Exit.]

FAL.
What, is the King encamp'd?

WEST.
He is, Sir John:  I fear we shall stay too long.

[Exit.]

FAL.
Well,
To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast
Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.

[Exit.]



Scene III. The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.

[Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, and Vernon.]

HOT.
We'll fight with him to-night.

WOR.
It may not be.

DOUG.
You give him, then, advantage.

VER.
Not a whit.

HOT.
Why say you so? looks he not for supply?

VER.
So do we.

HOT.
His is certain, ours is doubtful.

WOR.
Good cousin, be advised; stir not to-night.

VER.
Do not, my lord.

DOUG.
You do not counsel well:
You speak it out of fear and cold heart.

VER.
Do me no slander, Douglas:  by my life,--
And I dare well maintain it with my life,--
If well-respected honour bid me on,
I hold as little counsel with weak fear
As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives:
Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle
Which of us fears.

DOUG.
Yea, or to-night.

VER.
Content.

HOT.
To-night, say I.

VER.
Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much,
Being men of such great leading as you are,
That you foresee not what impediments
Drag back our expedition:  certain Horse
Of my cousin Vernon's are not yet come up:
Your uncle Worcester's Horse came but to-day;
And now their pride and mettle is asleep,
Their courage with hard labour tame and dull,
That not a horse is half the half himself.

HOT.
So are the horses of the enemy
In general, journey-bated and brought low:
The better part of ours are full of rest.

WOR.
The number of the King exceedeth ours.
For God's sake, cousin, stay till all come in.

[The Trumpet sounds a parley.]

[Enter Sir Walter Blunt.]

BLUNT.
I come with gracious offers from the King,
If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.

HOT.
Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt; and would to God
You were of our determination!
Some of us love you well; and even those some
Envy your great deservings and good name,
Because you are not of our quality,
But stand against us like an enemy.

BLUNT.
And God defend but still I should stand so,
So long as out of limit and true rule
You stand against anointed majesty!
But to my charge:  the King hath sent to know
The nature of your griefs; and whereupon
You conjure from the breast of civil peace
Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land
Audacious cruelty. If that the King
Have any way your good deserts forgot,
Which he confesseth to be manifold,
He bids you name your griefs; and with all speed
You shall have your desires with interest,
And pardon absolute for yourself and these
Herein misled by your suggestion.

HOT.
The King is kind; and well we know the King
Knows at what time to promise, when to pay.
My father and my uncle and myself
Did give him that same royalty he wears;
And--when he was not six-and-twenty strong,
Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low,
A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home--
My father gave him welcome to the shore:
And--when he heard him swear and vow to God,
He came but to be Duke of Lancaster,
To sue his livery and beg his peace,
With tears of innocence and terms of zeal--
My father, in kind heart and pity moved,
Swore him assistance, and performed it too.
Now, when the lords and barons of the realm
Perceived Northumberland did lean to him,
The more and less came in with cap and knee;
Met him in boroughs, cities, villages,
Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes,
Laid gifts before him, proffer'd him their oaths,
Give him their heirs as pages, follow'd him
Even at the heels in golden multitudes.
He presently--as greatness knows itself--
Steps me a little higher than his vow
Made to my father, while his blood was poor,
Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurg;
And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform
Some certain edicts and some strait decrees
That lie too heavy on the commonwealth;
Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep
Over his country's wrongs; and, by this face,
This seeming brow of justice, did he win
The hearts of all that he did angle for:
Proceeded further; cut me off the heads
Of all the favourites, that the absent King
In deputation left behind him here
When he was personal in the Irish war.

BLUNT. 
Tut, I came not to hear this.

HOT.
Then to the point:
In short time after, he deposed the King;
Soon after that, deprived him of his life;
And, in the neck of that, task'd the whole State:
To make that worse, suffer'd his kinsman March
(Who is, if every owner were well placed,
Indeed his king) to be engaged in Wales,
There without ransom to lie forfeited;
Disgraced me in my happy victories,
Sought to entrap me by intelligence;
Rated my uncle from the Council-board;
In rage dismiss'd my father from the Court;
Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong;
And, in conclusion, drove us to seek out
This head of safety; and withal to pry
Into his title, the which now we find
Too indirect for long continuance.  


BLUNT.
Shall I return this answer to the King?

HOT.
Not so, Sir Walter:  we'll withdraw awhile.
Go to the King; and let there be impawn'd
Some surety for a safe return again,
And in the morning early shall my uncle
Bring him our purposes: and so, farewell.

BLUNT.
I would you would accept of grace and love.

HOT.
And may be so we shall.

BLUNT.
Pray God you do.

[Exeunt.]



Scene IV. York.  A Room in the Archbishop's Palace.

[Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael.]

ARCH.
Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief
With winged haste to the Lord Marshal;
This to my cousin Scroop; and all the rest
To whom they are directed. If you knew
How much they do import, you would make haste.

SIR M.
My good lord,
I guess their tenour.

ARCH.
Like enough you do.
To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day
Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men
Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury,
As I am truly given to understand,
The King, with mighty and quick-raised power,
Meets with Lord Harry:  and, I fear, Sir Michael,
What with the sickness of Northumberland,
Whose power was in the first proportion,
And what with Owen Glendower's absence thence,
Who with them was a rated sinew too,
And comes not in, o'er-rul'd by prophecies,--
I fear the power of Percy is too weak
To wage an instant trial with the King.

SIR M.
Why, my good lord, you need not fear;
There's Douglas and Lord Mortimer.

ARCH.
No, Mortimer's not there.

SIR M.
But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy,
And there's my Lord of Worcester; and a head
Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen.

ARCH.
And so there is:  but yet the King hath drawn
The special head of all the land together;
The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,
The noble Westmoreland, and warlike Blunt;
And many more corrivals and dear men
Of estimation and command in arms.

SIR M.
Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well opposed.

ARCH.
ROMEO AND JULIET

by William Shakespeare




PERSONS REPRESENTED

Escalus, Prince of Verona.
Paris, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.
Montague,}Heads of two Houses at variance with each other.
Capulet, }
An Old Man, Uncle to Capulet.
Romeo, Son to Montague.
Mercutio, Kinsman to the Prince, and Friend to Romeo.
Benvolio, Nephew to Montague, and Friend to Romeo.
Tybalt, Nephew to Lady Capulet.
Friar Lawrence, a Franciscan.
Friar John, of the same Order.
Balthasar, Servant to Romeo.
Sampson, Servant to Capulet.
Gregory, Servant to Capulet.
Peter, Servant to Juliet's Nurse.
Abraham, Servant to Montague.
An Apothecary.
Three Musicians.
Chorus.
Page to Paris; another Page.
An Officer.

Lady Montague, Wife to Montague.
Lady Capulet, Wife to Capulet.
Juliet, Daughter to Capulet.
Nurse to Juliet.

Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both
houses; Maskers, Guards, Watchmen, and Attendants.



SCENE.--During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in
the Fifth Act, at Mantua.

THE PROLOGUE

[Enter Chorus.]

Chor.
Two households, both alike in dignity,
  In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
  Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
  A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
  Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
  And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which but their children's end naught could remove,
  Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which, if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.


ACT I.

Scene I. A public place.

[Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.]

Sampson.
Gregory, o' my word, we'll not carry coals.

Gregory.
No, for then we should be colliers.

Sampson.
I mean, an we be in choler we'll draw.

Gregory.
Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o' the collar.

Sampson.
I strike quickly, being moved.

Gregory.
But thou art not quickly moved to strike.

Sampson.
A dog of the house of Montague moves me.

Gregory.
To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand:
therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away.

Sampson.
A dog of that house shall move me to stand:
I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's.

Gregory.
That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the
wall.

Sampson.
True; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels,
are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push Montague's men
from the wall and thrust his maids to the wall.

Gregory.
The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.

Sampson.
'Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant:
when I have fought with the men I will be cruel with the maids,
I will cut off their heads.

Gregory.
The heads of the maids?

Sampson.
Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads;
take it in what sense thou wilt.

Gregory.
They must take it in sense that feel it.

Sampson.
Me they shall feel while I am able to stand:
and 'tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.

Gregory.
'Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst,
thou hadst been poor-John.--Draw thy tool;
Here comes two of the house of Montagues.

Sampson.
My naked weapon is out: quarrel! I will back thee.

Gregory.
How! turn thy back and run?

Sampson.
Fear me not.

Gregory.
No, marry; I fear thee!

Sampson.
Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.

Gregory.
I will frown as I pass by; and let them take it as they
list.

Sampson.
Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is
disgrace to them if they bear it.

[Enter Abraham and Balthasar.]

Abraham.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sampson.
I do bite my thumb, sir.

Abraham.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sampson.
Is the law of our side if I say ay?

Gregory.
No.

Sampson.
No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my
thumb, sir.

Gregory.
Do you quarrel, sir?

Abraham.
Quarrel, sir! no, sir.

Sampson.
But if you do, sir, am for you: I serve as good a man as
you.

Abraham.
No better.

Sampson.
Well, sir.

Gregory.
Say better; here comes one of my master's kinsmen.

Sampson.
Yes, better, sir.

Abraham.
You lie.

Sampson.
Draw, if you be men.--Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.

[They fight.]

[Enter Benvolio.]

Benvolio.
Part, fools! put up your swords; you know not what you do.
[Beats down their swords.]

[Enter Tybalt.]

Tybalt.
What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.

Benvolio.
I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,
Or manage it to part these men with me.

Tybalt.
What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word
As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:
Have at thee, coward!

[They fight.]

[Enter several of both Houses, who join the fray; then enter
Citizens with clubs.]

1 Citizen.
Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down!
Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!

[Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.]

Capulet.
What noise is this?--Give me my long sword, ho!

Lady Capulet.
A crutch, a crutch!--Why call you for a sword?

Capulet.
My sword, I say!--Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

[Enter Montague and his Lady  Montague.]

Montague.
Thou villain Capulet!-- Hold me not, let me go.

Lady  Montague.
Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

[Enter Prince, with Attendants.]

Prince.
Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,--
Will they not hear?--What, ho! you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains issuing from your veins,--
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.--
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets;
And made Verona's ancient citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,
To wield old partisans, in hands as old,
Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate:
If ever you disturb our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time, all the rest depart away:--
You, Capulet, shall go along with me;--
And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our farther pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.--
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,
Citizens, and Servants.]

Montague.
Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?--
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

Benvolio.
Here were the servants of your adversary
And yours, close fighting ere I did approach:
I drew to part them: in the instant came
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar'd;
Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head, and cut the winds,
Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn:
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,
Till the prince came, who parted either part.

Lady Montague.
O, where is Romeo?--saw you him to-day?--
Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

Benvolio.
Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun
Peer'd forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;
Where,--underneath the grove of sycamore
That westward rooteth from the city's side,--
So early walking did I see your son:
Towards him I made; but he was ware of me,
And stole into the covert of the wood:
I, measuring his affections by my own,--
That most are busied when they're most alone,--
Pursu'd my humour, not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me.

Montague.
Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
Should in the farthest east begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora's bed,
Away from light steals home my heavy son,
And private in his chamber pens himself;
Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out
And makes himself an artificial night:
Black and portentous must this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

Benvolio.
My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

Montague.
I neither know it nor can learn of him.

Benvolio.
Have you importun'd him by any means?

Montague.
Both by myself and many other friends;
But he, his own affections' counsellor,
Is to himself,--I will not say how true,--
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure as know.

Benvolio.
See, where he comes: so please you step aside;
I'll know his grievance or be much denied.

Montague.
I would thou wert so happy by thy stay
To hear true shrift.--Come, madam, let's away,

[Exeunt Montague and Lady.]

[Enter Romeo.]

Benvolio.
Good morrow, cousin.

Romeo.
Is the day so young?

Benvolio.
But new struck nine.

Romeo.
Ay me! sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast?

Benvolio.
It was.--What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?

Romeo.
Not having that which, having, makes them short.

Benvolio.
In love?

Romeo.
Out,--

Benvolio.
Of love?

Romeo.
Out of her favour where I am in love.

Benvolio.
Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Romeo.
Alas that love, whose view is muffled still,
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!--
Where shall we dine?--O me!--What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love:--
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O anything, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!--
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?

Benvolio.
No, coz, I rather weep.

Romeo.
Good heart, at what?

Benvolio.
At thy good heart's oppression.

Romeo.
Why, such is love's transgression.--
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest
With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs;
Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears:
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.--
Farewell, my coz.

[Going.]

Benvolio.
Soft! I will go along:
An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Romeo.
Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here:
This is not Romeo, he's some other where.

Benvolio.
Tell me in sadness who is that you love?

Romeo.
What, shall I groan and tell thee?

Benvolio.
Groan!  why, no;
But sadly tell me who.

Romeo.
Bid a sick man in sadness make his will,--
Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill!--
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

Benvolio.
I aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd.

Romeo.
A right good markman!--And she's fair I love.

Benvolio.
A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

Romeo.
Well, in that hit you miss: she'll not be hit
With Cupid's arrow,--she hath Dian's wit;
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd,
From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms
Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:
O, she's rich in beauty; only poor
That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.

Benvolio.
Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?

Romeo.
She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;
For beauty, starv'd with her severity,
Cuts beauty off from all posterity.
She is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,
To merit bliss by making me despair:
She hath forsworn to love; and in that vow
Do I live dead that live to tell it now.

Benvolio.
Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her.

Romeo.
O, teach me how I should forget to think.

Benvolio.
By giving liberty unto thine eyes;
Examine other beauties.

Romeo.
'Tis the way
To call hers, exquisite, in question more:
These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows,
Being black, puts us in mind they hide the fair;
He that is strucken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:
Show me a mistress that is passing fair,
What doth her beauty serve but as a note
Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?
Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.

Benvolio.
I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

[Exeunt.]



Scene II. A Street.

[Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.]

Capulet.
But Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think,
For men so old as we to keep the peace.

Paris.
Of honourable reckoning are you both;
And pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so long.
But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

Capulet.
But saying o'er what I have said before:
My child is yet a stranger in the world,
She hath not seen the change of fourteen years;
Let two more summers wither in their pride
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

Paris.
Younger than she are happy mothers made.

Capulet.
And too soon marr'd are those so early made.
The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,--
She is the hopeful lady of my earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,
My will to her consent is but a part;
An she agree, within her scope of choice
Lies my consent and fair according voice.
This night I hold an old accustom'd feast,
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love; and you among the store,
One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
At my poor house look to behold this night
Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel
When well apparell'd April on the heel
Of limping winter treads, even such delight
Among fresh female buds shall you this night
Inherit at my house; hear all, all see,
And like her most whose merit most shall be:
Which, among view of many, mine, being one,
May stand in number, though in reckoning none.
Come, go with me.--Go, sirrah, trudge about
Through fair Verona; find those persons out
Whose names are written there, [gives a paper] and to them say,
My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.

[Exeunt Capulet and Paris].

Servant.Find them out whose names are written here!
It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with
his yard and the tailor with his last, the fisher with
his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am
sent to find those persons whose names are here writ,
and can never find what names the writing person
hath here writ. I must to the learned:--in good time!

[Enter Benvolio and Romeo.]

Benvolio.
Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning,
  One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;
  One desperate grief cures with another's languish:
Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.

Romeo.
Your plantain-leaf is excellent for that.

Benvolio.
For what, I pray thee?

Romeo.
For your broken shin.

Benvolio.
Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Romeo.
Not mad, but bound more than a madman is;
Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
Whipp'd and tormented and--God-den, good fellow.

Servant.
God gi' go-den.--I pray, sir, can you read?

Romeo.
Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Servant.
Perhaps you have learned it without book:
but I pray, can you read anything you see?

Romeo.
Ay, If I know the letters and the language.

Servant.
Ye say honestly: rest you merry!

Romeo.
Stay, fellow; I can read.  [Reads.]
'Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;
County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; the
lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio and
his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother
Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and
daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior
Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the
lively Helena.'
A fair assembly. [Gives back the paper]: whither should they
come?

Servant.
Up.

Romeo.
Whither?

Servant.
To supper; to our house.

Romeo.
Whose house?

Servant.
My master's.

Romeo.
Indeed I should have ask'd you that before.

Servant.
Now I'll tell you without asking: my master is the great
rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues,
I pray, come and crush a cup of wine.  Rest you merry!

[Exit.]

Benvolio.
At this same ancient feast of Capulet's
Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov'st;
With all the admired beauties of Verona.
Go thither; and, with unattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

Romeo.
When the devout religion of mine eye
  Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires;
And these,--who, often drown'd, could never die,--
  Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars!
One fairer than my love? the all-seeing sun
Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.

Benvolio.
Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by,
Herself pois'd with herself in either eye:
But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd
Your lady's love against some other maid
That I will show you shining at this feast,
And she shall scant show well that now shows best.

Romeo.
I'll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of my own.

[Exeunt.]



Scene III. Room in Capulet's House.

[Enter Lady Capulet, and Nurse.]

Lady Capulet.
Nurse, where's my daughter?  call her forth to me.

Nurse.
Now, by my maidenhea,--at twelve year old,--
I bade her come.--What, lamb! what ladybird!--
God forbid!--where's this girl?--what, Juliet!

[Enter Juliet.]

Juliet.
How now, who calls?

Nurse.
Your mother.

Juliet.
Madam, I am here.  What is your will?

Lady Capulet.
This is the matter,--Nurse, give leave awhile,
We must talk in secret: nurse, come back again;
I have remember'd me, thou's hear our counsel.
Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age.

Nurse.
Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

Lady Capulet.
She's not fourteen.

Nurse.
I'll lay fourteen of my teeth,--
And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,--
She is not fourteen. How long is it now
To Lammas-tide?

Lady Capulet.
A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse.
Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.
Susan and she,--God rest all Christian souls!--
Were of an age: well, Susan is with God;
She was too good for me:--but, as I said,
On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;
That shall she, marry; I remember it well.
'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;
And she was wean'd,--I never shall forget it--,
Of all the days of the year, upon that day:
For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall;
My lord and you were then at Mantua:
Nay, I do bear a brain:--but, as I said,
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,
To see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!
Shake, quoth the dove-house: 'twas no need, I trow,
To bid me trudge.
And since that time it is eleven years;
For then she could stand alone; nay, by the rood
She could have run and waddled all about;
For even the day before, she broke her brow:
And then my husband,--God be with his soul!
'A was a merry man,--took up the child:
'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;
Wilt thou not, Jule?' and, by my holidame,
The pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay:'
To see now how a jest shall come about!
I warrant, an I should live a thousand yeas,
I never should forget it; 'Wilt thou not, Jule?' quoth he;
And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said 'Ay.'

Lady Capulet.
Enough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.

Nurse.
Yes, madam;--yet I cannot choose but laugh,
To think it should leave crying, and say 'Ay:'
And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow
A bump as big as a young cockerel's stone;
A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly.
'Yea,' quoth my husband, 'fall'st upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou com'st to age;
Wilt thou not, Jule?' it stinted, and said 'Ay.'

Juliet.
And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.

Nurse.
Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd:
An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

Lady Capulet.
Marry, that marry is the very theme
I came to talk of.--Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?

Juliet.
It is an honour that I dream not of.

Nurse.
An honour!--were not I thine only nurse,
I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.

Lady Capulet.
Well, think of marriage now: younger than you,
Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,
Are made already mothers: by my count
I was your mother much upon these years
That you are now a maid.  Thus, then, in brief;--
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

Nurse.
A man, young lady! lady, such a man
As all the world--why he's a man of wax.

Lady Capulet.
Verona's summer hath not such a flower.

Nurse.
Nay, he's a flower, in faith, a very flower.

Lady Capulet.
What say you? can you love the gentleman?
This night you shall behold him at our feast;
Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face,
And find delight writ there with beauty's pen;
Examine every married lineament,
And see how one another lends content;
And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies
Find written in the margent of his eyes.
This precious book of love, this unbound lover,
To beautify him, only lacks a cover:
The fish lives in the sea; and 'tis much pride
For fair without the fair within to hide:
That book in many's eyes doth share the glory,
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story;
So shall you share all that he doth possess,
By having him, making yourself no less.

Nurse.
No less! nay, bigger; women grow by men

Lady Capulet.
Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?

Juliet.
I'll look to like, if looking liking move:
But no more deep will I endart mine eye
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

[Enter a Servant.]

Servant.
Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you
called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed
in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must
hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.

Lady Capulet.
We follow thee. [Exit Servant.]--
Juliet, the county stays.

Nurse.
Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

[Exeunt.]



Scene IV. A Street.

[Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers;
Torch-bearers, and others.]

Romeo.
What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?
Or shall we on without apology?

Benvolio.
The date is out of such prolixity:
We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf,
Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;
Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our entrance:
But, let them measure us by what they will,
We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.

Romeo.
Give me a torch,--I am not for this ambling;
Being but heavy, I will bear the light.

Mercutio.
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

Romeo.
Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes,
With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

Mercutio.
You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.

Romeo.
I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
To soar with his light feathers; and so bound,
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.

Mercutio.
And, to sink in it, should you burden love;
Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Romeo.
Is love a tender thing?  it is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.

Mercutio.
If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.--
Give me a case to put my visage in: [Putting on a mask.]
A visard for a visard!  what care I
What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.

Benvolio.
Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in
But every man betake him to his legs.

Romeo.
A torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels;
For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase,--
I'll be a candle-holder and look on,--
The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done.

Mercutio.
Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own word:
If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire
Of this--sir-reverence--love, wherein thou stick'st
Up to the ears.--Come, we burn daylight, ho.

Romeo.
Nay, that's not so.

Mercutio.
I mean, sir, in delay
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits
Five times in that ere once in our five wits.

Romeo.
And we mean well, in going to this mask;
But 'tis no wit to go.

Mercutio.
Why, may one ask?

Romeo.
I dreamt a dream to-night.

Mercutio.
And so did I.

Romeo.
Well, what was yours?

Mercutio.
That dreamers often lie.

Romeo.
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

Mercutio.
O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep:
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid:
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight;
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,--
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice:
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night;
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them, and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she,--

Romeo.
Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace,
Thou talk'st of nothing.

Mercutio.
True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

Benvolio.
This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves:
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

Romeo.
I fear, too early: for my mind misgives
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels; and expire the term
Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast,
By some vile forfeit of untimely death:
But He that hath the steerage of my course
Direct my sail!--On, lusty gentlemen!

Benvolio.
Strike, drum.

[Exeunt.]



Scene V. A Hall in Capulet's House.

[Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.]

1 Servant.
Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away?
he shift a trencher!  he scrape a trencher!

2 Servant.
When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's
hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing.

1 Servant.
Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look
to the plate:--good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as
thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell.--
Antony! and Potpan!

2 Servant.
Ay, boy, ready.

1 Servant.
You are looked for and called for, asked for
and sought for in the great chamber.

2 Servant.
We cannot be here and there too.--Cheerly, boys;
be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all.

[They retire behind.]

[Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests the Maskers.]

Capulet.
Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes
Unplagu'd with corns will have a bout with you.--
Ah ha, my mistresses!  which of you all
Will now deny to dance?  she that makes dainty, she,
I'll swear hath corns; am I come near you now?
Welcome, gentlemen!  I have seen the day
That I have worn a visard; and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please;--'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone:
You are welcome, gentlemen!--Come, musicians, play.
A hall--a hall! give room! and foot it, girls.--
[Music plays, and they dance.]
More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.--
Ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well.
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet;
For you and I are past our dancing days;
How long is't now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?

2 Capulet.
By'r Lady, thirty years.

Capulet.
What, man! 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much:
'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five-and-twenty years; and then we mask'd.

2 Capulet.
'Tis more, 'tis more: his son is elder, sir;
His son is thirty.

Capulet.
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.

Romeo.
What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?

Servant.
I know not, sir.

Romeo.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now?  forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Tybalt.
This, by his voice, should be a Montague.--
Fetch me my rapier, boy:--what, dares the slave
Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

Capulet.
Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so?

Tybalt.
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;
A villain, that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.

Capulet.
Young Romeo, is it?

Tybalt.
'Tis he, that villain, Romeo.

Capulet.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone,
He bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth:
I would not for the wealth of all the town
Here in my house do him disparagement:
Therefore be patient, take no note of him,--
It is my will; the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

Tybalt.
It fits, when such a villain is a guest:
I'll not endure him.

Capulet.
He shall be endur'd:
What, goodman boy!--I say he shall;--go to;
Am I the master here, or you?  go to.
You'll not endure him!--God shall mend my soul,
You'll make a mutiny among my guests!
You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man!

Tybalt.
Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.

Capulet.
Go to, go to!
You are a saucy boy. Is't so, indeed?--
This trick may chance to scathe you,--I know what:
You must contrary me!  marry, 'tis time.--
Well said, my hearts!--You are a princox; go:
Be quiet, or--More light, more light!--For shame!
I'll make you quiet. What!--cheerly, my hearts.

Tybalt.
Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.

[Exit.]

Romeo.
[To Juliet.] If I profane with my unworthiest hand
  This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this,--
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
  To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Juliet.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
  Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
  And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

Romeo.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Juliet.
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

Romeo.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

Juliet.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.

Romeo.
Then move not while my prayer's effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd.
[Kissing her.]

Juliet.
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Romeo.
Sin from my lips?  O trespass sweetly urg'd!
Give me my sin again.

Juliet.
You kiss by the book.

Nurse.
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.

Romeo.
What is her mother?

Nurse.
Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the lady of the house.
And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous:
I nurs'd her daughter that you talk'd withal;
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her
Shall have the chinks.

Romeo.
Is she a Capulet?
O dear account! my life is my foe's debt.

Benvolio.
Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.

Romeo.
Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.

Capulet.
Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.--
Is it e'en so?  why then, I thank you all;
I thank you, honest gentlemen; good-night.--
More torches here!--Come on then, let's to bed.
Ah, sirrah [to 2 Capulet], by my fay, it waxes late;
I'll to my rest.

[Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse.]

Juliet.
Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?

Nurse.
The son and heir of old Tiberio.

Juliet.
What's he that now is going out of door?

Nurse.
Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.

Juliet.
What's he that follows there, that would not dance?

Nurse.
I know not.

Juliet.
Go ask his name: if he be married,
My grave is like to be my wedding-bed.

Nurse.
His name is Romeo, and a Montague;
The only son of your great enemy.

Juliet.
My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy.

Nurse.
What's this? What's this?

Juliet.
A rhyme I learn'd even now
Of one I danc'd withal.

[One calls within, 'Juliet.']

Nurse.
Anon, anon!
Come, let's away; the strangers all are gone.

[Exeunt.]



[Enter Chorus.]

Chorus.
Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie,
  And young affection gapes to be his heir;
That fair for which love groan'd for, and would die,
  With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.
Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again,
  Alike bewitched by the charm of looks;
But to his foe suppos'd he must complain,
  And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks:
Being held a foe, he may not have access
  To breathe such vows as lovers us'd to swear;
And she as much in love, her means much less
  To meet her new beloved anywhere:
But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,
  Tempering extremities with extreme sweet.

[Exit.]



ACT II.

Scene I. An open place adjoining Capulet's Garden.

[Enter Romeo.]

Romeo.
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.

[He climbs the wall and leaps down within it.]

[Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.]

Benvolio.
Romeo! my cousin Romeo!

Mercutio.
He is wise;
And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed.

Benvolio.
He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall:
Call, good Mercutio.

Mercutio.
Nay, I'll conjure too.--
Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh:
Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;
Cry but 'Ah me!' pronounce but Love and dove;
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nickname for her purblind son and heir,
Young auburn Cupid, he that shot so trim
When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar-maid!--
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.--
I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes,
By her high forehead and her scarlet lip,
By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,
And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,
That in thy likeness thou appear to us!

Benvolio.
An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

Mercutio.
This cannot anger him: 'twould anger him
To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle,
Of some strange nature, letting it there stand
Till she had laid it, and conjur'd it down;
That were some spite: my invocation
Is fair and honest, and, in his mistress' name,
I conjure only but to raise up him.

Benvolio.
Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,
To be consorted with the humorous night:
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.

Mercutio.
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.
Now will he sit under a medlar tree,
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit
As maids call medlars when they laugh alone.--
Romeo, good night.--I'll to my truckle-bed;
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep:
Come, shall we go?

Benvolio.
Go then; for 'tis in vain
To seek him here that means not to be found.

[Exeunt.]



Scene II. Capulet's Garden.

[Enter Romeo.]

Romeo.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.--
[Juliet appears above at a window.]
But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!--
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.--
It is my lady; O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!--
She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses, I will answer it.--
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.--
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

Juliet.
Ah me!

Romeo.
She speaks:--
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Juliet.
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

Romeo.
[Aside.] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Juliet.
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;--
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title:--Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

Romeo.
I take thee at thy word:
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Juliet.
What man art thou that, thus bescreen'd in night,
So stumblest on my counsel?

Romeo.
By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee.
Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Juliet.
My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound;
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Romeo.
Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.

Juliet.
How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb;
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

Romeo.
With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out:
And what love can do, that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.

Juliet.
If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

Romeo.
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.

Juliet.
I would not for the world they saw thee here.

Romeo.
I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight;
And, but thou love me, let them find me here.
My life were better ended by their hate
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

Juliet.
By whose direction found'st thou out this place?

Romeo.
By love, that first did prompt me to enquire;
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash'd with the furthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.

Juliet.
Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face;
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form,fain, fain deny
What I have spoke; but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say Ay;
And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries,
They say Jove laughs.  O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo: but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou mayst think my 'haviour light:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was 'ware,
My true-love passion: therefore pardon me;
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Romeo.
Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,--

Juliet.
O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

Romeo.
What shall I swear by?

Juliet.
Do not swear at all;
Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I'll believe thee.

Romeo.
If my heart's dear love,--

Juliet.
Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night;
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say It lightens.  Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night!  as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!

Romeo.
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

Juliet.
What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

Romeo.
The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.

Juliet.
I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;
And yet I would it were to give again.

Romeo.
Would'st thou withdraw it?  for what purpose, love?

Juliet.
But to be frank and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have;
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep;  the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
I hear some noise within: dear love, adieu!--
[Nurse calls within.]
Anon, good nurse!--Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.

[Exit.]

Romeo.
O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

[Enter Juliet above.]

Juliet.
Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.

Nurse.
[Within.] Madam!

Juliet.
I come anon.-- But if thou meanest not well,
I do beseech thee,--

Nurse.
[Within.] Madam!

Juliet.
By-and-by I come:--
To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief:
To-morrow will I send.

Romeo.
So thrive my soul,--

Juliet.
A thousand times good night!

[Exit.]

Romeo.
A thousand times the worse, to want thy light!--
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books;
But love from love, towards school with heavy looks.

[Retirong slowly.]

[Re-enter Juliet, above.]

Juliet.
Hist! Romeo, hist!--O for a falconer's voice
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo's name.

Romeo.
It is my soul that calls upon my name:
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!

Juliet.
Romeo!

Romeo.
My dear?

Juliet.
At what o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?

Romeo.
At the hour of nine.

Juliet.
I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Romeo.
Let me stand here till thou remember it.

Juliet.
I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Remembering how I love thy company.

Romeo.
And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Juliet.
'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:
And yet no farther than a wanton's bird;
That lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Romeo.
I would I were thy bird.

Juliet.
Sweet, so would I:
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night!  parting is such sweet sorrow
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

[Exit.]

Romeo.
Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!--
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell,
His help to crave and my dear hap to tell.

[Exit.]



Scene III. Friar Lawrence's Cell.

[Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket.]

Friar.
The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,
Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels:
Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye,
The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.
The earth, that's nature's mother, is her tomb;
What is her burying gave, that is her womb:
And from her womb children of divers kind
We sucking on her natural bosom find;
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for some, and yet all different.
O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities:
For naught so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give;
Nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use,
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;
And vice sometimes by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence, and medicine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed kings encamp them still
In man as well as herbs,--grace and rude will;
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

[Enter Romeo.]

Romeo.
Good morrow, father!

Friar.
Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?--
Young son, it argues a distemper'd head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodges sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art uprous'd with some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,--
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.

Romeo.
That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.

Friar.
God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?

Romeo.
With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.

Friar.
That's my good son: but where hast thou been then?

Romeo.
I'll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy;
Where, on a sudden, one hath wounded me
That's by me wounded. Both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies;
I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Friar.
Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Romeo.
Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combin'd, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage: when, and where, and how
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us to-day.

Friar.
Holy Saint Francis! what a change is here!
Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young men's love, then, lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine
Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth not taste!
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears;
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet:
If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline;
And art thou chang'd? Pronounce this sentence then,--
Women may fall, when there's no strength in men.

Romeo.
Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline.

Friar.
For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

Romeo.
And bad'st me bury love.

Friar.
Not in a grave
To lay one in, another out to have.

Romeo.
I pray thee chide not: she whom I love now
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow;
The other did not so.

Friar.
O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come go with me,
In one respect I'll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households' rancour to pure love.

Romeo.
O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.

Friar.
Wisely, and slow; they stumble that run fast.

[Exeunt.]



Scene IV. A Street.

[Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.]

Mercutio.
Where the devil should this Romeo be?--
Came he not home to-night?

Benvolio.
Not to his father's; I spoke with his man.

Mercutio.
Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so that he will sure run mad.

Benvolio.
Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet,
Hath sent a letter to his father's house.

Mercutio.
A challenge, on my life.

Benvolio.
Romeo will answer it.

Mercutio.
Any man that can write may answer a letter.

Benvolio.
Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he
dares, being dared.

Mercutio.
Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabbed with a white
wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the
very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft:
and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

Benvolio.
Why, what is Tybalt?

Mercutio.
More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he's the
courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing
prick-song--keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his
minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very
butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of
the very first house,--of the first and second cause: ah, the
immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay.--

Benvolio.
The what?

Mercutio.
The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes; these
new tuners of accents!--'By Jesu, a very good blade!--a very tall
man!--a very good whore!'--Why, is not this a lamentable thing,
grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange
flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-moi's, who stand so
much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old
bench? O, their bons, their bons!

Benvolio.
Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo!

Mercutio.
Without his roe, like a dried herring.--O flesh, flesh, how art
thou fishified!--Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed
in: Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench,--marry, she had
a better love to be-rhyme her; Dido, a dowdy; Cleopatra, a gypsy;
Helen and Hero, hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a gray eye or so,
but not to the purpose,--

[Enter Romeo.]

Signior Romeo, bon jour!  there's a French salutation to your
French slop.  You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

Romeo.
Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?

Mercutio.
The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?

Romeo.
Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in such a
case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

Mercutio.
That's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a
man to bow in the hams.

Romeo.
Meaning, to court'sy.

Mercutio.
Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Romeo.
A most courteous exposition.

Mercutio.
Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

Romeo.
Pink for flower.

Mercutio.
Right.

Romeo.
Why, then is my pump well-flowered.

Mercutio.
Well said: follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out
thy pump;that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may
remain, after the wearing, sole singular.

Romeo.
O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!

Mercutio.
Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.

Romeo.
Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I'll cry a match.

Mercutio.
Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done; for
thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am
sure, I have in my whole five: was I with you there for the
goose?

Romeo.
Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not
there for the goose.

Mercutio.
I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.

Romeo.
Nay, good goose, bite not.

Mercutio.
Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp
sauce.

Romeo.
And is it not, then, well served in to a sweet goose?

Mercutio.
O, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch
narrow to an ell broad!

Romeo.
I stretch it out for that word broad: which added to the
goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.

Mercutio.
Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art
thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; not art thou what thou art, by
art as well as by nature: for this drivelling love is like a
great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble
in a hole.

Benvolio.
Stop there, stop there.

Mercutio.
Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.

Benvolio.
Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.

Mercutio.
O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short: for I was
come to the whole depth of my tale; and meant indeed to occupy
the argument no longer.

Romeo.
Here's goodly gear!

[Enter Nurse and Peter.]

Mercutio.
A sail, a sail, a sail!

Benvolio.
Two, two; a shirt and a smock.

Nurse.
Peter!

Peter.
Anon.

Nurse.
My fan, Peter.

Mercutio.
Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face.

Nurse.
God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

Mercutio.
God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.

Nurse.
Is it good-den?

Mercutio.
'Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is
now upon the prick of noon.

Nurse.
Out upon you! what a man are you!

Romeo.
One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.

Nurse.
By my troth, it is well said;--for himself to mar, quoth
'a?--Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young
Romeo?

Romeo.
I can tell you: but young Romeo will be older when you have
found him than he was when you sought him: I am the youngest of
that name, for fault of a worse.

Nurse.
You say well.

Mercutio.
Yea, is the worst well? very well took, i' faith; wisely,
wisely.

Nurse.
If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.

Benvolio.
She will indite him to some supper.

Mercutio.
A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!

Romeo.
What hast thou found?

Mercutio.
No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is
something stale and hoar ere it be spent.
[Sings.]
    An old hare hoar,
    And an old hare hoar,
  Is very good meat in Lent;
    But a hare that is hoar
    Is too much for a score
  When it hoars ere it be spent.

Romeo, will you come to your father's? we'll to dinner thither.

Romeo.
I will follow you.

Mercutio.
Farewell, ancient lady; farewell,--
[singing] lady, lady, lady.

[Exeunt Mercutio, and Benvolio.]

Nurse.
Marry, farewell!--I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was
this that was so full of his ropery?

Romeo.
A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk; and
will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.

Nurse.
An 'a speak anything against me, I'll take him down, an'a
were lustier than he is, and twenty such Jacks; and if I cannot,
I'll find those that shall.  Scurvy knave!  I am none of his
flirt-gills; I am none of his skains-mates.--And thou must stand
by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure!

Peter.  I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon
should quickly have been out, I warrant you: I dare draw as soon
as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law
on my side.

Nurse.
Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me
quivers. Scurvy knave!--Pray you, sir, a word: and, as I told
you, my young lady bid me enquire you out; what she bade me say I
will keep to myself: but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead
her into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross
kind of behaviour, as they say: for the gentlewoman is young;
and, therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were
an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak
dealing.

Romeo.
Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto
thee,--

Nurse.
Good heart, and i' faith I will tell her as much: Lord,
Lord, she will be a joyful woman.

Romeo.
What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me.

Nurse.
I will tell her, sir,--that you do protest: which, as I
take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.

Romeo.
Bid her devise some means to come to shrift
This afternoon;
And there she shall at Friar Lawrence' cell
Be shriv'd and married. Here is for thy pains.

Nurse.
No, truly, sir; not a penny.

Romeo.
Go to; I say you shall.

Nurse.
This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be there.

Romeo.
And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey-wall:
Within this hour my man shall be with thee,
And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair;
Which to the high top-gallant of my joy
Must be my convoy in the secret night.
Farewell; be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains:
Farewell; commend me to thy mistress.

Nurse.
Now God in heaven bless thee!--Hark you, sir.

Romeo.
What say'st thou, my dear nurse?

Nurse.
Is your man secret?  Did you ne'er hear say,
Two may keep counsel, putting one away?

Romeo.
I warrant thee, my man's as true as steel.

Nurse.
Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady.--Lord, Lord!
when 'twas a little prating thing,--O, there's a nobleman in
town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good
soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him.  I anger
her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but
I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout
in the versal world.  Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with
a letter?

Romeo.
Ay, nurse; what of that? both with an R.

Nurse.
Ah, mocker! that's the dog's name. R is for the dog: no; I
know it begins with some other letter:--and she hath the
prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would
do you good to hear it.

Romeo.
Commend me to thy lady.

Nurse.
Ay, a thousand times. [Exit Romeo.]--Peter!

Peter.
Anon?

Nurse.
Peter, take my fan, and go before.

[Exeunt.]



Scene V. Capulet's Garden.

[Enter Juliet.]

Juliet.
The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;
In half an hour she promis'd to return.
Perchance she cannot meet him: that's not so.--
O, she is lame!  love's heralds should be thoughts,
Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams,
Driving back shadows over lowering hills:
Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love,
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
Now is the sun upon the highmost hill
Of this day's journey; and from nine till twelve
Is three long hours,--yet she is not come.
Had she affections and warm youthful blood,
She'd be as swift in motion as a ball;
My words would bandy her to my sweet love,
And his to me:
But old folks, many feign as they were dead;
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.--
O God, she comes!
[Enter Nurse and Peter].
O honey nurse, what news?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.

Nurse.
Peter, stay at the gate.

[Exit Peter.]

Juliet.
Now, good sweet nurse,--O Lord, why look'st thou sad?
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;
If good, thou sham'st the music of sweet news
By playing it to me with so sour a face.

Nurse.
I am aweary, give me leave awhile;--
Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunt have I had!

Juliet.
I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news:
Nay, come, I pray thee speak;--good, good nurse, speak.

Nurse.
Jesu, what haste? can you not stay awhile?
Do you not see that I am out of breath?

Juliet.
How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath
To say to me that thou art out of breath?
The excuse that thou dost make in this delay
Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.
Is thy news good or bad? answer to that;
Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance:
Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad?

Nurse.
Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to
choose a man: Romeo! no, not he; rhough his face be better than
any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand and a
foot, and a body,--though they be not to be talked on, yet they
are past compare: he is not the flower of courtesy,--but I'll
warrant him as gentle as a lamb.--Go thy ways, wench; serve God.-
-What, have you dined at home?

Juliet.
No, no: but all this did I know before.
What says he of our marriage? what of that?

Nurse.
Lord, how my head aches! what a head have I!
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
My back o' t' other side,--O, my back, my back!--
Beshrew your heart for sending me about
To catch my death with jauncing up and down!

Juliet.
I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.
Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?

Nurse.
Your love says, like an honest gentleman,
And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome;
And, I warrant, a virtuous,--Where is your mother?

Juliet.
Where is my mother?--why, she is within;
Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest!
'Your love says, like an honest gentleman,--
'Where is your mother?'

Nurse.
O God's lady dear!
Are you so hot? marry,come up, I trow;
Is this the poultice for my aching bones?
Henceforward,do your messages yourself.

Juliet.
Here's such a coil!--come, what says Romeo?

Nurse.
Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?

Juliet.
I have.

Nurse.
Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence' cell;
There stays a husband to make you a wife:
Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,
They'll be in scarlet straight at any news.
Hie you to church; I must another way,
To fetch a ladder, by the which your love
Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark:
I am the drudge, and toil in your delight;
But you shall bear the burden soon at night.
Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell.

Juliet.
Hie to high fortune!--honest nurse, farewell.

[Exeunt.]



Scene VI. Friar Lawrence's Cell.

[Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.]

Friar.
So smile the heavens upon this holy act
That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!

Romeo.
Amen, amen!  but come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight:
Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
Then love-devouring death do what he dare,--
It is enough I may but call her mine.

Friar.
These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die; like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume: the sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness,
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love moderately: long love doth so;
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Here comes the lady:--O, so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint:
A lover may bestride the gossamer
That idles in the wanton summer air
And yet not fall; so light is vanity.

[Enter Juliet.]

Juliet.
Good-even to my ghostly confessor.

Friar.
Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.

Juliet.
As much to him, else is his thanks too much.

Romeo.
Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue
Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.

Juliet.
Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of his substance, not of ornament:
They are but beggars that can count their worth;
But my true love is grown to such excess,
I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.

Friar.
Come, come with me, and we will make short work;
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone
Till holy church incorporate two in one.

[Exeunt.]



ACT III.

Scene I. A public Place.

[Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page, and Servants.]

Benvolio.
I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl;
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.

Mercutio.
Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the
confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says
'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second
cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.

Benvolio.
Am I like such a fellow?

Mercutio.
Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in
Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be
moved.

Benvolio.
And what to?

Mercutio.
Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for
one would kill the other.  Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a
man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou
hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no
other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes;--what eye but such
an eye would spy out such a quarrel?  Thy head is as full of
quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been
beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling.  Thou hast quarrelled
with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened
thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun.  Didst thou not fall
out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with
another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? and yet thou
wilt tutor me from quarrelling!

Benvolio.
An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy
the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.

Mercutio.
The fee simple! O simple!

Benvolio.
By my head, here come the Capulets.

Mercutio.
By my heel, I care not.

[Enter Tybalt and others.]

Tybalt.
Follow me close, for I will speak to them.--Gentlemen, good-den:
a word with one of you.

Mercutio.
And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make
it a word and a blow.

Tybalt.
You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give
me occasion.

Mercutio.
Could you not take some occasion without giving?

Tybalt.
Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo,--

Mercutio.
Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels?  An thou make
minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords: here's my
fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!

Benvolio.
We talk here in the public haunt of men:
Either withdraw unto some private place,
And reason coldly of your grievances,
Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.

Mercutio.
Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;
I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I.

Tybalt.
Well, peace be with you, sir.--Here comes my man.

[Enter Romeo.]

Mercutio.
But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery:
Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower;
Your worship in that sense may call him man.

Tybalt.
Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford
No better term than this,--Thou art a villain.

Romeo.
Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee
Doth much excuse the appertaining rage
To such a greeting.  Villain am I none;
Therefore farewell; I see thou know'st me not.

Tybalt.
Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.

Romeo.
I do protest I never injur'd thee;
But love thee better than thou canst devise
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love:
And so good Capulet,--which name I tender
As dearly as mine own,--be satisfied.

Mercutio.
O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
Alla stoccata carries it away.  [Draws.]
Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?

Tybalt.
What wouldst thou have with me?

Mercutio.
Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I
mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter,
dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of
his pitcher by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your ears
ere it be out.

Tybalt.
I am for you.  [Drawing.]

Romeo.
Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.

Mercutio.
Come, sir, your passado.

[They fight.]

Romeo.
Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.--
Gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage!--
Tybalt,--Mercutio,--the prince expressly hath
Forbid this bandying in Verona streets.--
Hold, Tybalt!--good Mercutio!--
[Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans.]

Mercutio.
I am hurt;--
A plague o' both your houses!--I am sped.--
Is he gone, and hath nothing?

Benvolio.
What, art thou hurt?

Mercutio.
Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, 'tis enough.--
Where is my page?--go, villain, fetch a surgeon.

[Exit Page.]

Romeo.
Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.

Mercutio.
No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door;
but 'tis enough, 'twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you
shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this
world.--A plague o' both your houses!--Zounds, a dog, a rat, a
mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a
villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic!--Why the devil
came you between us?  I was hurt under your arm.

Romeo.
I thought all for the best.

Mercutio.
Help me into some house, Benvolio,
Or I shall faint.--A plague o' both your houses!
They have made worms' meat of me:
I have it, and soundly too.--Your houses!

[Exit Mercutio and Benvolio.]

Romeo.
This gentleman, the prince's near ally,
My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt
In my behalf; my reputation stain'd
With Tybalt's slander,--Tybalt, that an hour
Hath been my kinsman.--O sweet Juliet,
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate
And in my temper soften'd valour's steel.

[Re-enter Benvolio.]

Benvolio.
O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead!
That gallant spirit hath aspir'd the clouds,
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.

Romeo.
This day's black fate on more days doth depend;
This but begins the woe others must end.

Benvolio.
Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.

Romeo.
Alive in triumph! and Mercutio slain!
Away to heaven respective lenity,
And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now!--

[Re-enter Tybalt.]

Now, Tybalt, take the 'villain' back again
That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's soul
Is but a little way above our heads,
Staying for thine to keep him company.
Either thou or I, or both, must go with him.

Tybalt.
Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here,
Shalt with him hence.

Romeo.
This shall determine that.

[They fight; Tybalt falls.]

Benvolio.
Romeo, away, be gone!
The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.--
Stand not amaz'd.  The prince will doom thee death
If thou art taken.  Hence, be gone, away!

Romeo.
O, I am fortune's fool!

Benvolio.
Why dost thou stay?

[Exit Romeo.]

[Enter Citizens, &c.]

1 Citizen.
Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio?
Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?

Benvolio.
There lies that Tybalt.

1 Citizen.
Up, sir, go with me;
I charge thee in the prince's name obey.

[Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives,
and others.]

Prince.
Where are the vile beginners of this fray?

Benvolio.
O noble prince. I can discover all
The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl:
There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,
That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.

Lady Capulet.
Tybalt, my cousin!  O my brother's child!--
O prince!--O husband!--O, the blood is spill'd
Of my dear kinsman!--Prince, as thou art true,
For blood of ours shed blood of Montague.--
O cousin, cousin!

Prince.
Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?

Benvolio.
Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay;
Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink
How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal
Your high displeasure.--All this,--uttered
With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd,--
Could not take truce with the unruly spleen
Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts
With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast;
Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,
And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats
Cold death aside, and with the other sends
It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity
Retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud,
'Hold, friends! friends, part!' and swifter than his tongue,
His agile arm beats down their fatal points,
And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm
An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life
Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled:
But by-and-by comes back to Romeo,
Who had but newly entertain'd revenge,
And to't they go like lightning; for, ere I
Could draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;
And as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.
This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.

Lady Capulet.
He is a kinsman to the Montague,
Affection makes him false, he speaks not true:
Some twenty of them fought in this black strife,
And all those twenty could but kill one life.
I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give;
Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.

Prince.
Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio:
Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?

Montague.
Not Romeo, prince; he was Mercutio's friend;
His fault concludes but what the law should end,
The life of Tybalt.

Prince.
And for that offence
Immediately we do exile him hence:
I have an interest in your hate's proceeding,
My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding;
But I'll amerce you with so strong a fine
That you shall all repent the loss of mine:
I will be deaf to pleading and excuses;
Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses,
Therefore use none: let Romeo hence in haste,
Else, when he is found, that hour is his last.
Bear hence this body, and attend our will:
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.

[Exeunt.]



Scene II. A Room in Capulet's House.

[Enter Juliet.]

Juliet.
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging; such a waggoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the west
And bring in cloudy night immediately.--
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night!
That rude eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.--
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties: or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night.--Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night;--come, Romeo;--come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.--
Come, gentle night;--come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.--
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it; and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes,
And may not wear them.  O, here comes my nurse,
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks
But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.--

[Enter Nurse, with cords.]

Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords
That Romeo bid thee fetch?

Nurse.
Ay, ay, the cords.

[Throws them down.]

Juliet.
Ah me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?

Nurse.
Ah, well-a-day! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!
We are undone, lady, we are undone!--
Alack the day!--he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead!

Juliet.
Can heaven be so envious?

Nurse.
Romeo can,
Though heaven cannot.--O Romeo, Romeo!--
Who ever would have thought it?--Romeo!

Juliet.
What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?
This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell.
Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but I,
And that bare vowel I shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:
I am not I if there be such an I;
Or those eyes shut that make thee answer I.
If he be slain, say I; or if not, no:
Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.

Nurse.
I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,--
God save the mark!--here on his manly breast.
A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood,
All in gore-blood;--I swounded at the sight.

Juliet.
O, break, my heart!--poor bankrout, break at once!
To prison, eyes; ne'er look on liberty!
Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;
And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!

Nurse.
O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!
O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!
That ever I should live to see thee dead!

Juliet.
What storm is this that blows so contrary?
Is Romeo slaughter'd, and is Tybalt dead?
My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord?--
Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!
For who is living, if those two are gone?

Nurse.
Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;
Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished.

Juliet.
O God!--did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood?

Nurse.
It did, it did; alas the day, it did!

Juliet.
O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
Despised substance of divinest show!
Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st,
A damned saint, an honourable villain!--
O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?--
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound?  O, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!

Nurse.
There's no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd,
All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.--
Ah, where's my man?  Give me some aqua vitae.--
These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.
Shame come to Romeo!

Juliet.
Blister'd be thy tongue
For such a wish! he was not born to shame:
Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit;
For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
O, what a beast was I to chide at him!

Nurse.
Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin?

Juliet.
Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours' wife, have mangled it?--
But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband:
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain;
And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband:
All this is comfort; wherefore weep I, then?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death,
That murder'd me: I would forget it fain;
But O, it presses to my memory
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds:
'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.'
That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,'
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts.  Tybalt's death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship,
And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,--
Why follow'd not, when she said Tybalt's dead,
Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentation might have mov'd?
But with a rear-ward following Tybalt's death,
'Romeo is banished'--to speak that word
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead: 'Romeo is banished,'--
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word's death; no words can that woe sound.--
Where is my father and my mother, nurse?

Nurse.
Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse:
Will you go to them?  I will bring you thither.

Juliet.
Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent,
When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.
Take up those cords.  Poor ropes, you are beguil'd,
Both you and I; for Romeo is exil'd:
He made you for a highway to my bed;
But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.
Come, cords; come, nurse; I'll to my wedding-bed;
And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

Nurse.
Hie to your chamber.  I'll find Romeo
To comfort you: I wot well where he is.
Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night:
I'll to him; he is hid at Lawrence' cell.

Juliet.
O, find him! give this ring to my true knight,
And bid him come to take his last farewell.

[Exeunt.]



Scene III. Friar Lawrence's cell.

[Enter Friar Lawrence.]

Friar.
Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.
Affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.

[Enter Romeo.]

Romeo.
Father, what news?  what is the prince's doom
What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,
That I yet know not?

Friar.
Too familiar
Is my dear son with such sour company:
I bring thee tidings of the prince's doom.

Romeo.
What less than doomsday is the prince's doom?

Friar.
A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips,--
Not body's death, but body's banishment.

Romeo.
Ha, banishment? be merciful, say death;
For exile hath more terror in his look,
Much more than death; do not say banishment.

Friar.
Hence from Verona art thou banished:
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

Romeo.
There is no world without Verona walls,
But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
Hence-banished is banish'd from the world,
And world's exile is death,--then banished
Is death mis-term'd: calling death banishment,
Thou cutt'st my head off with a golden axe,
And smil'st upon the stroke that murders me.

Friar.
O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince,
Taking thy part, hath brush'd aside the law,
And turn'd that black word death to banishment:
This is dear mercy, and thou see'st it not.

Romeo.
'Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here,
Where Juliet lives; and every cat, and dog,
And little mouse, every unworthy thing,
Live here in heaven, and may look on her;
But Romeo may not.--More validity,
More honourable state, more courtship lives
In carrion flies than Romeo: they may seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand,
And steal immortal blessing from her lips;
Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;
But Romeo may not; he is banished,--
This may flies do, when I from this must fly.
And sayest thou yet that exile is not death!
Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife,
No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean,
But banished to kill me; banished?
O friar, the damned use that word in hell;
Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart,
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,
A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd,
To mangle me with that word banishment?

Friar.
Thou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,--

Romeo.
O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.

Friar.
I'll give thee armour to keep off that word;
Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy,
To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

Romeo.
Yet banished? Hang up philosophy!
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom,
It helps not, it prevails not,--talk no more.

Friar.
O, then I see that madmen have no ears.

Romeo.
How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?

Friar.
Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Romeo.
Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
Doting like me, and like me banished,
Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,
And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

[Knocking within.]

Friar.
Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.

Romeo.
Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans,
Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes.

[Knocking.]

Friar.
Hark, how they knock!--Who's there?--Romeo, arise;
Thou wilt be taken.--Stay awhile;--Stand up;

[Knocking.]

Run to my study.--By-and-by!--God's will!
What simpleness is this.--I come, I come!

[Knocking.]

Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what's your will?

Nurse.
[Within.] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand;
I come from Lady Juliet.

Friar.
Welcome then.

[Enter Nurse.]

Nurse.
O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar,
Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo?

Friar.
There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

Nurse.
O, he is even in my mistress' case,--
Just in her case!

Friar.
O woeful sympathy!
Piteous predicament!

Nurse.
Even so lies she,
Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.--
Stand up, stand up; stand, an you be a man:
For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand;
Why should you fall into so deep an O?

Romeo.
Nurse!

Nurse.
Ah sir! ah sir!--Well, death's the end of all.

Romeo.
Spakest thou of Juliet? how is it with her?
Doth not she think me an old murderer,
Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy
With blood remov'd but little from her own?
Where is she? and how doth she/ and what says
My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love?

Nurse.
O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;
And now falls on her bed; and then starts up,
And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries,
And then down falls again.

Romeo.
As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murder her; as that name's cursed hand
Murder'd her kinsman.--O, tell me, friar, tell me,
In what vile part of this anatomy
Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack
The hateful mansion.

[Drawing his sword.]

Friar.
Hold thy desperate hand:
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art;
Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote
The unreasonable fury of a beast;
Unseemly woman in a seeming man!
Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!
Thou hast amaz'd me: by my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temper'd.
Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady, too, that lives in thee,
By doing damned hate upon thyself?
Why rail'st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?
Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet
In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.
Fie, fie, thou sham'st thy shape, thy love, thy wit;
Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all,
And usest none in that true use indeed
Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit:
Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,
Digressing from the valour of a man;
Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury,
Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish;
Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,
Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both,
Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask,
Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember'd with thine own defence.
What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slewest Tybalt; there art thou happy too:
The law, that threaten'd death, becomes thy friend,
And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:
A pack of blessings lights upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehav'd and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love:--
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her:
But, look, thou stay not till the watch be set,
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua;
Where thou shalt live till we can find a time
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy
Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.--
Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady;
And bid her hasten all the house to bed,
Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.
Romeo is coming.

Nurse.
O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night
To hear good counsel: O, what learning is!--
My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come.

Romeo.
Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

Nurse.
Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir:
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.

[Exit.]

Romeo.
How well my comfort is reviv'd by this!

Friar.
Go hence; good night! and here stands all your state:
Either be gone before the watch be set,
Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence.
Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man,
And he shall signify from time to time
Every good hap to you that chances here:
Give me thy hand; 'tis late; farewell; good night.

Romeo.
But that a joy past joy calls out on me,
It were a grief so brief to part with thee:
Farewell.

[Exeunt.]



Scene IV. A Room in Capulet's House.

[Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.]

Capulet.
Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I; well, we were born to die.
'Tis very late; she'll not come down to-night:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.

Paris.
These times of woe afford no tune to woo.--
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.

Lady Capulet.
I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.

Capulet.
Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child's love: I think she will be rul'd
In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.--
Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;
Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love;
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next,--
But, soft! what day is this?

Paris.
Monday, my lord.

Capulet.
Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
Thursday let it be;--a Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.--
Will you be ready? do you like this haste?
We'll keep no great ado,--a friend or two;
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much:
Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends,
And there an end.  But what say you to Thursday?

Paris.
My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.

Capulet.
Well, get you gone: o' Thursday be it then.--
Go you to Juliet, ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.--
Farewell, my lord.--Light to my chamber, ho!--
Afore me, it is so very very late
That we may call it early by and by.--
Good night.

[Exeunt.]



Scene V. An open Gallery to Juliet's Chamber, overlooking the
Garden.

[Enter Romeo and Juliet.]

Juliet.
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Romeo.
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Juliet.
Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer
And light thee on the way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.

Romeo.
Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go.--
Come, death, and welcome!  Juliet wills it so.--
How is't, my soul? let's talk,--it is not day.

Juliet.
It is, it is!--hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O, now I would they had chang'd voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.

Romeo.
More light and light,--more dark and dark our woes!

[Enter Nurse.]

Nurse.
Madam!

Juliet.
Nurse?

Nurse.
Your lady mother is coming to your chamber:
The day is broke; be wary, look about.

[Exit.]

Juliet.
Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

Romeo.
Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend.

[Descends.]

Juliet.
Art thou gone so? my lord, my love, my friend!
I must hear from thee every day i' the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!

Romeo.
Farewell!
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

Juliet.
O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again?

Romeo.
I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.

Juliet.
O God! I have an ill-divining soul!
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.

Romeo.
And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!

[Exit below.]

Juliet.
O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown'd for faith?  Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long
But send him back.

Lady Capulet.
[Within.] Ho, daughter! are you up?

Juliet.
Who is't that calls? is it my lady mother?
Is she not down so late, or up so early?
What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither?

[Enter Lady Capulet.]

Lady Capulet.
Why, how now, Juliet?

Juliet.
Madam, I am not well.

Lady Capulet.
Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live;
Therefore have done: some grief shows much of love;
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Juliet.
Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

Lady Capulet.
So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.

Juliet.
Feeling so the loss,
I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

Lady Capulet.
Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death
As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him.

Juliet.
What villain, madam?

Lady Capulet.
That same villain Romeo.

Juliet.
Villain and he be many miles asunder.--
God pardon him!  I do, with all my heart;
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

Lady Capulet.
That is because the traitor murderer lives.

Juliet.
Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
Would none but I might venge my cousin's death!

Lady Capulet.
We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not:
Then weep no more.  I'll send to one in Mantua,--
Where that same banish'd runagate doth live,--
Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company:
And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.

Juliet.
Indeed I never shall be satisfied
With Romeo till I behold him--dead--
Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd:
Madam, if you could find out but a man
To bear a poison, I would temper it,
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
Soon sleep in quiet.  O, how my heart abhors
To hear him nam'd,--and cannot come to him,--
To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt
Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him!

Lady Capulet.
Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man.
But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

Juliet.
And joy comes well in such a needy time:
What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

Lady Capulet.
Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,
Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy
That thou expect'st not, nor I look'd not for.

Juliet.
Madam, in happy time, what day is that?

Lady Capulet.
Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn
The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at St. Peter's Church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.

Juliet.
Now by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride.
I wonder at this haste; that I must wed
Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.
I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,
I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
Rather than Paris:--these are news indeed!

Lady Capulet.
Here comes your father: tell him so yourself,
And see how he will take it at your hands.

[Enter Capulet and Nurse.]

Capulet.
When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;
But for the sunset of my brother's son
It rains downright.--
How now! a conduit, girl? what, still in tears?
Evermore showering? In one little body
Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind:
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs;
Who,--raging with thy tears and they with them,--
Without a sudden calm, will overset
Thy tempest-tossed body.--How now, wife!
Have you deliver'd to her our decree?

Lady Capulet.
Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.
I would the fool were married to her grave!

Capulet.
Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife.
How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? doth she not count her bles'd,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Juliet.
Not proud you have; but thankful that you have:
Proud can I never be of what I hate;
But thankful even for hate that is meant love.

Capulet.
How now, how now, chop-logic!  What is this?
Proud,--and, I thank you,--and I thank you not;--
And yet not proud:--mistress minion, you,
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next
To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!
You tallow-face!

Lady Capulet.
Fie, fie! what, are you mad?

Juliet.
Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

Capulet.
Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what,--get thee to church o' Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face:
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me;
My fingers itch.--Wife, we scarce thought us bles'd
That God had lent us but this only child;
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we have a curse in having her:
Out on her, hilding!

Nurse.
God in heaven bless her!--
You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

Capulet.
And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue,
Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.

Nurse.
I speak no treason.

Capulet.
O, God ye good-en!

Nurse.
May not one speak?

Capulet.
Peace, you mumbling fool!
Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl,
For here we need it not.

Lady Capulet.
You are too hot.

Capulet.
God's bread! it makes me mad:
Day, night, hour, time, tide, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her match'd, and having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,
Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts,
Proportion'd as one's heart would wish a man,--
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender,
To answer, 'I'll not wed,--I cannot love,
I am too young,--I pray you pardon me:'--
But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you:
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:
Look to't, think on't, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise:
An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i' the streets,
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good:
Trust to't, bethink you, I'll not be forsworn.

[Exit.]

Juliet.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

Lady Capulet.
Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word;
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.

[Exit.]

Juliet.
O God!--O nurse! how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;
How shall that faith return again to earth,
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving earth?--comfort me, counsel me.--
Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as myself!--
What say'st thou?  hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse.

Nurse.
Faith, here 'tis; Romeo
Is banished; and all the world to nothing
That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you;
Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the county.
O, he's a lovely gentleman!
Romeo's a dishclout to him; an eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first: or if it did not,
Your first is dead; or 'twere as good he were,
As living here, and you no use of him.

Juliet.
Speakest thou this from thy heart?

Nurse.
And from my soul too;
Or else beshrew them both.

Juliet.
Amen!

Nurse.
What?

Juliet.
Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.
Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeas'd my father, to Lawrence' cell,
To make confession and to be absolv'd.

Nurse.
Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.

[Exit.]

Juliet.
Ancient damnation!  O most wicked fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais'd him with above compare
So many thousand times?--Go, counsellor;
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.--
I'll to the friar to know his remedy;
If all else fail, myself have power to die.

[Exit.]



ACT IV.

Scene I. Friar Lawrence's Cell.

[Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.]

Friar.
On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.

Paris.
My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.

Friar.
You say you do not know the lady's mind:
Uneven is the course; I like it not.

Paris.
Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death,
And therefore have I little talk'd of love;
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she do give her sorrow so much sway;
And, in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone,
May be put from her by society:
Now do you know the reason of this haste.

Friar.
[Aside.] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.--
Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.

[Enter Juliet.]

Paris.
Happily met, my lady and my wife!

Juliet.
That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

Paris.
That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.

Juliet.
What must be shall be.

Friar.
That's a certain text.

Paris.
Come you to make confession to this father?

Juliet.
To answer that, I should confess to you.

Paris.
Do not deny to him that you love me.

Juliet.
I will confess to you that I love him.

Paris.
So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.

Juliet.
If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back than to your face.

Paris.
Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears.

Juliet.
The tears have got small victory by that;
For it was bad enough before their spite.

Paris.
Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report.

Juliet.
That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.

Paris.
Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it.

Juliet.
It may be so, for it is not mine own.--
Are you at leisure, holy father, now;
Or shall I come to you at evening mass?

Friar.
My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.--
My lord, we must entreat the time alone.

Paris.
God shield I should disturb devotion!--
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you:
Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.

[Exit.]

Juliet.
O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so,
Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!

Friar.
Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief;
It strains me past the compass of my wits:
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to this county.

Juliet.
Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it:
If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I'll help it presently.
God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd,
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both:
Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time,
Give me some present counsel; or, behold,
'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the empire; arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art
Could to no issue of true honour bring.
Be not so long to speak; I long to die,
If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy.

Friar.
Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,
Which craves as desperate an execution
As that is desperate which we would prevent.
If, rather than to marry County Paris
Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this shame,
That cop'st with death himself to scape from it;
And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy.

Juliet.
O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
From off the battlements of yonder tower;
Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk
Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears;
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house,
O'er-cover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones,
With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave,
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud;
Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble;
And I will do it without fear or doubt,
To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love.

Friar.
Hold, then; go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow;
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone,
Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber:
Take thou this vial, being then in bed,
And this distilled liquor drink thou off:
When, presently, through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease:
No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes; thy eyes' windows fall,
Like death, when he shuts up the day of life;
Each part, depriv'd of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death:
And in this borrow'd likeness of shrunk death
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

by William Shakespeare




PERSONS REPRESENTED

ORSINO, Duke of Illyria.
SEBASTIAN, a young Gentleman, brother to Viola.
ANTONIO, a Sea Captain, friend to Sebastian.
A SEA CAPTAIN, friend to Viola
VALENTINE, Gentleman attending on the Duke
CURIO, Gentleman attending on the Duke
SIR TOBY BELCH, Uncle of Olivia.
SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.

MALVOLIO, Steward to Olivia.
FABIAN, Servant to Olivia.
CLOWN, Servant to Olivia.

OLIVIA, a rich Countess.
VIOLA, in love with the Duke.
MARIA, Olivia's Woman.

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

SCENE: A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it.



ACT I.

SCENE I. An Apartment in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter DUKE, CURIO, Lords; Musicians attending.]

DUKE.
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.--
That strain again;--it had a dying fall;
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour.--Enough; no more;
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soever,
But falls into abatement and low price
Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy,
That it alone is high-fantastical.

CURIO.
Will you go hunt, my lord?

DUKE.
What, Curio?

CURIO.
The hart.

DUKE.
Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence;
That instant was I turn'd into a hart;
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.--How now! what news from her?

[Enter VALENTINE.]

VALENTINE.
So please my lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her handmaid do return this answer:
The element itself, till seven years' heat,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But like a cloistress she will veiled walk,
And water once a-day her chamber round
With eye-offending brine: all this to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh
And lasting in her sad remembrance.

DUKE.
O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill'd,--
Her sweet perfections,--with one self king!--
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers:
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE II. The sea-coast.

[Enter VIOLA, CAPTAIN, and Sailors.]

VIOLA.
What country, friends, is this?

CAPTAIN.
This is Illyria, lady.

VIOLA.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drown'd--What think you, sailors?

CAPTAIN.
It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd.

VIOLA.
O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

CAPTAIN.
True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and those poor number sav'd with you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself,---
Courage and hope both teaching him the practice,--
To a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves
So long as I could see.

VIOLA.
For saying so, there's gold!
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?

CAPTAIN.
Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born
Not three hours' travel from this very place.

VIOLA.
Who governs here?

CAPTAIN.
A noble duke, in nature
As in name.

VIOLA.
What is his name?

CAPTAIN.
Orsino.

VIOLA.
Orsino! I have heard my father name him.
He was a bachelor then.

CAPTAIN.
And so is now,
Or was so very late; for but a month
Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh
In murmur,--as, you know, what great ones do,
The less will prattle of,--that he did seek
The love of fair Olivia.

VIOLA.
What's she?

CAPTAIN.
A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died; for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjured the company
And sight of men.

VIOLA.
O that I served that lady!
And might not be delivered to the world,
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is.

CAPTAIN.
That were hard to compass:
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.

VIOLA.
There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
For such disguise as, haply, shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him;
It may be worth thy pains, for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap to time I will commit;
Only shape thou silence to my wit.

CAPTAIN.
Be you his eunuch and your mute I'll be;
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

VIOLA.
I thank thee. Lead me on.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE III. A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her
brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.

MARIA.
By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights;
your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

SIR TOBY.
Why, let her except, before excepted.

MARIA.
Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits
of order.

SIR TOBY.
Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these
clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too;
an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.

MARIA.
That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady
talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought in
one night here to be her wooer.

SIR TOBY.
Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?

MARIA.
Ay, he.

SIR TOBY.
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

MARIA.
What's that to the purpose?

SIR TOBY.
Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

MARIA.
Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a
very fool, and a prodigal.

SIR TOBY.
Fye that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo,
and speaks three or four languages word for word without book,
and hath all the good gifts of nature.

MARIA.
He hath indeed,--almost natural: for, besides that he's a
fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of
a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought
among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

SIR TOBY.
By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that
say so of him. Who are they?

MARIA.
They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

SIR TOBY.
With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her as
long as there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria.
He's a coward and a coystril that will not drink to my niece
till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench!
Castiliano-vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.

[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

AGUE-CHEEK.
Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch!

SIR TOBY.
Sweet Sir Andrew?

SIR ANDREW.
Bless you, fair shrew.

MARIA.
And you too, sir.

SIR TOBY.
Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

SIR ANDREW.
What's that?

SIR TOBY.
My niece's chamber-maid.

SIR ANDREW.
Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

MARIA.
My name is Mary, sir.

SIR ANDREW.
Good Mistress Mary Accost,--

SIR TOBY.
You mistake, knight: accost is, front her, board her,
woo her, assail her.

SIR ANDREW.
By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company.
Is that the meaning of accost?

MARIA.
Fare you well, gentlemen.

SIR TOBY.
An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never
draw sword again.

SIR ANDREW.
An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw
sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

MARIA.
Sir, I have not you by the hand.

SIR ANDREW.
Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

MARIA.
Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to
the buttery-bar and let it drink.

SIR ANDREW.
Wherefore, sweetheart? what's your metaphor?

MARIA.
It's dry, sir.

SIR ANDREW.
Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my
hand dry. But what's your jest?

MARIA.
A dry jest, sir.

SIR ANDREW.
Are you full of them?

MARIA.
Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, now I let
go your hand I am barren.

[Exit MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see
thee so put down?

SIR ANDREW.
Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put
me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian
or an ordinary man has; but I am great eater of beef, and, I
believe, that does harm to my wit.

SIR TOBY.
No question.

SIR ANDREW.
An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home
to-morrow, Sir Toby.

SIR TOBY.
Pourquoy, my dear knight?

SIR ANDREW.
What is pourquoy? do or not do? I would I had bestowed
that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and
bear-baiting. Oh, had I but followed the arts!

SIR TOBY.
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

SIR ANDREW.
Why, would that have mended my hair?

SIR TOBY.
Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

SIR ANDREW.
But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

SIR TOBY.
Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to
see a houswife take thee between her legs and spin it off.

SIR ANDREW.
Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby; your niece will
not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me;
the count himself here hard by woos her.

SIR TOBY.
She'll none o' the Count; she'll not match above her
degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her
swear't. Tut, there's life in't, man.

SIR ANDREW.
I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest
mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes
altogether.

SIR TOBY.
Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight?

SIR ANDREW.
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the
degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.

SIR TOBY.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

SIR ANDREW.
Faith, I can cut a caper.

SIR TOBY.
And I can cut the mutton to't.

SIR ANDREW.
And, I think, I have the back-trick simply as strong as
any man in Illyria.

SIR TOBY.
Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these
gifts a curtain before them? are they like to take dust, like
Mistress Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a
galliard and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a
jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What
dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by
the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the
star of a galliard.

SIR ANDREW.
Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in
flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels?

SIR TOBY.
What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

SIR ANDREW.
Taurus? that's sides and heart.

SIR TOBY.
No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper: ha,
higher: ha, ha!--excellent!

[Exeunt.]



SCENE IV. A Room in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire.]

VALENTINE.
If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario,
you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three
days, and already you are no stranger.

VIOLA.
You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call
in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir,
in his favours?

VALENTINE.
No, believe me.

[Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.]

VIOLA.
I thank you. Here comes the count.

DUKE.
Who saw Cesario, ho?

VIOLA.
On your attendance, my lord; here.

DUKE.
Stand you awhile aloof.--Cesario,
Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd
To thee the book even of my secret soul:
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them there thy fixed foot shall grow
Till thou have audience.

VIOLA.
Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

DUKE.
Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.

VIOLA.
Say I do speak with her, my lord. What then?

DUKE.
O, then unfold the passion of my love,
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.

VIOLA.
I think not so, my lord.

DUKE.
Dear lad, believe it,
For they shall yet belie thy happy years
That say thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,
And all is semblative a woman's part.
I know thy constellation is right apt
For this affair:--some four or five attend him:
All, if you will; for I myself am best
When least in company:--prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.

VIOLA.
I'll do my best
To woo your lady. [Aside] Yet, a barful strife!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.



SCENE V. A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter MARIA and CLOWN.]

MARIA.
Nay; either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open
my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse: my
lady will hang thee for thy absence.

CLOWN.
Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs
to fear no colours.

MARIA.
Make that good.

CLOWN.
He shall see none to fear.

MARIA.
A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that saying was
born, of, I fear no colours.

CLOWN.
Where, good Mistress Mary?

MARIA.
In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.

CLOWN.
Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are
fools, let them use their talents.

MARIA.
Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent: or to be
turned away; is not that as good as a hanging to you?

CLOWN.
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning
away, let summer bear it out.

MARIA.
You are resolute, then?

CLOWN.
Not so, neither: but I am resolved on two points.

MARIA.
That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break,
your gaskins fall.

CLOWN.
Apt, in good faith, very apt! Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby
would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh
as any in Illyria.

MARIA.
Peace, you rogue; no more o' that; here comes my lady: make
your excuse wisely; you were best.

[Exit.]

[Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO.]

CLOWN.
Wit, and't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits
that think they have thee do very oft prove fools; and I, that am
sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what says
Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.--God bless
thee, lady!

OLIVIA.
Take the fool away.

CLOWN.
Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

OLIVIA.
Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you
grow dishonest.

CLOWN.
Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend:
for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the
dishonest man mend himself: if he mend, he is no longer
dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Anything
that's mended is but patched; virtue that transgresses is but
patched with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue.
If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not,
what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so
beauty's a flower:--the lady bade take away the fool; therefore,
I say again, take her away.

OLIVIA.
Sir, I bade them take away you.

CLOWN.
Misprision in the highest degree!--Lady, Cucullus non facit
monachum; that's as much to say, I wear not motley in my
brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

OLIVIA.
Can you do it?

CLOWN.
Dexteriously, good madonna.

OLIVIA.
Make your proof.

CLOWN.
I must catechize you for it, madonna.
Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

OLIVIA.
Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll 'bide your proof.

CLOWN.
Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?

OLIVIA.
Good fool, for my brother's death.

CLOWN.
I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

OLIVIA.
I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

CLOWN.
The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul
being in heaven.--Take away the fool, gentlemen.

OLIVIA.
What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

MALVOLIO.
Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him.
Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.

CLOWN.
God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better
increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox;
but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool.

OLIVIA.
How say you to that, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.
I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren
rascal; I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool
that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of
his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him,

he is gagged. I protest I take these wise men that crow so at
these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies.

OLIVIA.
O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a
distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free
disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem
cannon bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he
do nothing but rail; nor no railing in known discreet man, though
he do nothing but reprove.

CLOWN.
Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of
fools!

[Re-enter MARIA.]

MARIA.
Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires
to speak with you.

OLIVIA.
From the Count Orsino, is it?

MARIA.
I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.

OLIVIA.
Who of my people hold him in delay?

MARIA.
Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

OLIVIA.
Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman.
Fie on him!

[Exit MARIA]

Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or
not at home; what you will to dismiss it.

[Exit MALVOLIO.]

Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike
it.

CLOWN.
Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should
be a fool: whose skull Jove cram with brains, for here he comes--
one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH.]

OLIVIA.
By mine honour, half drunk!--What is he at the gate, cousin?

SIR TOBY.
A gentleman.

OLIVIA.
A gentleman? What gentleman?

SIR TOBY.
'Tis a gentleman here.--A plague o' these pickle-herrings!--How
now, sot?

CLOWN.
Good Sir Toby,--

OLIVIA.
Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

SIR TOBY.
Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.

OLIVIA.
Ay, marry; what is he?

SIR TOBY.
Let him be the devil an he will, I care not: give me
faith, say I. Well, it's all one.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.
What's a drunken man like, fool?

CLOWN.
Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above
heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns
him.

OLIVIA.
Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my coz;
for he's in the third degree of drink; he's drowned: go, look
after him.

CLOWN.
He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the
madman.

[Exit CLOWN.]

[Re-enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.
Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I
told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much,
 and therefore comes to speak with you; I told him you were
asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and
therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him,
lady? he's fortified against any denial.

OLIVIA.
Tell him, he shall not speak with me.

MALVOLIO.
Has been told so; and he says he'll stand at your door
like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll
speak with you.

OLIVIA.
What kind of man is he?

MALVOLIO.
Why, of mankind.

OLIVIA.
What manner of man?

MALVOLIO.
Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.

OLIVIA.
Of what personage and years is he?

MALVOLIO.
Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy;
as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling, when 'tis
almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy
and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly;
one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.

OLIVIA.
Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.

MALVOLIO.
Gentlewoman, my lady calls.

[Exit.]

[Re-enter MARIA.]

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

[Enter VIOLA.]

VIOLA.
The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

OLIVIA.
Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?

VIOLA.
Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,--I pray you,
tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I
would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is
excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good
beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to
the least sinister usage.

OLIVIA.
Whence came you, sir?

VIOLA.
I can say little more than I have studied, and that
question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest
assurance, if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in
my speech.

OLIVIA.
Are you a comedian?

VIOLA.
No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice
I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?

OLIVIA.
If I do not usurp myself, I am.

VIOLA.
Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for
what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from
my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then
show you the heart of my message.

OLIVIA.
Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.

VIOLA.
Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.

OLIVIA.
It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I
heard you were saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach,
rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be
gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon
with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

MARIA.
Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

VIOLA.
No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer.--
Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

OLIVIA.
Tell me your mind.

VIOLA.
I am a messenger.

OLIVIA.
Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the
courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

VIOLA.
It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no
taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as
full of peace as matter.

OLIVIA.
Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?

VIOLA.
The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my
entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as
maidenhead: to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation.

OLIVIA.
Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.

[Exit MARIA.]

Now, sir, what is your text?

VIOLA.
Most sweet lady,--

OLIVIA.
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.
Where lies your text?

VIOLA.
In Orsino's bosom.

OLIVIA.
In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?

VIOLA.
To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

OLIVIA.
O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

VIOLA.
Good madam, let me see your face.

OLIVIA.
Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my
face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain
and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this
present. Is't not well done?

[Unveiling.]

VIOLA.
Excellently done, if God did all.

OLIVIA.
'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

VIOLA.
'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.

OLIVIA.
O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out
divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried; and every
particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips
indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one
neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?

VIOLA.
I see you what you are: you are too proud;
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you. O, such love
Could be but recompens'd though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!

OLIVIA.
How does he love me?

VIOLA.
With adorations, fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

OLIVIA.
Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him:
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulged, free, learn'd, and valiant,
And, in dimension and the shape of nature,
A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him;
He might have took his answer long ago.

VIOLA.
If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense,
I would not understand it.

OLIVIA.
Why, what would you?

VIOLA.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud, even in the dead of night;
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.

OLIVIA.
You might do much. What is your parentage?

VIOLA.
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.

OLIVIA.
Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:
I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

VIOLA.
I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse;
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.
What is your parentage?
'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.'--I'll be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast:--soft, soft!
Unless the master were the man.--How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks I feel this youth's perfections
With an invisible and subtle stealth
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.--
What, ho, Malvolio!--

[Re-enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.
Here, madam, at your service.

OLIVIA.
Run after that same peevish messenger,
The county's man: he left this ring behind him,
Would I or not; tell him I'll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,
I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio.

MALVOLIO.
Madam, I will.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.
I do I know not what: and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe:
What is decreed must be; and be this so!

[Exit.]



ACT II.

SCENE I. The sea-coast.

[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]

ANTONIO.
Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with you?

SEBASTIAN.
By your patience, no; my stars shine darkly over me; the
malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore
I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone.
It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on
you.

ANTONIO.
Let me know of you whither you are bound.

SEBASTIAN.
No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere
extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of
modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to
keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express
myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,
which I called Rodorigo; my father was that Sebastian of
Messaline whom I know you have heard of: he left behind him
myself and a sister, both born in an hour; if the heavens had
been pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that;
for some hours before you took me from the breach of the sea was
my sister drowned.

ANTONIO.
Alas the day!

SEBASTIAN.
A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me,
was yet of many accounted beautiful: but though I could not, with
such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will
boldly publish her,--she bore mind that envy could not but call
fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem
to drown her remembrance again with more.

ANTONIO.
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

SEBASTIAN.
O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

ANTONIO.
If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

SEBASTIAN.
If you will not undo what you have done--that is, kill
him whom you have recovered--desire it not. Fare ye well at once;
my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of
my mother that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell
tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell.

[Exit.]

ANTONIO.
The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many cnemies in Orsino's court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there:
But come what may, I do adore thee so
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

[Exit.]



SCENE II. A street.

[Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following.]

MALVOLIO.
Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?

VIOLA.
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but
hither.

MALVOLIO.
She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved
me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds moreover,
that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will
none of him: and one thing more: that you be never so hardy to
come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's
taking of this. Receive it so.

VIOLA.
She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.

MALVOLIO.
Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is
it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it
lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

[Exit.]

VIOLA.
I left no ring with her; what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man; --if it be so,--as 'tis,--
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we;
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman, now alas the day!
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie!

[Exit.]

SCENE III. A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

SIR TOBY.
Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be a-bed after midnight is to
be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st.

SIR ANDREW.
Nay; by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late
is to be up late.

SIR TOBY.
A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can. To be
up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early: so that to go
to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives
consist of the four elements?

SIR ANDREW.
Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of
eating and drinking.

SIR TOBY.
Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.--
Marian, I say!--a stoup of wine.

[Enter CLOWN.]

SIR ANDREW.
Here comes the fool, i' faith.

CLOWN.
How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three?

SIR TOBY.
Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.

SIR ANDREW.
By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had
rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and so sweet a
breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very
gracious fooling last night when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus,
of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very
good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it?

CLOWN.
I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no
whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no
bottle-ale houses.

SIR ANDREW.
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is
done. Now, a song.

SIR TOBY.
Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.

SIR ANDREW.
There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a--

CLOWN.
Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

SIR TOBY.
A love-song, a love-song.

SIR ANDREW.
Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

CLOWN.
        SONG
  O, mistress mine, where are you roaming?
  O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
    That can sing both high and low:
  Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
    Journeys end in lovers meeting,
      Every wise man's son doth know.

SIR ANDREW.
Excellent good, i' faith.

SIR TOBY.
Good, good.

CLOWN.
  What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
  Present mirth hath present laughter;
    What's to come is still unsure.
  In delay there lies no plenty;
  Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;
    Youth's a stuff will not endure.

SIR ANDREW.
A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

SIR TOBY.
A contagious breath.

SIR ANDREW.
Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.

SIR TOBY.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall
we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in
a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do
that?

SIR ANDREW.
An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.

CLOWN.
By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

SIR ANDREW.
Most certain: let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'

CLOWN.
'Hold thy peace, thou knave' knight? I shall be constrain'd
in't to call thee knave, knight.

SIR ANDREW.
'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call
me knave. Begin, fool; it begins 'Hold thy peace.'

CLOWN.
I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

SIR ANDREW.
Good, i' faith! Come, begin.

[They sing a catch.]

[Enter MARIA.]

MARIA.
What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not
called up her steward Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of
doors, never trust me.

SIR TOBY.
My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians; Malvolio's a
Peg-a-Ramsey, and
[Singing.]
  'Three merry men be we.'
Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley,
lady.
  'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.'

CLOWN.
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

SIR ANDREW.
Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I
too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

SIR TOBY.
[Singing] O, the twelfth day of December,--

MARIA.
For the love o' God, peace!

[Enter MALVOLIO]

MALVOLIO.
My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no
wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this
time of night? Do ye make an ale-house of my lady's house, that
ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or
remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor
time, in you?

SIR TOBY.
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

MALVOLIO.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell
you that, though she harbours you as her kinsman she's nothing
allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your
misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would
please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you
farewell.

SIR TOBY.
'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'

MARIA.
Nay, good Sir Toby.

CLOWN.
'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'

MALVOLIO.
Is't even so?

SIR TOBY.
'But I will never die.'

CLOWN.
Sir Toby, there you lie.

MALVOLIO.
This is much credit to you.

SIR TOBY.
[Singing] 'Shall I bid him go?'

CLOWN.
'What an if you do?'

SIR TOBY.
'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'

CLOWN.
'O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.'

SIR TOBY.
Out o' tune? sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou
think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes
and ale?

CLOWN.
Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth
too.

SIR TOBY.
Thou'art i' the right.--Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs:
A stoup of wine, Maria!

MALVOLIO.
Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at anything
more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil
rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.

[Exit.]


MARIA.
Go shake your ears.

SIR ANDREW.
'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a-hungry,
to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him
and make a fool of him.

SIR TOBY.
Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll
deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

MARIA.
Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of
the count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet.
For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull
him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not
think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can
do it.

SIR TOBY.
Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.

MARIA.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.

SIR ANDREW.
O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.

SIR TOBY.
What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

SIR ANDREW.
I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.

MARIA.
The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a
time-pleaser: an affectioned ass that cons state without book and
utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so
crammed, as he thinks, with excellences, that it is his grounds
of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in
him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

SIR TOBY.
What wilt thou do?

MARIA.
I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love;
wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the
manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and
complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I
can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we
can hardly make distinction of our hands.

SIR TOBY.
Excellent! I smell a device.

SIR ANDREW.
I have't in my nose too.

SIR TOBY.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that
they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.

MARIA.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

SIR ANDREW.
And your horse now would make him an ass.

MARIA.
Ass, I doubt not.

SIR ANDREW.
O 'twill be admirable!

MARIA.
Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will work with
him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where
he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For
this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.

[Exit.]

SIR TOBY.
Good night, Penthesilea.

SIR ANDREW.
Before me, she's a good wench.

SIR TOBY.
She's a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o' that?

SIR ANDREW.
I was adored once too.

SIR TOBY.
Let's to bed, knight.--Thou hadst need send for more money.

SIR ANDREW.
If I cannot recover your niece I am a foul way out.

SIR TOBY.
Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end,
call me Cut.

SIR ANDREW.
If I do not, never trust me; take it how you will.

SIR TOBY.
Come, come; I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go
to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE IV. A Room in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.]

DUKE.
Give me some music:--Now, good morrow, friends:--
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night;
Methought it did relieve my passion much;
More than light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:--
Come, but one verse.

CURIO.
He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.

DUKE.
Who was it?

CURIO.
Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia's
father took much delight in: he is about the house.

DUKE.
Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

[Exit CURIO.  Music.]

Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me:
For, such as I am, all true lovers are;
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is belov'd.--How dost thou like this tune?

VIOLA.
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned.

DUKE.
Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?

VIOLA.
A little, by your favour.

DUKE.
What kind of woman is't?

VIOLA.
Of your complexion.

DUKE.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?

VIOLA.
About your years, my lord.

DUKE.
Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband's heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,
Than women's are.

VIOLA.
I think it well, my lord.

DUKE.
Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:
For women are as roses, whose fair flower,
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

VIOLA.
And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!

[Re-enter CURIO and CLOWN.]

DUKE.
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night:--
Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain:
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old age.

CLOWN.
Are you ready, sir?

DUKE.
Ay; pr'ythee, sing.  [Music]

CLOWN.
      SONG
    Come away, come away, death.
  And in sad cypress let me be laid;
    Fly away, fly away, breath;
  I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
  My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
       O, prepare it!
  My part of death no one so true
      Did share it.

   Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
 On my black coffin let there be strown:
   Not a friend, not a friend greet
 My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown:
 A thousand thousand sighs to save,
       Lay me, O, where
 Sad true lover never find my grave,
       To weep there!

DUKE.
There's for thy pains.

CLOWN.
No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.

DUKE.
I'll pay thy pleasure, then.

CLOWN.
Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.

DUKE.
Give me now leave to leave thee.

CLOWN.
Now the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy
doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal!--I
would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business
might be everything, and their intent everywhere; for that's it
that always makes a good voyage of nothing.--Farewell.

[Exit CLOWN.]

DUKE.
Let all the rest give place.--

[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.]

Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems
That Nature pranks her in attracts my soul.

VIOLA.
But if she cannot love you, sir?

DUKE.
I cannot be so answer'd.

VIOLA.
'Sooth, but you must.
Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so. Must she not then be answer'd?

DUKE.
There is no woman's sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be called appetite,--
No motion of the liver, but the palate,--
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.

VIOLA.
Ay, but I know,--

DUKE.
What dost thou know?

VIOLA.
Too well what love women to men may owe.
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

DUKE.
And what's her history?

VIOLA.
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more; but indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

DUKE.
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

VIOLA.
I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too;--and yet I know not.--
Sir, shall I to this lady?

DUKE.
Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste: give her this jewel; say
My love can give no place, bide no denay.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE V. OLIVIA'S garden.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]

SIR TOBY.
Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

FABIAN.
Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport let me be
boiled to death with melancholy.

SIR TOBY.
Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally
sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

FABIAN.
I would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' favour
with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

SIR TOBY.
To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will fool
him black and blue:--shall we not, Sir Andrew?

SIR ANDREW.
An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
Here comes the little villain:--How now, my nettle of India?

MARIA.
Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down
this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun practising behaviour to
his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of
mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot
of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.]

Lie thou there; [Throws down a letter] for here comes the trout
that must be caught with tickling.

[Exit Maria.]

[Enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.
'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she
did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that,
should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she
uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that
follows her. What should I think on't?

SIR TOBY.
Here's an overweening rogue!

FABIAN.
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him;
how he jets under his advanced plumes!

SIR ANDREW.
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:--

SIR TOBY.
Peace, I say.

MALVOLIO.
To be Count Malvolio;--

SIR TOBY.
Ah, rogue!

SIR ANDREW.
Pistol him, pistol him.

SIR TOBY.
Peace, peace.

MALVOLIO.
There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married
the yeoman of the wardrobe.

SIR ANDREW.
Fie on him, Jezebel!

FABIAN.
O, peace! now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows him.

MALVOLIO.
Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,--

SIR TOBY.
O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!

MALVOLIO.
Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown;
having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.

SIR TOBY.
Fire and brimstone!

FABIAN.
O, peace, peace.

MALVOLIO.
And then to have the humour of state: and after a demure
travel of regard,--telling them I know my place as I would they
should do theirs,--to ask for my kinsman Toby.

SIR TOBY.
Bolts and shackles!

FABIAN.
O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.

MALVOLIO.
Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for
him: I frown the while, and perchance, wind up my watch, or play
with some rich jewel. Toby approaches; court'sies there to me:

SIR TOBY.
Shall this fellow live?

FABIAN.
Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

MALVOLIO.
I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an
austere regard of control:

SIR TOBY.
And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?

MALVOLIO.
Saying 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your
niece, give me this prerogative of speech':--

SIR TOBY.
What, what?

MALVOLIO.
'You must amend your drunkenness.'

SIR TOBY.
Out, scab!

FABIAN.
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

MALVOLIO.
'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a
foolish knight';

SIR ANDREW.
That's me, I warrant you.

MALVOLIO.
'One Sir Andrew':

SIR ANDREW.
I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.

MALVOLIO.
What employment have we here?

[Taking up the letter.]

FABIAN.
Now is the woodcock near the gin.

SIR TOBY.
O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to
him!

MALVOLIO.
By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very
C's, her U's, and her T's; and thus makes she her great P's. It
is in contempt of question, her hand.

SIR ANDREW.
Her C's, her U's, and her T's. Why that?

MALVOLIO.
[Reads] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good
wishes.' Her very phrases!--By your leave, wax.--Soft!--and the
impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my
lady. To whom should this be?

FABIAN.
This wins him, liver and all.

MALVOLIO.
[Reads]
  'Jove knows I love,
    But who?
  Lips, do not move,
  No man must know.'

'No man must know.'--What follows? the numbers alter'd!--'No man
must know':--If this should be thee, Malvolio?

SIR TOBY.
Marry, hang thee, brock!

MALVOLIO.
  'I may command where I adore:
     But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
  With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore;
    M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'

FABIAN.
A fustian riddle!

SIR TOBY.
Excellent wench, say I.

MALVOLIO.
'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'--Nay, but first let me see,--let
me see,--let me see.

FABIAN.
What dish of poison has she dressed him!

SIR TOBY.
And with what wing the stannyel checks at it!

MALVOLIO.
'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command me: I
serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal
capacity; there is no obstruction in this;--And the end,--What
should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that
resemble something in me.--Softly!--M, O, A, I.--

SIR TOBY.
O, ay, make up that:--he is now at a cold scent.

FABIAN.
Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank as a
fox.

MALVOLIO.
M,--Malvolio; M,--why, that begins my name.

FABIAN.
Did not I say he would work it out?
The cur is excellent at faults.

MALVOLIO.
M,--But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that
suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does.

FABIAN.
And O shall end, I hope.

SIR TOBY.
Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry 'O!'

MALVOLIO.
And then I comes behind.

FABIAN.
Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more
detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.

MALVOLIO.
M, O, A, I;--This simulation is not as the former:--and
yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of
these letters are in my name. Soft; here follows prose.--
'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above
thee; but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some
achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy
fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them.
And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy
humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly
with servants: let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put
thyself into the trick of singularity: She thus advises thee that
sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and
wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to;
thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee
a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch
fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with
thee,
     'The fortunate-unhappy.'

Daylight and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be
proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I
will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the
very man. I do not now fool myself to let imagination jade me;
for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did
commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being
cross-gartered; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and
with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her
liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in
yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of
putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!--Here is yet a
postscript. 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles
become thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my
sweet, I pr'ythee.' Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do
everything that thou wilt have me.

[Exit.]

FABIAN.
I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of
thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

SIR TOBY.
I could marry this wench for this device:

SIR ANDREW.
So could I too.

SIR TOBY.
And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR ANDREW.
Nor I neither.

FABIAN.
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

SIR TOBY.
Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

SIR ANDREW.
Or o' mine either?

SIR TOBY.
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?

SIR ANDREW.
I' faith, or I either?

SIR TOBY.
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that, when the
image of it leaves him, he must run mad.

MARIA.
Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

SIR TOBY.
Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

MARIA.
If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his
first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow
stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a
fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now
be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a
melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable
contempt; if you will see it, follow me.

SIR TOBY.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

SIR ANDREW.
I'll make one too.

[Exeunt.]



ACT III. SCENE I. OLIVIA'S garden.

[Enter VIOLA, and CLOWN with a tabor.]

VIOLA.
Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor?

CLOWN.
No, sir, I live by the church.

VIOLA.
Art thou a churchman?

CLOWN.
No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live
at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.

VIOLA.
So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar
dwell near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor
stand by the church.

CLOWN.
You have said, sir.--To see this age!--A sentence is but a
cheveril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be
turned outward!

VIOLA.
Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with words may
quickly make them wanton.

CLOWN.
I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

VIOLA.
Why, man?

CLOWN.
Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that word
might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals,
since bonds disgraced them.

VIOLA.
Thy reason, man?

CLOWN.
Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words
are grown so false I am loath to prove reason with them.

VIOLA.
I warrant, thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing.

CLOWN.
Not so, sir, I do care for something: but in my conscience,
sir, I do not care for you; if that be to care for nothing, sir,
I would it would make you invisible.

VIOLA.
Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?

CLOWN.
No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep
no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands
as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; I am,
indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words.

VIOLA.
I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.

CLOWN.
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it
shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be
as oft with your master as with my mistress: I think I saw your
wisdom there.

VIOLA.
Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee.
Hold, there's expenses for thee.

CLOWN.
Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!

VIOLA.
By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one; though I
would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?

CLOWN.
Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

VIOLA.
Yes, being kept together and put to use.

CLOWN.
I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a
Cressida to this Troilus.

VIOLA.
I understand you, sir; 'tis well begged.

CLOWN.
The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar:
Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to
them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of
my welkin: I might say element; but the word is overworn.

[Exit.]

VIOLA.
This fellow's wise enough to play the fool;
And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time;
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice
As full of labour as a wise man's art:
For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit;
But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

SIR TOBY.
Save you, gentleman.

VIOLA.
And you, sir.

SIR ANDREW.
Dieu vous garde, monsieur.

VIOLA.
Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.

SIR ANDREW.
I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.

SIR TOBY.
Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous you
should enter, if your trade be to her.

VIOLA.
I am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is the list of my
voyage.

SIR TOBY.
Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.

VIOLA.
My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what
you mean by bidding me taste my legs.

SIR TOBY.
I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

VIOLA.
I will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented.

[Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.]

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!

SIR ANDREW.
That youth's a rare courtier- 'Rain odours'! well.

VIOLA.
My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant
and vouchsafed car.

SIR ANDREW.
'Odours,' 'pregnant,' and 'vouchsafed':--I'll get 'em all
three ready.

OLIVIA.
Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.

[Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and MARIA.]

Give me your hand, sir.

VIOLA.
My duty, madam, and most humble service.

OLIVIA.
What is your name?

VIOLA.
Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.

OLIVIA.
My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world,
Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment:
You are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

VIOLA.
And he is yours, and his must needs be yours;
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.

OLIVIA.
For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,
Would they were blanks rather than fill'd with me!

VIOLA.
Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
On his behalf:--

OLIVIA.
O, by your leave, I pray you:
I bade you never speak again of him:
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that
Than music from the spheres.

VIOLA.
Dear lady,--

OLIVIA.
Give me leave, beseech you: I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you:
Under your hard construction must I sit;
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours. What might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake,
And baited it with all the unmuzzl'd thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,
Hides my heart: so let me hear you speak.

VIOLA.
I Pity you.

OLIVIA.
That's a degree to love.

VIOLA.
No, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof
That very oft we pity enemies.

OLIVIA.
Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again:
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf!  [Clock strikes.]
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.--
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man.
There lies your way, due-west.

VIOLA.
Then westward-ho:
Grace and good disposition 'tend your ladyship!
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

OLIVIA.
Stay:
I pr'ythee tell me what thou think'st of me.

VIOLA.
That you do think you are not what you are.

OLIVIA.
If I think so, I think the same of you.

VIOLA.
Then think you right; I am not what I am.

OLIVIA.
I would you were as I would have you be!

VIOLA.
Would it be better, madam, than I am,
I wish it might; for now I am your fool.

OLIVIA.
O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything,
I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For, that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause:
But rather reason thus with reason fetter:
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.

VIOLA.
By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam; never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.

OLIVIA.
Yet come again: for thou, perhaps, mayst move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE II. A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]

SIR ANDREW.
No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.

SIR TOBY.
Thy reason, dear venom: give thy reason.

FABIAN.
You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW.
Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count's
servingman than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw't i' the
orchard.

SIR TOBY.
Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.

SIR ANDREW.
As plain as I see you now.

FABIAN.
This was a great argument of love in her toward you.

SIR ANDREW.
'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?

FABIAN.
I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment
and reason.

SIR TOBY.
And they have been grand jurymen since before Noah was a
sailor.

FABIAN.
She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to
exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in
your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have
accosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the
mint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was
looked for at your hand, and this was baulked: the double gilt of
this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed
into the north of my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an
icicle on Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some
laudable attempt either of valour or policy.

SIR ANDREW.
And't be any way, it must be with valour: for policy I
hate; I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.

SIR TOBY.
Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of
valour. Challenge me the count's youth to fight with him; hurt
him in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it: and assure
thyself there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in
man's commendation with woman than report of valour.

FABIAN.
There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW.
Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

SIR TOBY.
Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is
no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention;
taunt him with the licence of ink; if thou 'thou'st' him some
thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in
thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the
bed of Ware in England, set 'em down; go about it. Let there be
gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no
matter. About it.

SIR ANDREW.
Where shall I find you?

SIR TOBY.
We'll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.

[Exit SIR ANDREW.]

FABIAN.
This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.

SIR TOBY.
I have been dear to him, lad; some two thousand strong, or so.

FABIAN.
We shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll not deliver it.

SIR TOBY.
Never trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth
to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them
together. For Andrew, if he were opened and you find so much
blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the
rest of the anatomy.

FABIAN.
And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great
presage of cruelty.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.

MARIA.
If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into
stitches, follow me: yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very
renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by
believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of
grossness. He's in yellow stockings.

SIR TOBY.
And cross-gartered?

MARIA.
Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the
church.--I have dogged him like his murderer. He does obey every
point of the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile
his face into more lines than is in the new map, with the
augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such a thing as
'tis; I  can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady
will strike him; if she do, he'll smile and take't for a great
favour.

SIR TOBY.
Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE III. A street.

[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]

SEBASTIAN.
I would not by my will have troubled you;
But since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.

ANTONIO.
I could not stay behind you: my desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;
And not all love to see you,--though so much,
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,--
But jealousy what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,
Unguided and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable. My willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit.

SEBASTIAN.
My kind Antonio,
I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks. Often good turns
Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay;
But were my worth, as is my conscience, firm,
You should find better dealing. What's to do?
Shall we go see the reliques of this town?

ANTONIO.
To-morrow, sir; best, first, go see your lodging.

SEBASTIAN.
I am not weary, and 'tis long to night;
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials and the things of fame
That do renown this city.

ANTONIO.
Would you'd pardon me;
I do not without danger walk these streets:
Once in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count, his galleys,
I did some service; of such note, indeed,
That, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answered.

SEBASTIAN.
Belike you slew great number of his people.

ANTONIO.
The offence is not of such a bloody nature;
Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel
Might well have given us bloody argument.
It might have since been answered in repaying
What we took from them; which, for traffic's sake,
Most of our city did: only myself stood out;
For which, if I be lapsed in this place,
I shall pay dear.

SEBASTIAN.
Do not then walk too open.

ANTONIO.
It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my purse;
In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,
Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet
Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge
With viewing of the town; there shall you have me.

SEBASTIAN.
Why I your purse?

ANTONIO.
Haply your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.

SEBASTIAN.
I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour.

ANTONIO.
To the Elephant.--

SEBASTIAN.
I do remember.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE IV. OLIVIA'S garden.

[Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.]

OLIVIA.
I have sent after him. He says he'll come;
How shall I feast him? what bestow on him?
For youth is bought more oft than begged or borrowed.
I speak too loud.--
Where's Malvolio?--He is sad and civil,
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes;--
Where is Malvolio?

MARIA.
He's coming, madam:
But in very strange manner. He is sure possessed.

OLIVIA.
Why, what's the matter? does he rave?

MARIA.
No, madam, he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were
best to have some guard about you if he come;
For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits.

OLIVIA.
Go call him hither.--I'm as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.--

[Enter MALVOLIO.]

How now, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.
Sweet lady, ho, ho.

[Smiles fantastically.]

OLIVIA.
Smil'st thou?
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.

MALVOLIO.
Sad, lady? I could be sad: this does make some
obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering. But what of that?
If it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true
sonnet is: 'Please one and please all.'

OLIVIA.
Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee?

MALVOLIO.
Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.
It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed.
I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.

OLIVIA.
Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.
To bed? ay, sweetheart; and I'll come to thee.

OLIVIA.
God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so
oft?

MARIA.
How do you, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.
At your request? Yes; nightingales answer daws.

MARIA.
Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?

MALVOLIO.
'Be not afraid of greatness':--'twas well writ.

OLIVIA.
What meanest thou by that, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.
'Some are born great,'--

OLIVIA.
Ha?

MALVOLIO.
'Some achieve greatness,'--

OLIVIA.
What say'st thou?

MALVOLIO.
'And some have greatness thrust upon them.'

OLIVIA.
Heaven restore thee!

MALVOLIO.
'Remember who commended thy yellow stockings;'--

OLIVIA.
Thy yellow stockings?

MALVOLIO.
'And wished to see thee cross-gartered.'

OLIVIA.
Cross-gartered?

MALVOLIO.
'Go to: thou an made, if thou desirest to be so:'--

OLIVIA.
Am I made?

MALVOLIO.
'If not, let me see thee a servant still.'

OLIVIA.
Why, this is very midsummer madness.

[Enter Servant.]

SERVANT.
Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino's is
returned; I could hardly entreat him back; he attends your
ladyship's pleasure.

OLIVIA.
I'll come to him.

[Exit Servant.]

Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where's my cousin Toby?
Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not
have him miscarry for the half of my dowry.

[Exeunt OLIVIA and MARIA.]

MALVOLIO.
O, ho! do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir
Toby to look to me? This concurs directly with the letter: she
sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she
incites me to that in the letter. 'Cast thy humble slough,' says
she;--'be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants,--let thy
tongue tang with arguments of state,--put thyself into the trick
of singularity;--and consequently, sets down the manner how; as,
a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of
some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her; but it is
Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful! And, when she went away
now, 'Let this fellow be looked to;' Fellow! not Malvolio, nor
after my degree, but fellow. Why, everything adheres together;
that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle,
no incredulous or unsafe circumstance,--What can be said?
Nothing, that can be, can come between me and the full prospect
of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to
be thanked.

[Re-enter MARIA, with SIR TOBY BELCH and FABIAN.]

SIR TOBY.
Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the
devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed
him, yet I'll speak to him.

FABIAN.
Here he is, here he is:--How is't with you, sir? how is't with
you, man?

MALVOLIO.
Go off; I discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off.

MARIA.
Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell
you?--Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.

MALVOLIO.
Ah, ha! does she so?

SIR TOBY.
Go to, go to; peace, peace, we must deal gently with him;
let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? how is't with you? What, man!
defy the devil: consider, he's an enemy to mankind.

MALVOLIO.
Do you know what you say?

MARIA.
La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at
heart! Pray God he be not bewitched.

FABIAN.
Carry his water to the wise woman.

MARIA.
Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I live. My
lady would not lose him for more than I'll say.

MALVOLIO.
How now, mistress!

MARIA.
O lord!

SIR TOBY.
Pr'ythee hold thy peace; this is not the way. Do you not
see you move him? let me alone with him.

FABIAN.
No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough,
and will not be roughly used.

SIR TOBY.
Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck.

MALVOLIO.
Sir?

SIR TOBY.
Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! 'tis not for gravity
to play at cherry-pit with Satan. Hang him, foul collier!

MARIA.
Get him to say his prayers; good Sir Toby, get him to pray.

MALVOLIO.
My prayers, minx?

MARIA.
No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.

MALVOLIO.
Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I
am not of your element; you shall know more hereafter.

[Exit.]

SIR TOBY.
Is't possible?

FABIAN.
If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as
an improbable fiction.

SIR TOBY.
His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.

MARIA.
Nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air and taint.

FABIAN.
Why, we shall make him mad indeed.

MARIA.
The house will be the quieter.

SIR TOBY.
Come, we'll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece
is already in the belief that he's mad; we may carry it thus, for
our pleasure and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of
breath, prompt us to have mercy on him: at which time we will
bring the device to the bar, and crown thee for a finder of
madmen. But see, but see.

[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

FABIAN.
More matter for a May morning.

SIR ANDREW.
Here's the challenge, read it; I warrant there's vinegar and
pepper in't.

FABIAN.
Is't so saucy?

SIR ANDREW.
Ay, is't, I warrant him; do but read.

SIR TOBY.
Give me. [Reads.] 'Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a
scurvy fellow.'

FABIAN.
Good and valiant.

SIR TOBY.
'Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do
call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't.'

FABIAN.
A good note: that keeps you from the blow of the law.

SIR TOBY.
'Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight
she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat; that is not
the matter I challenge thee for.'

FABIAN.
Very brief, and to exceeding good senseless.

SIR TOBY.
'I will waylay thee going home; where if it be
thy chance to kill me,'--

FABIAN.
Good.

SIR TOBY.
'Thou kill'st me like a rogue and a villain.'

FABIAN.
Still you keep o' the windy side of the law. Good.

SIR TOBY.
'Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon one of
our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better,
and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy
sworn enemy, Andrew Ague-Cheek.'
If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give't him.

MARIA.
You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some
commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.

SIR TOBY.
Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the
orchard, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him,
draw; and as thou drawest, swear horrible; for it comes to pass
oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply
twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof
itself would have earned him. Away.

SIR ANDREW.
Nay, let me alone for swearing.

[Exit.]

SIR TOBY.
Now will not I deliver his letter; for the behaviour of
the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and
breeding; his employment between his lord and my niece confirms
no less; therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant,
will breed no terror in the youth: he will find it comes from a
clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of
mouth, set upon Ague-cheek notable report of valour, and drive
the gentleman,--as I know his youth will aptly receive it,--into
a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity.
This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by
the look, like cockatrices.

[Enter OLIVIA and VIOLA.]

FABIAN.
Here he comes with your niece; give them way till he take
leave, and presently after him.

SIR TOBY.
I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a
challenge.

[Exeunt SIR TOBY, FABIAN, and MARIA.]

OLIVIA.
I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honour too unchary on it:
There's something in me that reproves my fault;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is
That it but mocks reproof.

VIOLA.
With the same 'haviour that your passion bears
Goes on my master's griefs.

OLIVIA.
Here, wear this jewel for me; 'tis my picture;
Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you:
And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow.
What shall you ask of me that I'll deny,
That, honour saved, may upon asking give?

VIOLA.
Nothing but this, your true love for my master.

OLIVIA.
How with mine honour may I give him that
Which I have given to you?

VIOLA.
I will acquit you.

OLIVIA.
Well, come again to-morrow. Fare thee well;
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.

[Exit.]

[Re-enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR FABIAN.]

SIR TOBY.
Gentleman, God save thee.

VIOLA.
And you, sir.

SIR TOBY.
That defence thou hast, betake thee to't. Of what nature
the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy
intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends
thee at the orchard end: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy
preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly.

VIOLA.
You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me;
my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence
done to any man.

SIR TOBY.
You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you
hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your
opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can
furnish man withal.

VIOLA.
I pray you, sir, what is he?

SIR TOBY.
He is knight, dubbed with unhacked rapier and on carpet
consideration; but he is a devil in private brawl; souls and
bodies hath he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment
is so implacable that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of
death and sepulchre: hob, nob is his word; give't or take't.

VIOLA.
I will return again into the house and desire some conduct
of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men
that put quarrels purposely on others to taste their valour:
belike this is a man of that quirk.

SIR TOBY.
Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of a very
competent injury; therefore, get you on and give him his desire.
Back you shall not to the house, unless you undertake that with
me which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore on,
or strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you must, that's
certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.

VIOLA.
This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this
courteous office as to know of the knight what my offence to him
is; it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.

SIR TOBY.
I Will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman
till my return.

[Exit SIR TOBY.]

VIOLA.
Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?

FABIAN.
I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal
arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.

VIOLA.
I beseech you, what manner of man is he?

FABIAN.
Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form,
as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is
indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that
you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you
walk towards him? I will make your peace with him if I can.

VIOLA.
I shall be much bound to you for't. I am one that would
rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I care not who knows
so much of my mettle.

[Exeunt.]

[Re-enter SIR TOBY With SIR ANDREW.]

SIR TOBY.
Why, man, he's a very devil; I have not seen such a
virago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard, and all, and he
gives me the stuck-in with such a mortal motion that it is
inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet
hit the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the
Sophy.

SIR ANDREW.
Pox on't, I'll not meddle with him.

SIR TOBY.
Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce
hold him yonder.

SIR ANDREW.
Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so
cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damned ere I'd have
challenged him. Let him let the matter slip and I'll give him
my horse, grey Capilet.

SIR TOBY.
I'll make the motion. Stand here, make a good show on't;
this shall end without the perdition of souls. [Aside.] Marry,
I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.

[Re-enter FABIAN and VIOLA.]

I have his horse [To FABIAN.] to take up the quarrel; I have
persuaded him the youth's a devil.

FABIAN.
He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants and looks pale, as
if a bear were at his heels.

SIR TOBY.
There's no remedy, sir: he will fight with you for's oath sake:
marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds
that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore, draw for the
supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you.

VIOLA.
[Aside] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me
tell them how much I lack of a man.

FABIAN.
Give ground if you see him furious.

SIR TOBY.
Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will,
for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the
duello avoid it; but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and
a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on: to't.

SIR ANDREW.
Pray God he keep his oath!

[Draws.]

[Enter ANTONIO.]

VIOLA.
I do assure you 'tis against my will.

[Draws.]

ANTONIO.
Put up your sword:--if this young gentleman
Have done offence, I take the fault on me;
If you offend him, I for him defy you.

[Drawing.]

SIR TOBY.
You, sir! why, what are you?

ANTONIO.
One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.

SIR TOBY.
Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.

[Draws.]

[Enter two Officers.]

FABIAN. O good Sir Toby, hold; here come the officers.

SIR TOBY.
[To ANTONIO] I'll be with you anon.

VIOLA.
[To Sir Andrew.] Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.

SIR ANDREW.
Marry, will I, sir; and for that I promised you, I'll be
as good as my word. He will bear you easily and reins well.

FIRST OFFICER.
This is the man; do thy office.

SECOND OFFICER.
Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
Of Count Orsino.

ANTONIO.
You do mistake me, sir.

FIRST OFFICER.
No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well,
Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.--
Take him away; he knows I know him well.

ANTONIO.
I Must obey.--This comes with seeking you;
But there's no remedy; I shall answer it.
What will you do? Now my necessity
Makes me to ask you for my purse. It grieves me
Much more for what I cannot do for you
Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed;
But be of comfort.

SECOND OFFICER.
Come, sir, away.

ANTONIO.
I must entreat of you some of that money.

VIOLA.
What money, sir?
For the fair kindness you have showed me here,
And part being prompted by your present trouble,
Out of my lean and low ability
I'll lend you something; my having is not much;
I'll make division of my present with you:
Hold, there is half my coffer.

ANTONIO.
Will you deny me now?
Is't possible that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,
Lest that it make me so unsound a man
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you.

VIOLA.
I know of none,
Nor know I you by voice or any feature:
I hate ingratitude more in a man
Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness,
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
Inhabits our frail blood.

ANTONIO.
O heavens themselves!

SECOND OFFICER.
Come, sir, I pray you go.

ANTONIO.
Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here
I snatched one half out of the jaws of death,
Relieved him with such sanctity of love,--
And to his image, which methought did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.

FIRST OFFICER.
What's that to us? The time goes by; away.

ANTONIO.
But O how vile an idol proves this god!
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.
In nature there's no blemish but the mind;
None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind:
Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil
Are empty trunks, o'erflourished by the devil.

FIRST OFFICER.
The man grows mad; away with him. Come, come, sir.

ANTONIO.
Lead me on.

[Exeunt Officers with ANTONIO.]

VIOLA.
Methinks his words do from such passion fly
That he believes himself; so do not I.
Prove true, imagination; O prove true,
That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you!

SIR TOBY.
Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian; we'll whisper
o'er a couplet or two of most sage saws.

VIOLA.
He named Sebastian; I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such and so
In favour was my brother; and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,
For him I imitate. O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!

[Exit.]

SIR TOBY.
A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a
hare: his dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in
necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.

FABIAN.
A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.

SIR ANDREW.
'Slid, I'll after him again and beat him.

SIR TOBY.
Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.

SIR ANDREW.
And I do not,--

[Exit.]

FABIAN.
Come, let's see the event.

SIR TOBY.
I dare lay any money 'twill be nothing yet.

[Exeunt.]



ACT IV.

SCENE I. The Street before OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SEBASTIAN and CLOWN.]

CLOWN.
Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?

SEBASTIAN.
Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow;
Let me be clear of thee.

CLOWN.
Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not
sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your
name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither.--
Nothing that is so is so.

SEBASTIAN.
I pr'ythee vent thy folly somewhere else. Thou know'st not me.

CLOWN.
Vent my folly! he has heard that word of some great man, and
now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great
lubber, the world, will prove a cockney.--I pr'ythee now, ungird
thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall
I vent to her that thou art coming?

SEBASTIAN.
I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me;
There's money for thee; if you tarry longer
I shall give worse payment.

CLOWN.
By my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men that
give fools money get themselves a good report after fourteen
years' purchase.

[Enter SIR ANDREW, SIR TOBY, and FABIAN.]

SIR ANDREW.
Now, sir, have I met you again? there's for you.

[Striking SEBASTIAN.]

SEBASTIAN.
Why, there's for thee, and there, and there.
Are all the people mad?

[Beating SIR ANDREW.]

SIR TOBY.
Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.

CLOWN.
This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of
your coats for twopence.

[Exit CLOWN.]

SIR TOBY.
Come on, sir; hold.

[Holding SEBASTIAN.]

SIR ANDREW.
Nay, let him alone; I'll go another way to work with
him; I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any
law in Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for
that.

SEBASTIAN.
Let go thy hand.

SIR TOBY.
Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier,
put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on.

SEBASTIAN.
I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now?
If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword.

[Draws.]

SIR TOBY.
What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this
malapert blood from you.

[Draws.]

[Enter OLIVIA.]

OLIVIA.
Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee hold.

SIR TOBY.
Madam?

OLIVIA.
Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preach'd! Out of my sight!
Be not offended, dear Cesario!--
Rudesby, be gone!--I pr'ythee, gentle friend,

[Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN.]

Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house,
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
Mayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go;
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,
He started one poor heart of mine in thee.

SEBASTIAN.
What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad/ or else this is a dream:--
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!

OLIVIA.
Nay, come, I pr'ythee. Would thou'dst be ruled by me!

SEBASTIAN.
Madam, I will.

OLIVIA.
O, say so, and so be!

[Exeunt.]



SCENE II. A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter MARIA and CLOWN.]

MARIA.
Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown and this beard; make him
believe thou art Sir Topas the curate; do it quickly: I'll call
Sir Toby the whilst.

[Exit MARIA.]

CLOWN.
Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and
I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I
am not tall enough to become the function well: nor lean enough
to be thought a good student: but to be said, an honest man and a
good housekeeper, goes as fairly as to say, a careful man and a
great scholar. The competitors enter.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
Jove bless thee, Master Parson.

CLOWN.
Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that
never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King
Gorboduc, 'That that is, is'; so I, being master parson, am
master parson: for what is that but that? and is but is?

SIR TOBY.
To him, Sir Topas.

CLOWN.
What, hoa, I say,--Peace in this prison!

SIR TOBY.
The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.

MALVOLIO.
[In an inner chamber.] Who calls there?

CLOWN.
Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the
lunatic.

MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.

CLOWN.
Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest thou
nothing but of ladies?

SIR TOBY.
Well said, master parson.

MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged: good Sir Topas, do
not think I am mad; they have laid me here in hideous darkness.

CLOWN.
Fie, thou dishonest Sathan! I call thee by the most modest
terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil
himself with courtesy. Say'st thou that house is dark?

MALVOLIO.
As hell, Sir Topas.

CLOWN.
Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the
clear storeys toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony;
and yet complainest thou of obstruction?

MALVOLIO.
I am not mad, Sir Topas; I say to you this house is dark.

CLOWN.
Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but
ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in
their fog.

MALVOLIO.
I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though
ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man
thus abused. I am no more mad than you are; make the trial of it
in any constant question.

CLOWN.
What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl?

MALVOLIO.
That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.

CLOWN.
What thinkest thou of his opinion?

MALVOLIO.
I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.

CLOWN.
Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt
 hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits; and
fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy
grandam. Fare thee well.

MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas, Sir Topas!

SIR TOBY.
My most exquisite Sir Topas!

CLOWN.
Nay, I am for all waters.

MARIA.
Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown: he
sees thee not.

SIR TOBY.
To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou
findest him; I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may
be conveniently delivered, I would he were; for I am now so far
in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety
this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.

[Exeunt SIR TOBY and MARIA.]

CLOWN.
[Singing.] 'Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,
Tell me how thy lady does.'

MALVOLIO.
Fool,--

CLOWN.
'My lady is unkind, perdy.'

MALVOLIO.
Fool,--

CLOWN.
'Alas, why is she so?'

MALVOLIO.
Fool, I say;--

CLOWN.
'She loves another'--Who calls, ha?

MALVOLIO.
Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand,
help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a
gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for't.

CLOWN.
Master Malvolio!

MALVOLIO.
Ay, good fool.

CLOWN.
Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?

MALVOLIO.
Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused; I am as well in
my wits, fool, as thou art.

CLOWN.
But as well? then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in
your wits than a fool.

MALVOLIO.
They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send
ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my
wits.

CLOWN.
Advise you what you say: the minister is here.--Malvolio, thy
wits the heavens restore! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave
thy vain bibble-babble.

MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas,--

CLOWN.
Maintain no words with him, good fellow. Who, I, sir? not
I, sir. God b' wi' you, good Sir Topas.--Marry, amen.--I will
sir, I will.

MALVOLIO.
Fool, fool, fool, I say,--

CLOWN.
Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for
speaking to you.

MALVOLIO.
Good fool, help me to some light and some paper;
I tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.

CLOWN.
Well-a-day,--that you were, sir!

MALVOLIO.
By this hand, I am: Good fool, some ink, paper, and
light, and convey what I will set down to my lady; it shall
advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did.

CLOWN.
I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad
indeed? or do you but counterfeit?

MALVOLIO.
Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.

CLOWN.
Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see his brains.
I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink.

MALVOLIO.
Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree: I pr'ythee be
gone.

CLOWN.
[Singing.]
   'I am gone, sir,
   And anon, sir,
  I'll be with you again,
   In a trice,
   Like to the old vice,
  Your need to sustain;

  Who with dagger of lath,
  In his rage and his wrath,
   Cries ah, ha! to the devil:
  Like a mad lad,
  Pare thy nails, dad.
   Adieu, goodman drivel.

[Exit.]



SCENE III. OLIVIA'S Garden.

[Enter SEBASTIAN.]

SEBASTIAN.
This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't:
And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio, then?
I could not find him at the Elephant;
Yet there he was; and there I found this credit,
That he did range the town to seek me out.
His counsel now might do me golden service;
For though my soul disputes well with my sense,
That this may be some error, but no madness,
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes
And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me
To any other trust but that I am mad,
Or else the lady's mad; yet if 'twere so,
She could not sway her house, command her followers,
Take and give back affairs and their despatch
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,
As I perceive she does: there's something in't
That is deceivable. But here comes the lady.

[Enter OLIVIA and a Priest.]

OLIVIA.
Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by: there, before him
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith,
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace. He shall conceal it
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note;
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth.--What do you say?

SEBASTIAN.
I'll follow this good man, and go with you;
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.

OLIVIA.
Then lead the way, good father;--And heavens so shine
That they may fairly note this act of mine!

[Exeunt.]



ACT V.

SCENE I. The Street before OLIVIA's House.

[Enter CLOWN and FABIAN.]

FABIAN.
Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter.

CLOWN.
Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.

FABIAN.
Anything.

CLOWN.
Do not desire to see this letter.

FABIAN.
This is to give a dog; and in recompense desire my dog again.

[Enter DUKE, VIOLA, and Attendants.]

DUKE.
Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?

CLOWN.
Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings.

DUKE.
I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow?

CLOWN.
Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my friends.

DUKE.
Just the contrary; the better for thy friends.

CLOWN.
No, sir, the worse.

DUKE.
How can that be?

CLOWN.
Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me; now my
foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, I
profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused:
so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make
your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends and
the better for my foes.

DUKE.
Why, this is excellent.

CLOWN.
By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my
friends.

DUKE.
Thou shalt not be the worse for me; there's gold.

CLOWN.
But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could
make it another.

DUKE.
O, you give me ill counsel.

CLOWN.
Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let
your flesh and blood obey it.

DUKE.
Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer: there's
another.

CLOWN.
Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old saying
is, the third pays for all; the triplex, sir, is a good tripping
measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind;
one, two, three.

DUKE.
You can fool no more money out of me at this throw: if you
will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring
her along with you, it may awake my bounty further.

CLOWN.
Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go,
sir; but I would not have you to think that my desire of having
is the sin of covetousness: but, as you say, sir, let your bounty
take a nap; I will awake it anon.

[Exit CLOWN.]

[Enter ANTONIO and Officers.]

VIOLA.
Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.

DUKE.
That face of his I do remember well:
Yet when I saw it last it was besmeared
As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war:
A bawbling vessel was he captain of,
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable;
With which such scathful grapple did he make
With the most noble bottom of our fleet
That very envy and the tongue of los
Cried fame and honour on him.--What's the matter?

FIRST OFFICER.
Orsino, this is that Antonio
That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy:
And this is he that did the Tiger board
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg:
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,
In private brabble did we apprehend him.

VIOLA.
He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side;
But, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me.
